Shadowrun 01 - Never Deal With A Dragon (45 page)

The moment they sat down, the maitre d' came to their table. Sam could not hear the headwaiter's words, but the apologetic stance and hand motions were clear. Indicating an alcove near the entrance, the maitre d' solicitously led Drake away while a bevy of waiters instantly descended on Mirin to keep her entertained.

Drake reappeared in one of the many nooks in the multi-level lobby. Those small spaces were intended to provide privacy, screening occupants from view. But Drake had chosen one within Sam's line-of-sight. It was a fortuitous opportunity Sam did not want to pass up. Experimentally, he directed the microphone in that direction and was gratified to pick up the words of the maitre d'.

". . . gentleman has been awaiting your arrival, sir. He said he had a message to deliver to you personally and refused to leave. We, of course . . ."

"Leave us alone," Drake said, cutting the headwaiter off.

"Of course, sir," he said with a bow.

Drake stepped deeper into the alcove and leaned against the brass rail. He looked out the window at the lights of the metroplex. He would be completely out of the sight of anyone in the lobby or the Upper Hall.

The messenger who followed him in was a big, heavily muscled man who moved with the swagger of a tough who knows that he is dangerous. His chromed eye shields, button-disk cyber-ears, and strip-cut hair were street style, in contrast to the silk suit he wore. Though cut from expensive materials, the suit was not well-tailored enough to hide the ominous bulge under the man's left armpit. Another of Drake's outside contractors, Sam concluded.

"Trouble, Mr. Drake," the man said, softly as though he feared the response.

Drake sighed and continued staring out over the city. "Speak."

The messenger was obviously disconcerted by Drake's detached attitude. He fidgeted, reluctant to begin. Must be really bad news, Sam concluded.

"It's Wilson," the man began. "Some kind of inspector showed up and spooked him. He's rabbited."

Drake turned slowly to face the messenger. "Are you trying to tell me you've lost track of the doctor?"

The man became even more nervous. His eyes shifted away from Drake's face, then back again, sliding across the stony expression and coming to rest on Drake's collar. "Well, sort of. He's real tricky, you know. He—"

The man's words broke off as Drake's hand shot out and took him by the throat. He lifted the man, rapidly purpling, off his feet. The man's hands beat against Drake's arm and his feet kicked ineffectually. Calmly, showing no strain from the exertion of holding a struggling man aloft with a single hand, Drake spoke softly to him.

You were charged with seeing that nothing happened to the doctor until I was ready to take care of him. If you have lost him, you have failed me most profoundly."

Relaxing his grip minutely, Drake allowed the man to get a grip on the strangling arm, supporting himself enough to choke out, "It was an accident."

It was obviously the wrong thing to say. Drake's eyes narrowed and with a twist of his wrist, he snapped the man's neck. The messenger coughed once, spraying blood, then went limp. Drake dropped the corpse and stood looking at it for a moment. He raised his arm and licked stray drops of blood from the sleeve of his pristine suit.

The maitre d' returned to discover the cause of the slight commotion. He stood frozen by the sight, his aplomb shattered by the results of Drake's sudden, lethal violence. Drake brushed past him on his way back to the dining room.

"Clean that up, please. He's had an accident."

Sam knew that Drake was not a man who balked at murder, but had never imagined he would dirty his own hands. Drake was more dangerous than he had thought and was obviously equipped for mayhem. Hadn't Lofwyr said the man was more than he seemed? The murder of the messenger proved the man was obviously enhanced. Sam congratulated himself on the success of tonight's recon. But the night wasn't over; the time had come to see just how much cyberware Drake was packing. Sam might not be able to tell just what Drake's enhancement did, but knowing their extent would let the runners gauge the opposition. The more of Drake's hidden secrets they could learn, the more likely they would eventually bring him down.

Sam focused his concentration, finding the shift to astral space easier this time. He looked across the restaurant. As usual, the shifted perceptions confused him initially, and he found himself unsure of Mirin's table. Then he found her. Her aura was strong and vibrant, making her even more beautiful. When Sam turned to her companion, he was shocked to see what sat coiled upon itself at the table by her side.

