Nyx Smith - Fade to Black

"I prefer more secluded climes." Rico didn't much care. The main fact on his mind was that job offers sometimes turned out to be setups, traps laid by people bearing grudges. It paid to be careful. Chimpira might be on the hairy verge between darkness and light, but it was safer than some small room off a back alley. The yaks didn't take kindly to murders on the premises. Neither did they admit cops. That the slag calling himself L. Kahn had actually shown up tended to indicate that he was who and what he was supposed to be, rather than some blade out to cap on a contract.

"You got nothing to worry about," Rico said. "You ain't gonna do nothing but talk and pass cred. I'm taking the risks and I don't know you from drek."

L. Kahn gazed at him steadily for several moments, then spoke, his voice a low drawl. "I have contracts to fulfill. Clients to satisfy. The risk is different in form, but shared by all. You were recommended to me by a reliable source. That is why I'm wasting time with you now."

"I'm wasting your time?" Rico said quietly. "I don't know your name. That implies your name probably isn't worth knowing."

From a biff like Ravage, it wouldn't have mattered. From another man, it went too far. L. Kahn's tone made it much more than a casual remark or a simple statement of fact. Rico hesitated about two seconds, then leaned toward L. Kahn and spat in his face.

L. Kahn didn't move a muscle. He didn't have to- Ravage was already moving. Rico didn't catch the first stirring, but the next instant he saw her coming closer, then pitching the table over and out of her way.

Could he get his Predator free of the holster in time? He had maybe a fraction of a second to decide.

The instincts that come from experience answered the question for him. If you're going to blast somebody, you don't bother closing the distance, not in a situation like this, with everybody at point-blank range. That meant Ravage wanted it personal. Rico could almost feel the chrome-steel punch or kick being readied, building up in the distance somewhere, like an earthquake, closing in fast.

Rico thrust his right arm forward, clenching his fist and bending it at the wrist. Muscle memory did the rest.

Ravage's left hand became a claw, blurring in front of his face, on a collision course. She had razors there, Rico realized, jutting out from under her nails. They would slice through his eyes and cheeks, then maybe return to tear through his throat.

The blurring hand halted barely two centimeters from his face, then hung there, motionless. Ravage might rip his face to shreds, but she would see her guts spill to the floor for the privilege. Rico held the curving chrome blades now jutting from the backside of his forearm just short of the slitch's groin.

Rico grinned up into her face.

"Do it," he rasped.

The violet pits of Ravage's eyes showed nothing, not even a glint of emotion. Her voice was almost mechanical, murmuring, "Road kill."

Rico waited. Instants passed like minutes. Standoff or double killing? Rico had been to this place before. Sometimes it seemed like his whole life was composed of moments like this. His heart hammered, but he had no trouble facing the prospect of his death. Like somebody once said, A man's fate is a man's fate. What would be would be. If he died, it would at least be a man's death, an honorable death, giving as good as he got.

A new voice suddenly arose, growling, "The slitch backs off or you're dog meat, chummer."

Out the corner of his eye, Rico saw the large figure now standing where one comer of the alcove met the floor of the balcony. Shank's big hands gripped a massive automatic, an Israeli LD-100. The red blip of the weapon's laser sight shone steadily, unmoving, on the bridge of L. Kahn's nose.

"Ravage," L. Kahn said calmly.

Another long moment passed, then Ravage backed away like a wave slowly retreating from shore. The razors at her fingertips vanished. At near a whisper, she said, "Next time you'll have to be fast, old man."

Rico didn't want to hear about next time. It didn't matter. Whether he could even come close to matching Ravage's speed next time they clashed wasn't important He could be dead a thousand times over before then. He could have a heart attack right where he sat just remembering how quickly she'd gotten into his face. If there ever was a next time, he'd be smart to dust her on sight, and from as long a range as possible.

L. Kahn dabbed at his face with a brown handkerchief, and said, "Let us call a draw a draw and get on to biz."

"We still got something to talk about?"

"If we didn't, you would be dead."

"You got a dangerous mouth, my man."

"I can afford it."

Abruptly, a pair of small red blips caught Rico's attention. Waving around and around in circles on his chest A third blip ran in circles up and down Shank's side. They weren't part of the stroboscopic light effects from the club's main floor. They were targeting sights. Rico ran his eyes around, vision shifting to infrared to microchip-enhanced, but he couldn't spot the shooters. Too much ambient heat too many bodies on the main floor all moving asynchronously. L. Kahn had pros backing him up. At least three of them.

Where the frag was Piper? Rico wondered. Was she safe? He hoped she was under wraps as good as L. Kahn's shooters.

"Ask your friend to relax," L. Kahn said. "We'll talk." Rico motioned with his chin. Shank was down on one knee, using the skimpy railing that guarded the edge of the balcony to gain what cover he could from L. Kahn's shooters. With a growl and a sneer, he slid bis automatic under his jacket Ravage set the table upright on its pedestal and returned it to its place. She did that one-handed, and the table looked heavy. She smiled as she sat down opposite Rico. It was just a glimmer of a smile. On her it looked like a death grin. "So talk," Rico said.

L. Kahn nodded. "Explications first. My clients are powerful people. When they make a contract they expect it to be fulfilled. And I will see them satisfied. If you take my money, you will complete the contract in full. When time is an issue, and for this job, time is an issue, I accept no refunds. You will do the job or face the consequences."

Do the job or die. Almost common enough to be considered standard terms. "You think I'm an amateur?" Rico snarled. "I don't need guano like this. You tell me what the job is and I'll tell you if I'm interested."

L. Kahn seemed unaffected: cool and calm. Rico envied the slag his self-control. Nothing seemed to undo him, even spit in the face. "The job is a bustout."

"I don't do snatches."

"It's a recovery."

"Keep talking."

"The subject to be recovered was in fact snatched. The job is to bring the subject home. This particular subject is highly ranked in a particular field and is therefore of high value. The snatching entity has threatened the subject's spouse, thus forcing the subject to contribute substantially to the snatching entity's various enterprises."

"You're talking about corporate entities."

"Don't ask for specifics unless you're accepting the job."

"Sure. Where's this spouse you mentioned?"

"The spouse remains under the protection of the home entity and will not be a factor in completing the contract. Your only concern will be to recover the subject and deliver the subject unharmed at a specified time and place."

"What's the security threat?"

"It has been assessed as Code Orange."

"A or double-A security."

"Correct."

"So it ain't Fuchi-Town."

"Obviously."

The immense complex that included the five sky-raking towers of Fuchi-Town in lower Manhattan had triple-A security, also called Code Red. Fuchi used everything to keep the facility secure: armed guards, electronics, magic. You didn't go up against security like that unless you had a back door or the possibility of making one-and even then it would probably still be a suicide run. "Tell me about your Code Orange."