Under the Amoral Bridge Recap

Under the Amoral Bridge was the first in a series of novels called The Bridge Chronicles serialized in blog form. It was originally released on Jan. 31st, 2008 and consisted of 14 chapters and an epilogue. Below are links to every chapter for your convenience. If you'd prefer to read the novel in trade paperback form, you can purchase it here (use the coupon code S3M97LBV to get the book for $8),  Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com, {indie}pendentbooks.com - you may even be able to special order it at your local brick and mortar bookstore. You can purchase the Ebook version at Smashwords.com, the Kindle Store, the Barnes & Noble eBook store, and {indie}pendentbooks.com.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue

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Epilogue

October 31, 2028

The next two months were eventful for Bridge and Angela. True to her word, she moved them in together that week, refusing to take no for an answer as she and Bridge abandoned their respective apartments in the middle of the night. A creative use of some of her best freelance credcrashers saw their leases dissolved, their belongings packed up as quietly as possible and shifted from apartment to storage space, where another application of the hacking arts caused those goods to disappear from recorded existence. It was an expensive move, as far as Bridge could tell, but Angela handled most of it and either footed the bill or had someone else pay for it. Bridge laid low for the week after the election, rescheduling as many of his appointments as he could. He lost a few jobs, but nothing he couldn’t replace once he felt a bit safer.

The election was a colossal slow-motion train wreck, of course. As Bridge had predicted, the Sunderland story took off. The first downloads happened within minutes of Bridge’s exit from Chronosoft headquarters, and by morning, it had over 100,000 views. The news networks, freed from their gag order by the underground release, swooped in on the story like ravenous vultures. An estimated 85% of all Los Angeles LGL eligible voters were said to have seen or heard about the recording from a news outlet or friend. Only hours after voting began, with exit polls showing Soto riding a burgeoning landslide, Freeman’s hacking misdirection became apparent. Voting machines began to malfunction, hiccup or otherwise show signs of irregularities and in a panic, the election commissioner tried to shut the voting booths down city-wide, beginning in some of the neighborhoods hardest hit by the riots. With resentment still simmering, the people reacted just as one would expect them to react when the un-elected, corporate-controlled government attempted to disenfranchise them. Riots were only narrowly avoided. While there were some injuries and property damage, the efficiency of CLED negotiators averted a repeat of the previous year’s violence. In the end, the election commissioner decided to let the vote go ahead as scheduled. By the time the polls had closed, the rout was obvious. Soto had won, but the media cast a shadow on the victory party by reporting on the voting machine irregularities and near-riots. Days were spent with the election commissioner on the hot seat, with both parties clamoring for certification, reporters requesting investigation and rumors flying. By the end of the week, the commissioner had resigned in disgrace and the election was certified by his successor, triggering disenfranchisement lawsuits and rendering Soto’s enormous victory tainted. Bridge never had so much fun watching the news feeds.

His reunion with Angela was not always as entertaining. There were many marathon-length talking sessions, heartfelt discussions about their feelings and shrieking arguments. Through it all, however, neither gave in and more importantly, neither gave up on the relationship. Something in the months they’d spent apart and in the crazy day they’d spent almost dying together had forged a stronger bond between the two. Angela still disliked the way he made his money. “You’re not an amoral bastard, you know,” she said at one point. “You just know how to push your few principles aside to deal with the scum of the earth. What I don’t get is how you can stand it.”

Finally, he’d explained it as best he could. “Look, I know these people are shit. I get the worst of the worst. I don’t get little old ladies who need me to get their pension back from the loan shark. I get the loan shark when he needs a new guy to break the little old lady’s legs. And I help him, and you know why I help him? Leave aside the fact that even if I refuse to help him, someone else will. That’s just a fact. I help him because I know that guy is going down a one-way road the wrong way. And eventually, some other dumb fucker is going to come down that road from the opposite direction. So I just run them both into each other so the sorry bastards can get themselves the fuck off my planet sooner.”

Angela laughed and shook her head. “Bullshit. That’s bullshit. You’re trying to rationalize the fact that you make money off of misery because you gotta eat. It’s not some kind of twisted service to the world.”

“Maybe. We all gotta eat. But I’d rather those guys eat each other than me.” And nothing more was said about it.

Gina Danton had gotten Aristotle off the charge, just as she had promised. With the mayor’s greatly reduced respectability in those first hours of election day, no one had given two shits that Aristotle had pulled his mischief at the man’s fundraiser, not when a cop of Danton’s reputation had been willing to vouch for the bodyguard. Amazingly, Aristotle never gave Bridge any grief over his arrest, instead making light of it as often as he could. Bridge still ended up buying the giant a fantastically bejeweled watch, making sure to show it off to Angela before giving the gift.

Nicky took care of himself. Bridge had set up the bust with Danton, of course, and Bridge spent a few good hours worrying that the Cajun mobster would evade capture and come directly after Bridge. Nicky, never the sharpest tool in the shed, decided instead to go out Tony Montana style, trying to shoot his way out of the dragnet. He did manage to wound one cop before getting perforated. Thinking back on it, Bridge felt no remorse for his part in the gangster’s death. Nicky was too stupid to live, too selfish to remove himself from the gene pool and too worthless to feel any guilt over. Nicky’s guys drifted from one boss to another, like all hard guys do. None of them had the talent or brains to make much of themselves beyond hired muscle.

Paulie was a problem, of course. Soon after Bridge started working again, Paulie became a regular fixture at all the spots where Bridge plied his trade. Bridge would be finishing up work with a client when he’d spy the ex-footballer standing at the bar, eyes burning holes through him. Paulie would spot Bridge, Bridge would spot Paulie and the heavy would raise his new cybernetic hand in a sarcastic salute. Before leaving, Paulie would point the cyberhand at Bridge and make the sign of a pistol with his thumb and first two fingers, then exit with that same predatory smile of his. Short of hiring someone to whack the footballer, Bridge really hadn’t come up with a good way to deal with that grudge, but he still had a month to go.

A month was a long time. Hell, Bridge could get hit by a bus in that month. He could get abducted by aliens, or blown up along with half a city. Some punk ass disgruntled client could come back and stick a vibroknife in his back. He’d figure something out when the time came. That was what he did best. He figured things out. He’d figured out the Sunderland mess, and stuck it to “the man” in the process. Paulie wasn’t nearly as smart as Thames. And if he couldn’t figure something out, well, he knew a guy that could.

