I should never have called the Weazelys in the first place, involved them, dragged a couple of ordinary Puyallup citizens into the middle of the nightmare that’s my day-to-day.
I killed ’em.
It was me that opened them up, tore them to pieces, sliced big chunks out with Krieger-strain teeth and claws. It was me that had gutted Hank by the doorway as he’d gone to answer it, thinking it just was a guest coming over for spaghetti. It was me that’d broken Darlene’s neck and ripped her to pieces like a pack of fucking wolves. It was me that’d clawed down the Puyallup-flimsy apartment bedroom door, getting into the kids’ room, and then…
It was me, not Sammy Bones, that had used those claws to carve, then paint in blood, the big, glaring, obscene skull that leered from the living room wall.
This was my fault.
I try to forget the things I see, sometimes, in this job. I lock things away, put them into little data folders, and I never, ever open them back up until I fall asleep and can’t help myself. I wasn’t going to be able to do that here. I made the rest of that evening a blur as best I could. I stood around after I called Knight Errant, waited for Tillman to show up, and a couple other uniforms.
I answered their questions, shared my licenses, waved off their concern. I told them I had no idea who’d done it, told them I had no idea why, told them I’d just been coming over for dinner. Tillman’d run interference for me against the homicide dick who showed up, the kid’s suit still creased from a department store clothes hanger, and I think Tillie’d owed me 50 nuyen longer than this punk’d been out of college.
“These things take care of themselves,” Tillman told the kid, Detective Babyface, half his age, if that. One of the uniform’s arms were slipped around the detective’s shoulders, steering him away from me and keeping me from getting arrested. If he’d asked me one more stupid, fucking question, made me say one more word, I think I would’ve tried to strangle him.
When they said I could go, I went.
I sat in my Ford, and I beat holy hell out of the steering wheel for a minute, venting my rage, shouting at the top of my lungs.
Panting, I looked up at the Knight Errant lights still flashing, at the zipped-tight body bags full of children being wheeled out of the Weazelys’ apartment, and I kicked my Transys into gear.
“Gentry.” I didn’t have time to fuck around, so I didn’t even let him say hello. “Call those friends you mentioned. We’re killing these fuckers tomorrow.”
He paused for a second, gauging my mood, not cracking a joke, at least.
“They won’t come free, Kin—”
“I know. Their pay’ll come out of my share of the bounty money. Tomorrow. Just call ’em.”
I killed the line, called up the expenses tab I’d been running half the day. There was still a standard UCAS bounty on Krieger-strain Infected, 1,500 nuyen per confirmed kill. That was gonna bankroll this whole thing. That, and my name. We were going in hot, everyone I could scrape together before going in.
My autonav turned the Ford around, nobly ignoring the abuse I’d heaped on my console, and drove me home.
Sammy Bones and Nimbus and their buddies knew who I’d been talking to. They knew where I’d been going, who I’d been pushing for information, where I’d been looking for them. Did they know how close I was to finding them? Did they know where to find my other friends, were they ballsy enough to go after them instead of a bickering married couple and their kids? Would they hit the Bump & Sleep to go after Gem? Could Pink handle it if they came after him? Just how fast was the clock ticking on me, now, how fast was the countdown coming, how long could I have waited, even if I wasn’t so pissed?
I had work to do. I had calls to make.
CHAPTER 38
My headware Avalon chimed 7:02—sunrise, according to three different online almanacs—but it was just to make sure I didn’t miss the turning of the cycle. I hadn’t slept, couldn’t, didn’t have time to. I took another hit off my Long Haul puffer, the last dose that was even halfway safe according to the usage directions, and stared at the desk that represented a good chunk of my night’s work. The over-the-counter stimulant had done the job and kept me running all night, but even it couldn’t slow the clock and buy me more time; what I had was all I got.
Digital sticky notes covered it; the last-generation virtual desktop was buried in the scribblings of a lunatic with my handwriting, all abbreviations and hurried notes, the network of strings I’d tugged on to see who could show up and help; nicknames, street names, friends who didn’t answer, friends who couldn’t come, friends who’d changed names and faces since our last beer, friends who’d died, friends who were meeting me in a few hours. Favors called in, favors owed, promises made, payments offered, debts collected, debts forgiven. I’d been at it half the night, Transys humming, mental commands making calls, headware tallying finances and computing the probabilities that various contacts would agree, would decline, could be counted on to even speak to me in the first place, all of it calculated in the time it took them to pick up (or not). Then my own gut-check instincts took the raw data and the memories, churned them together, and every call turned into me talking my fool head off to try and pitch this crazy, dangerous job like I was selling something.
