Fade to Black (38 page)

Fortunately, the subdued tones permanently bonded to her face, lips, brows, and lashes simulated the most basic effects of makeup. The resulting look was neat enough, though anyone who knew her would see the difference at once. She looked somewhat less polished than her usual self. Unfinished. A woman would certainly spot that. But would a man like Osborne notice?

"I'll make you a promise," said a quiet voice.

Farrah turned to face the man standing in the doorway. The latest one to act as her guard. His graying, razorcut hair and three-day growth of beard made him appear the oldest of the runners. He was also the one who had seemed most acutely distressed after the runners' meeting with Prometheus. The woman who had died at that meeting had apparently been his woman.

"If you cross us," he said, lowly, "you'll never see home again."

Farrah believed it. For all this man's apparent skill at first aid, he carried himself like someone used to confrontations, physical violence. Farrah did not doubt that he could kill her if so moved, without difficulty, without remorse. It was a frightening realization. Her days lately had been fraught with such realizations.

"You scan?" the man insisted.

"I won't cross you," Farrah replied, somewhere finding the capacity to speak in a voice that did not waiver. "I want to get out of this alive. I want to get back to my husband."

To Farrah, those seemed like persuasive proofs, but she saw at once that she had slipped and slipped badly. The man's expression turned venomous, his mouth twisting into a vicious sneer. "That's it," he snarled, motioning with his gun. "Move it."

She did, stepping again into the hall, expecting something, she wasn't sure what-a blow at the back of the head, a shove at the very least. Nothing like that happened and she immediately saw why. The runners'
 
leader waited, watching from the top of the hall. The leader's expression was hard, but she saw none of the fury that had lit his features on previous occasions. Farrah suspected that she might have at least a slim chance of survival as long as she did nothing to provoke that fury.

At a motion of his head, she moved past the leader and into the little room outfitted like an office. A shabby office. The Asian woman was jacked into her deck. Here was another variable that kept Farrah's nerves on edge and twitching. The Asian despised all corporates, everything to do with corporations and corporate living. She seemed to want all corporates dead. Farrah hadn't the slightest doubt that this one might kill her too, given the right opportunity, given the right "excuse."

The leader closed the door, then turned to Farrah, saying, "We play this like you're making all the arrangements. You'll be against a black background. The man won't see nothing but you."

Farrah nodded. "I understand."

"Remember what I told you."

"I will." The man had given her precise instructions on the details of the agreement she was to complete. Farrah closed her eyes and told herself again that she would somehow make this work. She had no choice. Everything depended on it.

"You set?"

"Yes. I'm ready."

The telecom calling screen appeared on the wall display. That was swiftly replaced by the willow and lotus logo of Maas Intertech. Then came the face of a very young and very attractive Asian woman. "Mr. Osborne's office. May I help you?"

Farrah smiled. "May I speak to him, please."

The woman also smiled, apparently in recognition. "Oh, yes. One moment, please."

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome."

The corporate logo returned, then Osborne appeared. He was not a good-looking man. His face resembled putty that had been sculpted into rough, square lines, then baked to a stony texture. He wore his hair samurai-style, shaven above the brow, drawn back behind his head. Prominent eyebrows threw his eyes into shadow. Of his clothes, only a plain, collarless white linen shirt, buttoned at the neck, showed on the screen. A small, dark, circular pin that kept winking with the light clung to the shirt's right breast.

"Nice of you to call," Osborne said. "I understand that you've been lifted."

Osborne did not seem pleased at all, but Farrah had no difficulty guessing why. If he had heard some rumor of her abduction, he would be presuming, at the very least, that their previous negotiations were now void. That would mean the loss of certain opportunities. She would have to correct that presumption, bring him up to date. "The situation has changed."

"Yes. I'm aware of that, I'm also aware that a certain person died at the Willow Brook Mall. I'm not sure if I should be thanking you or cursing you for that. Do we have anything else to discuss?"

"Quite a lot, in fact."

"I'm listening."

"My basic offer to you is unchanged. However, I now have the capability to recruit the person myself and deliver him to you at a suitable time and place."

"And just how has this happened?"

"It happened. The result is this. I'm willing to concede certain of the extras we discussed, the ones you found most problematic, in exchange for certain consideration."

Osborne said nothing for several moments. Doubtless, he was pondering what she might want in place of any extras she had previously demanded. All such "bonuses" were not created equal. Simple monetary value was not always a deciding factor. "I'm still listening."

"The main points relate to my recruitment team. They want a cash award for their efforts."

"That sounds workable. What other points?"

"As a result of other recruitments they've handled, they are currently receiving a great deal of unwelcome attention. They would like that to stop."

For a moment, Osborne seemed on the verge of asking what all this had to do with him. Osborne was not so slow of wit as to actually put that question into words. "You're not saying what I think you're saying?"

Farrah nodded. Once.

Osborne paused to light a cigarette, then said, "Daisaka Security is looking for your recruitment team?"

"That's correct."

"You know what I'm thinking? That you engineered the disappearance of a certain person from my corp's facility. Why would you do that?"

"I would not."

"No? I think it's an interesting concept. For several reasons. It takes a big gun out of our R & D effort and makes your boy all the more valuable. It also saves me the trouble of explaining how an impostor got into our program. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea."

"Then you should be grateful."

"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm taking this as a warning." He paused and gazed at her pointedly. "But that doesn't change certain facts. You want our agreement documented and certified, correct? Like any full and proper recruitment. Unfortunately, I have no authority over Kuze Nihon's security arm or any other organization beyond the purview of Maas Intertech."

