Fade to Black (27 page)

A tunnel passed directly beneath the safehouse, a mere few meters below ground level. It appeared to be an old tunnel, braced by wooden beams. In places the walls were crumbling into mounds of sawdust and earth. The runners had doubtless used this tunnel to escape the perimeter set up by the Brigade.

Maurice considered. He doubted that the runners would remain in these tunnels long. Their leader would not allow it. To do so would be to invite forces like the Executive Action Brigade down into the tunnels, and that would put others, innocents, such as orks, at risk. The runners would therefore surface as swiftly as possible and seek other accommodations, a new safehouse, before continuing on their course.

The Executive Action Brigade was obviously at a loss. Their technological methods had failed. It would, therefore, be Maurice's task to find the runners' new safehouse. Fortunately, he had the means to do so.

He returned to his waiting limo.

* * *

The heavy metal grille of the storm drain was set into the ferrocrete of the gutter, but it also had an opening set into the curb like a shallow arch.

That arch gave a good view of the fronts of the rowhouses opposite, but only to someone jacked into a Mitsuhama control deck and using the sensors of a modified Sikorsky-Bell microskimmer for eyes. That someone was Thorvin-
who else?
The moment he saw the pair of dark blue vans turning the corner down by Hamilton, he fired a signal to Filly.

"Showtime!"

Her signal to get the hell out.

The vans came rushing up the block and squealed to a sudden halt in front of the safehouse. To say Thorvin had been expecting this would be a freaking understatement.

He'd been expecting exactly this kind of a commando-style raid ever since he'd discovered the microelectronic bug some piece of scag had glued to the underside of the van. A nasty little piece of silicon that bug was. The sneaky kind. A real snitch. Virtually undetectable until it was activated, at which point it fired a microburst location signal.

The minute that snitch came on-line, the van's detection system went wild, and the rest was history.

Getting out had been a problem. They couldn't just leave. They'd needed someplace to go to and not just anywhere would do. They had a flabby scientist and a weak-limbed corporate biff to chaperone around.

And the moment Rico told L. Kahn to eat squat, the whole world would come down on top of them.

Including their backup on the job, or whoever had been tailing them. Move in to grab Surikov and Farris and ace the team. That's why corps hired backups. And that's why Rico had decided on the trick. Keep everyone concentrating on the house in Sector 20's North Caldwell for as long as possible, and meanwhile get Surikov and Farris to safer precincts, which they'd done last night.

The van behind the house was an integral part of the trick. It was a decoy, of course, a virtual twin of Thorvin's super-charged vehicle, though only from the outside. Thorvin had thought Rico must be frizzed when he ordered up a twin of the Rover, but what the frag? That's what bosses were supposed to do. Plan ahead. Prepare for the unexpected. Even if it meant looking brain-numb. This particular part of the plan hadn't cost much. A day of hunting around through the sprawl's scrapyards, some welding and paint, and he had put together a look-alike, right down to the registration tags. The decoy's engine barely had enough power to drag the body more than a block at a time, but then motivating power didn't matter.

The rest of the trick was easy. Leave someone in the safehouse to move around, turn lights off and on, talk to themselves. Act like a crowd of people. Shank and Filly volunteered. They'd be moving now to the trapdoor in the basement, which led into the tunnel under the house. If Shank and Filly had any sense, they'd be moving extra-fast, because the commandos out front were already out of their vans and applying a portable ram to the safehouse's front door.

Thorvin watched the commandos go through the safehouse door. A close-up view got him a look at the flash on their uniforms. No black annis patches here. Nothing even hinting of Daisaka Security. The logo of the freaking Executive Action Brigade appeared on every left shoulder, every one that Thorvin could see. That was interesting. Thorvin had heard of the E.A.B. They'd recently been involved in clearing gangers outta certain parts of Sector 17 where certain corps had condoplexes. The E.A.B. made decent commandos, but they weren't exactly specialists at being subtle.

Why would anyone hire the effing E.A.B. for backup on a job like this? Thorvin wondered while descending to the concrete conduit that shuttled rainwater down the length of the block. It joined up with the sewer line running along Hamilton Drive. Before long, Shank and Filly came up the shaft from the tunnel below.

Thorvin keyed his mike. "How'd it go?"

"Smooth as effing ice," Shank replied.

"So why would anyone hire the freaking E.A.B. to tail us on a job like this?"

"Why the hell not?" Filly replied. "They come cheap."

24

The first shots came at ten p.m.

Victor Guevara was sitting in the garden at the center of his house. He happened to be glancing at his watch just as the first shots sounded.

It began with a long clattering burst of an automatic weapon, followed immediately by a fusillade of single shots and bursts. Several panes in the french doors looking into the garden from the front of the house abruptly burst into fragments. At the same moment the idle chirpings and whistles from the birds in the garden rose suddenly into a cacophony of caws and shrieks.

For an instant, Victor felt caught off-guard, but he was not surprised. He tensed and looked up, then willed himself to retain his composure.

The nights had grown very dark of late, and a man in his position had certain vulnerabilities. A civilized man recognized that, accepted it, and took what precautions he could. In anticipation of dire events, he had sent Christiana, his wife of twenty-three years, along with Dionne and Ivana, his daughters, and his son-in-law and two grandchildren to spend some time with trusted relations in Boston, where they would be safe. Though his personal inclinations might forbid him from fleeing trouble, honor demanded he take every conceivable step to ensure the safety of his family. And this he had done.

