22 – No Prisoners

  Tony sat in a corner booth of the stylish little bar off the lobby of The Meridian Arms, brooding over a shot of top-shelf bourbon—the kind the synth behind the bar swore was genuine. It was his fourth, but he was taking his time; he’d been sitting there for nearly two hours, ostensibly staring into space, while Nora quietly tagged everyone who came and went. He was pretty sure the big meathead at the bar—the one with the chrome skull plates and the broad, armor-plated shoulders—was watching him.

  It wasn’t that the guy was out of place in a spot like the Arms. Tony just had a feeling; he’d caught the guy glancing his way a couple of times—casual glances that lingered just long enough to confirm what Tony already knew: he was being watched. He let his gaze drift past the bar again, careful not to pause, and then he looked at the snapshot Nora took in an AUI window. Sure enough, Chrome-Dome’s deep-set eyes were pointed his way.

  Tony put an elbow on the table, pressed his palm to his face, and feigned exhaustion or inebriation or both. He flicked his fingers toward the bar, summoning the bartender with another bourbon on the rocks. His nanites reported most of the alcohol had already cleared his system, so he was ready for another.

  He was hoping Jen didn’t know about his nanites. Or, failing that, he was hoping the goons she hired hadn’t been made privy. He figured she’d hired the guy and his crew to feel Tony out, something he’d fully expected from day one. Jen liked to play, but she wouldn’t bite if she didn’t think Tony was up to the game; she’d just as soon end him before things got started. He’d fully expected to be tracked from his meet with Eric—one of the reasons he’d gone to a well-known, if low-key, place like the Arms.

  “What do you think, Nora? Think they’ll jump me here and risk pissing off the hotel’s security, or wait ’til I’m in my room to do it quiet-like, far enough from the lobby that security can pretend not to notice?” he muttered under his breath, subvocalizing so softly that Nora’s filters had to reconstruct the words.

  “Pardon me, Tony? I think I missed the setup for that question. Who is going to jump you? Why would they?”

  “Come on, I trained you better than that. Who did I just meet with?”

  “Eric, but it seemed a mostly friendly meeting. He’s supposed to arrange something with Jen, no?”

  “Jen’s gonna test me. She’ll find out if I still have any fight left in me. If I pass the test, she’ll throw a job my way—something with about a fifty-fifty survival chance. If I pass that test, she might let me close enough so she can look into my eyes when she kills me.”

  “I thought…” Nora trailed off, then she said, “Ah, I see. This is part of the plan you and Adelaide put together. You never intended to make peace, and you don’t think she does, either.”

  As far as Nora knew, he was just supposed to get close to Jen; she didn’t know how, and neither did Addie. “Yeah, basically. Come on, Nora. If I let her and Eric off the hook after what they did, then I wouldn’t be the same Tony anymore. I mean, I’m not the same Tony, but I didn’t change like that. Anyway, Jen knows what I’m like, and she’s the kind who doesn’t let go of a grudge, either.”

  Nora was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “To answer your earlier question, I believe they’ll try to take you out quiet-like.”

  “Yeah, agreed.” Tony was muttering, mostly subvocalizing—anyone trying to listen in on him would catch only an occasional word here and there. He wasn’t too worried anyway; the booths were private and had sound disruption fields. Still, where one clever bit of tech obfuscated, another could put the puzzle together again, so he didn’t take any chances.

  When the synth brought his whiskey, he tossed it back. With a grunt, he stood—unsteady, deliberate—the picture of a drunk on a mission. He stumbled into the synth, let it catch him and help him collect himself, then stumble-walked toward the lobby. He was careful not to even glance at the merc at the bar. When he walked into the lobby, though, he gave it a bleary-eyed scan, providing Nora a good opportunity to capture any faces looking his way.

  His room was on the seventh floor, so he shuffled toward the brass elevator doors. As he stood waiting for the elevator, he swayed, hands in pockets, perusing Nora’s snaps of the people in the lobby. Several had looked his way, any of whom might be mercs. One woman with silver-blue hair and dark shades that disrupted Tony’s ocular implants stood out, though. She wore a long, metallic-blue overcoat, and it was a pretty piece of tech—a high-end synthetic weave that would be resistant to blades and probably bullets, and when Tony switched his feed to infrared, her body didn’t register.

