extraction went down without a glitch."
"Buzz has it that your Johnson didn't receive what he paid for."
Night Owl smiled. She'd never intended that he should. Her interest in the run had been personal, and she'd accomplished what had needed to be done. "Too bad. Sometimes things get damaged in transit."
"Damaged?" Hothead gave her a careful look. "You mean lost. Someone let something slip, and the item your Johnson paid so much cred for was snatched back by its original owners before it reached its destination."
Night Owl shrugged. "Whatever."
"The Johnson wants his nuyen back."
"I've spent it." She jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. "Check out my new wheels."
"You spent all of it?" Hothead shifted toward the edge of his seat, as if he was about to leave. "That's bad—but I suppose it shouldn't surprise me."
"Find me some more biz," Night Owl insisted. "Then I'll at least have the option of paying the Johnson his nuyen back."
Hothead gave her a skeptical look. They both knew runners didn't give refunds.
"I know someone who needs some extra muscle tomorrow, for a run that's going down at noon," Hothead said.
"Noon?" Night Owl laughed. "You know me, Hothead. I'm a reverse Cinderella. I come out at midnight and turn into a pumpkin at dawn."
Hothead shrugged. "The only other job I have right now needs someone who can pass as a Full Blood. You look too Euro—although with a hint of something Asian underneath. Are you part Chinese? Your accent is perfect."
"Japanese," Night Owl corrected him. "And a hundred other races. I'm a walking DNA cocktail. According to my father, I've got a little bit of everything in my genetic makeup—even Native. I probably could have claimed citizenship, if I'd wanted to."
The flames on Hothead's scalp rose a centimeter. He pulled his chair back up to the table. "Does your father have citizenship?" Behind his contact lenses, his eyes gleamed with curiosity. His commodity was information—the tidbit Night Owl had just supplied to him had captured his attention like a shiny silver coin tossed before a crow.
Night Owl leaned back in her chair. Hothead had just stepped over the line that separated fixer and runner, but she didn't care. She had his attention again. Deliberately, she tossed him another tidbit. She was feeling reckless tonight and was curious to see how smart the fixer really was. Would he be able to follow the datatrail and figure out who she was?
"My father's dead," she answered. "He suicided—hung himself with a monofilament. It took his head clean off when he jumped off the chair."
Hothead swallowed and tucked in his chin. "Why?"
"The corporation he worked for screwed him over. A project he was working on crashed and burned, and he was the one blamed for it."
Night Owl saw Hothead looking down at the table and realized that she was holding a spoon in her hands. She'd bent the stainless steel nearly double without even realizing it. Carefully, she laid it back down on the table, beside the tray that held Hothead's empty 'kaf cup and glass of water.
A waitress came up to the table and asked if they'd like to eat. Night Owl ordered a 'kaf and some fries and garlic mayo.
Hothead winked at the waitress and asked for a refill and a new spoon. "Don't make the 'kaf so strong next time," he joked. "It plays hell with my nerves." When the waitress left, his expression became serious. The flames on his scalp dimmed to a soft red glow, and his voice fell to a whisper.
"The Red Lotus are looking for you."
Night Owl glanced nervously around the restaurant. Red Lotus was one of Vancouver's most notorious street gangs, "younger brother" to a powerful triad based in the Republic of China. They dominated the city's heroin trade and were notorious for going overkill on anyone who crossed them. When the Red Lotus struck, bullets fell like hail and blood flowed like water.
"What do they want with me?"
"Well, since they can't get their boss's nuyen back, I guess they'll
"Buzz has it that your Johnson didn't receive what he paid for."
Night Owl smiled. She'd never intended that he should. Her interest in the run had been personal, and she'd accomplished what had needed to be done. "Too bad. Sometimes things get damaged in transit."
"Damaged?" Hothead gave her a careful look. "You mean lost. Someone let something slip, and the item your Johnson paid so much cred for was snatched back by its original owners before it reached its destination."
Night Owl shrugged. "Whatever."
"The Johnson wants his nuyen back."
"I've spent it." She jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. "Check out my new wheels."
"You spent all of it?" Hothead shifted toward the edge of his seat, as if he was about to leave. "That's bad—but I suppose it shouldn't surprise me."
"Find me some more biz," Night Owl insisted. "Then I'll at least have the option of paying the Johnson his nuyen back."
Hothead gave her a skeptical look. They both knew runners didn't give refunds.
"I know someone who needs some extra muscle tomorrow, for a run that's going down at noon," Hothead said.
"Noon?" Night Owl laughed. "You know me, Hothead. I'm a reverse Cinderella. I come out at midnight and turn into a pumpkin at dawn."
Hothead shrugged. "The only other job I have right now needs someone who can pass as a Full Blood. You look too Euro—although with a hint of something Asian underneath. Are you part Chinese? Your accent is perfect."
"Japanese," Night Owl corrected him. "And a hundred other races. I'm a walking DNA cocktail. According to my father, I've got a little bit of everything in my genetic makeup—even Native. I probably could have claimed citizenship, if I'd wanted to."
The flames on Hothead's scalp rose a centimeter. He pulled his chair back up to the table. "Does your father have citizenship?" Behind his contact lenses, his eyes gleamed with curiosity. His commodity was information—the tidbit Night Owl had just supplied to him had captured his attention like a shiny silver coin tossed before a crow.
Night Owl leaned back in her chair. Hothead had just stepped over the line that separated fixer and runner, but she didn't care. She had his attention again. Deliberately, she tossed him another tidbit. She was feeling reckless tonight and was curious to see how smart the fixer really was. Would he be able to follow the datatrail and figure out who she was?
"My father's dead," she answered. "He suicided—hung himself with a monofilament. It took his head clean off when he jumped off the chair."
Hothead swallowed and tucked in his chin. "Why?"
"The corporation he worked for screwed him over. A project he was working on crashed and burned, and he was the one blamed for it."
Night Owl saw Hothead looking down at the table and realized that she was holding a spoon in her hands. She'd bent the stainless steel nearly double without even realizing it. Carefully, she laid it back down on the table, beside the tray that held Hothead's empty 'kaf cup and glass of water.
A waitress came up to the table and asked if they'd like to eat. Night Owl ordered a 'kaf and some fries and garlic mayo.
Hothead winked at the waitress and asked for a refill and a new spoon. "Don't make the 'kaf so strong next time," he joked. "It plays hell with my nerves." When the waitress left, his expression became serious. The flames on his scalp dimmed to a soft red glow, and his voice fell to a whisper.
"The Red Lotus are looking for you."
Night Owl glanced nervously around the restaurant. Red Lotus was one of Vancouver's most notorious street gangs, "younger brother" to a powerful triad based in the Republic of China. They dominated the city's heroin trade and were notorious for going overkill on anyone who crossed them. When the Red Lotus struck, bullets fell like hail and blood flowed like water.
"What do they want with me?"
"Well, since they can't get their boss's nuyen back, I guess they'll
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