Read The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy Online
Authors: Gary Ballard
Tags: #noir, #speculative fiction, #hard boiled, #science fiction, #cybernetics, #scifi, #cyberpunk, #near future, #urban fantasy
As they turned the corner into a pantry area, Bridge was floored by a shot to the solar plexus, a well-trained blow that forced all the air out of his lungs and dropped him to his knees. His assailant was a large man in a plain dark suit, its cheap [t, pearastitching stretched by the man’s effort. His other fist struck Bridge across the cheek, the metal knuckles scraping a gash on Bridge’s face. He was knocked onto his side.
“That’s enough,” said the lilting voice of the mayor. “We don’t want to kill him.” Bridge peered up into the faces of four men: the mayor, two almost identical bodyguards and Sims. “You can go, Breckin.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sims, exiting the room with nervous glances at the bodyguards. He obviously had no taste for the hard realities of the situation.
“Remember we have to press the flesh in five.”
Sunderland waved a dismissive hand in Sims’ direction. “Yes, yes, now beat it.” The mayor hiked up his pants as he squatted down to look Bridge in the eye. “Now you listen here, you little shit. What the fuck game are you playing at?”
Bridge checked his cell connection on his HUD, amazed that it still connected. Something wasn’t right about that. The bodyguards hadn’t checked Bridge for any sort of wire; he hadn’t had his goons deaden any transmission away from Bridge with portable white noise generators. Those things were cheap enough that Bridge carried one around with him. Either this guy was the most idiotic criminal on the planet, or he just didn’t give a damn about getting caught doing naughty things.
“No game, your honor,” Bridge said around gasps for air. “I have the recording your guys are looking for. I’m willing to give it to you, cheap.”
Sunderland’s head bobbed around as he looked from bodyguard to bodyguard. “You little bastard. You’re trying to squeeze me? ME? You’re trying to squeeze me for more money? That wasn’t the deal. You don’t just go off script on this thing here, you stick to the plan. I’m not paying you one goddamn cent for that shit. You got your paycheck when we started this thing.” Bridge’s mind kicked into overdrive. He’d miscalculated somewhere. Had Kira been blackmailing Sunderland? That didn’t make sense. The hacker wouldn’t have tried to get rid of his only ammunition, for free no less, if he had this guy on the hook already. If Kira had even half a brain, Sunderland would never have known who he was, and couldn’t have sent someone after him. Kira may have been young and socially clueless, but he wasn’t stupid.
Bridge raised a hand to forestall any more beating. “Wait, wait, I think we’ve come to a misunderstanding here. I’m not trying to blackmail you. I’m just trying to return your property what got stolen from you. The recordings fell into my possession when you sent your guys around to recover them.”
“My guys? I didn’t send any guys around. Are you telling me those fuckers lost the recordings? Shit, I said that guy was too young to be handling an operation like this. Now I’m going to have to be the one clean it up.”
Something dark and cold began to form in Bridge’s mind. This was a man with no concerns. He knew good and damn well this career-destroying information was floating out in the wild. He was in no way concerned about possible elect [ossou got yronic eavesdropping despite being embroiled in the most important election of his life. This man had no qualms about popping a cap in Bridge’s ass with the press mere yards away. Even worse, Paulie and his crew weren’t in Sunderland’s employ, which meant one pissed off ex-footballer with two missing fingers was out there looking to steam roll Bridge. He was going to have to do some serious soft shoe to get the fuck out of danger. “Wait, wait, I have the recordings. Or I can get them at least. You don’t even have to pay me, see? I’ll just give them to you. Wash my hands of the whole thing. Call it even.”
Sunderland’s doughy face chewed over that thought a moment before replying. “Like I need that kind of trouble. Boys, you know what to do.” Sunderland began to shamble out of the pantry, putting his hands absentmindedly in his jacket pockets. Bridge’s eyes darted around in a panic, desperately searching for some way out. From a distance, he began to hear a high-pitched keening wail, building in intensity from down the crowded hallway. A tray crashed to the ground with a metallic clanging. Just as Sunderland stepped into the hallway, a flash of black skin blew past him, his red tie flapping above him. With chagrined relief, Bridge recognized the buck naked form of his bodyguard.
Aristotle was saving his ass again. The man had stripped to the skin and sprinted into the kitchen. He’d grabbed the mayor’s tie on the way past, discombobulating the fat politician. As the bodyguards rushed towards the door, the fire alarm blared into life, the sprinklers erupting with a gushing hiss, showering the tiny room with stale water. At the height of the confusion, Bridge struck, mentally crossing his fingers that neither guard had metal legs. He kicked out at the nearest kneecap, hitting it squarely from the side. A sickening pop echoed in the tight space and Bridge pressed his advantage, upending a heavy metallic shelf full of food, spices and pots onto the guards. Though his side was on fire from the beatings he’d taken in the last few days, pure adrenaline propelled him as he shouldered past the guards. He knocked the mayor for a loop, sending the pudgy politician reeling in soaked confusion. He cut down the hallway Aristotle had come from, hoping that the guards would be focused on cutting off the first threat’s exit. Bridge took one corner, and then another, ducking behind a wall just as more of the mayor’s bodyguards went past him towards the disturbance.
