Who Hunts the Hunter Page 18

  “Certainly, Enoshi-sama, that is possible. There could be many ‘Bandits.’ The connection we have drawn between Mr. Scott Berman and the shadowrunner named Bandit is very tentative, based primarily on photo-comparison technology, which is not absolutely reliable. However, I would be derelict in my duty if I did not bring certain other details to your attention which relate to this matter.”

  “Please continue.”

  “We have ascertained that Mr. Scott Berman has been living without use of a System Identification Number for approximately fifteen years. His official record simply ends. He apparently disappeared. The police conducted an investigation of his disappearance at the request of his parents, but learned nothing. The case was eventually closed. Mr. Scott Berman’s SIN was classified as inactive. He was presumed dead.”

  Of course. The only possible explanation. Or the only one that immediately comes to mind. Ms. Berman’s brother was presumed dead, his official record ended; therefore, any checks run on Ms. Berman when she joined Hurley-Cooper would have turned up no connections with anyone, much less a shadowrunner or felon.

  Enoshi closes his eyes and rubs at his forehead. His headache is gaining strength again."Is there any indication that Ms. Berman is personally involved in criminal activity?”

  “She spoke of someone stealing from a corporation, but did not identify the parties involved. Surveillance was terminated shortly thereafter.”

  “You terminated surveillance?”

  “No, Enoshi-sama. Our audio surveillance devices abruptly ceased to transmit any sounds. Prior to this, Mr. Scott Berman warned Ms. Amy Berman that telecoms may be tapped. I suspect he made use of some method to defeat the devices planted in Ms. Amy Berman’s residence. Possibly an arcane method. Mr. Scott Berman appears to be a shaman.”

  “You’re quite certain?”

  “Yes, Enoshi-jama.”

  A most disturbing turn of events. Enoshi knows little of shamans, but everything he has ever heard about them suggests that, at best, they are very individualistic persons. The worst are eco-terrorists involved in ferocious anticorporate activity. Enoshi looks to Usami and says, “We know from Ms. Berman’s previous meeting that she has been out of contact with this person, her brother. Was there any indication tonight as to the specific cause that brought them together?”

  “Mr. Scott Berman spoke again of attuning himself with people. I do not know what real significance this may have for a shaman. However, I think it is conceivable that this is some form of criminal argot referring to specific persons whom Mr. Scott Berman plans to contact in connection with some illicit activity.”

  Enoshi massages his forehead. He reviewed portions of the transcript of last night’s meeting between Ms. Berman and her brother. At face value, it had seemed like a simple reunion. Tonight’s revelations cast the meeting in a new and potentially sinister light. The possibility that Ms. Berman may be involved with some criminal conspiracy, possibly involving agents of Mitsuhama Computer Technologies, or terrorist elements, demands that swift and decisive action be taken. Questions must be answered. The situation must be resolved.

  Usami says, “I believe it would be expedient to request hermetic resources to assist in this operation.”

  “I agree,” Enoshi replies."I will make the request at once. Meanwhile, you must make every attempt to unveil the mystery surrounding Ms. Berman. It is imperative that we determine what is going on, and if Ms. Berman’s activities represent a threat to our corporate organization.”

  “I understand, Enoshi-sama.”

  Enoshi nods, and rubs at his forehead.

  Usami bows and departs.

  41

  The tunnel is damp and dripping. Pools of water cover the floor. Strange red-hued stuff like mold clings to the tunnel’s curving walls and adds a peculiar reddish glow to the dim red haze suffusing the dark. The air, though, smells kind of lush. Sweet and spicy. The only sounds are the dripping of water from the tunnel walls and the sloshing of Monk and Minx’s boots through the pools on the floor.

  So what are they doing in this tunnel that seems to go on forever? Monk isn’t sure. He’d ask, except Minx asked him if he trusts her enough to do what she says without asking a lot of questions. Of course he does. He trusts her enough to ask none. They went underground somewhere just north of the Newark sprawl. Monk thinks they must be passing under the Hudson River. Where are they going? They’re going to see the Master, but who that is or why they have to go through the underground to meet the slag Monk can only guess.