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Chapter 14

August 31, 2028
6:16 p.m.

The boiling afternoon sun was slowly sinking below the horizon as Bridge pulled Angela’s rental into the guest garage of the downtown Chronosoft Civil Administration complex. Much of the massive, multi-building complex was still under construction, as an addition to the existing Chronosoft corporate headquarters. The crossover walkway between two of the buildings would not be finished for another six months, its skeletal framework casting eerie shadows on the ground. The building housing Thames’ office was attached to the garage, its shiny exterior mostly completed though the upper six or so floors were still empty shells in need of final touch-ups. Another massive building that would eventually house all of the LGL’s offices was nothing more than a girder skeleton projecting out of a dusty pit. Despite the late hour, hundreds of construction workers still toiled in the oppressive heat, Spanish curses mixed with English orders echoing from all areas. The droning, beeping blare of the warning claxons on heavy machinery dominated the scene. The sounds invaded the car as Bridge rolled down his window to the guard, who checked his credentials and directed Bridge to his parking place in excruciating detail. Security was excruciatingly tight.

Bridge parked and prepared the car, removing all traces of anything he would need from the vehicle. He didn’t expect to return to the vehicle no matter what happened. The walk to Thames’ office was a long one, avoiding areas yet to be built and passing through multiple security checkpoints. Bridge was at least encouraged by the fact that Thames really was an entertainment division executive. Whatever political operation Bridge had been recruited into, it was at least being carried out far enough away from the elections division to be plausibly denied. Bridge admired the subterfuge.

Of course, he was made to wait outside the executive’s office. It was a trick Bridge had used to his advantage many times. Despite the time frame Thames had set, he would be the one who would be calling the shots and setting the timetable. Thames would believe himself to be in control, and that was exploitable. Bridge shrugged and sat, watching the receptionist with a bemused smile that masked his nervousness. After a five-minute wait, one of Paulie’s goons from this morning opened the office door and motioned Bridge in with a grunt. Bridge got up slowly, calmly taking his time in crossing the office.

"Come in, Mr. Bridge," Thames said, self-satisfied smugness dripping from his perfectly shaped mouth. Bridge really hated this guy now, but hid his disgust under a smarmy smile. "Sorry our meeting can’t be under more congenial circumstances, but you understand." He motioned to a chair in front of the oversized desk but Bridge preferred to remain standing. The office was a model in overcompensation. Opulent white leather couches flanked the desk on both sides, a gigantic wall screen covered one wall and the desk was so large, it could serve two comfortably. The tiny chair Bridge had been directed to was dwarfed by the desk’s girth, and Bridge assumed its position was meant to intimidate those who sat there. The wall screen ran a constant slideshow of various successful Chronosoft Entertainment properties. Thames sat behind the desk, leaning back comfortably in an almost throne-like office chair, its white leather so gaudy Bridge felt nauseous. Paulie’s goons flanked either side of the desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. Paulie stood to the side of one of the couches, overseeing Angela, who sat cowed but openly hostile. The drug had worn off, and Bridge could see the mixture of fire and fear in her eyes.

"You all right, baby?" Bridge asked. She said nothing, only nodding with her jaw clenched so tight her teeth must have hurt. Bridge nodded back and winked at her, which only made her squint her eyes even tighter. Turning his attention back to the smug douchebag in front of him, he said, "All right, jackhole, shall we do this thing?"

Thames looked offended. "Now, Mr. Bridge, is there really any need for hostility? I apologize for the violence, but you’ve been somewhat reluctant to comply. I mean, just look at what your friends did to Paulie over there." Paulie smiled the toothy grin of a predator. "We didn’t want this kind of business, but then we chose badly on the front end. Kira’s reputation as hardcore was vastly overinflated."

"He was a nice kid, you cocksucker!" Angela blurted. "If you’d come to me for this, I’d have given you somebody I knew could handle it. But you suits never fucking learn do you? You think everybody is just some replaceable…" Bridge cut her off with a wave of his arm.

"She got a point, you know. Hell, I’d have gotten you a better guy if you’d just come to me first. It’s what I do."

Thames just shrugged. "Lesson learned, then. Have you done what we asked?"

"The leak? It’s all set and ready to go." Bridge pulled out a bizchip. "All I have to do is activate this and we’re off." Thames tried to remain calm as he reached over the desk to grasp the chip, but his desperation showed through in his hurried motions. Bridge pulled the chip back. "Not so fast, there, Skippy. We’ve still got some unfinished business to discuss."

Paulie grabbed Angela by the throat, pulling her up off the couch with brutal strength. "There ain’t no unfinished business here, Cupcake. Give the man the card and get on with it."

Thames was quick to chastise the heavy. "No, no, Paulie, no need for that. We don’t want to get blood on my Persian there." He stared back at Bridge with bemused accommodation as Paulie released Angela. She gave the footballer a petulant slap on the ass and a look to curl the wallpaper. "What unfinished business exactly, Mr. Bridge?"

"Curiosity, mostly. See, I’ve been trying to figure this thing out. Here you’ve got an election, probably one of the biggest local elections in the country what with the Los Angeles LGL kind of being held up as the model for the entire national LGL program, right?" Thames nodded. "And your guy is throwing it. He’s purposefully set himself up to lose this election. I don’t doubt the peculiar virtual tastes he demonstrated for the recording are a regular thing for him, but he knew he was being recorded. He did it willingly, and you set the whole thing up for him. He didn’t have very good things to say about you, by the way. Thought you were a bit too inexperienced for this sort of thing."

"His opinion really isn’t relevant," Thames responded with mild annoyance.

"Yeah, I bet it isn’t. What does he get out of it? What he did isn’t illegal, but there aren’t many people who want play-date pedophiles running their city. This gets out, especially this close to the election, and the only thing people will think of in the voting booth is whether to pick the good-looking anti-corporate crusader or the fatass pedobear. His career is finished."

"Indeed. Mr. Sunderland is well aware of his situation. But as you’ve pointed out, he’s done nothing illegal. He can retire to some out of the way place to do whatever he wishes. His name will be mud, but if he can take a few months’ public roasting, his future is assured. He’ll never have to work again. With the fickle nature of the public, the story might not even last one news cycle. He retires rich, which is really all he cared about. He wasn’t exactly a willing civil servant in the first place."