The key to getting out of the building now was to move quickly without appearing hurried, blending into the evacuating throng. He hoped like hell the guards and policemen swarming around the hotel were more interested in the streaking naked black man than the beat up but well-dressed white guy. Bridge passed a few frantic guards with little incident and had even begun to relax in a crowd of moderately-panicked reporters when a trio of guards standing between the door and Bridge spotted him. Scenarios shot through Bridge’s mind as he continued to walk calmly towards them. Beyond the doors, he could see Angela’s car idling. If she’d seen him, he just had to get to the car and she’d have the door open. The windows all around the lobby area were inviting targets, but Bridge reconsidered trying to make a mad crashing escape through them.
A hotel this posh would likely have bulletproof glass, especially one that hosted big political events such as tonight’s speech. There were a few side exits, but he’d have to walk around the front of the building in plain sight offering ample opportunity for interception. He couldn’t really run towards the door anyw [the throng. Hay, not without jostling the crowd around him making himself even more conspicuous. He was just going to have to bull his way through. His spirit sank.
Ten feet from the guards, Aristotle came roaring out of the bar behind the guards, crashing into them with bubbling laughter. The four men rolled over in a heap and Bridge took advantage, hopping over the pile of arms and legs and bursting through the door into the oppressive summer heat. Angela’s eyes grew wide and she quickly reached over to open the door. As Bridge began his dive into the front seat, Angela threw the car into drive, blasting away from the hotel with shrieking tires. Bridge barely got the door closed behind him before she turned the corner, throwing him haphazardly around the cabin with a painful thump.
Bridge sighed, finally relaxing. His breath coming in ragged gasps, he said, “What… the hell… are you… doing here?”
“Saving your ass, baby,” she said with that puckish grin beaming on her face. “Saving your ass. Be grateful and shut it.”
Bridge did just that, exhaustion finally overtaking him as he slumped back against the seat.
*****
Chapter 12
August 30, 2028
8:49 p.m.
The only discussion during the ride to Angela’s place was Bridge’s breathless suggestions for the route home. His paranoia was now well and truly in gear, and he sent them all over the Los Angeles area in the most circuitous route possible to throw off any pursuit. By the time they reached Angela’s apartment complex, he was absolutely exhausted. His limbs felt like solid lead, and he moved with a languid, almost drugged pace. Angela parked the car close to her apartment over his feeble objections, but he was inwardly grateful for the short walk up to her place despite his protestations. He leaned heavily on the wall as she opened the door, then stomped straight to the couch and practically collapsed, sinking back into the cushions with a grunting sigh and closing his eyes.
He just had nothing left in his tank. All his plans had gone to shit. There was no one to sell the recording to, and no profit to be made from the venture. He was likely going to be on the lam from the police as soon as the mayor’s people put a name to his face. His bodyguard was likely in lockup and bailing Aristotle out would cost Bridge all the money he had if he could even show his face at the station without getting arrested on sight. And on top of all that, he had a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. Sunderland not only wasn’t surprised about the recording, he was well aware of it. There had been some sort of plan for that information, something that required Kira’s talents.
The politician had planned on Kira getting hold of that recording, and doing something with it. Since Kira was a leaker, it was safe to assume Sunderland had wanted the recording leaked. But why would a politician knowingly record a career-killing indiscretion on the eve of the most important election of his life? Was he politically suicidal? Was he just plain fucking nuts? Something was missing, some piece of information Bridge had not seen yet that would put it all together, but Bridge was too exhausted to even speculate on what that could be.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there dozing half asleep, his mind racing over and over the same ground. His eyes snapped open as Angela took a seat beside him, plopping down forcefully while flipping the television on. “You really don’t look good,” she said playfully. Bridge gave her a half-grin, half-grimace.
“It’s been that kind of a day.”
She noticed the drying blood on his cheek. “You know you’re bleeding, right? You sure you shouldn’t go to the hospital?” She leaned over and touched the gash gingerly, her hand brushing up against his ribs. He winced painfully. “Was that your ribs? Are they broken?”
“No, they’re not broken. I know what broken feels like.”
A previously undiscovered set of matronly instincts suddenly appeared. “All right, that’s it, off with the shirt. I want to see this.” He gave her a stubborn look of refusal, but she was having none of it. “I mean it, off. If I think your ribs are broken, I’m taking you to the fucking emergency room if I have to drag you by the stubble on your chin. Let’s go!” He knew Angela’s innate stubbornness. She wasn’t going to be shifted without violent words he was entirely too exhausted to muster up. The concern in her voice was surprisingly alluring.