  His first guess is that for some reason they have to meet the Master in private. If the Master is like other of Minx’s friends, he probably knows the underground real well and uses it to get around without being seen. His second guess ...

  Abruptly, Minx stops, looking up at the reddish crete of the ceiling."Oh, my god,” she says."Oh, my god! OH, MY GOD!"

  There’s nothing wrong with the ceiling that Monk can see. He guesses that Minx is getting a call over her implanted headfone. Before the Change, her Change, she was a messenger. Her friends all have her telecom code.

  She looks at him and smiles.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Minx says."You’ll never guess what I just heard. Novastar Maria Mercurial is pregnant.”

  “Wiz.”

  “By a troll.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And a vampire.”

  “Huh?”

  Minx nods like she means it.

  “Vampires are real?”

  “Ever see one?”

  “No.”

  “Me, neither.”

  They walk on, and on and on, and then on a ways more. The pools on the tunnel floor dwindle. The dripping fades into silence. A big jagged hole appears in the tunnel wall, like something as tough as a troll punched a hole through the bricks. The passage on the other side of that hole is narrow and ends at a metal grating. Minx pushes the grating open and they step into another tunnel, big and squarish, with tracks, like tracks for subway trains.

  “What’s that rumbling noise?” Monk says.

  Minx squeezes his elbow."That’s just a highway,” she says, pointing up."Don’t worry, you booty. Trains don’t come this way anymore.”

  The paired rails are kind of rusty red. Monk wonders where this tunnel leads, and where he and Minx are standing right now. He guesses they’re somewhere on the east side of the Hudson. Maybe Manhattan. Probably north of that. He’s never spent much time in Manhattan so he’s not really sure how far north of the island the subway tunnels go. He knows they go way over into Brooklyn and Queens and some cross into Jersey, but north of Manhattan? He’s clueless.

  They walk on and on a while. Monk decides to ask a question."Uh ... what am I supposed to do when we meet this Master guy?”

  Minx smiles."I’ll show you.”

  Well, okay.

  They come to another grating in the tunnel wall. Minx pulls it open. The passage beyond it is small and squarish. They have to bend forward to get through it. That leads them into a maze of passages, some large enough for them to stand upright, some so small they have to get down on hands and knees. Monk is in the process of deciding to ask another question when, abruptly, the tunnel they’re in comes to an end and Minx turns to face him.

  “Boost me up, you booty.”

  Monk makes a cradle of his hands. Minx puts one foot there and half climbs up onto his shoulders. It’s hard to see what she does then, as her groin is right in front of his face, pressing against his nose. The smell that greets his nose, that seems to come seeping out through the crotch of her jeans, is lush and sweet, and ...

  Abruptly, she’s got both feet on his shoulders and she’s rising, climbing up through a squarish hole in the tunnel ceiling.

  “Come on, booty,” she whispers.

  A rope hits him in the face. He gets hold of that and climbs up. That puts him in a dark, dry, dusty space like a basement. The walls look like wood, a reddish sort of wood. The floor’s concrete. Reddish c
oncrete. There are a lot of crates and boxes and shelves standing around, some rising in stacks to the ceiling, and dividing the place into narrow cobwebby aisles.

  “Don’t move, ” Minx whispers into his ear.

  Monk shakes his head.

  Little more than two meters away stands a tall figure wrapped in a dark cloak. A hood and mask cover his face and head. Gloves cover his hands. A sort of hazy red corona radiates from around him.

  Monk guesses this is the Master.

  He can’t move.

  “Come, my dear hunter,” the Master says in a quiet, reassuring, fatherly sort of voice."Come to me.”

  Monk feels his whole body tingling, trying to move forward, but his feet are locked in position, glued to the dusty floor. Minx moves forward. She moves to face the Master and lifts her hands to his shoulders. Something happens then. The Master’s cloak swings out, encompassing Minx, and then ... Monk isn’t sure. It’s like the cloak becomes a dark cloud hiding Minx and Master both. Monk stands there watching, unable to move, and there’s just this cloud of darkness hanging there before him.