It had been a long night.
My throat was raw from the phone calls, threats, promises, and worse, and I gave my library door a dirty look as I crossed the apartment to grope in the refrigerator for a beer. I grabbed two and headed back to the desk for a weapons check.
Digital sticky notes went thick-pixelled around the edges as I set the cold, wet, bottles atop them, then again as my Colt was dragged from my waist and settled atop it, a third time as I sprawled out the little zip-open cleaning kit I kept in a desk drawer. My hands needed to stay busy, my optics wanted details to process, my Sideways wanted small parts to track and imperfections to notice. The 2061 was gorgeous on the inside, the only scuffs and scrapes were external, from a decade and more of rough living and hard use. It was fine. I took my time while I cleaned it, anyway, enjoying the ritual, using the smell of the oil and the utilitarian lines of the seminal semi-auto to focus and center myself.
My knife also didn’t need a cleaning, I hadn’t cut anyone with it since shanking de Vries after the Ariana incident. As a weapon focus and a mono-knife besides, it’s not like it needed sharpening, anyway. My wand was fine, but it always was. The power wasn’t in the form it carried, the power was in the function.
My last weapon was a new addition, a specific one, added based on something de Vries had reminded me of, something a quick database search had confirmed. Vampires hate things that live and grow. Prolonged exposure to living, natural things hurt them, could even kill them. Everyone knew about the sun. I’d forgotten about wood. I’d shopped around and found myself a nice little bat, what truckers called a tire-thumper. Legally, they used it to check the sound on their tires, whacking ’em just so to listen for air pressure. Realistically? It was a skull-cracker, just shortened for balance, sawed-off to fit under the seat of a semi or to be used more easily indoors. Real wood. Old stuff. Solid, sturdy, and made of a living thing.
I hoped Nimbus’d like it as much as I did.
For extra armor, I bulked up my usual suit with an old Lone Star tac-vest. The plates needed replacing every so often—I got shot at more than most—but the basic vest was fine as ever, and lined with some impact-resistant gelatin packs. It was a dark thing, made to be worn by SWAT or my old Fast Response Team crew, but I wasn’t interested in fashion today, I was interested in protection. I knew what I was up against, and I knew Ari and her protective spells were a million miles and more away. It felt heavy and ugly and mean when I strapped it on, and I didn’t much mind.
I was, I decided as I pulled on my lucky gloves and cracked my knuckles, in something of a heavy, ugly, and mean mood myself. My Ford snarled a little more than normal, my foot a little more eager on the pedal as I drove through the Sprawl to get today’s
business over with.
We were staging late-morning at a spot Weazely had picked and my headware map had okayed. The building was gone and forgotten—mapsofts tagged it as a once-upon-a-time department store—but the parking lot suited us just fine. They showed up singly and in pairs, I was the first one there. We huddled in the shade, a motley assortment of criminals, ex-cops, or both as the sun rose higher in the sky.
Pink showed up first, wearing a bulkier armored jacket than normal and toting a worn-looking shotgun. The dwarf was as good as his word, but I hadn’t been worried on that front. A small golden cross hung from a slender chain, outside his shirt for once, and I guess I couldn’t blame him. He had a bulky pair of goggles propped high on his forehead, and I remembered he’d never indulged in cyberoptics.
Sterling was next, a bounty hunter dragged in by the credstick. He’d hunted his fair share of monsters and fought his share of uphill battles. He was as Italian as they come, all swept-back black hair and high cheekbones, maybe the last Italian anywhere near Puyallup that wasn’t in bed with the Gianellis. Unlike Pinkerton, his eyes flashed chrome in the morning sun, a replacement set as much as an upgrade, judging by the scarring around his eyes; I’d heard rumors of it having been acid, maybe a naga, maybe fire. I didn’t care what had done it, ghouls were all I was worried about today.
