| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Re: Beating the Streets |
| Date: | Sun, 5 Jan 1997 22:24:31 +0000 |
>>>>>[We got a lead.
Beating up Barney got results, he gave us a meeting with someone who
wanted some routers. We paid the man already, he earned the money, and
he's taking a vacation until this blows over: be a little hard on the
guy if he got cacked off for helping us.
+++++begin video1
The Barrens. The buildings are gutted shells, the street is choked with
dust, one end lapped by frozen molten rock: Hell's Kitchen, then.
A battered Nissan van is parked in the middle of the empty street, two
nervous people - a male human, a female Ork - standing by it, clutching
Uzis as if for comfort. The view - overlaid with complex symbology for
smartlink, orientation system, comms gear - can be recognised as
Lynch's, as he lies in cover, a Heckler and Koch PSG-7 braced into his
shoulder.
"They're here." Lilith's voice, softly.
"Good." The smartlink blinks to life as a dirty red Nomad rounds the
corner and pulls up beside the Brumby. A man gets out of the driver's
side, moving with the edgy grace of a wireboy, and reaches back to pick
up a HK227 from inside.
"Just one?" asks Lynch, the smartgun's aiming mark locking onto the
newcomer.
"Confirm, he's alone. No trailers."
"Okay." Lynch watches as the man walks to the Brumby, ignoring the two
nervous guards: he bangs on the back door with the butt of his SMG, and
after a moment it opens. A short conversation follows.
"Getting that?"
"No problem. Nothing significant." Lilith sounds amused. "Usual were-
you-followed crap, hassling over price, they aren't the brand he was
expecting, they'll work just fine, bad guy wants the price down, Barney
wants the price up."
She laughs out loud. "Barney's telling him some Feds smashed his shop up
and threatened his life, he didn't sell out, he wants a loyalty bonus."
"Damn, the guy's got more nerve than I thought. You think if we got him
alive he'd talk?"
"Not a chance."
"Too bad." The rifle cracks twice, a rapid doubletap, and the man spins
and falls as half his head disappears in a red spray.
"FEDERAL OFFICERS!" Lilith shouts. "DROP THE WEAPONS!" The two guards
hesitate for a long moment, then the Ork woman looks at the dead man and
unslings her Uzi, laying it on the road. Her companion follows suit, and
both raise their hands. Lilith moves into view, wearing a raid jacket
and carrying her AK-47: Lynch follows.
"You in the van! OUT!" she snaps, and Barney emerges.
"Oh, man, you two! This guy's gonna-"
"I could give a shit. You knew something and you didn't talk, Barney.
You're going to do some heavy time." The view blips, and you could swear
Lynch winked at Barney.
"Jesus, I told you, I talk to you and they'll kill me-"
"So you didn't talk to me. Now you get twenty-five to life in a Federal
penitentiary, sharing a cell with Rollo the Rabid Rectal Rapist. You're
busted, Barney, you had one chance and you blew it away." Lynch cuffs
Barney, does the same to the two guards.
They wait in silence for several minutes, before a helicopter arrives
and the prisoners are bundled into it. Lynch turns to Lilith, after the
duststorm of the helicopter's passage has settled.
"Okay, you said shoot him, how do we find out what's going on now his
brains -" Lynch taps a chunk of the aforesaid substance where it lies on
the sidewalk - "are public record."
"He came from somewhere?" Lilith smirks at her husband.
"Naturally."
"Somewhere that wanted routers?"
"Makes sense, they're one of the last items you'd put in if they were
what you had trouble... I get it. He came from there? Check the
autopilot. Take it to the Feds?"
Lilith smiles. "Closer. Harley."
"Damn! Of course."
+++++end video1
That got us his vehicle.
+++++begin video2
Lynch's eyecam again, pulling into a parking lot outside a building less
battered and rundown than most in Hell's Kitchen: this one has power,
the throb of a generator audible.
Bikes and cars painted in garish gang colours are visible... at least
three gangs, maybe more. Going inside (Lilith parking the Nomad behind
him, stepping through the Judas-door, you see a garage and workshop,
well-lit and warm.
A dozen or so gang members are sitting or standing, one group - mixed,
you see at least two sets of colours - sitting playing poker, others
fixing vehicles, members of different gangs working side by side and
using the same socket set. Not the peace of Haven, perhaps, just the
realpolitik that this is the best - maybe only - place for miles to keep
a ganger's decrepit vehicle running, and whoever owns it makes the
rules.
