Fade to Black

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 bis 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, "Si. 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 hi 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.

"What brings you to my screen tonight, Gordon? Is it business? The Farris business?"

Gordon held back a curse. The bastard already knew. Xiao had informants of his own, and at least one of them was in Gordon's own outer office. Gordon would have the informant removed, except that it was sometimes useful to see Xiao misinformed, indirectly, discreetly. "I take it you've heard about the abduction at Crystal Blossom."

"Most certainly I have heard," Xiao replied. "I run the most efficient clandestine service in the corporate over-world. I have the most efficient chief of operations in the human sphere. Would you not agree, Gordon?"

Xiao's voice was, as always, emotionless, monotone. Gordon suppressed his immediate reaction to the implications of Xiao's words, and admitted, "I could have called you sooner. But I wanted more data before I laid things out for you."

"Your obsession with completeness is gratifying."

"It has plusses."

"Has Fuchi Internal Security become involved?"

"Negative." IntSec was totally in the dark, as it should be. Technically, IntSec and the S.A. were on the same team, but Xiao didn't see it that way. Neither did Gordon. The two organizations were as different as spies and security guards.

"Have you identified the criminals who abducted Marena Farris?"

"The data's on my comp. Partial ID's. My tech teams pulled a lot of trace evidence from the scene. We're cross-referencing with police databases. I suspect a local group."

"Is it the same group that ran on Maas Intertech?"

"Do I have to answer that?"

"You may instead tell me what you intend to do about Farris."

"Why does she interest you so much?"

"A loyal corporate employee abducted from a Fuchi facility? Must I answer that, Gordon?"

Gordon resisted a pained smile. Xiao made a good sparring partner. Sometimes, too good. Xiao would be the last man on Earth to miss the implications of Marena Farris' abduction. On the most superficial level, it gave some indication that Gordon's arrangements to roll up a special op, arrangements made through the kuromaku Sarabande, had gone wrong. Xiao would not be pleased with that. Xiao had personally ordered that the special op be rolled up. Xiao had also personally ordered that Marena Farris be "set aside," held and protected, when the special op first began.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Gordon said. "I ordered multiple backup."

"There is an image issue here."

"You're worried about image?"

That didn't ring right. Xiao's concern with image usually began and ended with Special Administration. Gordon concluded that Xiao was lying. The question was, why?

Xiao said, "I have recently had communications regarding the Fuchi image. Communications from lofty quarters. It is not a matter of total insignificance. Therefore, I have decided that you should do nothing further. Leave Farris to me. I will attend to the matter of her abduction personally."

"My pleasure," Gordon replied.

The display screen went blank. Xiao was never one for extended good-byes. Gordon lit another Platinum Select and sat back in his chair, wondering what the hell the fragger was up to.

It had to be something special.

Aubrey ran his eyes over the driver's curvilinear console, met the driver's expressionless glance, then turned to the door at the rear of the driver's compartment. The door opened for Aubrey at a touch of the thumb-lock. He stepped through.

The main passenger cabin had the look of a luxurious lounge: drapes, carpeting, glinting marbleized furniture, subdued gold lighting. To the right stood Zoge, a former sumotori, to the left, Rollo, an ork. Born were massively constructed. As Aubrey paused to look at them, they each gave a quick nod.

Aubrey moved to the door at the rear of the cabin. The thumb-lock let him through. The rear cabin was private and small, a very compact and ornate bedroom.

On the bed lay a dark-skinned biff recently come from Las Paz, Bolivia. Her name was Bela. Her Spanish was practically incomprehensible and she knew nothing of life in the sprawl, but what she did know she knew very well. She had heavy black hair and wore only a contented smile and a small gold cross on a delicate chain slung around her neck. She turned onto her back and parted her knees so that Aubrey could see what she had between her thighs.

Aubrey saw nothing he hadn't seen before in any number of different configurations.-He sneered. Bela replied with the haughtiest of smiles. Then the door to the microscopic lavatory stall on the right opened and Sarabande stepped out, tossing back her lustrous sable hair. "Ready?" she said.

"Si," Aubrey replied.

"Very good."

Aubrey watched as Bela went to work, brushing Sara-bande's hair, weaving it into a braid, fetching clothes, and kneeling to fit shoes onto Sarabande's feet. The slitch actually paused to kiss Sarabande's right ankle and to murmur words of endearment. Sarabande didn't seem to notice. Sarabande had eclectic tastes, but she was easily bored, especially when biz awaited.

Aubrey smiled savagely. Bela would soon be gone, perhaps in a matter of days.

Sarabande finished dressing. Aubrey preceded her into the main cabin, then headed up front to the driver's compartment.

The bus sat idling in the north parking field of the Governor Florio Rest Area, located along the Jersey Turnpike just south of Carteret and the Newark sprawl. A black Toyota limousine pulled in and parked nearby. Aubrey watched on the driver's console displays as an unlikely pair emerged from the limo and came toward the bus. They walked side by side: Ravage in her signature silver bodysuit and L. Kahn in his usual medium brown Armante suit with cloak. One was a pro, a serious threat. The other was a sham. Expendable.

