Shadowrun 44 - Drops of Corruption Page 8

  The two men gave the now-patient waiter their orders, and he scuttled off to make sure they were kept happy.

  Bannickburn took a few moments to respond, and Bailey spent the time running a few of his more extreme methods of persuasion through his mind, choosing an option to employ in case Bannickburn resisted. It turned out to be unnecessary, though—he had used the right bait.

  “What’s special about this job?” the elf asked.

  “It’s a favor to a man we value highly—a guy named Victor Kreb.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Good. You shouldn’t have. He’s an accountant, and accountants work best when they’re totally invisible.” “One of your guys?”

  “He’s done a number of favors for us, saving us a considerable amount of money and a great deal of legal and corporate hassle. He’s someone we wish to keep as a friend.”

  “Right. And now there’s a problem?”

  Bailey grinned wanly. “There’s a problem. He has a daughter, Angeline, who has been spending a significant amount of time with Murson Kader.”

  “Kader?” Bannickburn whistled. “Great holy dragon dung, even I know that name.”

  “Yes. When you disembowel so many people in such a public fashion, your reputation tends to spread quickly. Now, as an old romantic, I was hoping the relationship between Angeline and Kader would lead to a fairy-tale ending, but that’s not the road you generally follow when you’re dating a psychopath.”

  “I would imagine.”

  “The relationship recently . .. ended. Badly. Messily.” Bannickburn’s eyebrows raised. Bailey thought he might be looking genuinely concerned, but it wasn’t an expression he saw very often, so he couldn’t be sure.

  “Is she okay?” Bannickburn asked. “Is ... are her insides still . . . inside?”

  “She’s alive, and we hope someday she’ll be okay, though she’ll have plenty of scars—physical and mental—to carry around the rest of her life.” Bannickburn shook his head sorrowfully. Drek, Bailey thought, he’s going to be even more of a pushover than I thought. Bailey continued talking so that he could strike while the iron was hot.

  “Naturally,” Bailey said, “Mr. Kreb wants revenge, and his first thought was to turn to us. He didn’t mince words—either we help him, or he’s done with us. Since his abilities are not the kind that are easily replaced, we’re not anxious to see him take his talents elsewhere.

  But you don’t take out a guy like Murson Kader lightly—someone that high up in the Finnigan family isn’t going to fall without a loud, disruptive crash.”

  Bannickburn was too shrewd. Fie saw where this was going and started to backpedal. “If you’re not going to go after Kader, with all the tools at your disposal, I’m not sure what you think / could do about the situation.” His mouth twitched, attempting to open but staying closed, and Bailey intuitively understood why. His brain was telling him to say, This job is too big for me, but his pride wouldn’t let the words come out. Bailey picked up the pace of the conversation to lay a little more bait in front of Bannickburn before the elf had time to back out.

  “I wish we could be involved. I, personally, would love to deliver some of the repayment Kader has coming. But as you know, the situation between my family and that other family is a bit tense, and if anyone with Bigio connections gets caught assaulting someone of Kader’s standing, we’ll all have trouble. Large, unpleasant, city-wide trouble.

  “Now the good news is that Mr. Kreb is not entirely carried away in anger, and still has a rational mind in his head,” Bailey continued, stepping on Bannickburn’s words as the elf tried to break back into the conversation. “He knows we can’t kill Kader, and that even hiring someone else to kill him is too risky. He is willing to settle for embarrassment and humiliation.”

  Bannickburn had been sitting more and more stiffly in his chair as Bailey’s story proceeded, until it seemed he’d be forced to stand. But Bailey’s last line, combined with the timely arrival of breakfast, loosened him up. His body slowly eased back into place. He bit into some fatty bacon, soggy in the English style, and chewed on it thoughtfully.