As Lynch walks in, a short, scruffy woman in biker leathers turns and
grins at him from where she's working on a monstrous motorcycle.
"Hey, Mr Agency Dude! You want some ve-hick-you-lar evidence analysing?"
Her accent is a jarring mix of California surf chick and Southern
redneck, and a tabby cat runs by her feet followed by two young kittens.
"Yo, Harley. The Nomad outside, we want to know where it's been and
maybe where it was going. Get it for us inside ten minutes and you can
keep the Jeep. There's a Brumby, some computer hardware in it, can you
hold it for us? Owner's on vacation."
The woman hauls herself to her feet: one leg is supported by a metal
brace, and she wears a belt of shotgun cartridges. "No problem, guys, I
got it." Harley picks up a shotgun - as you might expect from one of
Lynch's friends, it's an antique, an old Franchi SPAS-12 - and slings it
over one shoulder.
"Everybody? Listen up." The bikers playing poker glance around, one of
them lifting another two drowsing kittens off his lap.
"Hey, dudes? These people? They're my friends. The Brumby in the lot's
theirs. Make sure it's okay, okay?" A mutter of assent, and Harley bends
to pick up one of the cats - you realise, now you're looking, that there
are over a dozen cats in the room of various ages, colour and size - and
drape it over her other shoulder.
Lynch walks out with her into falling snowflakes. "How's business?"
"Kinda sucky, legit. Real good otherwise. You ain't gonna IRS me, are
you, Jase-man?"
"You? IRS audit? Hell's Kitchen? No way, you're a one-woman diplomatic
initiative."
"Naah, dude, it's just that I don't let anyone hassle anyone where I can
hear it, and the time they got uppity and put me in hospital it took
weeks before the garage was running again." Harley pops the hood on the
Nomad, keeps speaking as she works - pulling a socket wrench out of her
boot, and a crescent wrench out of her sleeve. The cat jumps down, trots
back inside.
"So these guys, they don't give me shit, 'cause I give it back, and then
they can't fix their wheels. Wouldn't work anywhere else, though. Gotta
knife?"
Lynch hands her his combat knife, regarding her backside as she bends
over the truck's nose with appreciation. "Here. Why wouldn't it work
anywhere else?"
"Cause, you oughtta know, this place is so fucken hard, Jase, staying
alive takes most of your time, you can't waste it gangbanging. These
guys, they like an excuse not to frag each other -" Harley passes the
knife back - "round here, 'less you got Wagon coverage like me, you get
hurt bad, you die. Go somewhere like Redmond, now there's a lousy place
to be, too many chop shops." Harley fumbles in her back pocket, finds a
different socket and a universal joint.
"Get shot there, you got lots of places to put you back together, plus
there's too many guys selling ammo. Out here, twelve-gauge shells are
money, Jase, you can get a good beer for a round of 00 buck, you don't
shoot someone unless you really mean it. I kind of like that, dude. It's
easier, less casual. Redmond freaks me." She re-emerges holding a small
plastic case with a few cut wires trailing, and a battery roughly taped
to the side.
"Follow me, man, watch me work my magic."
Inside, Harley hooks the box to an elderly-looking computer, jury-
rigging a spare lead (a tortoiseshell cat is sleeping on the box of
jumpers, the biker has to gently ease it out without disturbing the cat)
and rattles the keys: the printer spits three sheets of paper.
"There you go, Mr Secret Agent Dude."
Lynch scans the sheets - a list of GridLink co-ordinates and times. "How
the hell do you do this, Harley?"
"Luck and skill, Jase, I guess." Harley grins at him. "You wanna get
Lilith out of here before she wins all the nuts and washers off those
poor poker players?"
+++++end video2
The locations got us a coffee shop, a public parking structure in Renton
(in the area we've been finding other decoy Matrix lines, not that this
narrows it down much), egress points to Redmond and Puyallup (GridLink
figures "leaving coverage" as "stopped just beyond", a real pain"
and an
apartment block downtown.
The best part is he recharged the vehicle in his apartment's designated
space, and that got us the location. This saved us a lot of time
searching the building, and we got the hardware. We're sitting on it
now, in fact. You want to send some Matrix experts to come analyse
it?]<<<<<
-- Lynch <22:24:51/01-05-58>