They paused alongside the bus. L. Kahn glanced at Ravage, who, after a quick glance around, lifted a hand and blocked.

Aubrey let them wait a few moments, then moved down the steps as the driver opened the door. Ravage watched closely, well within striking range-barely an arm's length away-as Aubrey waved the probe of a Bailey Aardwolf magnetic anomaly and chemical detector past L. Kahn's front. The multiphase device discovered nothing indicative of weapons, propellants, or explosives. Aubrey nodded at the bus. "Bueno. Entrt," L. Kahn stepped past Aubrey watched Ravage. The razorchick watched her client mount the steps of the bus.

Her thoughts were obvious. Her client was leaving her zone of control. She did not like that. "Hasta la vista," Aubrey said quietly. Ravage looked at him, then turned and walked away. She would have to follow in L. Kahn's limousine. No one entered Sarabande's presence with guards or with weapons of any kind.

Once Ravage was out of striking range, Aubrey turned and also climbed the steps. The driver immediately closed the doors and got the bus moving. Aubrey waited until the bus rolled out onto the highway, then thumbed the lock to the inside door and followed L. Kahn into the main passenger cabin.

Tonight, Sarabande wore gold visorshades with mirrored lenses, a gold jacket adorned with swirling silver, a red blouse and matching slacks and boots. The boots shone as brightly as chrome. Dressed in her business armor, the woman revealed almost nothing of her innately sensual nature. She sat behind a small round table in the left-rear comer of the cabin. Occupying the center of the table was a compact compdeck. A gleaming red cable ran from the deck to Sarabande's right temple.

For going on a full minute, she did not move, did not even seem to breathe. Aubrey could not tell if she was in the face of her computer or merely making L. Kahn wait Without prelude, she said, "You arranged the attack on Victor Guevara?"

L. Kahn hesitated briefly, then said, "Yes. That's correct."

A moment passed. "You questioned him."

"Yes."

"What did he tell you?"

L. Kahn hesitated again. "This is my personal-"

"I asked you a question."

Aubrey tensed involuntarily. The subtle emphasis that suddenly entered Sarabande's voice cut the air like a scalpel, fine and precise and utterly ruthless. The effect of that edge on L. Kahn was plain to see. He stopped in mid-sentence and stiffened. Moments passed, then he said uncertainly, "Guevara claims to have no knowledge of the runners' present location or their intentions. Yet, the runners' leader has been in constant contact with him. I'm not finished with him yet."

"Then he is still alive."

"Yes. I have him in a safe place."

"That is fortunate."

Sarabande lifted one hand casually to her temple, as if adjusting her datajack. This was her signal. Aubrey stepped forward, whipped a braided garrote around the neck of L Kahn and tugged it tight. L. Kahn rasped and staggered. He began to struggle, but Rollo and Zoge immediately stepped in, placing themselves between L. Kahn and Sarabande. One slammed a massive fist into L. Kahn's face, the other drove a fist into his midsection. L. Kahn's head snapped aside, blood and saliva spraying from nose and mouth. He grunted loudly and sank to his knees, gagging. Aubrey removed the garrote, put one foot to L. Kahn's back and shoved.

L. Kahn sprawled onto the floor at Sarabande's feet. That was suitable. What this man apparently did not know was that Victor Guevara had been one of Sarabande's local agents for many years. A very reliable agent. Guevara had brought Sarabande many useful contacts and a great deal of nuyen. Sarabande did not like such persons being troubled, interfered with in any manner.

Aubrey stepped over and lowered his foot onto the back of L Kahn's neck, forcing the slag's face flat with the floor.

Sarabande recrossed her legs, and said quietly, "You have been played for the fool mat you are. While the runners were bargaining with you for more time, they were plotting the abduction of the subject's wife. They now have both these persons. They obviously have no intention of turning the subject over to my client I am very displeased."

L. Kahn grunted, moaned. "They broke… contract."

"Indeed."

Sarabande signaled again. Aubrey drew back a step. Rollo and Zoge moved in, dragged L. Kahn up off the floor and onto his feet. Aubrey delivered three precisely aimed and executed hand strikes directed at specific points of L. Kahn's upper body, then turned and whirled, slamming the heel of his boot across L. Kahn's face.

The man sagged as if made of mud. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth. Rollo and Zoge turned him on his knees to face Sarabande. Aubrey grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked L. Kahn's head up straight.

"When you are given instructions, you follow them to the final decimal," Sarabande said. "You do not decide on your own to mount private adventures. You are one little fly hi my web. You do what you are told. Nothing less, nothing more. You will release Victor Guevara at once. You will then sanitize this entire operation. Is that clear?" L. Kahn seemed to have barely the strength left to nod, much less speak.

Sarabande signaled.

Rollo and Zoge dragged L. Kahn around to face Aubrey. The meeting was over. It was time for one final warning. Aubrey drew a knife from his pocket The black monocule-edged blade snapped out of the handle and into position with a soft click. Aubrey grabbed hold of L. Kahn's hair to steady his head, then put the tip of the blade inside L. Kahn's left nostril.

"Remember," Aubrey said. "Do what you're told."

L. Kahn grunted, and Aubrey tugged the knife free.

It was a very, very clean cut.