“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” I say. “I have to tell Manhattan that he probably has a rat in his midst and that he can’t have the land, despite Jackson being dead.”
“And I’m sure both bits of news will go down a storm,” says Josh.
“Oh yeah, like a proverbial lead balloon, I’m sure… Next, I need to track down this Dark Rain outfit and find a way of neutralizing them before they can get their hands on any of the Uranium.”
“Have you given much thought about how you’re going to stop an entire army on your own?” he asks, flippantly.
“Short of knocking on their front door and asking them nicely to stop… no, I haven't. I’m open to suggestions though.”
“You never know, that might work. We rarely try the ‘asking politely’ route.”
“There’s a good reason for that…”
“Very true.”
“Right, I need something to eat. Then I suppose I’ll have to go and see Jimmy Manhattan.”
“I’ll keep my eye on the local news channels for any updates,” he chuckles.
“Oh, ye of little faith. I’m sure it will be very civilized and he’ll be understanding and sympathetic toward our situation.”
“Really?”
I pause. “No, not really.”
I hang up and strap my holster to my back before putting both of my custom Berettas in it. I pick up the deeds and hide them under the mattress. I don’t want to keep them on me in case there’s any security at Manhattan’s club, and they decide to search me. I put on my leather jacket and head out the door.
My spider sense is tingling big time. This whole thing is going to get much worse before it gets any better, and I'm going to be far behind enemy lines when it does.
I walk down the street, heading toward the Neon district. It’s pleasantly warm outside and the sky’s clear of any stars. The half-moon is making its steady climb; its greeny-white glow getting brighter as the sun sets.
The streets are busy, although not as bad as they were during the day. There are just as many pedestrians though — dressed for a night out instead of a day at the office. The guys I pass are typically wearing expensive shirts with jeans and shoes. Women of varying ages are wearing dresses that look to me like they were put on sale halfway through production.
I pass by a burger joint I remember seeing earlier. I head inside and take a seat at the back, facing the door. The waitress who comes over after a few minutes is young and friendly. I order coffee and a burger with everything on it and a side of fries. She leaves with my order just as my phone rings. I clip my Bluetooth headset in place and answer.
“Yeah?” I say, knowing the only person who ever rings me is Josh, so there’s no need for pleasantries.
“You on your way to The Pit?” he asks.
“Just stopped for some food.”
“Ah, okay. Well, keep your line open. Here’s a little something to help pass the time.”
He falls silent and a moment later the opening guitar riff from Highway To Hell by AC/DC sounds in my ear.
I sit alone, smiling as I wonder what the hell I’m going to say to Manhattan when I see him.
I took my time eating and when I’d finished, I headed into the first bar I came across for a drink. I wasn’t ducking Manhattan or anything like that. It’s just been a real strange twenty-four hours, and I needed to shut off for an hour, just to give my head a rest.
A couple of beers later and I’m walking through the Neon district, approaching a long line of people lining up to get inside The Pit. At night, the place looks very different. The sign above the door is flashing blue and white. All around me there are people, lights, cars, and the constant, low hum of the bass line coming from behind all the doors.
I make my way toward the front door, walking past the line of people. A selection of the half-dressed women and the over-dressed guys I saw roaming the streets on the way here. A bouncer with a clipboard is standing guard at the velvet rope by the door. I reach the front of the line and get the doorman’s attention. I haven’t seen this guy before. He’s big, maybe a couple of inches shorter than me, but a great deal wider — and he isn’t fat. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that looks three sizes too small for his chest and arms, which are literally bulging with muscle. He’s got on a pair of black jeans, black boots and wears an earpiece.
I don’t get a chance to say anything to him.
“Back of the line, asshole,” he snarls, barely looking up from his clipboard.
I’ll let his attitude slide… I’m not in the mood for unnecessary confrontations. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of necessary ones soon enough.
“Hey, take it easy, Conan,” I say. “I need to see Jimmy. It’s urgent.”
He eyes me up and down before speaking into his radio. After a few moments, he unhooks the rope and motions me through, much to the dismay and protests from many of the people still in the line.
I walk into the club and down into the main area, which this morning looked so spacious. Now, there are easily a hundred and fifty people crammed in here. I look around quickly before I enter the throng of bodies all laughing, dancing, and drinking. Behind the bar, at the far end, are seven people serving — three guys and four girls.
In the far corner, standing in front of the red curtain is the big guy from this morning with the fire axe tattoo on his head. I figure that’s where I need to go. I instinctively touch my lower back, checking my guns are secure, as I set off through the crowd.
I glide through the masses, slowly making my way through to the other side. Two guys are standing in front of me blocking my path, seemingly trying to hit on the same girl.
“Excuse me,” I shout, to no avail. The music — if you can call it that — is deafening, and I doubt they’ll hear me.
I tap one of them on the shoulder to get his attention. He looks over his shoulder at me and I gesture past him — a polite way to indicate I need to get by. He partly turns toward me clockwise, giving me a look like he’s just scraped me off his shoe. He shoves my shoulder and turns back to his friend and they both laugh. The girl’s also laughing along.
I stroke the stubble on my chin and let out a heavy sigh. It certainly appears that a large percentage of the population woke up this morning with the sole purpose of pissing me off. And they’re succeeding spectacularly.
I crack my neck. I’m not in the mood for this and I feel I’ve been diplomatic enough already tonight.
I tap his shoulder again. As he turns clockwise back toward me, I can see him getting ready for another shove. I wait for it and catch his right hand with my left as he throws it. This forces him to turn and face me properly. As he does, I place my right hand flat on his chest and use my middle finger to find the little dip at the top of the ribcage, in the center just below the throat. I find it with practiced efficiency and push my finger into him and press down hard. With the right amount of pressure, it’s extremely effective. He drops to one knee almost instantly, crippled with what is a brief but excruciating pain throughout the body.
Seriously, try it. But only on someone you don’t like, because it hurts like you wouldn’t believe!
I push him backward, and he goes fetal on the floor, shocked and short of breath, holding his chest. His friend goes wide-eyed as I turn to him, staring through him with my best ‘dead eye’ look. I can see him think about making a move for all of two seconds, but he soon decides against it and runs off through the crowd. I turn to the girl. She seems to have overcome her initial shock and is now smiling at me. I’m probably twice her age and, at the risk of sounding judgmental, she’s probably half my IQ.