Its batlike wings were folded tightly on its back, the barbed upper joint level with the the arch of its long, sinuous neck. The wedge-shaped head had wide jaws filled with sharp teeth, and a tail with equally sharp barbs twisted around the chair where it sat. It was a miniature Dragon, its image pulsing with power and straining at a glistening constraint that restricted none of its motions but seemed to contain it in some unfamiliar way. Sam's attention was drawn to one golden claw, resting on the table. One talon wore a ring carved in the shape of a man with too-familiar features, Jarlath Drake. So it was true that Drake was, indeed, far more than he seemed. He was not a man at all. Drake didn't work for Haesslich; he
was
Haesslich!

Sam, still only a novice magician and uncomfortable with power, tumbled back into his body, retreating to the mundane senses that had served him so well. Across the restaurant, a suave, dark-haired man dined undisturbed with his lady friend.

Hadn't there been enough dragons in his life, already?

He didn't know what to do next, but one thing was certain. He was in far over his head.

He had seen it before, but today the sight struck Dodger as odd. The feared and renowned street samurai Ghost Maker, known to closer associates as Ghost Who Walks Inside, was making soykaf in the pitiful strip that served as the squat's kitchen. Maybe it was something about the slight awkwardness in the Indian's movements or the way he continually cocked his head as though listening for an anticipated signal. Something was out of place. As Ghost left the counter with a mug in each hand, Dodger saw a third mug lying on its side by the pot. That was it. In the past, Ghost had only prepared the brew for Sally, leaving the Elf to take care of himself.

"Thanks," Dodger said, taking the offered mug.

Ghost lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor. For several minutes, they sat quietly, sipping the steaming soykaf. Then Ghost said, "Whatever else he is, he's brave." Ghost shook his head. "Wants to haul a Dragon to court for murder."

"You sound like you're not so sure anymore. You wanting to bail out?"

Ghost looked at him bleakly. "Wanting has nothing to do with it."

That's a lie
, Dodger thought.
There is a wanting that has an awful lot to do with it
. Dodger wasn't going to be the first to say it out loud. "Sam would understand. The situation is not what it seemed when you agreed to help him take down Drake."

"And where would that leave me, Elf? I gave my word before witnesses. I don't care that a lot of punks and cheap street hoods who call themselves samurai think the latest chrome and a bad attitude are all they need. There's a lot more to it than that. The old Japanese understood the difference almost as well as my ancestors. A warrior must be a man of honor. He keeps his word and is stronger than others, especially in his heart."

"Though you may only be a samurai of the streets, Ghost Who Walks Inside, you are a man of honor and a warrior."

"Am I?"

"Even the old samurai were men first."

The Indian quietly put down his cup. One of his hand razors slid from its ecto-myelin sheath. He scraped the sparkling needle of carbide steel against the tile of the floor, leaving tiny curls of plastic in its wake.

"What about you, Elf? Why haven't you run for the trees?"

"Honor is not the exclusive property of samurai, street or otherwise," Dodger said in what he hoped was a sufficiently injured tone.

"Hasn't ever been your real worry, either."

Ghost knew him too well. He could claim he was doing it for the thrill, as he had in the past. Ghost wouldn't believe that, either. Dodger could hardly admit that he wasn't really sure of all his reasons for doing it.

Ghost unfolded his legs and rose from the floor. "They're coming," he said. He moved to face the window, leaning against the wall with studied nonchalance.

Ghost was right. After a moment, laughter drifted up from the alley. Sally clambered through the window first. Though dressed in a glittery jumpsuit that was a far haul from her regular armor-lined running rig, she had her cross-belted holster and scabbard snugged across her hips. The mage-sword caught on the sill, but Sam reached quickly to free it. A moment later, he climbed through. When he reached for Sally, she side-stepped his arm, only letting his lips brush her cheek. Not till then did Sam realize Dodger and Ghost were in the room. He greeted them with a sheepish smile.

Dodger smiled back. Only politeness would keep things civil. Ghost ignored Sam and spoke to Sally.

"Have you come to help?"

"Help with what? Do you need help with the cooking?" Sally asked with a bright smile.

