Who Hunts the Hunter (21 page)
Why not simply put up a sign: Here I am. Kill me.
O’Keefe had expected Striper to follow the trail leading from Maine, from a certain Amerind with a certain ACV and a certain credstick, from that to Boston and a slag named Clutch, and then to New York and Sabot. And thence into O’Keefe’s carefully prepared trap. Shaver seems to have helped shorten the trail.
Striper must have found a path leading to the NewMan Management office. That would explain the telecom there suddenly going out of service. It would be a relatively simple matter to download the telecom’s onboard record of incoming calls. That record would likely provide sufficient data, thanks to Shaver, to lead Striper straight to this house.
Just what is the full extent of the damage? O’Keefe goes down the hall to the stairs and descends to his basement workshop. His plan had not called for Striper to enter the house, but rather to pick up his trail here and follow him elsewhere. Now he sees another result of his miscalculation. A quick survey of the workshop reveals that his SPAS-22 combat gun and a Colt Cobra SMG are both missing, along with several smoke and concussion grenades and a sizable quantity of ammunition. Perhaps most significant of all is the disappearance of his Dragunov Drake-1 heavy-caliber sniping rifle. This is one of the few rifles in the world designed specifically for sniping, and, hence, the trade of the professional assassin. Much as the name suggests, a single shot from the Dragunov can knock down a metahuman as easily as the paw of a western dragon, and an angry western dragon at that.
O’Keefe finds these thefts rather curious. Certainly, Striper would have the resources to obtain weapons on her own. Unless ... Perhaps she has been so intent on moving swiftly that she has been forced to pick up weapons where and when they become available. O’Keefe hopes that means Striper is tracking him with the same reckless spontaneity with which she charged into his guns at the cabin in Maine. It would make his task all the easier. He will not rely on that, however.
“Tang!” Whistle cries."
Tang
!”
O‘Keefe climbs the stairs to the ground-floor hallway. Whistle meets him there, all in a frenzy about her missing Sister Sinister. So much for the temperament that seemed as solid as granite. Solid until something happens to her chummer.
“Shaver’s gone! We
have
to
find
her!
”
“Of course,” O’Keefe agrees.
Aside from any questions regarding loyalty or ethics, O’Keefe wants very much to find out what Shaver has told Striper of his plans. She’ll certainly have told Striper something, possibly everything. Striper has experience with interrogations, O’Keefe assumes, and in her current frame of mind she will probably be quite brutal, not unlike an animal. The only real question is whether or not Striper will leave Shaver alive. O’Keefe has doubts in that regard.
He takes his SecLink from a vest pocket. This small device is utilitarian in appearance, about the size of a pack of cigs. Push a key and it warns him when a person, such as Shaver, comes near. Push another key and it indicates with near ComSat precision where someone, such as Shaver, happens to be.
Whistle looks at him sharply."What the frag’s that?”
“I took the precaution of bugging Shaver before she came here,” O’Keefe explains."Just on the chance that something like the current situation might arise.”
“Bugged her when?”
“You recall our discussion of Asahi beer?”
“You dropped a bug in her beer?”
“A very small and sophisticated device designed to lodge temporarily in the intestines.”
“You don’t trust either of us.”
O’Keefe restrains a wry smile. In his book, trust is earned over the course of many years and he has not been working with Shaver and Whistle for anywhere near that amount of time. In his view, they are both very much on probation."Former gangers are not known for their loyalty, and you will admit that your friend is not the type to let a little treachery stand in the way of an easy profit.”
“You don’t know her,” Whistle says adamantly."She’s not as savage as you think.”
“I think she is as heavily chromed as anyone I would care to meet, and chrome exacts a price that goes beyond nuyen.” O’Keefe knows for a fact that Shaver has a number of implanted weapons, replacement muscle tissue providing heightened strength, augmented reflexes, and other cybernetic enhancements. She is about as close to becoming the magnum vatjob warrior as one can get without losing every last trace of metahuman sentiment. She is walking the razor-fine monowire of sanity. That makes her extremely dangerous, potentially unstable. Precautions are therefore essential."What did you put in my drink?”
