25 – Taurus Crew

  Orin gestured to the left when they reached the corner. As they turned and kept walking, he gave Hector a sideways glance and asked, “So, what was your meeting about? You mind me asking?”

  “Just ID stuff.”

  “ID stuff?”

  Hector nodded, gesturing to his face. “Why the PKs were on my case.”

  “Ah, right. Grando get it sorted?”

  Hector nodded. “All good.” Before leaving, he’d told Grando to keep his mouth shut about the Redwick business, and he intended to do the same; the last thing he needed was one of the crime boss’s goons reaching out to Tacitianus to try to score an easy payday.

  “Well, listen,” Orin said, gesturing down the street, as if to indicate their eventual destination, “this apartment building Raven’s sister lives in used to be run by a guy who was in pretty deep to Grando—gambling debts. So, anyway, he used to kick up some of the rent he collected, and it was pretty well-known that the building was ours. You follow?”

  Hector nodded.

  “So, about two months back, the guy kicked it—heart attack or something. Since then, new management moved in, and Grando told us to lay off; the old manager was almost done with his debt, and Grando didn’t think it was worth trying to shake down the new company.”

  Hector continued to nod, Orin’s reasons for keeping their current activities quiet crystalizing.

  “So, yeah, Taurus Crew moved in, and I don’t think Boss would be happy about me going over there to lay down the law. He’s not really into conflicts with other crews.”

  Hector shrugged. “So we just do an anonymous good deed.”

  “That’s how I’m looking at it. Shit, man, I thought I’d have to sell you on the idea.”

  “Nope.” Hector didn’t bother explaining that he didn’t need an excuse to take out some thugs; gathering potentia and bit-lockers was enough incentive for him at the moment. The more he thought about Redwick Station, the more he realized he’d need to break his current plan about earning a few more levels before buying any aura abilities. If he was going to go up against decent mercs, hired by a connected magistrate, then he’d need something a little more deadly than his fists.

  An aura blade should do the trick.

  Privy to the rest of his thoughts, Evie knew he was contemplating the situation at Redwick and, uncharacteristically, she decided to give voice to her thoughts:

  //You know my welfare is tied to yours, right?//

  Yeah.

  //Just checking.//

  Hector frowned, clenching his hands into a fist. He wanted to hurt someone connected to his betrayal, at least that was how the voice in his head rationalized his smoldering fury. Even so, he figured Evie had a point; he wasn’t just risking himself. That was the role of an aura system AI, though. She was tied to him, and wouldn’t exist—not in her current form—without having lived decades inside his head, riding along for all of his decisions, good and bad.

  Trust me.

  //I do.//

  They rounded a corner, and Orin pointed toward the end of the block. “See that green plasteel building? The one with the round corners and the yellow lights?”

  Hector looked where he pointed, then back at him. The bruiser was wearing a heavy overcoat, with his collar pulled up high, covering the sides of his head all the way to his ears. “Yeah.”

  “Taurus Crew has a stash in there—well, one of their enforcers does—and there are always three or four guys watching it.”

  “That where they bring collections?”

  “Yeah, count their take and split it up before taking the underboss his cut.”

  “And that’s the crew that’s hitting your girl’s building?”

  Orin nodded, earning some points with Hector by not denying his relationship with Raven. He started across the street, aiming for a convenience store on the corner. As he hopped the tracks, the enforcer spoke over his shoulder. “We’ll chill in this shop and watch the building. I want to make sure Ringo’s inside when we hit ’em. He’s the one who expanded their collections operation.”

  Hector grunted his understanding and followed Orin across the slush-covered sidewalk to the warm glow of the store’s door. They stepped inside and the small, dark-haired store clerk looked up from a tablet, peering at them through the bullet-proof plastiglass screen he sat behind. “Coffee’s hot.”

  Orin turned to peer out the door. “I’ll watch if you want to get a drink or something.”

  Hector’s stomach grumbled in response, so he took him up on the offer, walking toward the back of the store where some foil-wrapped food sat under a heat lamp. He poured himself a large coffee, loaded it with creamer, and then scooped up a handful of “breakfast rolls.” After paying with his skull ring—a transaction the clerk didn’t even look up for—he methodically chewed his way through his second breakfast, watching Orin, who, in turn, watched the building across the street.

  Throwing his foil wrappers into a trash can, he asked, “You want a coffee or something?”

  “Nah, drank about a liter before we left the club.”

  Hector grunted and leaned an elbow on the counter, mildly amused by how the clerk completely ignored them both. They watched the street for about an hour, and then took turns using the “Not for Public” restroom—again, without comment from the clerk. An hour after that, Orin pointed out the door, tapping the glass in his excitement.

  “There he is!”