Caboose’s Harley announced her, maybe the loudest arrival of the day, and I was glad to have her. She was a tough-as-nails Underground vet, cut from the same cloth as another gal I knew, but about five times as friendly. She’d brought a friend, another tusker, this one called himself Billy Bricks, but to be honest I was pretty sure Caboose’d beat him in an arm-wrestle. He looked quick, though, maybe quicker’n her, and both of them had nice, big rifles. That’d be handy.
Hardpoint and another one of Gentry’s pals rolled up not long after, climbing out of a big GMC stepvan, standard shadowrunner fare for those that could afford it. The sturdy dwarven rigger gave Pinkerton a friendly nod, and the two got to chatting. Judging from the work he did with literally garbage over at Black’s, I was eager to see the firepower he could produce using actual combat drones. The ork that got out behind him had custom-tweaked arms and a rep I recognized. Sledge, they called him in the Underground. He and his Yamaha Raiden assault rifle’d be handy today, maybe as much as Hardpoint and his three gun-drones. Maybe. Bricks and Caboose seemed to know him, too, and Sledge bristled a little when he saw them. Billy Bricks bristled right back, but Caboose was smart enough to say something to the kid and just glare from the other side of my ragged little crew instead of letting some orkish brawl break out. Underground politics, I figured, but what mattered was they were there, and they’d brought big guns.
Blue showed up while the orks still had everyone ready to take bets or duck out of the way, her custom-colored dermal sheathing making her street handle pretty much a given. My optical color filters went ahead and let her show off that azure skin of hers, and I nodded at her. She’d been a cop, like me and Pinkerton. She wasn’t any more, like me and Pinkerton. She’d had a string of bad luck, like me and Pinkerton. Unlike either of us, she was cybered all to hell and back, deltaware to the gills, a top-end street samurai that’d give Hard Exit a run for her money. It was nice of her to take a break from her Draco Foundation work to help me out, but she’d taken prob’ly longer than anyone else to talk into showing, had taken me more work and more reminders of old favors.
Daisy, meanwhile, had been easy as pie to sign on. She was a troll, as broad in the shoulders as almost anyone, but with a smile nearly as sweet as Ariana’s…when she wasn’t mad. Daisy was a Bear shaman. Like everyone who followed that mentor, she was a sworn healer, but also something of a berserker. She took her magic more to heart, took her obligations more seriously, than me and my asshole Hermetic Order pals. I’d said ghouls, she’d said yes, and all I’d had to promise was dinner in return. She was a simple girl, Daisy. She had a way with the mojo, and she used that magic to make the world better, to heal people as much as hurt. Good people, horns, warts, and all.
More showed up, a steady trickle that made me almost proud of how many friends I had, except when I remembered why I’d called ’em here and how I’d met half of ’em. Two were guys I’d covered for when they’d broken regs during Lone Star Fast Response training all those years ago—they hadn’t made it onto my team, or they’d be dead and buried—three were two-bit hoods and gangers I’d put away at one time or another, but had cut a break to since. One was a salty old bastard who’d worked a sniper’s tower when my old man had been in charge at McMillin, back in the day. Once upon a time Dad had saved his life, holding in his guts after an inmate’s shiv messed him up real good, in a pretty rare—for McMillin—episode of ugliness; I’d called him to see if he knew anyone who might want to help, but Ricks had insisted on coming up himself. I’d eventually talked him into just watching our cars and bikes and stuff. He carried a big bolt-action Ruger 100, though, and for a second I wished I’d decided to bring that kind of firepower along, even knowing how much the old man would risk in the dark and the tunnels.
I was a bastard, sometimes.
I greeted them one by one, exchanged nods at the very least. I handed out a few credsticks to the ones that wanted up-front payment instead of gambling on a big kill count, shook some hands, bumped a few fists. I’d been busy last night, busier than just the phone calls, and I’d gathered party favors. Everyone got a chem-green glow stick or two, along with a slap patch of the most potent antivirals I could afford. Everyone got an introduction, some more brief than others.
It was almost time to go to work. Guess I’d better rally the troops.
“All right, folks. Circle up. Let’s go back over the plan. First up? Your ugly faces.”
Model-gorgeous Blue shot me a wink. So did Daisy, and I winked back at her.
