The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy (33 page)

Chapter 7

March 8, 2029

12:51 a.m.

Bridge was overjoyed to find that the Parliament meeting took place in an actual building as opposed to a train. Perhaps a moving target could be secured more easily, but he’d had enough of train cars since this thing began. From the outside, the warehouse was completely dark, looking for all intents and purposes completely abandoned. But once Bridge got close, he could see that the windows were intentionally blacked out so that not one sliver of light escaped into the dark night, and the walls were soundproofed as well. The only indication of life surrounding the place came in the form of the guards who only appeared visible when needed, otherwise blending into alleyways and the windows of adjacent buildings. Streetlights up and down the block were strategically darkened to maximize the shadows around the warehouse. Bridge, Mu and Aristotle were shuffled into a side office and made to wait with three guards, two Asian and one black.

After twenty minutes of interminable boredom, Stonewall poked his head into the office and motioned for the group to follow him. “Come on, Bridge, we’re ready for you,” he said with a chilly flatness that put Bridge on edge.

“What’s the scenario, brother?” Bridge asked.

“Not good. The other families really don’t want to get involved. I’m hoping your report convinces them to help.”

Bridge stopped the ex-footballer with a hand on his arm. “What are you expecting them to do? Fight for you? I’ve dealt with a few of these guys. They aren’t what you’d call generous. Shit, the AsiaTown factions will barely talk when they aren’t shooting at each other, and the damn Bottle City Boys don’t have more than what, thirty actual physical bodies? The damn Panthers are on this non-violence kick. You’re lucky they even let you talk about this.”

“They gotta do something, Bridge. Exert some political pressure, make Nacho back down. Threaten to join up with us against
Diablos
. Something. We can’t have a war.” Bridge could tell how much this was tearing Stonewall apart, and a tiny tinge of empathy poked through his Bridge’s instinctual detachment.

Stonewall had ambitions. Deep down, the ex-footballer had a heart the size of a small galaxy. During their escape from a frame-up last year, Bridge had learned all about Stonewall’s background as a political science student in his teen years in Mexico City. Stonewall had revealed a lot to him that day, from his leadހ
Los Magos
clan of the Five Families, to his political ambitions. Stonewall was practically a Communist, opposed at his core to the pervasive control exerted by the unfettered capitalism inherent in the Local Governance Licenses granted to corporations like Chronosoft. Stonewall had revealed his ultimate aim for the Families over a bottle of whiskey one night. Stonewall wanted the Families to carve out their own benevolent society in the midst of the corrupted social system Chronosoft controlled in Los Angeles, with its own self-supporting infrastructure negotiated away from the corporation. It would be an egalitarian commune in the heart of the city, a starting point and an inspiration for future generations that proved that the system of exploitation offered by the LGL was not the only way, that there was a better way forward. To that end, he had started the Citizens’ Brigades, assigning regular non-gangster citizens to Families for protection from CLED once the police had started forcibly evicting people. Entire streets had been confiscated and evicted on the flimsiest of excuses, all perfectly legal thanks to a local ordinance passed under the administration of the new mayor, Arturo Soto.

If
Los Magos
and
El Diablos
went to war, real to-the-mattresses war, that dream would die in fire. If the two families didn’t end each other, the collateral damage from the fighting would prompt the Chronosoft Law Enforcement Division to end the fighting the easiest way they knew how: with overwhelming force. There would be a lot of deaths, a lot of damage, and in the end, what survivors remained would be marginalized as violent criminals and rabble-rousers. Disdain and fear would replace what empathy the general public might have for the downtrodden citizens of the Five Families.

Bridge followed Stonewall into the warehouse proper. Stacks of crates formed a barrier around the central meeting area, a dimly lit circle of chairs and bodies. Bridge surveyed the Parliament. Each Family could send up to five representatives to any Parliament meeting, with no more than three bodyguards from each allowed in the circle. Bridge knew each of the members of the Parliament, some more than others.

To his right were the delegates for AsiaTown, the Chinese, Korean and Japanese gangs in Los Angeles. Each ethnic group had sent their leader. The oldest was the Chinese leader, Shen Ju Hui, a middle-aged man of average height with floppy dark bangs that framed the dour expression permanently affixed to his face. Bridge never took his expression literally. The story was that many years before the riots, Shen had been the target of an assassination attempt by a rival. The gangster had been infected with a nanotech neurovirus, an invisible killer that had attacked his nervous system with an army of tiny motorized robots. The virus had wreaked stroke-like havoc, but somehow he had survived. The sickness had taken its toll, leaving the right side of his mouth in a permanent scowling droop, but his intellect had been unaffected.

Next to Shen stood the Korean Guk Hyo. Though an inch shorter than Shen, Hyo nevertheless dwarfed the Chinese gangster with sheer bulk. The man was thick, his body enhanced with all sorts of black market nano-steroidal treatments. His head resembled a cake, flattened and round, with a cap of dark hair presiding over shaved sides dyed shockingly blonde, with blonde sideburns that tapered down to a point at the corners of his mouth.

Almost lost next to his two larger colleagues, the Japanese delegate, Me delegaasakazu Matsumoto, appeared tiny at a rakishly thin 5’1”. Despite his wispy physical appearance, Masa exuded an air of danger. Strapped across his back was a katana probably a foot longer than it should have been, so large that Bridge had been sure its bearer would be unable to use it effectively when first they’d met. Bridge had been wrong. The streets buzzed with tales of his prowess as a swordsman, and Bridge made sure never to underestimate the man.

