Tonight, Death’s angels rested in the alcove of a warehouse’s loading dock. Two forms, their shadows bloated by the sharp angles of automatic weaponry.
The younger man wore no shirt, only dark trousers, combat hoots, a black headband to hold back his long blond hair, and a single diamond stud in his left ear. He sat with legs folded, his bare back to the cool concrete wall beside the heavy corrugated doorway. Not a muscle moving, his breathing deep, steadied with the aid of his magic. He had been seated in exactly the same position for almost two hours.
The older man moved about from time to time, rough camos hissing quietly with each step of his cybernetic limbs as he paced in the dark silence. His artificial joints were stifler than the younger man’s natural ones. His required stretching every once in a while, but he didn’t complain. The time was near, and everything was ready.
Ready and waiting.
These men’s existence had become a process of patient immobility, then quick action, then stillness again. They had become masters of the waiting game. Head-trick kings. They used various mental exercises to make the time pass quickly while still remaining alert.
Because it was patience that assured no mistakes were made, and these men could afford no slips when the time came to move. To strike. Not tonight.
If ever they needed all their hunting skill, it was now. If they moved a millisecond too slowly, or made the slightest misstep, they would instantly change from hunter into the hunted. Soon the moment of quick action would begin, and the bright curve of headlights told them their waiting was almost at an end.
Two slices of lacquered midnight, the lead Ford Americar and the trailing Rolls Royce Phaeton, slid down the deserted alleyway. Both cars boasted powerful engines that rumbled quietly, the sound bouncing off the tall brick canyons on either side. Headlights cut crazily as first the Ford, and then the Rolls Royce, swerved to avoid the piles of refuse filling the narrow passageway.
The Americar was occupied by three humans and one ork, all in dark suits and minored sunglasses, despite the dim lighting. The Phaeton’s driver was a powerfully built man, also in dark suit and glasses. He held the wheel with one hand, the hand made of articulated chrome.
Sitting next to him was Derek D’imato, a man of thirty-five, or he had been once. Before the treatment, Now he was something else entirely. Something a whole drekload more powerful than any human could hope to be. More powerful, more intelligent. More fragging everything.
In air-conditioned comfort, Derek looked for the sign-a quick flash of headlights in the dark of the alley. He was angry, hot, despite the cool air blowing from the Phaeton’s vents.
Derek was on time, and he hoped Burney Costello would be, too. Burney had a reputation for being punctual only when it suited his purposes. Derek hoped it suited Burney’s purposes tonight. Anything to finish this bit of business and get back home.
Derek would never have agreed to meet here. This was not a place for a man who wielded power. Even less a place for a man who wielded the power of a god among men. But Derek hadn’t made the arrangements, hadn’t been part of the planning.
Shock tactics. Surprise deployments. Aggressive maneuvering. All these things were part of the plan, a plan made by a soldier. Derek’s father, Marco D’imato.
It sounded like so much bulldrek to Derek, who had begun to wonder if maybe his father was starting to lose it. He’d heard the men talking when they thought no one could hear. Heard them saying that his father seemed to be going around the bend. Derek had understood why it seemed that way to them, and had dismissed their muttering dissent, There was too much they didn’t know.
Now, he wondered if they were right. This plan, his father’s plan, was forcing him to run an errand that should have fallen to a messenger, not the son of Marco D’imato-owner and CEO of Fratellauza, Inc.
Marco had been uncharacteristically patient when assigning Derek the job, and Derek had been quick to grasp his father’s logic. If Burney Costello was to give up the beach-front property willingly, he would have to be convinced of Marco’s determination. Nothing would convince him more than Derek showing up for the meet. For the heir apparent to the family empire to put in a personal appearance… well, it would help Burney realize that Fratellanza, Inc. was serious.
There was also the fact that Burney would surely give in to Derek, where he might not yield to a mere messenger.
Marco had insisted that the switch be a surprise, and at the time Derek had agreed. Now, however, trolling down the dirty alleyway, looking for headlight flashes from a car he couldn’t see. he was having second thoughts.
It wasn’t that he was afraid. That was laughable. No, it was that this errand was interfering with his nightly routine, and that made Derek feel anxious, a hungry knot tightening in his chest. He hadn’t fed, and didn’t like going this long without quenching his thirst. Derek looked at the man sitting next to him, deftly maneuvering the car, and had to put a damper on his desire to simply take the man, here and now.
They passed the loading dock of a warehouse, and were almost to the end of the alley, when a sick feeling began to burn in the pit of Derek’s stomach.
They eased past a shadowy alcove, the glint of a corrugated metal door flashing briefly in the headlights.
Did they hide the fragging car?
Then he saw them. Out of his side window, dark splotches casting giant shadows in the afterglow of his headlights. Like demons in the night, something out of a cheap horror trid. He saw the muzzles of the guns, and the horror trid became a full-fledged nightmare.