  Nothing said there weren’t plenty of operators with that kind of gear staying in hotels like the Arms, but something about the way her blurry face turned his way, and her hand shifted toward the gap in her coat told Tony she was watching for him. The elevator dinged. Tony stepped in, head bowed, and murmured, “Two at least.”

  Nora picked his floor for him, and the elevator started moving. Meanwhile, she said, “Are you sure you shouldn’t just find a different exit and avoid the confrontation?”

  Tony thought about it. Would escaping be enough for Jen to throw another challenge his way? It would show that he still had his head on his shoulders, at least. Still, if he took out her little goon squad, he could play that angle with Eric—Why’d you try to kill me, bro?—Tony chuckled at the thought. “Nah,” he subvocalized, “I need to make a point.”

  When he reached his floor, Tony stopped playing drunk and hurried to his room. It wasn’t a suite, but it was big, with room to stretch your legs—far better than his last one. He had an oversized couch facing the windows, a king-size bed, and a bathroom with a shower, but none of those features were the selling points for the hotel. The classic art déco styling and the floor-to-ceiling windows, which provided a clear view of the skyline, were the reasons people stayed there.

  He locked the door and skipped the shower for now—mercs weren’t on a schedule, and he couldn’t risk getting caught off guard. “Nora, order a double bourbon on the rocks, a cola, and a bucket of ice.”

  “Done.”

  Tony didn’t know if his stalkers had a netjacker capable of accessing the hotel’s network, but even if they didn’t, they’d see the room service coming to his room. He stood before the windows, inhaling deeply, steadying himself as his nanites cleared the last of his buzz away. He didn’t have to worry about Jen’s goons having eyes on him; the glass was one-way. On the outside, it shone like polished brass, giving the hotel a hell of a shine when the sun hit it right. Outside, rain ticked against the brass-tinted glass, and the city lights smeared into gold and crimson rivers. Somewhere below, a car backfired—or maybe it didn’t.

  He walked over to the foot of the bed and sat down, taking a minute to pull off his boots and take off his coat. He wanted to put on a convincing show, and the coat lying at the foot of the bed near his boots would be the first thing they’d notice if they breached his door. The next thing they’d look at would be the bed, so Tony pulled back the covers, jammed a couple of the six pillows into a roughly body-shaped lump, and then piled the rest of the pillows along the side to further muddy the picture.

  Hand on his pistol grip, he walked over to the door and tapped the hallway monitor button. A rectangular viewscreen shimmered to life at the center of the plasteel door, revealing a long, empty hallway. Nodding to himself, Tony walked over to the thermostat and cranked the heat to the max. It wouldn’t fool good thermals for long, but maybe it’d buy him a few seconds of noise in their feeds.

  Then, while he waited for his room service, Tony walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, tapping the little red + symbol until it stopped beeping. There were three LED bulbs above the mirror, so he unscrewed two of them. That done, he stepped out and pulled the door almost closed. By the time a soft knock sounded on the door, the entire hotel room was feeling steamy.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Using the hallway monitor, Tony studied the synth pushing the cart for several seconds before he opened the door. It was an old-school, brass-bodied thing, far too bespoke to be something a merc crew would have come up with on such short notice. “I’ll take it from here,” he said, grabbing the cart and tugging it through the door.

  “I would be happy to mix your drink, sir—” the synth started to say, but Tony cut it off, waving a hand.

  “I’m good. Headache.” With that, he let the door close on its heavy, spring-loaded hinges. He paused in the entryway and tossed the double bourbon onto the carpet. He wanted his late-night visitors to smell it. Then, he parked the cart sideways in the little hallway-foyer, picked up the glass bottle of cola and the bucket of ice, and, after turning all the lights off, save the single bulb in the bathroom, he walked over to the couch.

  It was a big, sturdy piece of furniture, but Tony didn’t see it stopping any bullets—needles, sure, and maybe even silenced low-caliber rounds, but if they came with anything heavy, it wouldn’t provide cover. Still, it would work for what he wanted. Tony put the bucket of ice on the left-hand cushion and then walked back to the bathroom. Another idea had come to him.