  Hector straightened up, blinking rapidly. He’d been reading news feeds, trying to get a grip on what had changed in the Sol System in the last two hundred years, and was only beginning to scratch the surface. He’d missed a few wars, none of which had done anything to slow human expansion. Studying a map, he’d seen at least a dozen towns and cities on Mars that he didn’t remember. Despite how interesting all that was, he pushed it aside, focusing on the moment. “Let’s go.”

  Orin nodded and pushed his way through the door, letting in a chilly blast of damp air. “He’s already inside. Wasn’t moving slow.”

  Hector didn’t care; if it was really a stash house, then he’d prefer to hit them inside, anyway—more loot potential. They waited for a passing train, then hurried across the street. As they approached the stoop, Orin said, “I’ll handle the door.” He climbed the steps, and then his body flared with a pulsating orange glow. His back and shoulders expanded, straining the fabric of his duster, and then he grabbed the plasteel door handle and ripped it open, shattering the locking mechanism and sending pieces of hard polymer clattering to the icy concrete.

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  Neither man hesitated; they slipped through the door and into the building’s foyer, allowing the door to flop closed behind them. Orin’s glow faded, and he sank in on himself, panting as he struggled to regain his composure. “Like that?” he asked, grinning at Hector.

  Hector nodded. “Nice.” It wasn’t really impressive, a strength boost like that. Even so, as he’d demonstrated more than once, even a simple boost could turn the tables in a fight, so he wasn’t going to dismiss the man’s effort. He nodded at the elevator. “Where next?”

  “Pretty sure it’s on the third floor. Not the first time me and some of the boys have looked into this crew.”

  Hector looked at the corners of the room, noting a single broken camera. It made sense; the Taurus goons wouldn’t want anyone recording their comings and goings. He walked over to the elevator and touched the call button. The bell rang, the doors slid open, and two men charged out, one wielding a huge, buzzing saber, and the other leveling a fat-barreled slug-thrower.

  Hector dove to the side as the slug thrower boomed. Orin grunted and stumbled back, and then Hector pushed off the wall and charged back into the fight, his body blooming with a red, fiery outline. He came at the gun-wielding thug from the side and timed a perfect spinning kick. With his Strength Boost powered by four aura, his heel shattered the man’s sternum and threw him back like he’d been launched by a catapult.

  Thanks to his boots and his perfect form, the enormous impact didn’t do much more than strain the ligaments in Hector’s knee. He regained his balance, maintained his momentum, and delivered the edge of his right hand to the other goon’s throat, narrowly avoiding the wild swing of his vibro-sword. Cartilage and bones crunched, and the man fell, face purpling.

  Hector stood over the corpses—no denying that designation—of the two gang-bangers and glanced over his shoulder at Orin. The big man was clambering to his feet, wincing and coughing as he brushed at the frayed fabric of his synthetic duster. It looked like it had stopped the slug, but the enforcer was definitely struggling to breathe. “Broken ribs?”

  “At least,” Orin wheezed.

  “These are mine,” Hector said, squatting to gather potentia from the first of his downed foes. He’d fallen across the entrance to the elevator, and the doors tried to close several times while he allowed his aura system to draw the latent potentia from the man’s corpse. Sucking his teeth at the rush, he looked at Evie’s report:

  //4 potentia gathered. Potentia available: 6.//

  Orin muttered something, but Hector was too engrossed in the flow of potentia to hear his response. He moved into the car and pressed his hand to the other banger’s chest.

  //3 potentia gathered. Potentia available: 9.//

  “Not bad.” His voice was a sigh as he exhaled, shaking his head against the rush.

  Orin staggered over to the elevator and said, “Gimme that guy’s piece. No way I’m firing a boost with my ribs all cracked to hell.”

  Hector grabbed the slug thrower, heavy and crude, with the obvious welds of a back-alley weapons maker. He handed it to Orin, then searched the two men for bit-vaults. One of them had a ring and the other a necklace with a data port. Hector took them both and pocketed them.

  Meanwhile, Orin dragged the second goon out of the elevator doorway and kicked his vibroblade closer to Hector. “You wanna use that for upstairs?”

  Hector picked it up, careful not to touch the trigger on the grip. It was a cheaply made device, but it had a satisfying heft, and he knew it would slice through even halfway-decent armor unless the batts ran low or the blade got bent. He shrugged and nodded.

  “Seems like they know we’re here,” Orin growled, a pained cough chasing the words.

  Hector thought about the statement, then nodded again, stepping off the elevator and dragging the other corpse into the doorway, keeping it from closing. “We’ll take the stairs.” He jogged over to the metal door with the stairs symbol printed on it, then glanced at Orin. The enforcer racked the slide on the slug thrower, leveled the barrel at the door, and nodded.

  Hector pulled it wide, and when Orin didn’t shoot, he slipped through, peering up the stairwell. Nothing stirred on the concrete steps. He started up, careful not to outpace his partner too much. On the second floor, he peered through the doorway, ensuring nobody was waiting to ambush them from behind. The hallway was empty. He climbed again.