“Bug a mage? You must think me mad.”
“It would bear me out.” O’Keefe checks his SecLink."Shaver is within range. Shall we go?”
They take O’Keefe’s Isuzu Metrovan down to the southeast tip of the Bronx, beneath the Cross Bronx Expressway, nearly as far as Locust Point. O’Keefe’s SecLink points them down streets lined with ancient brownstones and then through blocks of commercial-zoned properties, many large brick and concrete structures. At length, they come to a warehouse bearing the sign: Edgewater Shipping. The place is dark, no lights showing inside or out. O’Keefe drives past and parks just up the block at curbside. A passing semi sounds its airhorns.
“Survey the building.”
Whistle nods."Don’t move me.”
“No, of course not.”
Mages traveling in the astral plane are quite vulnerable. They apparently have no intrinsic sense for where their meat body might be located. If the body is moved, they might never find it, which would mean death. A gradual fading away into the neverland of the astral. Whistle’s body slumps, but only for moments. As her eyes snap open, she curses and blurts, “
They’re
jacking
her
!”
“Who?”
“Two trolls!” Whistle grabs at the passenger door handle. O’Keefe seizes her elbow and tugs her back to face him.
“I lead.”
“Well,
come
on
!”
“How many in the building?”
“Just her and the trolls!”
O’Keefe readies his Luger, exchanging a twelve-round clip for a fifty-round drum, then adding the laser sight and wire-frame shoulder stock. Whistle is frantic to get moving. An unfortunate result of her relationship with Shaver, which is rather close. O’Keefe keeps a hand on her elbow till they’ve rounded to the rear of the warehouse and he steps firmly into the lead.
The door there is unlocked. A narrow hallway leads to a large dusty area occupied by only a few scattered macroplas crates. A large freight door, standing open, provides access to a truck loading bay.
And there they are, near the center of the bay. Shaver is hung from the hook of a ceiling crane. She looks unconscious. The two trolls with her both look like gangers. Kong Destroyers by their colors. One holds Shaver’s legs bent back and is jamming her from behind. His tool is quite large. The other one stands and watches, grinning ferociously. He appears to have taken some minor wound in the stomach region.
Whistle brushes past, darting through the doorway and into the loading bay, shrieking with banshee abandon. The bluish light swirling around her hands abruptly jumps across fifteen meters of open air and erupts into a coruscating haze that surrounds the troll at Shaver’s back and crackles like roaring flames.
This leaves O’Keefe little choice.
As the troll enveloped by Whistle’s magic staggers back screaming, O’Keefe steps into the open doorway and points his Luger at the troll’s partner."Stop!” O’Keefe barks.
But this troll does not stop. Barely glancing at O’Keefe, he tugs a smartgun from a side-draw holster and lifts it toward Whistle. He is obviously about to fire and O’Keefe cannot permit that. Despite his best efforts, Whistle remains the one essential variable in the whole of his equation, so he absolutely must defend her.
The Luger rattles, spitting explosive slugs at a rather stately fourteen rounds per second. O’Keefe grits his teeth and struggles to keep the burst on target. The troll’s size aids in that regard.
The troll’s smartgun stammers, but the burst goes high, toward the ceiling, and the troll joins his partner on the floor. O’Keefe joins Whistle in freeing Shaver, who is in fact unconscious, and a bloody mess besides.
“Wake her.”
“She needs a doc!” Whistle declares.
“Don’t make me force the issue.”
“You fragging bastard.” Obviously furious, Whistle presses back Shaver’s hair and softly whistles one note. A reddish light radiates from beneath her open hand, stroking across Shaver’s face. Shaver stirs, head lolling.
O’Keefe kneels down, asks, “What did you tell Striper?”
Shaver is several moments working up to an answer. She draws a deep breath, moans, and murmurs, “Your name ...”