  A while passes.

  The cloud of darkness fades. The Master comes back into sight. He lowers his cloak. Minx turns and comes to Monk, lifts her hands to his shoulders, and smiles."You booty,” she says softly."Get it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “To feed the Master.”

  “Huh?”

  “If you don’t, he’ll die,” Minx whispers, “and if he dies, we die.”

  That would be bad. If they died, Minx would die, and then Monk couldn’t stand living."How do I ... ?”

  “You know ...”

  Minx thrusts her mouth against his and exhales deeply. The warm gush of her breath brings him a rush. The breath of life ... Their life. The Master’s life. Monk nods. He gets it now. Minx takes hold of his arm and leads him forward, one step, then another, closer and closer, till the Master’s opening his cloak, growing larger and larger, infinite, and the Master’s saying, “Come to me, my hunter. Come ...” And Monk goes.

  42

  The name of the place is Brogan Bail Bonds. It occupies a ground-level storefront in a five-story brick building that’s almost lost amid the cheesy stroboscopic pandemonium of the street. Glaring neon signs and flashing laser adverts illuminate nearly every window of every building; some reach right over the street. Adstands along the curbs add their thumping, echoing, electronic syncopated soundtracks to the rhythmic humming and rumbling of passing traffic and the chaotic shouts, cries, and wails of two-legs pouring along the walkways.

  Autofire weapons chatter in the distance. A siren whoops from somewhere nearby. The air smells of meat and sweat and the poisons of the sprawl. Tikki watches Brogan Bail Bonds from across the street. The crowds of two-legs provide cover and she’s in disguise anyway: wig, facepaint, duster.

  An Asian male steps up close.

  “You wanna sumara?"

  That’s a Japanese word meaning “bare penis.” A synonym for condomless sex. Evidently, this part of the Bronx is one of those where a female standing alone on the street for more than a nanosecond is assumed to be whoring."You like it rough?” Tikki asks.

  The male smiles, then looks down. Peering out through the front of Tikki’s duster, pressing into the male’s gut, is the muzzle of a TZ-115 Colt submachine gun.

  “I’m a memory,” the male says.

  And the memory fades.

  At just past three a.m., Tikki catches sight of a pair of tall figures: one with lots of white hair, the other with ears, elven ears. They go through the front door of Brogan Bail Bonds and out of sight. Tikki crosses the street and pauses on the walkway. Amid the stench of the passing two-legs is a smell, a collection of scents that she remembers from the cabin along the Road to Nowhere. It’s the stink of the elf male she’s identified as Elgin O’Keefe, alias Tang, and the other female accomplice, Whistle.

  Instinct says go right in, take the front door, smash it in if need be, and Tikki’s more than tempted, but she heads down the block and turns the corner. Along the cross-street, she finds an alley that leads down behind the rear of the buildings to the back door of Brogan Bail Bonds. The door is locked, but her Magna 2 passkey should take care of that. She puts the passkey to the lock, sheds her wig and duster, and brings up, in one hand, the Colt SMG, and, in the other, the Viper A-12 automag. The door clicks. She pushes inside.

  That puts her in a narrow hallway leading toward the front of the building. There’s a pair of doors along the right and one at the top of the hallway, through which comes a tall lanky figure with pointed ears, wearing a black armored vest and dark gray fatigues.

  As he turns from closing the door, he stops and looks at Tikki and makes a face like he’s surprised, but he doesn’t smell surprised, not in the least.

  “Hands,” Tikki says.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” the elf says, lifting his hands."There’s no money here.”

  “We have biz, man.”

  “And what would that be?”

  O’Keefe glances toward the floor and something in his scent changes. Tikki stops in mid-step, freezes. O’Keefe glances toward her left foot, now extended out before her. Just the tip of her shoe touches the floor. She presses downward with the tip of that shoe, just a little, then a little more. Abruptly, the entire section of flooring between her and O’Keefe falls away and crashes into the next level down.

