Anthology - SHADOWRUN - Spells and Chrome

She followed the revelation with a solid punch to the gut, but pressed so close, there was no real energy behind the blow. He slid out and away, spinning and swinging out a foot to crush her knee. She foiled him by throwing herself to the right almost too fast to see.

He countered with a lightning quick blow to her face. She jerked her head to the side, not quite quick enough, and his fist connected with her cheekbone, a burning sting of pain. She punched him solidly in the shoulder, but he turned with the blow, using the motion to twist her arm up and behind her, sliding his other hand down her free arm and pinning it, too. He jerked her close to him, her back pressed against his chest. His breath was hot against her aching cheek. For a heartbeat, two, they held the close embrace.

"Sweet Mamba," he said in his rich whiskey and cream voice, just a trace of London accent left after all these years. "The face is new, but the moves are the same."

"Asshole," she spat at him, as she strained to break the hold. "You poached, stole my score, and left me stuck with this face."

"Just a job," he said, taking a kick to the shin that would've crippled an unaugmented man. "Isn't that what you always say?"

In answer, Mamba slammed her head back, cracking it against his collarbone, felt the old injury give a little. Surprisingly, Medjay dropped.

Mamba spun to finish the fight, but Medjay was sprawled on his back, his brown cybereyes glazed over, limbs limp. She looked up to see Pharisee standing with her back to the closed door, a small pistol in her hand.

"Gamma-scopaline," the technomancer said, as Mamba shot her a murderous glare. "Sorry. You two were starting to embarrass me. Maybe I should've just gone out and put up the 'do not disturb' sign?"

Mamba was still flushed with hot, bubbling anger. She hoped it was anger. "Shut up," she managed.

Pharisee just raised an eyebrow. "Sweet Mamba?" She waited a second, to see if Mamba would rise to the bait. "I take it you know each other?"

Mamba shook her head, attempting to clear out the heat, to find her cold, rational center.

"He's the one who stole those knives. If he doesn't have them in here, then we'll just wait, ask him who he gave them too," Mamba said. "And hope they weren't for his master," she added under her breath.

Mamba began to search the room, methodically going through the Nubian's things. The technomancer stood over his limp body.

"He smells nice," she said, as she fastidiously draped the towel-which had fallen off in the fight-back over his hips. "Easy on the eyes, too. What's the story?"

"No story. We worked together a while back. On a job. After the job, we went our separate ways," Mamba said, dumping out his small valise and ripping through the lining.

"What's his name?" Pharisee asked, curious. Mamba hated how curious the damn woman could be.

Mamba shrugged. "Don't remember."

"Mm-hm," Pharisee replied. "Right."

Mamba looked at the Egyptian woman, her eyes cold. "He's a Knight of Rage. Heard the term?" Pharisee narrowed her eyes, looking down at the unconscious man. "Exactly. He's loyal to his master, and no one else. I wasn't willing to be recruited," Mamba sneered. "Didn't want to be a bitch on Celedyr's leash," she said.

Pharisee didn't reply to that. Mamba turned her back on her partner to search through the hotel room. After Mamba had finished ransacking the room, she stood, her hands on her hips.

"Nothing. Damn it," she said.

Pharisee was relaxing in a chair, legs crossed. She looked around the trashed room. "Feel better?"

Mamba shot an annoyed glance to the technomancer. "I was doing my job," she said through gritted teeth. "Looking for the knives. Remember those?"

"Oh, is that why we're here?" Pharisee asked snidely, looking back down at where the man lay, paralyzed and barely conscious, his black skin stretched taut over his muscles. At the look Mamba shot her, she cleared her throat. "Then why didn't you check the safe first?"

"Safe?" Mamba asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Oops. Did I forget to mention the safe?" Pharisee pointed to a flat section of the wall, where a small mirror hung. Mamba went to it, stared for a moment, then saw the tiny switch. Physical, not wireless. Only in Lagos.

She flicked the switch and the mirror slid aside. A small biometric palm print reader made her swear. She glanced back at Pharisee.

"It's not wireless," the technomancer said. "And I don't have my electronics kit here. You sold it, remember?"

Mamba looked back to where Medjay was stretched out on the floor. She'd already tucked one of his knives-conveniently stored beside his bed-through her belt. Mamba walked back over to the man. His hands were long-fingered, elegant. Like an artist's, she'd thought once, not like the fat fingered hands of the men she remembered from her broken childhood. She knelt beside him.

Pharisee watched in mute horror.

Mamba picked his left hand up, slid the knife out of the sheath, and set it against his skin. His hand was warm, the fingers callused. She had a brief flashback, a memory of his clever fingers stroking her cheek, of her turning her head to place a kiss on his palm. The memory came with a stab of some unexpected emotion. Guilt was an uncomfortable feeling, longing even more so. Black Mamba dropped Medjay's hand as though it had burned her, singed her with things she didn't want to face. She scowled up at Pharisee.

"I swear, if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll kill you," she said, setting down the knife and awkwardly grabbing the man, grunting as she lifted his limp weight. She supported his weight and shoved his hand against the palm reader, then dropped him unceremoniously to the floor. The safe popped open with a little click.

Inside, the small plastic case was waiting for her. She slipped it out, opened it. The two ancient knives were snug inside, nestled in the soft velvet lining. Mamba snapped the case closed again, slid it under her shirt, against her back.

"Let's go," Mamba said to Pharisee.

"What about-"

"Let's hope we can get off this damn island before he wakes up," Mamba replied, curt. Without a backward glance, she left the room. Another minute to wait for the elevator, then down to the wide lobby. Before they went through the doors, Mamba looked over at Pharisee. "How'd you get your little gun through the MAD scanner?" she asked, curious.

Pharisee just raised an eyebrow, then walked through the scanners and back out into the harsh December winds.

Mamba followed. "Stay here," she ordered the technomancer, pointing to the bench outside the hotel. Mamba took back her breather, earpiece, and AR glasses. "My blades are under that bush. If things get ugly, bring them to me. Otherwise-"

"I know, I know, don't hack your 'link," Pharisee muttered, "As if you could stop me," she said under her breath as she went towards the iced drink vendor.

Mamba shook her head at the technomancer's back. Pragmatically, she snapped her breather on and retraced her steps back to Adua Street and Olabode Lekan's well-guarded mansion.

The drug would last an hour, maybe two at the best. She planned on being off Victoria Island well before then. She was already regretting the impulse that prevented her from killing Medjay, or at least maiming him. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself. She shied away from thinking about why she'd left him alive and whole in his hotel, and as a result, was feeling more than a little pissed when she stopped in front of the guards at number 12 Adua Street.

"I'm hear to see Lekan," she said, curtly, to the man closest to the gate. He was Yoruba, so she repeated herself in his language. Sometimes playing the foreigner card worked, sometimes it didn't. In her current mood, she'd be just as happy taking his gun and mowing all them down before they could react. Carefully, she tamped down the anger. Emotion got you killed in this line of work. There was no room for moods.