Fade to Black

35

That slag Osborne had said it. Rico wondered about it. Could Farrah Moffit have been the one who'd set up the original run against Maas Intertech? She handled herself real slick on the telecom, cool and corporate. Yet, to Rico it didn't seem likely. She was a fragging psychologist She'd gotten her start at Fuchi as a fragging joygirl. She turned doe-eyed and timid the minute anybody raised their voice. It didn't matter, but it did make him wonder.

Rico rubbed at his eyes and suppressed a yawn. It seemed like days, weeks, since he'd last slept a damn.

"What now?" Moffit asked quietly.

Rico grimaced. "Now you go back to the lounge."

He and the team had some plans to make.

"Master," the voice whispered. "Wake up."

Bandit woke, shifted senses, and opened his eyes to the astral counterpart of the lounge. The auras of Dok and Farrah Moffit glowed from opposite sides of the narrow room. Between them hovered the Raccoon-like form of a watcher.

"Something strange, master," the watcher said. "You said…"

"Yes."

Bandit motivated his astral self, sat up, crossed his legs and ascended, moving forward. The watcher led up the hall, through the door to the warehouse loading bay, across the bay, then through the large bay door and outside.

As Bandit passed through the astral form of the bay door, he entered the glare of directed mana, a spell, like turning to face the sun. Instinctively, he tugged himself back, back into the dim radiance of the loading bay. As he did that, he threw up a shield, a spell of his own, surrounding his astral body in a sphere of guardian power.

Then-nothing. No mana bolts streamed through the dormant aura of the bay door to strike his shield. No monstrous spirits appeared to confront him. Just what had he encountered? He descended into the ground, moved forward a ways, then came up through the buildings on the far side of the street. He saw an old, fat man seated on a toilet and smoking a fat cigar, but other than that… nothing.

The night sky shone with the reflected radiance of the Earth's energy. The air rumbled with the workings of nearby factories. Cars and trucks moved along the streets.

The magic that had glared in his face was gone. It had touched him and disappeared. What was it? What could it mean?

Trouble, for sure.

They took the meet in Jersey City, on Pacific, right near the railroad yards. Meets at very high-profile localities like malls hadn't gone too good in the recent past, so this one was taking place in the litter-strewn parking lot of the local Quik Shop store.

At three a.m., the lot was deserted.

Rico looked around from the passenger seat of the van. The surrounding neighborhood was grunge, three- and four-story grimy brick and cracked, crumbling sidewalks. It was like Newark's worst, only the cops still worked here and they never went easy. Jersey City had its own private corporation and that corp had its own cops. They were a mob like all the other mobs, only they had the law behind them. They specialized in street justice. Make the wrong move and you ended up sprawled in some dark corner with a hole through the back of your head.

Not a good place for pyrotechnics. The Jersey City cops rode in armored cars and command vehicles and had assault teams on twenty-four-hour alert. If things got real hot, they called out the fragging panzer. Or one of their gunships.

At a quarter past the hour, a crimson Toyota Ambassador pulled into the lot. It was marked for Paladin Cabs. That meant body armor, run-flat tires, and gun ports.

Tonight it also meant a bodyguard. me guard looked like a gutterpunk in razor-sharp threads. He came out of the rear of the cab in a dark gray suit, glanced toward the street, stood up, glanced toward the street, closed the door of the cab, and turned to face Thorvin's van. Then he shot another glance toward the street. Rico recognized the habit. It was something you developed after seeing too many people sliced and diced to bloody ribbons in the thrasher parts of the sprawl.

A pro would keep his eyes moving, but he'd be discreet about it. This said something about the slag inside the cab. Osborne might be a dangerous man, but he'd never walked the razor himself. If he had, he wouldn't have a clown like this for a guard.

At Rico's signal, Shank tugged open the side door of the van and then waited, crouching, watching the clown and cradling his M22A2. Rico gave the clown a few moments to adjust to that, then pushed open the passenger door and stepped outside.

Osborne came over to face him. With a quick look up and down, he said, "You did a fine job on my security." Rico nodded. "You got sticks?"

Osborne drew a synthleather wallet from his jacket pocket, folded it open, and handed it over. Rico checked the credsticks with the reader on his belt. They checked out.

"We'll set the delivery once we "got the merchandise."

"When do you go?"

"Soon."

"Make it so. I've got a lot riding on this deal. Do it fast enough and we'll have things to discuss in the future."

"Sure, amigo. Slot and run."

Osborne nodded, got back in his cab, and left. Rico glanced up at the night sky, then returned to the van.

The nightly rain would be coming soon.

Too soon.