  “Embarrassment and humiliation,” he said, and his exhaled breath was smoky. “To avenge a girl’s honor.” He chewed some more. “That doesn’t sound like a ruthless-son-of-a-bitch-type job. ”

  Bailey spread his hands. “Ah, but there’s the beauty of it. We’re ruthless sons of bitches to everyone in the world but our own. Our own, we protect like . . . well, hell, like family, of course.”

  It was, perhaps, the largest and most ludicrous lie Bailey had ever uttered. The Mafia took care of their own the same way a family of newborn pigeons did, kicking and scrambling and pushing whoever looked weak out of the nest to die on the street. But the trids had done a wonderful job of promulgating the myth of Mafia family loyalty, and Bailey was not about to squander all their hard work.

  Bannickburn was still thinking, and Bailey opted to remain silent. He didn’t have to draw Bannickburn a picture—the implication should have been clear. Do this, and you, like Kreb, earn our friendship. Do this, and we’ll take care of you.

  Bailey hoped he wouldn’t have to spell that out for Bannickburn, because that might push him into a series of ever-larger lies. But he thought he’d coated the hook in enough inviting, meaty bait to get Bannickburn to chomp down.

  “That’s the outline of what you want,” Bannickburn finally said. “But you haven’t said anything about the how. Have you thought of that any, or are you leaving that to the poor lad you intend to rope into this task?”

  Bailey smiled and, in his head, pictured himself reeling in a fine catch. “Oh, I’ve thought about it,” he said. “I’ve thought about it plenty.”

  9

  The guy in the leather coat looked pretty tough. His wrists were as thick as Bannickburn’s neck, his shades were black as tar, and his tusks were white, sharpened, and gleaming. The fact that he had an ork even taller than himself pinned to the ground while he rained blows on his opponent’s head only added to the favorable impression.

  This was the kind of guy Bannickburn needed, but he couldn’t approach him here. He needed background on him, he needed to know if he could trust him, and he needed the stench of ork sweat to dissipate somewhat before he could think about getting any closer to the guy.

  But the fact that he could even consider ways to draft this particular specimen was exciting. He hadn’t given orders to anyone since that terrible day in the Stinklands—at least, he hadn’t given orders that anyone had paid attention to. Now, though, he had money, and a mission that should be fun. He should have his pick of runners for his team.

  All he had to do was figure out how to contact them.

  The easiest thing he could have done was the one thing he truly wanted to avoid—relying on Jackie. He was quite certain she could present a long list of good candidates after a few minutes on the Matrix (or maybe just off the top of her head), but this was his mission, and he wanted to take care of things himself. Plus, he wasn’t sure how Jackie would react to the idea that he was getting in deeper with the Bigios.

  He also had been forbidden from asking Bailey and Shivers for any names, since a central goal of the run was keeping the Bigios at arm’s length from the whole thing.

  So he was on his own. He knew how this was supposed to go—he had to use his network. Unfortunately, he didn’t really have a network in this city, but he was nothing if not adaptable.

  He had about a half-dozen conversations with casual acquaintances in the Barrens. Each of them went pretty much like this: he’d walk up to them smoothly and non-threateningly, make a few remarks about the weather, then get to the heart of the matter.

  “Hey, remember that guy (or lady) you mentioned to me a while back? The one you said was looking for work?”

  The contact, in each case, looked dubious and uncertain. “Which one was that?”

  “The one who hit the streak of bad luck? You said they’re pretty good at what
they do?”

  A moment more of confusion before clarity rippled across the contact’s face. “Oh, oh, right, you mean . . and they’d say the name of a friend.

  “Right! Right! That’s the one! How’s he (she) doing?” “About the same. It’s tough, you know? Not enough business to go around.”

  “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know. Living off the crumbs from the guys at the top, right?”

  The contact would then follow with some form of defense of their friend, saying that the person in question was very skilled at what they did, and the fact that they had hit the skids recently was due to the unfortunate quirks of a hostile universe rather than to any lack of skill on their part.

  “Really?” Bannickburn would say. “It sounds like there’s a story there. What happened?”