  He studied the bathroom mirror; it wasn’t large—less than a meter on a side. Nodding to himself, he felt around the edge of the mirror, trying to discern how it had been attached to the wall. It was a smart mirror—tied to the hotel’s net. It provided weather updates, and if Tony wanted to, he could ask the hotel’s AI to display pretty much anything on it. His fingers found the power cable, and he tugged it free, waiting to see if the AI would squawk. Silence. “Good sign.”

  Tony gripped both sides, lifted and pulled, sliding it off the anchored mounting screws. He took the mirror out to the main room and propped it in the far corner between the wall and the window. Grinning, he moved back to the entry hall and looked to ensure it was correctly angled to show him his reflection. It looked perfect.

  His plan was crude, but simple enough to work. The room was hot, and the ice and the couch would hopefully mask his heat in the steamy air. He just hoped the running shower didn’t scream ‘setup’ too loudly. It didn’t matter if they saw through it; all Tony needed were a couple of seconds of confusion.

  He walked over to the couch and knelt on the far side of it, right behind the ice bucket. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he drew his massive pistol and focused his gaze on the door. The room was a sauna; sweat slid down his forehead. “Perfect,” he whispered. It was time to wait.

  ###

  “You’re sure?” Bondo subvocalized.

  Glitter’s name flashed on his AUI as she replied, “Definitely. Saw it go in with my own eyes.”

  Bondo grinned, chuckling as he thumbed the elevator call button. The button pulsed red. He liked the look of it. “This is too damn easy. Thought Vincent said this was high-risk.”

  Trinnie’s voice came through comms, buzzing slightly from the interference of the old-ass building’s bones. “Well, the guy used to be hard, but I guess he got taken down a bunch of notches. I’ve done some digging, and there ain’t shit from him in recent history. Fell off the face of the Earth last year. Anyway, you guys saw him getting loaded up. Maybe he had a bad date.”

  Bondo pressed the number seven button and waited as the elevator started moving. “Any bonus for taking him alive?”

  “Screw that!” Glitter replied immediately. “I hate babysitting, and we need to get scarce before security responds.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Trinnie replied. “No bonus. Just give me five more minutes. I’m installing scramblers near the cams on his level. The AI will notice them, but by the time they send a synth around to find out what’s up, we’ll be on our way out.”

  Glitter chuckled. “Bonus of a fully synth staff; nobody with eyeballs to see through our face scramblers.”

  Trinnie, a former Yang Corp detective, didn’t seem worried. “Eh, if there were a big investigation, they could get footage from patrons, but that won’t happen. Nobody cares about this guy. He’ll get tossed into a recycler.”

  As the elevator dinged and Bondo stepped out, he looked left and right, saw Glitter in her fancy damn jacket lurking by a corner, and started toward her. He reached into his coat, gripping the comforting rubber hilt of his vibro-blade. “What kinda proof we need to collect?”

  Trinnie’s name lit up on his AUI. “Client wants his eye—the good one.”

  “Huh, easy enough. That means don’t shoot him in the face, Glitter.”

  She watched him approach, her glossy blue lips twisting into a smirk. “We can always collect the pieces.”

  “Rather not, love,” Trinnie said. “Okay, just the elevator cams left. Gimme three minutes.”

  Bondo leaned against the wall, nodding toward the corner. “Any movement?”

  Glitter shook her head, sending her straight blue hair dancing. Her eyes were unreadable behind her dark visor as she whispered, “Not since the bot dropped off his booze.”

  He looked her up and down, noting the sizeable bulge under the left-side flap of her coat. “That damn gun’s pretty noisy.”

  She shrugged. “Plenty of concrete between us and security. Trinnie will make sure none of the nodes in the room hear anything.”

  “What about the glass? I mean, if things get wild.”

  “You didn’t read Trin’s report?”

  It was Bondo’s turn to shrug. “Skimmed it.”

  “The glass is four inches thick with two layers of carbon weave. It would take a railgun fired from one of the towers to punch through, and the impact would light up the side of the building like fireworks.”

  “Huh. Good to know.”

  Glitter’s silver eyebrow arched. “Maybe read the brief next time, chrome-brain.”