  A trap. She was expected, maybe baited into coming here. That means she is facing dangers she can only guess at.

  Instinct rises—fur rushes over her face and a low animal snarl rises from the back of her throat. O’Keefe whistles. Tikki’s index finger squeezes down on the trigger of the SMG, but then with a deafening roar the wall to her right explodes.

  The Colt stammers. O’Keefe staggers back. Tikki sees a flash of blue light. She hears a roar that rises into an agony of static. She feels the impacts from shattered bits of the wall to her right and a second impact as she hits the wall on her left. She realizes she’s being hurt in a hundred different places. She knows some of the injuries are serious, maybe serious enough to kill a two-leg outright, and she feels herself changing, her body swelling, her clothes bursting, even as she staggers and falls.

  Then it’s too late.

  43

  Amy brushes at her eyes and smiles. Bandit smiles back, then turns and heads down the hallway toward the elevators. The hallway’s empty, quiet, still. It’s getting on toward dawn now, definitely time for him to leave. He pauses to look back and wave, then goes through the door to the stairwell.

  The details of Amy’s problem are hard to keep straight, but the main point is simple enough. She thinks someone’s skeeving her corp. Finding out if that’s true will probably take more than just a few simple tricks. The major players are mages; mages make things strange. Bandit’s last direct encounter with a mage, over in Newark, resulted in an violent eruption of uncontrolled magic that destroyed a limo and left a parking lot full of debris. He should probably keep in mind the thought, just in case, that it won’t help Amy if her corp’s labs are blown to bits.

  Bandit pauses on the landing by the third floor. Something’s shimmering in the air. When he shifts to his astral perceptions, he sees an aura like a muscular figure in fringed hides, feathers, and beads, clothes like an Amerind might wear. But this is no mere Amerind—it’s a shaman, a powerful one. He calls himself Dark Rain Hunter and he wears many masks. Tonight, the mask of the eagle covers his head. This probably means trouble. Eagle is lord of the sky and sees all that occurs on the earth below, and despises all that is ignoble.

  “Be wary,” Dark Rain Hunter says."Men watch.”

  “What men?”

  The answer comes in images: a mountain lion creeping stealthily through heavy brush; a crow fanning its wings, hovering above treetops. Bandit pushes his spirit body onto the astral plane, steps out through the walls of the condoplex
and looks around. Near the entrance to the tower sits a van. Inside this are two men with a lot of technical equipment. Far above hovers some device, maybe a surveillance drone. Are the men and the drone watching him? or are they watching Amy? or someone else entirely? Bandit doubts that Dark Rain Hunter would give him warnings unless the danger affected him specifically.

  He returns to his body, then climbs the stairs to Amy’s level. They will have to be very careful from now on.

  Tomorrow, they will meet covertly.

  44

  As the dust from the explosion slowly settles, O’Keefe struggles up to his feet. He feels like he’s been beaten about the chest with a mallet. Breathing is a minor agony. Fortunately, none of the shots from Striper’s hurried burst seem to have penetrated his vest.

  At the foot of the hall lies the beast, and she’s huge! O’Keefe taps the remote on his belt to bring up the missing section of flooring, then walks down the hall to have a closer look at Striper in her natural form. The paranatural rants speak of shapeshifters’ “dramatic coloration,” but that does nothing to describe the effect of this tigress’s black-striped, blood-red fur. It gives her the character of something out of a nightmare, a very primal, violent nightmare.

  Surrounding the tigress is a faint blue-green aurora. Whistle stands in the new opening through the hallway wall, her hands uplifted, fingers bent arcanely. The magic she casts is their only reliable way of keeping Striper quiescent and therefore harmless until properly confined, but this is hardly a panacea. In fact, it’s the only spell the mage knows that might be used in this regard, and it’s very draining.

  “How long can you hold her?”

  “Are you kidding?” Whistle mutters, features intense with concentration. The rest of her answer comes through clenched teeth."After blowing through that wall? Half an hour. Forty-five minutes at most. And by then you’ll have to carry me out.”