"
He
needs help," Ghost snapped, indicating Sam with a jerk of his head.

"Oh, no." She blew Sam a kiss, then sauntered across the room to throw herself down on the sleeping pad. She leaned on one elbow and stroked the magesword in its scabbard. "I think he's doing just fine."

Ghost's nostrils distended. "Hasn't he told you what he found out?"

She tossed her head to flip her braid down her back. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Dodger watched Sam look back and forth between the two of them, baffled by the subtext of their exchange. He looked ready to speak, but Ghost's next outburst kept him from doing so.

"What you do is your own fragging business. It doesn't affect me. But if you do nothing, it will affect him. It'll probably kill him. This run ain't against no two-bit Mr. Johnson anymore."

"What makes you think I can make any difference?" she shouted back.

"You've got the magic he can't control yet. Drek, woman! There're Dragons in this now."

"There were Dragons in it before."

"We can't face Dragons without magic."

"Missile's as good as a fireball."

"Kham's taking your lead. You could bring him in, and then we'd have a chance."

"Kham's acting like an adult, unlike some people. He's a big boy and can make his own choices."

Ghost bit down on a reply and stalked toward the window. Dodger thought the Indian intended to keep on going, but then Ghost pulled up and turned. When he spoke, his tone was quieter, his voice taking on a note of appeal.

"You know the three of us don't have enough jazz to take on Haesslich. Whether or not his plant in Renraku is a rogue operation, the Dragon is still head of United Oil Security in Seattle. That'll give him a fragging lot of resources."

"But that would expose him to his superiors," Sam objected, ready to talk now that the subject was unequivocally business.

"Not necessarily," Sally said. "He's a canny old worm. He could come up with some way to make it look like you were after UniOil assets and then justify use of the Company's forces."

"Even without UniOil security teams, there's the other Dragon and Hart," Ghost pointed out.

"If they're still working for him," Sam said.

"Any reason to believe they're not?" Sally asked.

"Greerson," he said. "If Haesslich still had Hart and Tessien, why would he send Greerson after me?"

"Nobody said he sent Greerson," Sally said.

"Lady Tsung, do you know something? Is there another player in the game?"

Sally shrugged. "Possible. It's also possible that Greerson was working for Haesslich all along and you just haven't run into him till now. Even if I help, even if I coax Kham and his gang to play along, you boys are facing a real mess. It's going to take a lot of muscle to put Haesslich out of business."

"Then you will help." Ghost made his question a statement.

Without a word, Sally rolled to her feet and strode to the kitchen counter to pour herself a cup of soykaf. Then she turned, leaned back against the counter, and drank off half the cup. Cradling the mug in both hands, she stood thinking for a moment or two.

"What about Lofwyr?" she said to Sam. "He sent you down to do his dirty work. Maybe he'd lend a hand, or at least finance some of this show."

"I can ask," Sam said.

To Dodger, it sounded as though Sam wasn't really sure he could. He would try because Sally had asked him to. The Elf wondered just what Sally expected to get out of this.

"Welcome to the team, Lady Tsung."

"Not so fast, Dodger. Let's wait and see if that Quebecker wizworm is going to put his money where his maw is. I'll play if he will."

Jacqueline noted the line through which the call was coming. It was the one set aside for Verner. He must have finally discovered the nature of his opponent. While initiating the trace, she checked the calendar. Two days ahead of prediction.

She launched the simulator that would present her Karen Montejac persona on a half-second delay, just enough time for the simulator program to match the image's facial movements to her words.

"Yes, Mr. Verner," she said, opening the line.

She had to give the boy credit. He was quick to hide his surprise at being named as she came online. "I want to speak with Lofwyr," he said.

"I'm sorry, but he is unavailable at the moment. May I give him a message?"

"I want to speak to him personally," Sam insisted. "Tell him it's about our deal."

"Do you wish to cancel?"

"No." His confusion and distress were evident to her practiced eye. "Look, I just need to talk to him. Things are different than he said they'd be, and I want to talk to him about Drake."

"I see," she responded with cool secretarial efficiency. "One of our arbitrators will be in touch. Six this evening at your current location?"