by P. R. Adams
“Is this something you consider appropriate?” Heidi didn’t hide her distaste for the idea.
“Professional courtesy. We had the same trainer.” I turned to Nitin. “What’d you settle on?”
Nitin’s face broke into a smile. “American Automotive 750. A few years old but in top shape. There’s a physical switch to take it off the Grid. Plenty of room, good handling, and enough power to get us out of trouble.” His eyes shot to Ichi. “Not like we’ll ever get into trouble.”
“She knows the score.” I took a step toward Chan and the sprawl of Gridhound gear on the coffee table. “Chan, you in or not?”
Chan looked up from the gear, checked Ichi out, then nodded, all cool and neutral.
“All right. Let’s take a ride. I want to get a feel for things.” When I saw Heidi start to fidget with her jacket, I held up a hand. “Just the team.”
I let Nitin take the lead and drifted back to watch the others as we headed to the parking garage. Danny and Ichi kept an eye on our surroundings, while Chan seemed absorbed in what I assumed was Grid monitoring. Nitin spent the entire time laying out the 750’s capabilities.
The car was large, almost an SUV, with a raised suspension and three rows of seats. Its paint was a dull sky-blue metallic flake that had lost its luster. It would easily go unnoticed in the city.
I took the front seat.
Flashback. I closed my eyes. Fresh eyes or not, they connected me to the past.
“Stefan-san?” Ichi squeezed my tricep.
I leaned back in my seat. “It’s all good. Nitin, take us into the Canyon.”
The motor hummed, and somewhere in the car something mechanical came to life. Nitin squealed the tires as he navigated the parking garage, and the wicked smile that had crept onto his face widened each time I flinched. When we were in the flow of traffic on the Beltway, he handed the system over to the computer; I relaxed.
We slowed as the shadows of towers grew closer. When we were among the monoliths, the neon glow washed out sunlight and painted the gray haze hanging low over the broken streets. Grime-smeared glass reflected a smudged version of us. Nitin took us down a ramp and into the streets, where bodies shuffled past in thick, heaving clumps. The city’s voice was a cacophonous roar pushed back on itself by the steel and glass. Tires scraped, brakes squealed, horns blared. Public service announcements croaked over weary speakers. Sirens whined and whooped, and bright lights announced an emergency vehicle’s desire to accelerate through the traffic.
The mass continued along, uncaring and unmoved.
“Find us a spot near Boutique Alley.” I pulled out the data device and began weeding through the spray of advertisements. I already knew what I was looking for, but once I let the Grid in, there was no escaping the madness of unsolicited material. It made me thankful for the quiet chatter of the cybernetic implant monitoring my limbs.
Nitin squeezed into a space meant for a vehicle half the 750’s size. I popped my door, stopping traffic, and the street organism hit me: coughing, wheezing, sneezing—sickness. Misery. A pustulated sore, ready to burst.
I slammed the door and pressed into the crowd, shoulders and elbows sharp, seeking the rhythm, making myself part of it.
Chinese and Hindi characters danced over the entry to several buildings, Arabic and Russian flickered on others, and on a few there were more recognizable German and Spanish. The city was still the heart of one of the largest economies in the world, if only because other countries kept failing even more ineptly. The businesses and the millions of visitors in the Canyon exerted outsized influence, brazenly purchased and displayed. That influence was for sale even more brazenly.
The data device was my guide, pushing me along, another sickly cell in a withering artery. Sweat and piss mingled with spices and grease to overwhelm my sinuses. Just as I grew used to the stench, I turned into an alleyway lined with dumpsters.
The crowds thinned, and now it was rotting garbage and burning plastic thick in the air. Any hint of perfumes and colognes was gone. Those around me wore surgical masks or had mesh filters in their nostrils. No one cursed the conditions. They suffered in quiet dignity.
“It is a sewer,” Ichi said from behind me.
I hadn’t even realized she’d followed me. “It’s commerce.”