"So why pick him? Was he always going to be a fall guy?"

Thames seemed to mull this over for a moment, as if trying to decide just how much he should bother to tell Bridge. He could have stopped at any time, but as he began to speak again, Bridge knew he couldn’t resist. He was damn proud of whatever this plan was and he couldn’t resist a good brag. "Of course. Despite what our press relations department is saying publicly, the LGL is not exactly popular with the masses. Selling the concept was always going to be difficult, no matter how bad the riots were. We needed someone to be ‘our guy,’ the corporate mouthpiece.""And you needed the opposite," Bridge finished both his thought and Thames’s at the same time. "You needed a protagonist, a hero for the masses, the crusader against the big bad corporation. Your movie needed a good guy."

Thames nodded enthusiastically. The executive was thoroughly impressed with himself.

"Exactly. That’s the trick we’ve learned about democracy, you see. Democracy is inherently chaotic, with the will of the people often easily swayed by all sorts of externalities, things like fear and pride and greed. But if you can control those externalities, manipulate those factors, democracy is imminently controllable."

"But if you wanted Soto for mayor, why not just fudge the votes? You control the voting machines, the voting process, all of it. Why not just control the count?"

"Too easy to track. Besides, the masses have spent decades mistrusting the counts anyway. While it puts our chosen man into position, it makes people suspicious of his administration. Did he really win? Was it just some shenanigans behind the scenes? However, if you infect his opponent with scandal, if you make the choice between candidates the choice between good and evil, the masses will be behind him completely. They’ll give him more leeway to do things they’d never support otherwise." Thames was excited now, leaning forward across the desk with the smile of a child displaying his refrigerator masterpiece. "You see, control isn’t enough. Controlling the masses overtly just creates ill will. An iron glove is resented. You have to give the masses the illusion of control. Let them think they’ve made the choice you want them to make and you can lead them anywhere you wish. They will follow you gladly. By the time anyone really figures out your game, it won’t matter because they’ve already given you what you wanted."

"And Soto? He’s in on it?"

"Certainly. Who do you think is building this complex?" Thames pointed out the window at the
massive frame of the construction next door. "He stands to make a lot of money from this deal, through all sorts of proxies, of course. He deserves an Oscar for his turn as the working man’s hero in this little picture but he’s hardly a saint. The things he did during the riots could land him in jail for life."

"All of which disappears if he just goes along with this little game?" Thames nodded again.

"It’s the Algebra of Need, Mr. Bridge," the smarmy suit replied.

"William Burroughs. Nice. A bit before your time, though isn’t it?"

"And yours. I’m impressed. I didn’t realize you were that well-read."

"You’d be amazed what I’ve read, Mr. Thames. And me? Why involve me?"

"Your connections. Once Kira went off the reservation, we had to find some way to get to him, and your connection with Angela was the best we could find on short notice. She’s not exactly easy for someone like me to approach."

"Yeah, I have a douchebag detector installed," Angela said. "Artie’s is broken."

"Does that satisfy your curiosity, Mr. Bridge? No more useless questions then?" Bridge shook his head. "Then will you please do what we’ve asked? I have eight o’clock dinner reservations at Spago."

Bridge held out the bizchip. "If you’d care to do the honors?"

Thames reached for the card quickly, but a thought stopped him cold. He put up his hands as if the card was a gun. "No, that’s all I need is for you to capture my fingerprints on the transaction and use it against me."

Bridge frowned. "Really? I get that little trust? Fine, I’ll do it myself." He grabbed the bizchip with his other hand, activating the program that started the leak. "Besides, if I really wanted your fingerprints on this operation, I have more than enough DNA off of your other cards to do what I would need." Thames face sank a bit. "Don’t worry, I didn’t. I hate blackmail. It’s more trouble than it’s worth."

"So it’s done then?"

Bridge nodded. "Give it six hours, and every body who's anybody in the underground news, blogging and political scene will have published, dissected and bloviated on the video at length. It should hit the morning news cycle like a freight train, just in time for the masses’ morning coffee before going off to the voting booths."

"Well if that’s all…" Thames began, throwing a glance towards Paulie, who nodded knowingly.

"Not so fast," Bridge interrupted. Paulie’s hand, which had been moving towards his jacket, stopped suddenly. "You got your leak. But with a situation such as we find ourselves in here, I couldn’t take the chance that your boy Paulie over here wouldn’t just whack the two of us once you got what you wanted. So I gave myself a little insurance."

Thames’ jaw set and he asked through clenched teeth, "What kind of insurance?"

Bridge threw the bizchip down on the desk, where it began to immediately smoke and dissolve. "Don’t worry, you got your untraceable leak. The leak contained a little something something, a little extra if you will. A very well-hidden trojan."

The pompous executive’s faced dropped, his eyes narrowing in a burning glance. "What does it do?" Thames’ voice was laced with angry impatience.

"Nothing much. It just attacks the voting machines, the election commission’s network. Those voting counts you don’t want to manipulate? I just did."

"Those counts are secured…" Thames’ voice trailed off as he started to realize the implications.

"Seriously? You’re going to count on the machines you yourself claim can be manipulated easily. You’re going to count on those things’ security? You said it yourself, manipulating the ballots are too easy to track, and as soon as the press gets wind those counts are suspect, there goes your election. If the process itself isn’t trusted, neither is your candidate."

Thames had the look of shocked defeat plastered across his mug. All trace of his former smugness was gone. "That kind of hack would take more than you’ve got," he said, but his confidence was shaky.

Bridge smiled. "You’re right." He motioned to Angela, who quickly got up to join him. "But I know a guy." Bridge’s smile got even wider, an infuriatingly toothy grin. He began to back away towards the door. Paulie looked towards Thames for orders then back at Bridge and back at the executive again, unsure of what to do. "Now I see I’ve confused the Limey Ape over here, but I’m sure you get the gist of what I’m telling you."

"What do you want?"

"I’m pretty cheap, actually. You let us go, alive and leave us that way for three months. Three months is all I ask. Keep the ape off me for that long, and you’ll get the code to clear this whole thing up."

"Three months? We need that election settled tomorrow night."

"And I need to keep breathing for three months. This isn’t a negotiation, Mr. Thames. Three months. Or you can just kill us now and sort out the counts when you get them sorted out. Do we have a deal?"