  And the background would come out. By the time the contact was done speaking, Bannickburn would have a decent estimation of the target’s skills, reliability, and history. Out of the six contacts he spoke to, he got the names of two people he wanted to interview.

  One of them, he found out after a little effort, was lying at the bottom Lake Washington, presumably held down at least in part by the weight of several lead bullets scattered throughout her body. The other, a skittish, ratfaced man called Steeltoe, seemed to be gradually warming up to the run, until Bannickburn uttered two fatal words.

  “Murson Kader.”

  “Murson Kader? What the hell kind of drek is this? Kader? And you’re offering”—Steeltoe looked at a number Bannickburn had written down—"that? You go after someone like Kader, it’s a good idea to disappear lor a while, right? Relocate, get somewhere he can’t find you? That’s what I’d do. And you can’t do much work when you’re trying to stay out of sight. Job’d have to pay for that downtime, give me enough to survive for a while. You’re not there yet. Pay is nowhere near there. You get more money, you can come talk to me about Murson Kader.”

  Bannickburn tried the direct approach. “Look, I don’t mean to be blunt here, but however much it is, it’s more than you’ve made in a while. Maybe this isn’t the best time to be picky.”

  The man snorted, an unpleasantly wet sound. “It’s always the right time. You want me to do something that could make me end up dead, you better pay me enough to let me live it up while I’m still alive. You’re not offering enough, so for the time being I think I’ll stay alive and poor instead of dead and slightly less poor.”

  So, by the end of the day, after working over what passed for his network in this godforsaken city, Bannickburn had made absolutely no progress. Steeltoe’s reaction to Kader’s name briefly made him reconsider doing the job at all, but then he decided that Steeltoe was scared not because Kader was so tough, but because Steeltoe was so far down the food chain. It was like a cockroach looking up at a cat—the cat’s only scary when you’re something that easily fits in its mouth.

  The key, he thought, was to find some people who were normally a few more rungs up the ladder. If they’d been a little closer to the top, Kader wouldn't look so bad. To get these people, though, Bannickburn would probably need to put a little more money out there and reduce his take, a decision that caused physical pain in Bannickburn’s abdomen. The fact that it was for a noble cause (as long as he thought of the mission as avenging a young lady’s honor, not keeping a mob accountant happy) marginally reduced the burning.

  Even with his cut reduced, though, he still wasn’t sure he could pay for the kind of help he needed. What he needed, he was realizing, were some suckers just like himself—people who, for one reason or another, were willing to do this job for a little less money than they normally would receive. Maybe they’d be attracted to the cause, maybe they were desperate for some quick cash, or maybe they used to be at the top of their game but, through misfortune, had fallen.

  Bannickburn hoped to avoid recruiting anyone from that last group—one per team was enough.

  This was a much more difficult mission than the one he’d conceived this morning. In the Scotsprawl, in the last few years, he had gotten a little sloppy. He’d gathered teams of just about anyone willing to take his cash, without bothering to take any of the normal precautions that would ensure he was getting decent help. The recruiting part of his life had started to bore him, as it seemed like an endless parade of losers and suck-ups. He’d assembled teams when he needed them, with all possible speed, sometimes just making a few telecom calls and pretty much hiring whoever answered.

  The slapdash approach had naturally led to some poor teams, but it never really mattered. If the people he hired did their job, that came as a pleasant surprise. If they didn’t, then he just expended a little extra energy to cover their asses—and energy used to be something he had in excess.

  Until the Stinklands. He’d been left utterly alone, his former friends lured away by Valinscarl’s promises of money and power, and his team of hired guns asleep at the switch, unaware that their boss had stumbled into the most powerful magic ambush he’d ever seen.

  He would pay for that mistake for the rest of his life, and he wasn’t keen to repeat it. This time, he’d have a quality team. If he’d learned anything today, it was that he couldn’t put together such a team on his own—at least not soon enough to please Bailey. He needed help to get this done—assuming he could convince the help lie had in mind to be friendly.