Farrah smiled, pointedly. "You're too modest."

"Simply a realist."

"But you do have influence."

Osborne took a swift drag from his cig. "I might agree to quietly exert myself in certain quarters, but I will not agree to provide any substantive evidence of this aspect of our agreement. You'll have to take my word for it."

"These people we're dealing with are not fools, Osborne."

"That fact has been made poignantly obvious."

"Let's speak of facts. The fact is that this team and I together are providing you with an unparalleled opportunity."

"That's for me to judge."

Farrah had no doubt that Osborne knew what she meant and that he also agreed. The runners' lifting of Michael Travis had shown Maas Intertech's security unit to be at least rather lax and possibly incompetent. Heads would be rolling by now, the entire security framework under intense review. If Osborne could suddenly present Ansell Surikov to the board of directors, he would, by comparison, seem a hero. The fact that an impostor had been working under their very noses need never be mentioned. The death of Michael Travis could be explained away in any number of ways, if that death had even become generally known. "You must have your eye on the CEO's office."

"I have my eye on a lot of things," Osborne said very quietly. "I'm open to discussing your new terms because I want your boy. I'm sure you've reached that conclusion. If I have to use my influence, as you call it, I will. I'll do what I have to do. It's even conceivable that I might have a job or two of my own for this team of yours, and therefore a reason to make efforts on their behalf. But don't try to push under my skin. I get unreasonable when people do that."

Farrah suppressed a shiver. One thing she definitely did not want was to encourage a man like Osborne to get unreasonable. That could prove fatal. "You have my sincere apology."

Osborne did not seem overly moved. "I suggest we talk money. How absurd a fee does your team expect?"

For an organization with the resources of Maas Intertech, it wasn't a great deal of money and Osborne didn't even blink at mention of the sum.

They completed their negotiations in short order.

35

That slag Osborne had said it. Rico wondered about it. Could Farrah Moffit have been the one who'd set up the original run against Maas Intertech? She handled herself real slick on the telecom, cool and corporate. Yet, to Rico it didn't seem likely. She was a fragging psychologist She'd gotten her start at Fuchi as a fragging joygirl. She turned doe-eyed and timid the minute anybody raised their voice. It didn't matter, but it did make him wonder.

Rico rubbed at his eyes and suppressed a yawn. It seemed like days, weeks, since he'd last slept a damn.

"What now?" Moffit asked quietly.

Rico grimaced. "Now you go back to the lounge."

He and the team had some plans to make.

* * *

"Master,"
the voice whispered.
"Wake up."

Bandit woke, shifted senses, and opened his eyes to the astral counterpart of the lounge. The auras of Dok and Farrah Moffit glowed from opposite sides of the narrow room. Between them hovered the Raccoon-like form of a watcher.

"Something strange, master,"
the watcher said.
"You said..."

"Yes."

Bandit motivated his astral self, sat up, crossed his legs and ascended, moving forward. The watcher led up the hall, through the door to the warehouse loading bay, across the bay, then through the large bay door and outside.

As Bandit passed through the astral form of the bay door, he entered the glare of directed mana, a spell, like turning to face the sun. Instinctively, he tugged himself back, back into the dim radiance of the loading bay. As he did that, he threw up a shield, a spell of his own, surrounding his astral body in a sphere of guardian power.

Then-nothing. No mana bolts streamed through the dormant aura of the bay door to strike his shield.

No monstrous spirits appeared to confront him. Just what had he encountered? He descended into the ground, moved forward a ways, then came up through the buildings on the far side of the street. He saw an old, fat man seated on a toilet and smoking a fat cigar, but other than that... nothing.

The night sky shone with the reflected radiance of the Earth's energy. The air rumbled with the workings of nearby factories. Cars and trucks moved along the streets.

The magic that had glared in his face was gone. It had touched him and disappeared. What was it?

What could it mean?

Trouble, for sure.

They took the meet in Jersey City, on Pacific, right near the railroad yards. Meets at very high-profile localities like malls hadn't gone too good in the recent past, so this one was taking place in the litter-strewn parking lot of the local Quik Shop store.

At three a.m., the lot was deserted.

Rico looked around from the passenger seat of the van. The surrounding neighborhood was grunge, three-and four-story grimy brick and cracked, crumbling sidewalks. It was like Newark's worst, only the cops still worked here and they never went easy. Jersey City had its own private corporation and that corp had its own cops. They were a mob like all the other mobs, only they had the law behind them. They specialized in street justice. Make the wrong move and you ended up sprawled in some dark corner with a hole through the back of your head.

Not a good place for pyrotechnics. The Jersey City cops rode in armored cars and command vehicles and had assault teams on twenty-four-hour alert. If things got real hot, they called out the fragging panzer.

Or one of their gunships.

At a quarter past the hour, a crimson Toyota Ambassador pulled into the lot. It was marked for Paladin Cabs. That meant body armor, run-flat tires, and gun ports.

Tonight it also meant a bodyguard. The guard looked like a gutterpunk in razor-sharp threads. He came out of the rear of the cab in a dark gray suit, glanced toward the street, stood up, glanced toward the street, closed the door of the cab, and turned to face Thorvin's van. Then he shot another glance toward the street.

Rico recognized the habit. It was something you developed after seeing too many people sliced and diced to bloody ribbons in the thrasher parts of the sprawl.