Thames pondered it for only a second, before agreeing with a sigh. "We have a deal."

"Smart man." He turned around, ushering Angela out the door quickly, then paused. Bridge turned back to Thames and said, "You know, you could have saved us all some time if you’d just come to me in the beginning. Shit, I don’t give a fuck if you elect Mickey Goddamn Mouse if you pay me enough to set the whole thing up. But you had to get cute. You had to fuck with me. You had to fuck with her. You want something from me you come at me straight up. Maybe next time you’ll know better than to fuck with me.""Don’t cross the Bridge?" Thames asked with sarcastic amusement.

"Not unless you’re willing to pay the toll," Bridge responded all too aware how corny that sounded. "Now fuck off, you cunt." Bridge slammed the door behind him.

"Let’s not dawdle, my dear," Bridge said to Angela. He led her away from the elevators and down the stairs. "No, no, we’re not taking the car. It won’t be useable anyway."

"What did you do to my rental?"

"Yeah, it’s not your rental anymore. Thames just bought himself a soon-to-be burned out husk of a rental sedan," Bridge said with a smile. They almost ran down the stairs and out the back, cutting across side streets to catch a bus that almost left them at the curb. Bridge had his escape route all planned. The car would have combusted right about the time they reached the street, and as they boarded the bus, he could already hear the wailing screech of the garage’s fire alarm.
"He is going to be so pissed," she said with that mischievous grin. "Especially after you fucked up his election."

"Oh that. Well, not exactly."

"What do you mean? That’s what you bought our lives with, what do you mean not exactly?"

"Well, I didn’t technically hack the ballot. It’s sure going to look like I tried, and it’ll take them months to figure out that nothing was altered. Months and months and millions of dollars and most importantly, all that trust they were hoping Soto would have as mayor. Whoever gets elected tomorrow, it’ll be a clean count, at least as far as my efforts are concerned. But damn is it going to be painful to figure that out." Bridge was beaming.

"You risked our lives on a bluff?" He nodded vigorously. "You motherfucker. You absolute cocksucker. That is the most brilliant hack I’ve ever seen."

"Ain’t it though? See, there’s some use to being a manipulative cocksucker."

Her dour scowl dissolved into a lascivious grin. "I’ve got a use for you when we get home, you rat bastard." She gave him a long kiss. When she had detached herself, she looked around the bus with an embarrassed self-consciousness. "Tomorrow, we look for a new place."

"We?" He arched an eyebrow at her.

"You just put us on the shit list of the biggest LGL on the West Coast. We’re joined at the hip, you and me. Might be a good idea if we disappear off their radar for a bit." Bridge nodded agreement and leaned back into his seat. Three months wasn’t a long time, but it would have to do.

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Chapter 13

August 31, 2028
6:23 a.m.

"You want me to do what?" The indignant surprise in Gina Danton’s voice made Bridge cringe a bit despite himself. Bridge sat with the CLED patrolman in her personal car, parked in the deserted parking lot behind the MacArthur Park subway station. Trash blew by the car as a dusty wind picked up from the direction of Westlake Avenue. The parking lot was deserted at this early hour. A few pedestrians came and went on the streets, but none took notice of the parked auto. Bridge had insisted she not roll up in a CLED vehicle. He threw a few nervous glances towards the subway station, where some of the gang members who ran the subway kept a lookout for anyone brave enough to enter the station. They certainly noticed the car, but were polite enough to act like they weren’t watching its occupant’s every move.

"I need you to bail Aristotle out of jail," Bridge repeated patiently.

"I heard you the first time. I just wanted to make sure you had actually lost your mind and it wasn’t me losing my hearing." Danton really was a looker out of uniform. Her silky blonde hair flowed over her shoulders, a much sexier do than the tight bun she sported on duty. A little makeup did wonders for her already attractive face, and civvy attire flattered her tight curves and well-toned body much better than the uniform. But no matter how she was dressed, the hardness of her character infused her every word. It wasn’t just the job that made her an ice queen. She was just naturally tough, a stoic core of stone wrapped in a pretty shell. "You realize that just talking about pulling favors as simple as fixing a ticket can get us both arrested by IA, right?"

"I do realize that. Look, we both know that no matter how many changes the suits force on you, police work hasn’t really changed. Without a smoking gun, you need one bad guy to drop dime on the other bad guys. You trade favors for that kind of information all the time. That’s the way it’s done."

"What are you telling me, Bridge? Are you ready to drop dime?" Bridge said nothing, letting the rather unkempt state of his person tell her all she needed to know about his level of desperation. "I don’t think you understand just how much these Chronosoft guys have changed things. We got more paperwork than ever before, and every single nano-penny is counted, tracked, stamped and audited. Believe it or not, those suits have actually improved the place. We still got some of the old asshole Neanderthals trying to keep up business as usual, but the writing’s on the wall. That old school skull cracking alpha male bullshit is out. I’d almost say the place is professional. I may not like the suits, but they have cleaned that place up."

"And the one thing suits understand is the art of the deal," Bridge said with a crooked grin. "They know dollars and cents, and they know public relations. And big busts make good public relations. All they’ve got to do is release a guy who doesn’t even have a record."

"Aristotle’s got a record."

It was Bridge’s turn to be surprised. "Marcus? Marcus has a record?"

"Oh yeah. I guess you didn’t interview him all that well, but then you probably don’t believe in background checks, do you? No, he’s got priors, most of it petty assault, low-level gang shit. That’s why I was kind of glad he hooked up with you. I thought you’d keep him out of that shit." Her disappointment was smeared across her face. Bridge had let her down, and he hadn’t even known it.

"Huh, I never knew. He didn’t talk about it."

"He was always smarter than that. But once you got that stink on you, going legit is hard. Nobody reputable wants to hire you."

"I hired him."

"See what I mean? Nobody reputable." She was only half-joking, but Bridge mocked offense just the same. They didn’t call him the Amoral Bridge for nothing. "You put him through college and I THOUGHT you’d keep him from getting in fights. Now you got him arrested again. What did he do?"

"Saved my goddamn life," Bridge mumbled ruefully. "It’s a minor beef, unless they embellish it. All he did was streak the hotel after the mayor’s speech, set off a false fire alarm. Oh and he stumbled over some guards that were in my way. He could always say it was a frat pledge thing."