“Fine, fine.” He threw off his jacket, pulled his tie over his head and unbuttoned the top three buttons on his silk shirt before pulling it over his head. The movement robbed him of any breath, his ribs a fiery bundle of pain. “See, I’m a lovely shade of black and blue.”
“Goddamn, Bridge, how the fuck did you manage to get that many bootheels on your sides?” From just under his right armpit down to his hip, splotches of blue, black and yellowed skin tattooed his torso with a roadmap of pain. The other side wasn’t much better. He even had a shoe pattern scrape on his stomach that was scabbing up nicely, a wound he attributed to Paulie. “Sit right there, don’t move.” She ran to the kitchen and began banging through cabinets and drawers. He heard the water running for a moment, but didn’t bother to look around. He stared glassy-eyed at the television, which was running some nature program about coyotes or hyenas in the desert. He wasn’t paying enough attention to be sure of the species other than it was some kind of canine.
She returned to the couch with a wet rag, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bottle of vodka, cotton balls and a few bandages. “I’m not good at this, but sit still and I’ll have you taken care of,” she said sternly. He just shrugged. Her first move was to the rubbing alcohol, pouring it on a cotton ball before jabbing it straight into the cut on his face. She ignored his loud curse cis ibs a fs. “Shut it, you big baby. It can’t hurt that badly. Be good, and I’ll get you a lollipop.” He flipped her the bird with a rueful smile. “No lolly for you!”
She covered the gash with a bandage, then handed him the vodka. “Here, take a slug of that. Better than aspirin.” He chuckled and took a big hit from the bottle.
“What, no bourbon?” he said after swallowing with a grimace.
“That’s you that drinks that shit, not me. I’m a vodka woman.” She ran gentle hands over his midsection, testing for breaks. He winced again and again as she prodded him, but the activity seemed to satisfy her concerns. “Well, it looks like you’re right, nothing’s broken.”
“I did tell you,” was his sarcastic reply.
“And I told you to shut it. I’d rather it hurt for a minute than you die on my couch.” She finally noticed the program he was watching. “What you watching?” Two coyotes were fighting viciously, biting and growling and scratching with passionate venom. The scene cut to the end of the battle, with the loser limping off and the victor raising a leg to mark his territory. “That poor doggie!”
Bridge chuckled. “That’s nature for you. It’s not like that’s all that different from us. We’re all just fucking dogs, running around trying to mark our territory so somebody will know we were here, what we did was important. Just pissing in the wind, don’t mean nothing. We’re all just waiting around for a bigger dog to come steal our shit.” Angela just rolled her eyes.
“Wow, aren’t we philosophical tonight?”
“Almost getting a bullet in my brain pan in some hotel kitchen pantry gets me a little metaphysical, know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, that’s you, the big philosopher. What the hell happened, Artie? You used to want to create something, something big and beautiful and new.
You always talked about building a virtual world to get away from the shit. What happened to that guy?”
“That guy saw too much. That guy didn’t realize how many people out there are just waiting to crack him over the skull for a fiver. When it all comes down, it’s every man for himself.”
His answer seemed to bring down her mood. He caught the barest hint of a wistful sadness in her eyes before she looked away. “We aren’t all out to get you, Artie. Hell, Aristotle got busted tonight to keep you from getting killed. That’s got to be worth something.”
Bridge took another swig, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He scowled at the bottle, replaced the cap and put it on the bare coffee table. “Yeah, I’ll get him something good. If I don’t get whacked that is.”
Her gaze returned to him, and the sadnes cnd t ws was gone. In its place was a familiar expression, something Bridge didn’t expect to see there again. All the signals were written on her face plain as day. “Well, if you’re going to get whacked, you should at least spend your last night doing something worthwhile.” Her smile was pure sex, and Bridge found himself responding in kind.
She leaned over and kissed him slowly at first, but with growing intensity, taking care not to put any weight on his injuries. She quickly shifted on the couch to straddle him, grabbing his hand and leading it to the right place. They made out for a few minutes this way, her shirt ending up piled on top of his. All the fatigue seemed to drain out of his body. Somewhere in between breathless kisses, he asked about her Korean boyfriend. She shrugged it off with an absentminded, “Seoul is a long way from here” before engaging Bridge in another passionate kiss.
She stopped suddenly, pulling away from his lips. Her expression had a seriousness that surprised him. “This don’t mean nothing, understand?”
He pondered it for a moment and nodded. “It never does.”