“In addition to those nasty pieces of work,” I nodded to Hardpoint’s drones, big models bristling with guns, solar panel charging up their batteries before their rotors would carry them into the dark as the vanguard, “Hardpoint’s got some camera models he’ll be using when we’re ready to go inside. Anyone don’t want their mug on vid, wear one of those masks I brought. Anyone wants a copy of the show for a resumé or whatever, mail me. Anyone wants a cut of the straight, legal bounty, and wants it on record, make sure you mail me the SIN you want it under.”
I sighed. Here came the ugly part.
“Once we go in, guns up. If it ain’t one of us—or one of the prettyboys or dainty ladies who ain’t here just yet—you shoot it down. Period. Fucking period. I know folks, and we’ve checked and double checked.” I nodded to Caboose, who nodded back, “Ain’t no Ork Underground folks holed up near here. Nothing good lives in these tunnels, people. Nicest thing we’ll meet in there might be a devil rat or two.”
“Worst thing? Likeliest thing? Ghouls. You mooks already know that, though. That’s why so many of your buddies ain’t here to help. Ghouls’re nasty, I know that. You know that. So guns up, like I said. Be generous with the ammo. Shoot first. Sharp and fast. It moves, you shoot it until it stops. Don’t let ’em get close if you can help it. If they do, let the big bastards take point. Ghouls can’t bite chrome.”
Sledge grunted at that.
Here came the really ugly part.
“If you do get bit, and somewhere that can bleed? You kill the biter, before you do anything else. Kill it good. Don’t panic. Just shoot it, drop it, then step back. Someone else’ll step up. You use the slap patch, then you get to me, or you get to Daisy, or one of the other spellcasters.”
Daisy, or one of the other spellcasters, I was sure they were all thinking. I couldn’t blame them.
“We got shit that’ll help. Stuff we can do. Just keep cool, kill the bastard that bit you, and get to us. In addition to that—which, by the way, is a job we don’t want to do, so don’t get bit, right?—we’ll mostly be holding up walls. Barriers. I don’t know how much you mooks know or care about the mojo, but tr
ust me when I say ghouls’ll be slowed down by them, and bullets won’t. So it’s simple. We wall ’em away from us, you shoot ’em down, no one gets bit. Easy as pie.”
They knew I was telling the truth, even while they knew I was lying.
I glanced sideways as I heard a high-pitched whine, somewhere between an electric engine and a low-flying jet.
“Speakin’ of mojo…” I trailed off and let the crew take a look.
Elves.
Not like me, mind, and not even like cybered-up Blue. Ancients. Proper elves, riding tricked-out bikes. They were the elves folks expected to see when they thought of the metaspecies, the ones folks expected to be magical even when they weren’t. The prima donnas had come late, of course, because they liked to make an entrance, but they were here.
Rook was in the lead, and along with Bushido Blitz, they had some friends. A pack of a half-dozen, all green hair, black leather, and chrome bikes, rode in an escort pattern around a top-end Suburban SUV, itself all wrapped in augmented reality advertisements.
The Ancients had shown up with our guest of honor today, the trid-star himself. The other one who had to make an entrance. My Sideways and my Transys picked up his circling camera drones, and I wondered if we’d even need Hardpoint’s recordings, too.
Chase, Mr. Errant Knight himself, climbed down from the driver’s seat of his blinged-out Suburban and made a big show of waving to the crowd. He was tall and rangy, even for an elf, and all decked out like he’d wandered off the set of a Western flick; which, I guess, he kinda had. Everyone with a trid knew the bounty hunter was Ares-certified and Ares-branded, playing up whatever all-American garbage Ares was selling at the moment. Head to toe, he was in logo-blazoned gear, from his naga-leather boots to his big Stetson cowboy hat—white, natch, the only sensible color for a trip into the sewers—from his designer denim to his classic-style synthleather duster, and from his custom two-gun rig to the pair of Ares Carnivore wheelguns holstered there. He made a living chasing bad guys while camera drones chased him. It was all live, all lethal, and supposedly all legit. A trid-star bounty hunter, a known adept with a penchant for gunslinging, and a straight-up Ares icon, right here, in the flesh. Ghouls had a bounty. Trace and Skip had talked him into filming here.
Shadowrun: Shaken: No Job Too Small Page 21