Danton just buried her head in her hands with a disgusted sigh. "Goddamnit, Bridge, the fucking mayor? Could you get him in any more trouble? Can I at least ask why?"

"Not if you want to help him," Bridge replied. "The less you know about why he did what he did, the better."

Danton mulled it over for a minute, leaning over to rest her chin on the steering wheel. "Look at those two," she said, pointing out the subway guards. "Do they really think I don’t know what they’re doing? I’d bust their asses myself if I had probable. People ought to be able to use the goddamn subways." Her rambling seemed to be to no one in particular, a distracted lilt to her voice that masked her internal struggle. Finally, she came to a conclusion.

"What are you offering me?"

Bridge clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Something juicy. Two days from now, there’s going to be a big-time hold up, and I know who's going to pull it off."

"And how exactly do you know this?" Bridge’s smile told her she didn’t want to know. "Because you’re going to set up the score, of course. Fine, fine, go on."

"Remember that guy whose boys were giving me the beatdown the other night outside the Glitter?"

"Sharver? You’re gonna give me Sharver? He’s not exactly film at 11 material."

"He’s big enough for what I’m getting in return. Now do you want him or not?"

She nodded reluctantly. Bridge began to spill the beans, giving the entire setup for Nicky’s proposed heist. He had already lined up the hacker replacement Nicky had so violently requested. Of course, the hacker was dead. Bridge had used the ID of the one that had tried to assassinate him. But Nicky didn’t know that, and there was no reason to sell one of Angela’s guys down the river when a little creative running had given Bridge the opportunity to set Nicky up. Bridge would get rid of one troublesome contact, and if he got lucky, he’d do it without Nicky knowing who had set him up. And even if Nicky did find out, Bridge would deal with that problem when it came up.

Aristotle would be safe. Now Bridge just had to do the same for Angela.

---

Bridge’s next meeting was much more difficult to arrange than his morning’s rendezvous with Gina Danton. It only took him three hours to set up, because he was just that good, but it was a close run thing. In the end, he’d had to come clean about the danger Angela was in, and it was only because of Angela’s reputation among the LA hackers that Bridge even had a chance. One didn’t just meet Michael Freeman these days, not in the flesh.

Freeman was a legend, an icon of the LA hacker scene from the good old days. He was the old man of the movement. He’d been living on the net since before there were even interface jacks. He was the magic man, the boy genius who had done more hacks before his fifteenth birthday than most runners manage in their entire careers. More importantly, he’d lasted through those difficult teen years without ever getting caught, transitioning from keyboards to interface jacks seamlessly while doing massive hacks that others only dreamed about. Though never prosecuted, many believed him to be behind the great 2021 Traffic Riot, a mega hack that caused all the traffic lights in the Los Angeles County area to malfunction at the same time, resulting in mass chaos. His legend had since grown to the point that only he could tell the difference between fact and the fictitious hyperbole of the GlobalNet rumor mill. A hacker’s best advertisement was his reputation, and Freeman’s reputation was beyond reproach.

Freeman had mostly retired from the public hacking scene during Bridge’s early career. Everyone knew him, of course. His NetID had the same sort of cache as Timothy Leary among the drug culture. He could walk among hackers half his age and be revered as a god, despite the fact that he’d been working full-time for the Chronosoft Corporation for four years. Any other hacker who’d made the switch to regular nine-to-fiver would be labeled a sell-out, but not Michael Freeman. If anything, his reputation was a challenge to all the foolhardy runners out there, a bullseye painted on the Chronosoft databanks. If a hacker could pierce their security, it would mean they had bested Michael Fucking Freeman, god of hackers. Not that anyone ever did, of course. Freeman was just that good.

Bridge had one advantage over other runners wishing an audience with Freeman. He knew Angela. And he also knew that Angela had hired Freeman many times for jobs his corporate bosses would not have cleared. He could pick and choose the jobs, and Angela offered him the most challenging. Freeman liked Angela, or at least she thought he did. Bridge gambled that she was correct in her assumption, that Freeman would like her enough to help her out of a jam, even if that jam involved going up against Chronosoft.

Bridge found himself seated at a kitchen table in Freeman’s downtown apartment. The late August sun made searing shapes on the worn linoleum of Freeman’s kitchen. Unlike other runners, Freeman kept a meticulous home, every single object in its proper place. Bridge marveled at the order. It was painfully neat, everything lined up as if the owner had measured the distance between each object down to the millimeter, all arranged according to some intricately deranged plan.

"I hope I didn’t wake you up," Bridge began as his coffee cooled.

Freeman shrugged it off. "I don’t sleep much these days. The eggheads have me on some stuff I can’t talk about." Freeman had the waxy skin of most crèche hackers, but his eyes lacked the telltale bags.

"They need help finding a distribution channel?" Bridge asked without thinking. Deals like that were just a reflex at this point. Hooking up a black market distribution deal for cutting edge pharmas was big-time money. He had already started tallying percentages in his head when he caught a glimpse of Freeman’s scowl.

"What happened to Angela, Bridge?" Freeman could not disguise his distaste for Bridge. They had met only once, and Freeman had not shown him much respect. Maybe it was the fact that his breakup with Angela had been ugly, maybe it was Bridge’s line of work, or maybe he just didn’t like ex-hackers. But that disdain had not changed. Freeman’s elongated face punctuated by a scraggly goatee had disgust written all over it. "What did you get her into?"

"Whoa, whoa, I tried to keep her out of it. As a matter of fact, I told her specifically not to show up at the place. If she’d just stayed away, they wouldn’t have been able to track me back to her apartment."

"Yeah, and you know Angela has always listened to what you said." Freeman laughed, but his smile was cold and humorless. "Maybe you should explain what you were doing." Bridge sighed and relayed the whole story from start to finish. Freeman listened stoically, occasionally sipping his coffee and interrupting Bridge for clarification. "So you stumble across this recording, try to sell it and almost get yourself killed, and you expected Angela would just stay out of all that? Surely you aren’t that dumb."

"Hey, I offered her a slice, and she didn’t want to touch it. I thought she’d stay as far away from it as she possibly could, see if I could get myself capped trying to move the goods so she could laugh."

"Except you were in trouble, man. You got yourself into a big pile of trouble and it still surprises you that she came to your rescue. You really don’t know her very well at all, do you?" He finished off a cup of coffee, and poured himself another from the carafe on the table.