  When he reached the third floor, he moved to the side of the door and then waited for Orin to appear on the stairs, wheezing and gasping as he struggled up the last few steps. Hector arched an eyebrow at the man, and he nodded, bracing his back against the railing as he once again leveled the gun at the door. Hector pulled it open, and this time the stairway reverberated with the boom as Orin pulled the trigger.

  Hector’s new auditory implants had no trouble with the noise; they squelched the thunderous sound instantly, and when it was over, they dialed the gain back up. He heard someone whimpering and another person cursing. A door slammed shut, so he charged into the hallway, vibro-sword buzzing.

  A man was rolling back and forth on the stained carpet about halfway down the hallway. He was cradling his stomach with both hands, gasping and groaning. As Hector approached, the downed goon put his foot against the door beside him, kicking as he gasped, “Let me in, you bitch-ass!”

  Hector could see the guy wasn’t long for this world, not unless he got some immediate aid. Orin had blasted him right in the center of his gut, directly beneath his sternum. Dark blood oozed out of the wound, squelching past the man’s trembling fingers. He’d bleed out soon. Hector motioned to the door. “Watch it.”

  Orin grunted, but shook his head. “That one’s mine.”

  Hector narrowed his eyes. “You can’t scrape if he’s alive.” It was a well-known limitation of low-end scrapers.

  Orin shrugged. “He’ll be dead soon.”

  “H-hey, asshole!” the guy gasped. “G-get me some help, and I’ll pay you. I’ve g-got a stash.”

  Hector grabbed the man’s collar and dragged him away from the door. He screamed, but there wasn’t any fight in him. “Don’t see a weapon.”

  Orin nodded. “Saw the other guy take his gun—some kind of pistol.” He looked at the downed thug. “Was that Ringo? I think it was, right?”

  The guy’s eyes had gone glassy, but he slowly nodded. “The s-son of a bitch…” His voice faded.

  Hector assessed the door: mostly plastic with a plasteel frame. He pointed beside the latch. “Shoot it here.”

  “Only one more slug.”

  Hector nodded, gripping the saber’s hilt so it buzzed like an angry hornet’s nest. He moved to the side of the door, shoulder to the wall. “Do it.”

  Orin aimed the big cannon and squeezed the trigger—boom! Hector thumped the door with his fist, sending it swinging inward, but he didn’t move from behind the wall. As soon as the door opened, a pistol rang out, firing rapidly. Hector knew the sound well—blit-blit-blit—it was a needler, and it probably had thirty or forty rounds in the mag. The door across the hall ticked with each hit, and he glanced at it, watching as needle after needle sprouted from its plastic surface.

  After the initial flurry of rounds went through the door and didn’t hit anything, whoever was shooting—probably Ringo, unless he had other goons in there with him—started shooting at the edges of the door, hoping to hit Hector or Orin. Both of them stood to the sides, out of reach, eyeing each other. After a few seconds, Orin arched a heavy brow at Hector as if to ask, “This guy gonna empty his mag for us?”

  When the needles stopped coming, Hector stuck his buzzing sword blade in the opening, and the gun started up again: blit-blit-blit-blit. When his ears picked up the click of a dry trigger-pull, Hector charged through the door, ran past a large folding table, a handful of cheap plastic chairs, leaped a box of groceries, and then brought the blade down on a curly-haired man who was struggling to fumble a new magazine into his slender, red-toned plastic pistol.

  The curved blade, driven by a piezo stack in the grip, chattered back and forth—microns of travel, kilohertz-fast. Its high-pitched electric note warbled and intensified as it hit the thug’s shoulder, split his heavy micro-fiber coat, and then worked into flesh and bone, sinking a quarter-meter into his torso before the weapon’s batts gave out. The vibration died mid-cut. The blade jammed, stuck hard.

  Hector backed away, hands and arms soaked with red spatter, glancing left and right to ensure the little apartment—smaller even than Lemon’s—was empty. Only Orin looked back at him, wide-eyed but grinning. As Hector put his hand on the former banger’s bloody chest, he said, “Check your guy.” When he heard Orin’s heavy steps retreat to the hallway, he triggered his system to draw the potentia.

  //7 potentia gathered. Potentia available: 16.//

  Hector sucked his teeth at the rush. Damn me! You had a system, didn’t you? A better question was why the fool had relied on that little needler rather than using his system. He supposed seven potentia wasn’t all that much; he was just used to smaller pulls in this new life of his. The guy might have only been level one or two, and who knew what kind of archetype he’d pulled—if any.

  “Got two potentia off that guy,” Orin announced from the doorway. “Come on, Hec, let’s turn this place over and get lost. Not sure if any of ’em called for help.” He barked a short, crude laugh. “Dammit! I didn’t think we’d ice all of ’em!”

  Still trembling from the rush, Hector nodded and stood, but not before sliding a thick silver band off Ringo’s thumb. “Right. Let’s see what else is in here.”