  His first thought was to buy flowers for her, but he rejected that. Too base, too common. He needed something from the heart, something that wasn’t a rote gesture of apology, but instead a true show of respect and affection. He’d scour the markets all night if he needed to, so that he could find the right thing.

  10

  "Flowers?”

  “Mere blooms, of course. Radiant, beautiful in their fashion, but their glory is fleeting when compared to yours. An inadequate gift, to be sure, but when faced with a beauty such as yours, what offering would truly suffice?”

  Jackie balanced her spine on the black “S” of her chair, leaning back and propping her legs on a table. “Charming. How much more buttering up do you need to do before you get to whatever point you need to get to?”

  Bannickburn curled the left side of his mouth, fully prepared for her to see right through him. “It’s a big favor I’m preparing to ask. I’d estimated that a full ten minutes of groundwork would be necessary before I even broached the subject.”

  “ ‘Groundwork?’ How romantic. Are you asking a favor or laying some concrete?”

  “I beg your pardon. Such a common phrase should not be used in association with an uncommon lady. But mere words tend to fail me in the ethereal glow of your presence.”

  Jackie snorted. “Right. Well, much as I’d like to watch you tie your tongue in knots for ten more minutes, I have a busy night ahead of me. Let’s just pretend you already flattered me for ten minutes, and you can go ahead and say what you really want to say.”

  Bannickburn strode forward, a long step that was more like a glide, and slid the vase of flowers on the table near Jackie’s feet so that, in her line of vision, they’d appear right next to his face. He’d picked pale colors—whites, yellows, and blues—specifically so they’d complement his appearance. “I need a favor,” he said. “So you said.”

  “I’d like you to help me with something.”

  “And now you’re just redefining terms. Come on. I’m a busy woman. Get to it.”

  “It’s nothing, really. I just picked up some work, and it’s something I can’t do on my own. I need a team.” “You just picked up some work? From Bailey, I’m guessing.”

  “Yeah,” Bannickburn said, then braced himself for the inevitable lecture about dealing with the Mafia.

  “Okay,” Jackie said. “We’ve got you and me, so that’s two. What else do you need?”

  Bannickburn scratched his eye. Then he loosely dragged his fingers through his thick, windblown black hair. Then he realized his mouth was hanging open.

  “You? Two? What do you . . . ? You heard me say ‘yeah�
�� when you asked about Bailey, right?”

  “Yes, I did. Look, you’re a big boy, Robert. You made your choice. I’m sure you took any advice I gave you into consideration, and I assume you have a reason to keep working with Bailey. I like you, I can help on almost any kind of run you can think of, and being on your team will allow me to keep an eye on your butt. So I’m in.”

  “Humph,” Bannickburn said, still trying to overcome his surprise. “All right. Just don’t let my arse distract you from the task at hand.”

  “Yes, sir. So what else do you need?”

  “Muscle, transportation, and a face.”

  “What kind of face?”

  “Innocent, naive. Someone who can pull a hustle.”

  “Okay.” She paused, took a deep breath, then spoke again. “We need a mage.”

  Bannickburn nearly leaped out of his chair. “No, we don’t!”

  “Robert . . .”

  “I’ve got that aspect covered.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do. Who could we find as good as me?” “Robert, don’t make me say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Robert . . Her voice was a plea.

  He knew what she didn’t want to say. Since he didn’t want to hear her say just how many mages were currently more powerful than he was, he gave in. “All right, all right, I might need some magical help. But just a supplier, you understand? Just some stuff I can use. Not anyone for the run itself.”

  She sighed. “All right, Robert. All right. What’s the pay?”

  “Little over a grand apiece.”

  “Eh. It’s a pay cut, but as long as the job’s quick . . “Should be.”

  “Okay.” Jackie furrowed her brow and stared either at a black spot on the floor or at nothing at all— Bannickburn couldn’t be sure where her eyes focused. “We’ll want some good people willing to work for cheap. That narrows the field a little.”