The New Panthers delegation sat to Bridge’s left, a klatch of three angry looking black men in dark biker leathers with the red, green and yellow of the African flag sewn as a quilted patchwork across their shoulders. Their leader was Huey Chahine, an imposing 6’3” figure with a thin afro and mirrored sunglasses that he wore despite the dark hour. Bridge had tried on repeated occasions to work some form of arrangement with Huey, but the insistence of the New Panthers on non-violence had cut them out of many of the deals Bridge could offer. Unlike
El Diablos
, they didn’t appear to hate Bridge so much as distrust him enough to keep him at arm’s length. His skin color likely didn’t help. The Panthers had an antiquated though not quite undeserved apprehension about doing business with white men, especially those carrying Bridge’s shady reputation.

Far-el, leader of the Bottle City Boys, had the most disturbing appearance. Like
C@l@C@
of the Magic Men, the Bottle City Boys, or BCB, were a virtual gang. Unlike Magic Men, they were a Family of their own with their small cadre of physical foot soldiers. Their members never left the crèche, living their entire lives on the GlobalNet. Formerly known as the Kandorians, after the Kryptonian exiles whose city had been stolen from Krypton and shrunk into a bottle in the Superman comics, the gang had changed their name to Bottle City Boys after the Superman copyright holders had threatened legal action. Since legal action was useless on those with no known physical presence, the threat of extralegal action in the form of a GlobalNet war had convinced the Kandorians to change their gang’s name. Far-el appeared in holographic form as a giant crystalline golem, easily eight feet tall and as wide as a car. His eyes glowed an evil green, and the shape of his mouth implied a constant scowl. Prismatic rainbow light constantly spilled from that mouth as he spoke.

Far-el’s bodyguard, Johnny Cloud, bore his holographic projector. Cloud had been a member of the Hollywood Starlets militia during the riots. Once the Starlets disbanded, a few including Cloud had stayed on as the foot soldiers of the Bottle City Boys. Bridge had done business with Cloud shortly after the riots. Though he was so massive many assumed he juiced, Bridge knew that all Cloud’s muscle came naturally from dedicated weight lifting. But what most didn’t know, because Cloud rarely spoke to anyone besides Far-el, was the incredible intelligence the man possessed, something Bridge had aided. Cloud had hired Bridge to find a vendor of intellect-boosting nanodrugs. The transformation had been remarkable. Before, Cloud had spoken like any normal jackoff. He hadn’t started out dumb, but he hadn’t been exactly Mensa material, either. Afterwards, he had been able to hang with Aristotle without blinking. Bridge was never quite sure why someone who rarely spoke would care about intelligent conversation, though he had his suspicions.

Stonewall’s delegation consisted of himself, Goyo and Cierra. Cierra stood with her left arm bandaged, a spider web of shrar web ofpnel scratches dotting the left side of her face. She had been in some serious action. Goyo wore a bandage on his head but seemed unperturbed. Stonewall introduced Bridge with little excitement. “Most of you know my next witness, but I’ll introduce him anyway. This is the Bridge. You need it, he can get it for you, no questions asked.”

“Does that include guns?” Masa interrupted with a devious grin.

Bridge nodded and returned the smile. “We can talk afterwards,” he quipped.

Shen cut in with peevish disdain. “We know who Bridge is,” he said. “Cut the shit and tell us why he’s here.”

“I sent him to speak with Nacho about an offer of peace,” Stonewall explained. “I’ve asked him to come and report on that meeting.” The footballer turned his attention to Bridge. “Bridge? You want to tell them what you saw?”

Bridge nodded and paused before speaking, letting the tension around his words build up deliberately. “You people are fucked.”

Whatever etiquette existed, Bridge had shat all over it. The entire room went so silent Bridge could hear his heartbeat in his ears, a bead of sweat pooling at the nape of his neck. Huey spoke up first. “What do you mean, you people?”

Bridge returned a wry smile and replied, “Don’t take it like that, Malcom X. Ain’t nothing racial in it. I mean you all, collectively; the Five Families are well and truly fucked. I know you’ve all been talking before I got in here, you know about Pedro getting whacked, about Stonewall taking over
Los Magos
. I’m sure you all think this ain’t nothing more than beef between Nacho and Stonewall or Nacho and
Magos
in general.”

“It isn’t?” Shen asked with a sarcastic tone. “We’re all aware of the split that created
El Diablos
in the first place. That this current unpleasantness is an extension of that schism is without question.”

“Sure, there’s plenty of beef there.
Diablos
has wanted more of
Los Magos
pie since the split. There’s better ways to do that than the nuclear option. You three fight all the time,” Bridge indicated the members of AsiaTown. “When’s the last time one of you took a potshot at each other? Tried to whack anybody above street looie? Never, am I right? At least not since the riots. You want to tell me why that is?”

The three gangsters exchanged knowing glances. Guk replied in the harsh clipped tones of his broken English. “Make no sense. Big fight like that makes everybody targets. Bad for business.”

Bridge snapped his fingers and pointed his thumb and forefinger at the Korean like a gun. “Bingo. You let the grunts take the fall, becthe fallause they are expendable. You start offing each other, suddenly your little enterprise turns into a blood feud. Everybody loses.” He turned on Stonewall and shot his words out at the ex-footballer with all the venom he could muster. “Nacho ain’t in this for business, brother. Hate to tell you, but he’s out for blood. What I can’t figure out is why.”

“We’ve never gotten along,” Stonewall replied. “He approaches the business like the Old Testament. Eye for an eye, kill or be killed, scorched earth over consensus. Live fast, die young.”