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? What do you think I mean? I talked to her when you guys split up. You think she just jumped into bed with that fuckhead from Korea, don’t you? Hell no. That girl was tore up. The only reason she ever got with that Kim guy was because of his connections. She’s been playing him from the getty. She’s been holding a candle for you since the minute you left."

Bridge looked up from his cup quickly. "What? No, no, no. She threw ME out, didn’t want me anywhere near her. Hell, she barely let me use any of her stable."

"If she really hated you like you thought, you think she’d have kept hooking you up? She treats those hackers like her children, and yet she hands them off to you for whatever shit you get them involved in. She’s still looking out for you, whether you know it or not."

Bridge mulled it over. Maybe Freeman was right. Angela certainly had every opportunity to cut ties with Bridge any time she wished, and yet she hadn’t. And now, she’d gotten herself in the thick of this mess over his objections, all because he’d put himself in a dangerous situation that would require rescue. "Shit, Freeman, she’s a woman. I’m never going to be sure how she feels, and right now, it doesn’t matter. It is what it is. These assholes have kidnapped her and I have to give them what they want."

"A leak? That’s it?" Bridge nodded. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a leak. So why call me? Leaks are script kiddie territory. It’s not exactly a challenge. And who’s to say they’ll give her up even if you do what they say?"

Bridge smiled that smile, the one he used when he was working. It was the smile of supreme confidence, of the schemer putting his scheme into action. "That’s where you come in. I got a plan." Bridge laid it all out for Freeman. The middle-aged hacker began to smile with each sentence, his smile getting bigger as the plan took shape. By the time Bridge was done, Freeman was positively beaming, his eyes twitching from side to side as he began to work out the details in his mind.

"I’m in," said Freeman. Bridge leaned back with a satisfied smile that hid the nervousness bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

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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 curses. “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 sadness 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. Just as suddenly as it had started Paulie let loose of his throat. “But that ain’t the job.” Coughing violently, Bridge almost fell out of bed.

“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 to 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.

That was the part Bridge couldn’t quite figure out yet. Sunderland was trying to throw the election, and Soto and the media were in on it. The fix was in, but why would a guy like Sunderland willingly give up the job? What did he get out of it? As Bridge puzzled over the scenario, he picked up the bizchip. His teeth clenched together so hard they hurt.

Bridge had seen the bizchip before. He already had a copy of Thames’ card, and it was the last thing he’d expected to get from Paulie. A slow-building fire of anger smoldered in his stomach as he realized he had been played. For a fleeting moment before he’d picked up the card, he had thought about bagging it all in, packing up and getting the fuck out of LA with his ass intact. Screw Angela, screw Aristotle, screw all this political bullshit.

But it was personal now. He’d been played. It was time to fight back.

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Chapter 11

August 30, 2028
6:16 p.m.

Bridge had avoided this meeting as long as he could, but he had run out of acceptable options. If he couldn’t sell the recording to Sunderland’s opponent, if the news organizations wouldn’t take it off his hands, he couldn’t hire a leaker, and blackmail was untenable, he only had one other option. It was hardly preferable or profitable, but it had to be done. He made the first call to Angie, who passed on a message to Aristotle.

The bodyguard met Bridge in the lobby of the downtown Belker Hotel, mere blocks from the Chronosoft LGL Administrative Offices that had absorbed most of downtown since the riots. Combining the finest in modern amenities with architecture that hearkened back to the early ‘30’s deco roots of the downtown Los Angeles area, the Belker was currently overrun with journalists and Sunderland campaign supporters. The mayor was due to speak to his adoring fans in less than an hour. As Bridge entered the opulent lobby, Aristotle approached him with a furrowed brow and a face full of worry. “Isn’t this getting a bit too close to enemy territory?” he asked as he pulled Bridge around the corner from one of the large convention halls.

Bridge just gave his bodyguard a mischievous grin. “Business associates are never enemies,” he replied with little conviction. He pulled a flower from the ornate vase sitting on a oak accent table, stuffing it into his lapel with aplomb. “What do you think? Too much?”

Aristotle nodded. “Just a bit too fruity for this crowd and that jacket. Didn’t this business associate try to have you killed?”

“Allegedly. Look, I don’t have much other choice. I try to blackmail this guy and I’m dead for sure. If he doesn't get re-elected, and that’s 50/50 at best, he gets beat and the blackmail won't be worth shit. If I want anything out of this, I have to get rid of it in the next 24 hours. And since no one else is willing to pay a red cent, selling it back to its original owner is my best option, even if the only thing I get is to save my own ass. The worst he can do is try to kill me again and he’s not going to do that with all this press around.” Aristotle did not look one bit reassured. “Did you bring it?”

Aristotle nodded and handed Bridge a bizchip. It was something Bridge had been sitting on for a while, a rainy day surprise he’d wheedled out of Tom Williams a few months back. Tom had given him press credentials in exchange for a voucher into a high-stakes card game. Tom really did have a problem. Of course, the credentials were shit, some kind of fluff entertainment reporter bullshit, but what the credentials lacked, Bridge would make up for with persuasion. “You’re clear about what you’re supposed to do?”

Aristotle nodded, but Bridge went over it again for good measure. “I get in here and try to work up an interview. I’ll turn on my cell connection and let you listen in. Provided I actually get the interview, and I’m pretty sure I can, they’ll probably white noise me. If you hear the connection cut out, you got five minutes to create as big a distraction as you can manage. You realize you’re probably going to get arrested, right?”

Aristotle shrugged. “All the greatest thinkers have been imprisoned for their political beliefs at one time or another. It will give me ample time to write.”

Bridge’s respect for the man grew a hundredfold. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You can just head home right now, save yourself a night in the pokey. I wouldn’t blame you a bit.” Aristotle shook his head. “Why? It ain’t like I’m the best boss in the world. Why are you sticking your neck out for me?”

Aristotle thought for a moment. He replied with the most matter-of-fact tone. “All this time, you’ve never treated me like a piece of meat. I’m your bodyguard, but you never ordered me to take a hit for you, not even a single punch. You’d rather take another beatdown than put me in harm’s way.”

“I can’t afford a real bodyguard!” Bridge protested meekly, his cheeks flushing.

“Yeah, you keep on saying it. I know better.” His smug smile was infuriating and encouraging at the same time. If Bridge got out of this, he’d need to do something for his employee, buy him something special.