The data device painted arrows across the alley to a small door reinforced with iron bars. Lights showed through the fogged windows.
Ichi followed me through the door, which opened reluctantly. The shop was more cramped than the last time I’d visited. Folding tables held together by tape and baling wire sagged beneath ancient devices—computers, video terminals, circuit boards, cabling. Coils of cigarette smoke stretched out lazily, drifting toward yellow ceiling tiles.
Ichi coughed and sneered in disgust. “It is worse in here. How?”
“Ambience is key.” I ran cybernetic fingers over the old gear and searched it with eyes that saw it as an embarrassing, distant cousin.
Sweat trickled down my still-human face and back. The city was cold and sticky, the shop a slow cooker. Ichi examined some of the antiques and set them down, then sniffed at her fingers, mortified.
I turned as a door opened and a small, Indian man with a swirl of wild, salt-and-pepper hair curled around the back of his head stepped out. His skin was a mix of deep gold and gray, a discoloration that drew attention away from asymmetrical eyes. The larger one tracked off in Ichi’s direction, the smaller toward me. The man pulled a cigarette from an ashtray fashioned after an elephant with front legs raised over a pool overflowing with waves of gray ashes. He sucked the last bit of smoke out, then dropped the butt into the tray.
“Stefan Mendoza.” Smoke billowed out as he spoke. “So long without seeing you left me thinking you were dead.”
“I should have been. Ichi, this is Abhishek Varma. Abhishek, this is Ichi.”
Abhishek held out a nicotine-stained hand. “This one just for the night? Seems she could break your back.”
Ichi’s lip curled up in disgust.
“She’s a colleague’s daughter.” I set the data device on the counter next to the ashtray. “Tell me about this.”
His eyes fell on the device. He plucked it up with one hand and began patting pockets with another. “East Asian,” he mumbled. He slipped a pair of glasses with transparent plastic frames out from his shirt pocket and onto his nose. The smudged lenses magnified his eyes to the size of eggs. “Ah, see?” He turned the case toward me. Wang. “From stealing Samsung technology to being a target for theft themselves, all in the time I’ve lived here.” A jeweler’s screwdriver appeared in his hand from nowhere, and he popped the case. “Fairly advanced circuit design. I assume a decompressor, yes, radio circuits probably.”
“Any surprises?”
He squatted behind the counter and rose up with skinny red and black cables. I’d never seen the device they connected to, something that never came out from under the counter. A wizard’s secret. He probed for a connection that could handle the cable interface, plugged them in, and began searching his pockets again. After several seconds, he pulled a cigarette from a pack buried beneath crumpled plastic on the countertop. He slipped a bent cigarette between dry lips and lit up.
“It’s not Agency.” That floated up with the first puff of smoke. “I thought you worked for them mostly.” He waved and shook his head. “Don’t say, don’t say.”
Ichi turned her attention to the door and a set of shelves just inside it.
Abhishek looked up and whispered, “Norimitsu’s daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“She has grown. I can barely see her mother in her face. If he is gone, I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Hey, can you fix her up? Standard kit for second-story work? Cable pouch, counter-security device, microphones, cameras, biometrics glove, wall breakers…the works.”
He dug around beneath the counter and pulled out a pouch: black, leather, sturdy, with a matte black clip and hoops for a belt. As he
inspected the contents, he took a long drag on the cigarette, and his eyes tracked over to Ichi. He pushed the pouch across to me with a disapproving shake of his head.
I hooked the pouch to my belt while he pulled the cables out of the device.
He hastily snapped a small object on one of the circuit boards. “No surprises, Mr. Mendoza. I’ve added an indicator light if someone should seek to listen in on your communications.”
“What’s that going to set me back?”
“Twelve.”
“Hundred? That’s insane.”
“Very risky work.” He considered Ichi through the smoke. “Very. Not recommended.”
She turned and grunted.
“I’ll deposit it in the usual place.” I took the device from him once he had it reassembled.