Now came several shouts, and louder peals, the screams of the dying. Victor would pay excessive premiums for insurance after this, not only for himself but for his employees, but he did not consider this, not for more than a fleeting instant. What he thought about were the spouses and families of those dying to protect him. It would eventually fall to him to say certain words and make certain gestures to those who survived the dead, in a futile attempt to somehow ease their losses. He would do this because it was his responsibility as a man. Because, again, honor demanded it. Only dogs and other animals could turn away from their dead as if they were nothing more than mounds of rotting garbage. Victor might be many things, some better than others, but he was no dog. Of this he had no doubt.

Even in his youth, during his days in Sector 19, the violent districts of Roseland and Pleasantdale, he had been like this. Ambition came first, but nothing came before honor, self-respect, and his beliefs about his rights and obligations as a man.

He had joined gangs and had led gangs. In time, he'd achieved a position with a local syndicate known as Rueda, the Wheel, and from there had gone on to forge his own network of contacts and agents.

Everywhere he went, he always spoke to people politely, with respect. Always, he dealt with others as a man of honor. He did not lie and he did not cheat He endeavored to give a fair value for any moneys spent.

Fulfilling his ambitions had not been difficult. People were only too willing to be persuaded of his ability as a negotiator and intermediary. They knew they could rely on his discretion. They knew his word stood for something. Amid the routine betrayals and vicious treacheries of the Sixth World, his word had become as valuable as platinum.

No longer did he carry any weapons. The days of blood and thunder had passed for him. It seemed to Victor that if he could not survive based on the alliances he had made, the work of more than half a lifetime, then perhaps he deserved to die, or perhaps if was fate's inexorable ruling.

The
Japoneses
had a saying:
A man's fate is a man's fate.
If so, he would meet his fate willingly.

So it was that when Victor heard a crash from above, and a squad dressed as commandos descended through the roof of his garden on rappelling lines, he remained seated calmly at his table, sipping his coffee and awaiting what would be.

The battle for his house was soon at an end.

A number of dark-clad, helmeted figures surrounded him with weapons at the ready. The initials E.A.B. showed on the left breasts of their upper-body armor. Victor knew what this stood for and could guess who had sent these troopers to his house.

He could also guess why they had been sent.

One distinctive figure emerged from the front of the house. She wore a silvery bodysuit and black-studded bands. Her eyes were like violet holes, empty, as emotionless as her face. Victor knew this woman by name and by reputation. Some years ago, when she was new and unknown, he had given her a number of jobs, her first professional contracts. She had since risen through the ranks of the Newark underworld. She now commanded a certain respect from even the most powerful of the crimelords ruling the metroplex.

"Como estd,
Ravage," Victor said.

Ravage paused beside his round table, watching him, perhaps surveying him for weapons. She held a Scorpion machine pistol pointed at his face. Likely, she did not understand how he could sit here, calmly sipping his coffee, and therefore she suspected some as yet unnoticed threat.

Victor would show her no fear.Pride alone demanded that. Ravage had become just another animal.

She had put morals and ethics aside to do whatever a client might desire. This added untold quantities to her merchantability, and spoke clearly of her character, or lack of it. Victor saw little difference between the Ravage standing before him now and a common whore. She had packaged herself as a product for others to rent.

No honor. None whatsoever.

"Someone wants to talk to you," Ravage said.

Victor nodded once, and said,
"Sí.
I know"

* * *

From the large unpaned window of his office 230 stories above lower Manhattan, Gordon Ito watched the lights of the city gleaming against the night. He lit a Platinum Select cigarette. He recalled that his current mistress had said something about having dinner tonight. Too late for that now. He checked his watch to confirm it. No great loss.

He returned to the high-backed chair behind his desk, looked across the room at his bodyguard, and pointed toward the door to the outer offices. The guard bowed formally, then turned and left.

An optic key in the touch-sensitive top of his onyx desk brought a telecom screen rising up out of the desktop. Gordon tapped a few more optical keys. Call-protection software designed to scan the phone lines for taps and other forms of eavesdropping came on-line automatically each time Gordon made a call, unless for some reason he chose to cancel such security measures.

The Fuchi logo appeared briefly on the telecom screen. This was replaced by a straight-on view of an oriental woman wearing a Fuchi corporate blazer.

"Mr. Ito," the woman said.

"Ms. Yin," Gordon replied.

The digital clock on Gordon's display ticked off five seconds. This pause was standard protocol. Yin said, "One moment, please."

The Fuchi logo returned, but subtly modified, veiled by a black triangle. This represented Special Administration, and, hence, Gordon's own department as well.

As far as most Fuchi employees knew, the S.A. did not exist. It appeared on no corporate schematics delineating lines of authority, and it received its funds from diverse sources, funneled through obscure bank accounts. Gordon suspected that not even the board back in Tokyo knew of its existence, with the exception of Richard Villiers, Chief Executive Officer, and Villiers' number two man, Miles Lanier. Villiers had set up the S.A. and charged it with counterintelligence and other covert functions.

"Mr. Ito."

"Mr. Xiao."

"Konichiwa."

"Konichiwa."

The veiled Fuchi logo remained on the screen, but the voice belonged to Xiao, Gordon's boss and chief of Special Administration. A small icon appeared on Gordon's screen-voiceprint confirmed. Xiao never allowed his image to cross telecom lines, not even protected internal lines. A little touch of paranoia. Gordon understood that Xiao looked Korean, trim and spare, with close-cropped black hair. "Your calling time is convenient," Xiao said. "I have just finishing eating."

That was no coincidence. The hour was approaching midnight. Xiao usually woke in the late afternoon and worked through the night. Gordon's informant had predicted that Xiao would be awake now and just concluding his evening meal. There was no more propitious time to call than as Xiao concluded a meal. He apparently had a penchant for fine food. Gordon had a psychoanalyst working on that one, as well as other traits that had come to Gordon's attention.