Derek moved, with a swiftness that no metahuman could hope to match without spending hundreds of thousands of nuyen, but it was too late. The lead car exploded in a ball of flame, and the night was lit up by automatic gunfire, the sound like rumbling thunder in the narrow alley.
The Phaeton, suddenly without direction, rolled further down the alley until it gently bumped into the burning wreckage of the lead car. And all the while the barrage continued until there was no glass left intact, until great, gaping holes formed in the driver’s side. Big enough that the two angels of Death could see most of the effects of their work.
On cue, the flying bullets ceased.
With practiced speed, the two men dragged the eviscerated passenger from the Phaeton over the decapitated body of the driver, whose mangled head dropped to the pebbled pavement. Lifting the body of their target, still miraculously intact, the two men quickly sealed it in an airtight bag that the younger man had flipped out onto the ground littered with broken glass. When the bag was secure and all the air evacuated from it, each grabbed an end and moved swiftly up the alley, past the burning wreck, to the minivan parked at the corner.
The night was empty once more, empty except for hot sweat, cool breezes. The sounds of far-off laughter.
And the smell of new blood and gunpowder.
“He’s sparking. Should be coming round soon.” Short Eyes voice drifted through the hollows of the warehouse.
Martin de Vries stood as still as stone and tried to block out the cacophony of sensations. The warehouse smelled of old tires and oil, a residue from its days as storage for an auto shop. Over the hum of the portable generator that provided power to the place, he could hear the sounds of ships’ engines out on Union Bay, the sounds of people moving about on the street. even the murmuring of men speaking to each other down on the docks.
The night air of the warehouse was cool against his skin. tingling with salt from the sea and pollutants from the factories in Ballard. Reaching into the pocket of his vest, he pulled out a small jade statue. Carved in the likeness of a four-armed demoness, the statue seemed to glow in the dim light, as if the small stone creature had swallowed something of incredible power.
One more time into the breach for you and I, thought de Vries, as he felt the calm strength of the statue pour into him, though this isn’t how you and I like to do things, is it? No fight, no struggle, simply putting evil out of its misery. Takes all the pleasure out of it.
“Is everything in place?” De Vries glanced at Short Eyes as he once again pocketed the statue.
Short Eyes grunted, running her long fingernails though her hoop-length hair, pushing it back to slot a datacord into one of her five datajacks.
De Vries knew that she was now getting a fully recreated view of the entire room as she brought the four trid cameras on-line. That was part of Short Eyes’ talent. To most, four simultaneous points of view would be disorienting, maybe even nauseating. But de Vries knew that Short Eyes welcomed the view.
De Vries glanced briefly at the trideo screen next to one of the cameras as Short Eyes used her headware to meld the composite into a comprehensible image. In the screen, de Vries saw a close-up of his own face. Pale skin gleamed like polished marble against the black of his hair, and his hazel eyes narrowed over an aquiline nose.
“Stay chilly,” Short Eyes said. “Everything’s rock.”
As de Vries watched himself on the screen, a small grin spread across his full, slightly bluish lips. The tips of his delicately curved incisors showed twin crescents of stark white against the skin of those lips. “Excellent, my dear. The priest?”
“Give me the go, and I’ll slot,” she said.
“In a moment,” de Vries said. “First I must tend to our guest. He is already awake, although he’s trying to hide that fact.”
Derek D’imato was strapped to a metal chair in the center of a ritual circle, his face reposed in what appeared to be sleep. Severely chopped black hair framed strong masculine features, a straight prominent nose, and a wide, sensuous mouth. Long lashes fell almost to his aristocratic cheek bones. Close scrutiny, however, revealed make-up. In fact, it was caked on, though artfully done, and where Derek’s sweat had run down his face, tracks of darkness invaded the healthy-looking tan.
Despite appearances, de Vries knew Derek was faking. No matter how much he tried to maintain the illusion of stupor, the drug would have worn off more than two minutes ago.
The man’s thousand-nuyen suit was ripped to shreds in places and showed stains all down the front, though there were no wounds visible on him. The stains didn’t look like blood. De Vries knew blood, knew all of its stages, all of its secrets. These dark stains were too black, too shiny, to be what the uninfected would call blood.
“Derek, you may stop pretending now. I’ve done this far too many times to misjudge the sedative you were given.”
Derek didn’t open his eyes, but simply said, “Old man, you have no idea how deep in drek you’ve decided to go wading. When I get out of this, I’m going to rip you apart piece by piece and suck the marrow from your bones.”
De Vries noticed there was something definitely wrong with Derek’s mouth, but he couldn’t place it. It was just wrong, that was all.
Short Eyes gasped, a clearly audible hiss of breath through her human teeth.