Bridge slept like a stone, any dreams he had lost to post-coital exhaustion. He certainly couldn’t have said it was his best performance, but given the circumstances, he thought he acquitted himself well enough. Angela seemed to respond with equal excitement, and they both fell asleep with enthusiastic yet silent cuddling. Bridge was thankful for the silence. He wasn’t sure of his feelings about this lapse. Better to avoid that discussion at least until the morning.
His consciousness returned with syrupy slowness. Angela had moved quietly beside him and he lay with eyes closed, trying desperately not to wake fully. His mind struggled to remember whose bed he lay in, and he mumbled incoherently. Slowly, he came to realize that someone was watching him, and he muttered, “Go ‘way, sleeping.” The presence didn’t move and he smiled, picturing Angela sitting over him watching like she used to. Finally, he cracked open an eyelid and found himself looking up into one ugly mug.
“Wake up, sunshine,” said Paulie, a cruel smile plastered on his ghastly face. His lip was split, both eyes were horribly bruised and various cuts and bruises littered the craggy landscape of his already undesirable visage. Bridge tried to get up, his only reward a short jab to the chin for his troubles. “Ah ah, Polly, no sense running off just yet. We’ve brought you breakfast in bed, we ‘ave.” He fed Bridge another helping of knuckles and smiled a toothy grin.
Paulie grabbed Bridge’s throat with his left hand and pressed Bridge into the bed with a suffocating strength. He held up his right hand, displaying the empty area his middle and ring finger had previously occupied. “Now see, normally this would be your arse, mate. This is a right big debt you owe me and if I ‘ad me way, the last thing you’d see before your eyeballs popped out of your ‘ead would be my pretty puss.” The enforcer squeezed even harder to prove his point. Bridge’s vision began to swim, spots dancing in front of his eyes as his consciousness ebbed. Jus css >
“So let’s talk then,” Paulie said, sitting down on the bed and scratching the beginnings of a scruffy beard. Bridge saw past him to his helpers, two gigantic sides of beef with cybershades and long coats. One held Angela with a gloved hand covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide, a mixture of fear and anger. They had at least let her get dressed it appeared, though her feet were bare. “You ‘ave been a very naughty boy,” Paulie began. “See, that recording you’ve been trying to peddle about town, that’s not yours, now is it? No, no it is most certainly fucking not. Your little hacker buddy, he ‘ad a job to do, see? But instead of doing that job that he was well-paid for, he fucked right off. So when he disappeared, we figured he’d try to get rid of the thing. And who better to give it to than you? If he’d ‘ave just done the job, he’d still be alive.”
Paulie looked over at Angela with a disdainful expression. “Come this time tomorrow, your little girlfriend will be in the same boat as Kira if we don’t get what we want. And so will you if I get my way. But, if you’re really good, you can avoid all that. You know what we want?” Paulie stopped talking and stared at Bridge, who nodded with angry intensity.
“You want the recording leaked.”
Paulie snapped the fingers of his left hand. “Eureka, mates, I think he finally gets it. You see that?” He snapped his fingers again. “I used to be able to do that with both hands, and thanks to you and your little Spic friend, now I’m half a snapper. I gotta go and get some metal fingers now. I’m betting those fingers snapping is gonna sound like a fucking steel drum. For that, we will be settling up once this is over. But for now, yes, we want that recording leaked to as many places as it can be by 7 p.m. this evening or your little girlfriend is snuffed. And then I come after you. Do it, boys.”
The enforcer standing next to Angela pulled out a skinpatch and stuck it on her neck. She fought for a second before slumping against her captor. She was conscious but had become overtly pliable, a glassy-eyed stare on her face and a languid droop to her limbs. The patch must have been Sluv, the latest frat boy date rape drug. It left the victim conscious and aware, but completely malleable to the whims of anyone who could catch her attention. The enforcer sat her down and put shoes on her, then led her out the door.
“7 p.m. Start the seeding by then or she’s done for. Got it?” Bridge nodded his assent.
“Where do I pick her up once it’s over?”
Paulie reached into his coat and withdrew a bizchip. “This address. Bring proof or well, you know.” He tossed the chip on the bed. “Now, you don’t want her back, you just head off. She’s a bit skinny for my tastes, but she’ll do, eh?” Paulie began to walk out the door.
“Hey Paulie,” Bridge said. The footballer stopped in the doorway. “This is over, you won’t need to look for me.” The man just smiled that toothy grin again, tipped an imaginary hat cmagly malleto Bridge and walked out chuckling.
That was it, then. Bridge knew what was required. The recording was supposed to be leaked. Traditional news organizations had little real credibility with scandal stories they generated, but leaked media like this could be believed. The mainstream news would pick it up, replaying hours and hours of hurried interviews, talking heads and paid experts to expound on the story, all without looking like scandalmongers. Soto’s people got to benefit from the scandal without seeming like mudslingers. And the mayor, the mayor got his career ruined, something he was perfectly happy with by all appearances.