Mohinder grimaced angrily and grabbed the front of her jacket with hands the size of sledgehammers. “You heard what? Who tells you such things?”
She decided to brazen it out. ‘I’m nobody’s little gopi now, Mohinder. I'm eighteen. I can go to jail for refusing to pay my po1l tax just like any other adult now. And I’ve got friends with money, friends who, like me, want your services.”
“Show me.”
She couldn’t refuse the challenge. Carefully unzipping one of her pockets, she showed him the first wad. Five thousand nuyen in notes. It was enough for an automatic weapon, more than enough by far. He whistled through his teeth and let go of her.
“Well, the Uzis are my banker, right? Don’t know where you heard it. Don’t know how you could have heard about it. If you speak a word, you’re corpsemeat.”
“Mohinder, I wouldn’t be showing you five grand if I wasn’t doing real business with you. I wouldn’t show that to someone I didn’t trust to deliver. And you can take it as proof that there is more where that came from.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, pondering. She gave him the final bait.
The weekend thing, that’s for real too. I need as many good street samurai as you can muster. About six, but only people you trust If you trust them, that’s good enough for me. They get a couple of hundred in advance to show goodwill, five hundred each to keep the weekend free, and they’ll get the balance on Friday night. Payment for any run required will be negotiated on Saturday. We don’t expect trolls with wired reflexes and assault cannons, but these guys should be able to look after themselves. It won’t be anything dumb; should be anti-personnel. If you can arrange it for me, you get an extra three hundred up front and a five hundred bonus for getting them all in order for the weekend.”
Rani gave him her most winning smile. “Sound good?”
Mohinder stared at her in near-astonishment. You spamming me, girl?”
“Look, if you go for this I’ll give you the advances, two hundred for six guys and live hundred for you, right now. That buys me a group meeting on Friday night, wherever and whenever you feel comfortable. Got it?”
Mohinder recovered his professional manner rapidly. “Give me the money, little sister, and I’ll make sure you get some real mean bastards. Meet me Friday night at eleven in the room over Rievenstein's deli, I’ll have all the weapons you can pay for, and the meat too.
She slipped him the seventeen hundred under the table. Mohinder grinned as he remembered the intimately physical way he’d made their last transaction, but things were very different now. Now it was Rani who was calling the shots, and they both knew it.
Two more Mary Kellys turned out to be a complete waste of time. One had long ago gone back to Tir Nan Og. The other was a hopelessly hebephrenic invalid tended by her dejected family.
Rani had paid the tab at Mohsin’s and got a bagful of goodies for her hard-haggled nuyen: a couple of medkits and some slap patches. She'd been lucky to get those, and they had cost her dearly. There was no time to get any cyberware. Besides, Geraint hadn’t given her the money for that. Her bag was bulging and she was happy except for one problem still lurking on the horizon.
That problem was her family. She'd been ready to make the trip back to Chelsea when she’d spotted two cousins heading determinedly toward her flophouse. Sneaking out via the remains of the fire escape was a real risk, but she’d just made it. Hurriedly, she phoned Geraint and left a message, then scurried off along the streets to look for a safe place. She’d have to get away from the old neighborhood, away from the family determined to drag her back to her old life, just hide out for tonight, girl. Get over there later. A few hours won’t matter.
Rani did not know, could never have dreamed, what the next few hours would bring.
29
Wednesday afternoon was crisp and clear, the watery winter sunshine showing the M4 motorway in all its tawdry gray glory, a succession of roadworks, graffiti-covered overpasses, and potholes. Driving through the latest in a succession of ugly outlying suburban sprawlzones, Geraint cursed imaginatively but anatomically impossibly. What set him off was another snarl of traffic fifteen miles beyond the outer orbital, a tailback from one of the ubiquitous road repairs that had the highway down to one lane of traffic in either direction. Francesca sat beside him with fingers flying, dumping notes into her laptop.
“An interesting yield, Geraint,” she said without looking up. She had not heard his curse. “Serrin’s going to positively adore what we got on Kuranita.”
Geraint was in a foul mood, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, staring grimly along the column of slow-moving traffic before him.
“That was the cleanest download,” Francesca was saying. “We could have done with more on Smith and Jones, but at least now we know who’s employing them. Finally.”
“But that degrading IC,” he said. “Sneaky bastards. I wasn’t expecting anything like that. The file we got was only a fragment, but I’m confident the probability program can reconstruct it. We won’t be too far off. And as you say, now we know who Smith and Jones are working for.”
Geraint craned his head and sighed as the column of vehicles ahead of them stopped again. “No way of getting at them, though. Nothing to tell us where they are or what they might do next. Nothing on the Ripper, either.” Geraint turned to read the expression on Francesca’s face, but she seemed to be recovering well from her ordeal.
“They may have been too fast for that. That inforination might very well have been scrambled. Hey, we’re moving again…” Francesca broke off speaking as Geraint accelerated to more normal speed. The traffic had begun to flow normally, at last. Beyond the bottleneck, however, they hit another line of indicator cones fencing off another deep hole in the plascrete. Geraint wanted to pass up some of the other traffic, but was stymied by a series of cars in the fast lane. He vented his impatience in an uncharacteristic expression of anger.
“Move over, you tosser!” he exploded, then turned sheepishly to his companion. “Sorry. Fran. I'm just eager to get home again, and this traffic is really beginning to get to me. Wonder what Serrin and Rani have been up to.”
“If they did as well as we did, they’ll be… Geraint, what’s wrong?”
It was a single shot, probably armor-piercing. The sound of the hit should have been lost among the honking horns of the snarled traffic, but the Saab’s internal security systems went active, alerting Geraint. From the flashing alert panels he saw that the bullet had only passed through the main chassis, hitting nothing important.
“Clazz, Fran. someone’s just taken a shot at us!” They were passing under an expressway overpass when the car behind them veered crazily and swung into the next lane. Glancing into the rearview mirror, Geraint saw a shattered windscreen and a splash of red blur across the fragmented plasglass before the other car veered off and plunged into the embankment. He floored the gas pedal, sending the Saab screaming out from the other side of the bridge, lane-dodging to the sound of other drivers angrily sounding their horns in protest.
The grenade burst hit just to their rear, a spray of tarmac and stone splashing up over the hood of the Rolls traveling behind them. The windshield didn’t break, but suddenly the driver could see nothing.
As the Saab raced away. Geraint saw the Rolls screech to a stop, creating a very messy pile-up among the cars trailing behind it. The Saab’s systems had already alerted him to the second bullet hit. He kept his head down and his pedal to the metal. Taking the next exit he put some distance between them and the expressway.