“Angela has rented a car and will be waiting for us outside if we require immediate egress,” Aristotle said.

Bridge’s jaw set with painful anger. “What do you mean Angela’s outside? She’s offline? She’s HERE?”

“Why yes, she insisted on coming along quite forcefully.”

Bridge let out a string of curses. “Goddamnit, I didn’t want her involved in this, especially in the flesh! What the hell is she thinking?” He reviewed his plans, trying to revise them to keep her out of harm’s way. Finally, he said, “Look, whatever happens, do NOT let her get involved. I don’t care if I’m about to get capped, you make sure she gets out of here even if I don’t. You got that?”

“But Bridge, we can…”

“I mean it, Marcus. I don’t want her in this.” Bridge’s use of Aristotle’s real name obviously affected the man, and he nodded his assent grudgingly. “All right, how do I look?” Bridge asked as he straightened his tie in the nearby mirror.

“Like five miles of deteriorated road,” Aristotle replied with gallows humor. “The bruises are a bit obvious.”

He was right, Bridge looked a mess. Despite his practiced attempts at concealing the damage with makeup, both eyes sported nasty shiners, his lip was split and his clothes were rumpled. One glance at his appearance brought the fatigue of the day into sharp focus, his shoulders slumping with the stress. “Nothing to be done about it now. The speech is about to start.” Bridge buttoned his coat and strode purposefully towards the convention room brandishing his fake press passes. He half-expected them to be rejected, ending his potentially suicidal gambit, but the guards just shuttled him quickly through with barely a glance at his disheveled condition. ‘Political reporters must get their asses beat constantly,’ Bridge thought to himself sardonically.

As he entered the darkened room, the buzzing hum of conversation died to an awkward whisper. The large hall held probably two hundred or so, and it was packed to the gills with reporters from local, national and international venues. The room was lit by several spotlights focused on the stage, festooned with various campaign materials bearing the slogan “Into the Bright, Shining Future.” A speaker was introducing the Mayor, praising the politician's dedication to rebuilding the city. Bridge quickly tuned out. He shuffled as quietly as he could into the crowd, searching for the kind of reporter he knew would be in attendance. He was looking for the cynic, the guy so sick to death of the whole political dog and pony show, the guy who’d talk to anyone about anything so long as the cynicism was mutual. In the end, he spotted his man on the fringes of the room, leaning against the wall with a scotch in one hand and a microphone held lazily towards the stage in the other. This was Bridge’s guy.

Bridge sidled up next to the cynic with casual indifference, offering a greeting in the form of a head nod. The cynic returned it with little sincerity. Bridge leaned over with a convivial quip, noting the reporter’s name on his badge as Cary Batson from Channel 17. “I wonder which talking points he’ll hammer tonight.”

The cynic offered him a sheet of paper with the campaign letterhead in holographic letters at the top. “Didn’t you get the memo? He’s going for all of them.”

Bridge indicated the microphone held by the cynic. “Isn’t that thing going to catch all this?”

“This? Not likely. It’s not even on. But if you don’t at least look like you’re doing something, the jackboots start giving you shit. I could have done this remote yesterday from memory.” They shared a schoolboy level chuckle, and then turned their collective attention back to the stage where the introduction had been completed. The mayor bubbled out onto the stage, the applause from his supporters fervent with screaming and clapping while the journalists offered polite golf claps while trying to look interested.

Sunderland looked more corpulent and slimy in person than he did on his commercials, a pudgy man with a lilting, effeminate voice that spoke of nothing so much as concessions and beliefs that shifted with those of his audience. Bridge couldn’t think of a less palatable candidate for any sort of position of responsibility, though he certainly could chalk that up to having seen the mayor’s disgusting cybersexual display. The speech began with disingenuous thank-you’s for support and encouragement, and continued with clockwork precision along the talking points sheet. The whole thing had the flavor of a pantomime as well-rehearsed as Bridge’s introduction speech to his clients. He got the sense of the politician's greater role as the official state fixer, the go-to guy when you need something no one else can get. Was that all government really was? A series of handshakes and handouts based on an arbitrary series of rules that at least had the benefit of being codified, as opposed to the extra-legal series of unwritten rules that Bridge bumped up against daily? Here was Sunderland’s promise to the land developers to grease the wheels of government to make sure the economy recovered. There was Sunderland’s offering to the authoritarians in attendance to protect them from street violence. With a flourish, he offered to lower property taxes and increase services.

The mayor was just another bridge, a trader of favors with an official title and the backing of legal enforcers.

Bridge shook himself from his thoughts and leaned over to Cary with a whisper. “So has anybody been able to get an interview with the man himself?”

“Sure, if you’ve been kissing the right asses. Mitzy over there,” he indicated an attractive blonde mouthpiece with legs up to her neck, “she got the exclusive a week or so ago. Word is Breckin has a thing for the blondes.”

“Breckin?”

“Yeah, Breckin Sims, the mayor’s press watchdog. He’s the guy you suck up to if you want a little face time, and he’s the guy who snaps off your dick if you start fucking around.” Cary arched his neck as he scanned the faces in the room. “There he is,” he continued, pointing out a sharply-dressed corporate PR type watching the stage with a bemused reverence. “Of course, you’ll never get one, not this late. The less unrehearsed speaking the mayor does this close to the election, the happier Breckin gets.”

“My nuts are in a wringer. My editor says if I don’t get something with the mayor, my desk is cleaned.”

“Good luck with the unemployment line then, buddy,” Cary said with a rueful laugh. Bridge crossed his fingers to the cynical reporter and walked off, stalking deliberately towards the PR gatekeeper. The police escorts guarding the entrances to the stage flinched as Bridge approached, their eyes locked on his path.

“Mr. Sims? Caston Bocanegra,” Bridge began, flashing his fake credentials with the same air of confidence he used on his clients. “I’d like to speak with the mayor, maybe get a five minutes interview if I could.”

“I’m sorry,Mr. … Bocanegra did you say? The mayor’s schedule is booked solid until the election. I can’t even squeeze Tom Williams in these days, much less any fluff reporter, no offense.” The man’s smile was so white his teeth gleamed with reflected spotlight, and his attitude had the galling arrogance to match.