  Bondo grunted, ignoring her as he looked at a new message. It was from Lacy, and she was bitching about him missing a meeting with the daycare supervisor. While they waited, he mentally typed out a response:

  Listen, I don’t even work for Comet. You deal with the bitch. Your in the bulding everyday anyway! I pay the bill! It’s enough! If Pasqual is getting in fights its on you! I only have him four days a month. Think that’s enough to turn him into a bully?

  He waited a second while Princess, his PAI, fixed his spelling and whatnot, then he hit send. He smirked, picturing Lacy’s face when she read the message. He’d finished with perfect timing, because Trinnie came jogging up, breathless.

  “Jammers are all set.”

  Glitter smiled, exposing her white, cat-like teeth. She pulled her electro-shotgun out of her coat, nodding toward the corner. “Let’s do it!”

  Trinnie reached into the big satchel hanging off her shoulder, retrieving a small black disc. “Let me put this on the door to disable the cam, then I’ll work on the lock.” She looked at Bondo and hissed, “Keep quiet!”

  He grunted, drawing his ten-inch vibroblade. He didn’t thumb it on, but Trinnie backed away, anyhow. He figured it was his face—his eyes or something. People always told him he looked scary as fuck. He always had, but ever since he’d gotten the metal plates and the eightball eyes—twin black lenses ringed in red—it seemed worse.

  A few minutes later, while he and Glitter each hugged the wall on either side of the mark’s door, Trinnie worked her magic, jacking into the door panel and then, using some kind of little laser cutter, sliced the manual lock. She stepped back and nodded. Bondo knew what that meant: it was go time. Like a dozen jobs before, Glitter silently pushed the door open, and Bondo slipped in behind her. He almost swore aloud when the damp heat hit him.

  The room was a goddamn sauna—booze on the air and a shower hissing somewhere past the steam. He subvocalized, “Did the dickhead pass out in the shower?”

  Neither of his partners had an answer for him. As the shower continued to hiss, Glitter held a finger to her lips, then pushed her visor up, so her high-end optics, unbothered by steamy air, could do their work. Bondo didn’t have such concerns; his eightballs could scramble just fine—no visors for him. He scanned the room ahead, darkness no obstacle to his low-light vision, but all he saw were steamy windows, the long couch, and the foot of the bed. He pointed to the jacket and boots there.

  Glitter nodded, creeping forward. At the end of the short hallway, Bondo peeked around the corner and froze at the sight of the bed. It was a mess, but was that a person? He flicked his visual spectrum into infrared and saw only a faint smear of yellow heat—a shape that might’ve been human or might’ve been pillows. Glitter had already decided it wasn’t the mark; her gaze fixated on the bathroom door as she crept toward it.

  Bondo scanned the rest of the room, then he saw him—a big son of a bitch in the corner, blade gleaming—and his gut dropped. “Fuck!” He dove for the floor. Glitter hit the wall, crouching, probably wondering what he’d seen. “In the corner!” He switched his knife to his left hand and pawed at his waistline, trying to pull out his stout little fifty-cal, but Glitter was already on it. She lurched to her knees and squeezed the trigger. Her gun puked its payload—a sharp, electric zwap—and the target exploded into shards of glass. A mirror. Not a man.

  A rising electric whine cut off in a crackling roar. Glitter exhaled a wheezing, whistling breath as she fell. The wall behind her bloomed orange-red—a Rorschach of blood and fire. Another whine, another crackling roar as something broke the sound barrier, and then Bondo heard a body thudding onto the carpet behind him.

  This time, Princess highlighted the source of the shots in his AUI, and Bondo moved with combat-honed reflexes. He punched the button on his stim injector, felt the electric rush as his pupils dilated, and everything got brighter. His heart hammered like a bass drum in a speed metal band, and he charged like a grizzly, blade humming, every nerve lit with stimfire.

  A figure stood there—tall, still, with one fiery red eye and a fist full of lightning. Bondo pumped his massive legs like it was the most important charge of his life—it was—desperate to jam his knife into that asshole before the lightning could—

  Like judgment’s thunder, fiery plasma jetted from the figure’s fist—and the world went dark. Silence settled, broken only by the hiss of the shower and the soft pop of melting ice.