“Dis run ain’t against Tsung’s crew, is it?”
Mention of the notorious shadowrunner triggered unpleasant memories, but Crenshaw kept them locked behind a bland expression. “Not as far as I know. The Elf wonks with her?”
“Sometimes.”
“I suspect that the Elf is operating independently time.”
“If he ain’t, me and de guys are out.”
“Me, too,” Ridley said. “I’m not going up against Tsung and her bunch without magical backup.”
“Dump them now, Johnson,” Greerson said. “They ain’t got the balls for the job, so I’ll take your whole budget and do it alone.”
Anticipating an outburst, Crenshaw cut in, speaking loudly and quickly. “You probably could take Verner and Dodger by yourself, Greerson, but the extent of this operation is still unclear. At one point, a dracoform was involved. If it still is, Kham’s crew will, I believe, provide a necessary volume of firepower. It if turns out Kham needs to withdraw because of Sally Tsung’s involvement, I will accept his decision, as long as he gives me enough time to secure replacement fire power.”
Kham cleared his throat, then drew himself up when he had everyone’s attention. “Me and de guys ain’t weed-eaters. We ain’t afraid of Tsung, see. She and me, we got a working arrangement.”
“I see,” said Crenshaw. And she did. She saw Kham’s face floating over an H amp;K 227 in a Renraku-owned Boeing Commuter. She saw that face next to Sally Tsung’s. She remembered Kham now; he had been part of the team that bad abducted and abused her. He obviously didn’t recognize her. Or care, if he did. She’d make him care, but settling with Verner came first. Kham would have to wait his turn to pay for the indignities she had suffered. But if she could twist things so that Tsung’s connections turned on one another, she’d be that much closer to settling the score with them, too. “But if the Elf is working alone, you have no reservations about disposing of him?”
“Naw. Never did like de smart-mouthed fairy.”
“And you, Ridley?”
Ridley folded his arms. “I guess so. But if Tsung is involved…”
“You do not have personal objections?”
“No. But the magic…”
“If we determine significant magically active opposition, I shall arrange for countermeasures.”
“A good wiz is a lead-filled wiz,” Greerson pronounced. “Best countermeasure I know. Magical superiority through faster firepower.”
“Greerson makes a good point,” Crenshaw said. “Let’s all keep it in mind. A magician can’t cast a spell if you shoot him first.”
40
The Elven decker’s directions had been accurate, even though his description of the final destination was not. Dodger said it was an antique shop, but the sign proclaimed it a pawn shop and offered cash for credsticks and corporate vouchers. Sam did see the ornately carved cuckoo clock Dodger had said would be in one barred window. The hands were frozen at two o’clock. if this was the place, that was a sign Cog the fixer was in and open for business.
As Sam entered, he heard no chime and saw no surveillance devices, but was sure they knew he was here. Skirting several islands of junk, he made his way to the back counter where, ensconced at one end and shielded by an actual cash register machine, a wizened old man sat reading last month’s Intelligencer.
“Excuse me, I saw the clock in the window. Is it for sale?”
Gray eyes regarded him from under busy brows and behind old-fashioned spectacles perched precariously on the tip of the man’s nose. “Sold it yesterday. Didn’t you see the tag?”
“I thought that I might outbid another purchaser.”
“You need to talk to the owner.”
“That’s right. I need to talk to the owner.”
The old man reached under the counter. With a loud snick, a door in the back wall popped ajar. Sam thought he also heard a softer, echoing click from the front door, the sound of a bolt sliding closed. The caution of the fixer’s minion was apt. Those who dwelt in the shadows must take precautions. Remember, you’re one of them now.
“Go on in,” the man prompted. “Sit down and wait.”
Sam walked through the door, seeing no other visible way into or out of the bare-walled cubicle of a room. The only piece of furniture was a steel-framed chair fitted with soft, slick cushions. When he sat down, the door closed, apparently of itself, and he heard the lock engage. Sounds from the street had filtered into the shop, but no trace disturbed the quiet of this little room. He waited patiently for five minutes, by his watch. Then he waited another ten impatiently before a voice spoke to him.
“I do not know your face. Who are you?”
Sam could not discern the source of the voice, but he was sure it was electronically processed to change its characteristics. The person behind the voice would be none other than Cog.
“Twist.”
“Dodger’s friend?”
“That’s right.”
The fixer was silent for a moment. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
In reply, Sam merely shrugged, sure that his disembodied questioner could see the gesture, If the fixer had heard that Sam was dead, perhaps Drake had, too.
“Do you have proof of who you say you are?”
Sam shrugged again. “Dodger said you were a good connection.”
“Now I know you are lying.”
“Dodger said that you’d say that.”
A thin chuckle. “Perhaps you are Twist. If so, you have proven remarkably resilient. Perhaps we can do business. What can I do for you until we establish your bona fides?”
“I need some cash and a place to stay. And I need an identity.”
“And in exchange?”
Sam pulled his trade goods from the pocket of his vest and held them up one by one. “An I.D. packet for one Edward Vinson. A credstick tagged to Samiel Voss. A pair of data chips, late of a small genetic research firm just north of here.”
“The last is a recent acquisition?”
Sam smiled inwardly at the hint of interest seeping through the modulated words. “Very.”
“Place them under the chair.”
“I’m supposed to trust you with it?”
“Dodger said I was a good connection.”
“So he did.” To Cog, Sam was a stranger, possibly a corporate plant or just a hustler peddling a sharp deal. The fixer wanted to verify the material, but he offered no surety. Trust could only be built on trust, and someone had to take the first step. Sam didn’t want to trust a faceless voice, but his need outweighed caution. He put the chip case and the cards on the floor and slid them under the chair. “Now what?”