The cigarette’s red glow reflected in Abhishek’s glasses. “When are you going to do something safer? Smuggle drugs, provide protection to billionaires.”
“Maybe when this job’s done.”
He chuckled at the lie. “Do like they say. Invest your money in the market. Manage wealth for a living. A lifetime of no skills other than reading tea leaves and trying to stay ahead of the game rigged against you.”
“A new millionaire created each day.” I couldn’t recall the firm that advertised that, but they drew in enough suckers to keep going. “I’ll take my chances with this.”
Abhishek twisted his head around so that his voice projected toward Ichi. “I came to this country sixty years ago. A degree and a few years of experience. People still had opportunity then. You developed a skill, you went into a profession, you moved up. So many people here, they were taught that owning something was wrong, ambition was bad, everything should be free.” He bowed his head. “I grew up in that sort of world. When everything is free, nothing matters. You lose your purpose. Ownership…that’s how you develop pride and appreciation. Not when everything is just given to you. Look around you. More people than jobs. Trust the market. Trust the banks and corporations. What they have created.”
I pocketed the device. “I’ve got to head back.”
“I’m eighty-five tomorrow!” Abhishek shook his cigarette at me. “I know what I’m talking about!”
Ichi banged the door open and accelerated into the crowd in the alley, knocking a man off balance. I caught up to her, barely feeling any strain in my back from the acceleration. The cybernetics were working better than expected.
“Hold up.” I reached for an arm.
Ichi shrugged me off. “What were you whispering?”
“Business talk.”
“I am business talk, too.”
I couldn’t be sure if she’d heard us or resented not being involved in the discussion. “He’s getting up in years. He’s not all there.”
She came to a stop and turned on me. “You must give me a chance at this, Stefan-san. Norimitsu-san trained me to replace him. I am ready.”
Pedestrians walked around us, oblivious and uncaring. A fine mist started to fall. It was the sort that often preceded a pounding rain. I shoved the pouch into her gut and pushed into the crowd. She followed.
“Stefan-san—”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
But the realization was slowly settling in. I didn’t have a better option. As much as I wanted to keep her out of it, to protect my best friend’s legacy, I needed her. We were going after a difficult target, with enough on the line for all of us to walk away comfortably.
Like it or not, Ichi had to be my second-story operator.
Chapter 6
We gathered in Danny and Chan’s room, under Heidi’s watchful eye in the blue glow coming off our data device displays. We’d already established our patterns: Chan and Ichi on the couch, Heidi on the chair against the window. I sat on a reversed wooden chair dragged from the dining area and positioned between the padded chairs Danny and Nitin had taken.
The last remnants of Chinese take-out now sat in plastic bags in the hallway outside, but they’d left behind their greasy, soy-soaked imprint. Scraps of noodle and soy meat clung to my gums and filmed my dental implants, but the only taste I knew was disappointment.
Chan’s reports on Senator Weaver didn’t hold much more detail than what Heidi had already given us. Weaver came from money, got into politics fairly young, and wielded considerable influence. Politically centrist and not one to cause a scene. A fitness zealot, not a great speaker, and very private. Very. As in nearly invisible on the Grid.
My heartbeat felt like thunder against the back of the chair. I wasn’t political by nature, but the target stank. I’d whacked a couple of the last religious demagogues in the Middle East and twice as many pathetic despots in Africa.
This was different.
Weaver didn’t have a slimy trail of bodies and crooked international business deals for all to see. She didn’t have an army out there executing dissidents, real and imagined. She was sharp on policy and short on rhetoric.
It made no sense and didn’t sit well.
Danny looked up from his display, brow wrinkled. “Um, we sure this is the right target?”
Heidi fidgeted with her buttons—the same black coat as the day she’d picked me up but this time with a powder blue blouse. “Senator Weaver’s the target.”
“What’d she do, piss off a donor?” Danny looked around at our upraised faces. “I mean, what am I missing?”
Chan smirked. “Five million reasons.”