“What else?”
“The cub ... It’s at Brogan’s ...”
O’Keefe hesitates, then smiles.
Impressive.
The subway runs him straight across the Bronx to the Pelham Bay Projects, a crowded cluster of concrete blocks each rising up forty stories. A mini mall leads directly from the subway station to the Projects’ entrance. Ivar cools his heels and stares into space while the crowd ahead of him moves slowly inside. Must be evening shift change. A couple of uniformed trolls from NitroSec, gripping SMGs and grinning, keep watchful eyes out for anyone with ideas about cutting ahead of the queue.
When Ivar’s turn finally comes, he puts his palm to the printscanner at the entrance, then steps briskly ahead. Door Number Six gushes open half a step before him and gushes shut at his back. That puts him in a mantrap—door ahead, door behind, both closed. Blank walls to left and right. Mirrored ceiling above probably concealing a bank of security scanners, not to mention the things those scanners ignite if the wrong sort of personal goods are detected.
“Identify,” says a honey-toned female voice.
“Ivar Grubner.” He recites his ID code, then adds his personal password, “Hurry up.”
The door ahead snaps open, and Ivar steps into a wonderland free of offensive weapons, theoretically, not to mention a lobby unmarked by laser burns or bullet holes: simulated marble flooring, pastel-colored walls, and a couple of simplas decorative plants. It ain’t much, but it’s better than most places one might find in the killzone known as the Bronx. A consortium of corps, including KFK International, owns the place.
The elevator runs him up seven stories. Two doors down the pastel-shaded hallway, he steps into the chrome and mirror-plated haven of his living room. Novangeline’s sitting on the black neovuelite sofa in a silver Mercurial
tee
and shorts. She looks kind of anxious. Sitting next to her in a dark gray executive suit is Amy Berman.
Ivar stops, staring, almost gaping.
“It was very nice meeting you,” Novangeline says to Ms. Berman, and then she’s up and walking briskly to the bedroom, just flicking a glance at Ivar before disappearing behind the bedroom door, which, for once, closes without a sound.
Ms. Berman looks back and forth.
“Uh ... heh,” Ivar says."Want a beer?”
“Thank you, no,” Ms. Berman replies."Novangeline made tea.”
“Ah.” Ivar nods."Good.”
“I apologize for intruding like this—”
“No, no,” Ivar interrupts."No, it’s ... nothing like that. Not at all. I mean,
what
a
pleasant
surprise!
What’s tox? Well ...”
“Ivar, I need your help again.”
“Hey, sure. Whatever. You name it.”
Whatever it is, it must be serious. Berman’s got that kind of look on her smoothie face. She opens her executive briefcase and takes out a sheet of hardcopy, and says, “I need to check on some people. I can’t tell you why, but I wouldn’t ask something like this if it weren’t very important."
"Sure.” Whatever."Check ’em how?”
“Well, I need as detailed a credit history as I can get.” Ms. Berman seems really determined."In particular, I need to know if any of the people listed here have recently come into large sums of money. There may be illicit activity involved, so the money, if it’s there, may be in hidden accounts. That’s why I need an expert like you.”
“Null sheen. Of course, it could be kinda risky.”
“In what way?”
“You know. Running the Matrix.”
“I thought—” Abruptly, Berman stops, stares, then turns her head and looks away."No, you’re right. I
didn’t
think ...”
“Hey, it’s no big deal.”
“Yes, it is a big deal!” Berman insists, looking back at him. Abruptly, she’s on her feet."I was wrong to approach you about this. I don’t know—”
“It’s not like I never ran the Matrix before.”
“No,” Berman says adamantly."I will not allow it. This is my problem. There’s no reason why you should risk, risk anything. I’ll have to go to some other quarter—”
Ivar hesitates a moment; then, with one quick hop he’s near enough to snatch the hardcopy from Berman’s hand.
She sways back, wide-eyed with obvious surprise, then glares at him angrily, but by then of course he’s got the sheet."Give me that.”