Ichi smiled—cold and malevolent. Tough customer. Unemotional.
An act. She had hard lessons ahead.
Heidi finally looked up. “The reasons aren’t supposed to matter. She’s your target.”
I didn’t like the way it was going. “What are our options? Bombs? Sniper? Car crash?”
“There is a small catch, now that you mention it: It needs to look like an accident.” Heidi cleared her throat. “Natural causes would be preferred.”
An accident. Natural causes. “That would’ve been nice to know up front.”
Danny shook his head. Fidgety. Annoyed. “Clean shot on a tire while she’s driving on a mountain road? Shit. I don’t know. The report says she does triathlons. Doesn’t sound like she’s on the verge of cardiac arrest or anything.”
Nitin stretched his legs out and groaned. “Protects her privacy like a hawk, fitness freak—maybe a lesbian? Does that give us an angle to work?” He cocked an eyebrow at Chan and Ichi.
They glared back at him.
“We’ll come up with something.” I tapped the data device’s screen. “Chan, get me information on her triathlons. Maybe that’s an angle. See if you can insert me into records and imagery for one. Nothing too flashy…back half of the pack. Get me a workup as a security consultant. Make sure my links to the Agency are scrubbed.”
Chan’s fingers flew across a strip of plastic, tapping keys no one else could see. “Easy if you want to spend the money.”
I didn’t look to Heidi for approval. “We need to.”
“Done.”
“This says Weaver has a private security detail since January. MPS—Montblanc Protection Services. Never heard of them. How big a detail and how good? We’ll need to determine that before we try to put a plan together. Chan?”
“Montblanc Protection Services. Privately held. Formed nearly three years ago. A few mentions. Bodyguard work, mostly for corporate bigwigs.”
Nitin strolled to the kitchen. “I’ve heard of them. Lots of Secret Service transferred over in the last two years.” He pulled a bottled water from the refrigerator and took a swig. “Privatization. There’s better money doing the same thing they used to do. It’s just a job now.”
I made a note of that. “Assume she has some Secret Service experts on staff. That makes it much more difficult. Any idea why?”
Heidi had gone back to fidgeting with her button. She froze and gave me a cool stare.
No answer was still an answer. “We need to see this team in action. What’s Weaver’s schedul
e like?”
Chan typed; the Weaver portfolio updated.
She was holding a meeting with local politicians at the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library at 7:30 p.m. Just under two hours out. It was a strange publicity stunt for someone with almost no record of such things.
“Is this real?” I looked the names over, recognized a few long-term agitators for economic opportunity. It looked real.
Chan shrugged, barely noticeable in the oversized jacket. “Press release.”
“Pull it up. Traffic cameras and any other live feeds in the surrounding mile radius. Danny, see what you can dig up about the road conditions and driving precautions around there.” I saw Ichi’s fingers trembling, caught the first hint of anxiety in her eyes. “Ichi, have Chan wire you up. I want you in the library. Watch the security detail as a patron. Chan, find her something bulky, with a hood to keep her off cameras. Danny, what sort of drones do you have available?”
“Uh, just a couple personal ones. Lightweight and small, meant for surveillance more than anything else. No weapons, really.” His eyes widened like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I—I didn’t want to spend anything until we knew this was a go.”
“It’s a go. We’ll know tonight what we’re up against. Remember the budget.” I stood and swung the chair back under the table. Tension was visible in everyone’s body language. “We’ve got less than two hours to make this happen. Let’s move it.”
Chan powered the computing systems down, then headed into the room everyone understood was off-limits. Ichi tentatively followed, closing the door behind her. Nitin finished his water bottle and darted. Danny hung around for a second, as if there might be some unfinished business over the drone issue. I gave him a look that said there wasn’t; he smiled.
“I’ll get the drone ready and head out.” He checked for a reaction from Heidi, then left.
Heidi brushed down her jacket, then looked up at me. “Yes?”
“Any other surprises waiting for us to bump into them?”