“But I have some very important questions about the mayor’s campaign. If I could just get three minutes with the man…”

“Three minutes is more than he has to offer. I’m very sorry.”

“Just tell him that I have a story about Candy. He’ll know who I’m talking about. Candy. Remember that. If he still wants to talk after the speech, I’ll be over there.” Bridge pointed to the open bar across the room, currently occupied by a swarm of disinterested reporters. He floated towards the bar hiding the smug smile from the PR man. Despite the danger, or maybe because of it, he was enjoying this entirely too much. The last look he'd gotten at Sims' face was priceless, the barely-concealed fear of a man who'd just been told his meal ticket was getting punched.

The speech was interminably long, a series of regurgitated buzzwords and catchphrases that said nothing much in particular with a preponderance of words. Bridge admired the man’s ability to promise absolutely nothing while managing to make it seem like the moon was being offered to the crowd in exchange for their votes. Bridge nursed a couple of whiskeys during that time, engaging in meaningless chit-chat with some of the other reporters. A few he’d heard of through his association with Tom Williams, others he’d seen while flipping through channels. The disparity between the on-air personalities and the actual reporters was striking, and not just in their looks. The talking heads managed to pull off the appearance of genuine interest, while the less attractive jotted an occasional note on a PDA between irritated glances at their watches. Finally the speech ended with a flourish of applause, and the mayor left the stage, his politician’s smile fading as quickly as he left the spotlight's glare. Bridge watched the pudgy man stride off stage and past Sims, who stopped the mayor with a hand, whispering in his ear with furtive, conspiratorial glances around the room. Bridge could tell the minute Candy’s name was mentioned, as the mayor’s face grew stormy, a red flush of anger darkening the man’s otherwise stoic demeanor. Sims pointed in Bridge’s direction, and the mayor almost exploded, sticking a furious finger into the PR man’s chest. With cowed resignation, Sims nodded to the mayor and walked off towards Bridge, while the mayor exited the room flanked by uniformed and plain clothes protectors.

“Congratulations, Mr. Boncanegra, the mayor has five minutes for you after all. If you’ll come with me?” Bridge nodded, replacing his half-empty glass on the bar and following behind Sims. He activated his cell connection to Aristotle as they walked through a door on the opposite side of the room from the mayor’s exit. Sims led them around a few corners and into the kitchen area of the hotel. Bridge had to squeeze past waiters and carts stacked with trays of dirty dishes.

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 stitching 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 electronic 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 employee, 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 a 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 anyway, 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.

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Chapter 10

August 30, 2028
2:03 p.m.

The darkness underneath the warehouse floor was stifling, rank with the smells of motor oil, sweat and dust. Bridge tried to get his eyes adjusted to the blackness but before he could, Stonewall turned on emergency lights with the flick of a switch. The enforcer must have been well-practiced at using this escape route, because Bridge would have stumbled in the dark for many minutes before locating that switch. The bay was bathed in a dull red light that turned it into a red-tinged nightmare of shadows. Stonewall moved with a practiced grace, his jaw set in determined, barely controlled anger.

“That way,” he said curtly, pointing a finger behind Bridge. Bridge followed the finger, trying to discern where Stoney intended him to go. The room was a dead end, a blank series of four walls. It took a second to realize that what looked at first like an impenetrable wall was in fact a tiny alcove, the recessed exit built so as to be invisible except from close-up. Bridge started towards the alcove, tripping over the hydraulic apparatus lining the floor. “And take this.”

Stoney tossed Bridge the pistol he'd grabbed from the hiding place underneath the bay. Bridge caught it awkwardly, barely grabbing the clip that followed. He spoke hesitantly. “I'm not really comfortable... I mean, I've shot one, but I've never actually shot anyone.”

“And I don't suggest you shoot anyone now. Killing cops is a sure way to get the needle, even in this state. But you know, they got 'em, so you better have one just in case. Just don't shoot my ass and remember to take the safety off.” The ex-footballer slipped through the crevice quickly despite his size, while Bridge had to wiggle a little to manage his way through. Behind the alcove was a long hallway with telecom pipes running both ways down the length of the dark corridor. Either end of the hallway was engulfed in shadow, the same red emergency lights providing the barest of illumination. Stonewall took an immediate left, flicking another switch as he passed. A small panel beside the alcove began to beep annoyingly. “We better vamoose.”

“Where the hell are we?”

“Old 20^th fiber trunks, built to wire this area up back in the '90's. Once Twiggs found out this place was right on top of them, he had this emergency exit built. Don't nobody use these tunnels much anymore less a cable breaks.” The beeping sound started to fade away as the two adopted a brisk pace.

“What’s that beeping?”

“You'll find out soon enough.”

All Bridge could think of was explosives, and he quickened his step unconsciously. “Shit, you're gonna blow it up, aren't you?”

Stoney just flashed a mischievous grin. “Only a little piece.”

Bridge could feel the tunnel veer a bit left, though he had long since lost any sense of direction. The tunnel filled with noise then, a cacophonous FOOOMPH followed by a shrill ringing in his ears. A thin coating of dust shook down from the ceiling, followed by a gigantic choking cloud that engulfed the entire tunnel. Bridge cursed loudly, though he couldn't hear his own voice over the ringing. His eyes watered from the dust and he coughed violently. Stonewall was talking to him, but he couldn't hear. He tried to focus on the man's mouth, tried to read his lips but to no avail. The Mexican had a hand on Bridge's arm and was trying to pull him down the corridor. Bridge started to follow when the ex-footballer raised the shotgun one-handed and pulled the trigger.

Bridge felt the shotgun blasts more than heard it, two quick vibrations shivering past his right arm. He looked back in the direction the shots had been fired, seeing a dark uniformed officer thrown to his back. The explosion had opened the alcove further, and Bridge thought he saw a few limbs buried under the rubble. Another shadowed figure sprang from the hole in the wall, firing short, quick bursts from a submachine gun as he tried to make it across the tunnel, begging for cover that did not exist in the tight space. Bullets whizzed past Bridge and Stoney, one coming close enough for Bridge to feel the wind displaced on his cheek. The brief flashes from the man’s gun revealed a uniform with the letters SWAT emblazoned in white across the chest. Bridge threw himself backwards by reflex, raising the gun and firing wildly. He had squeezed off six shots by the time his back hit the ground, rolling over to face the attacker. None of the shots hit, but they were enough to send the target skittering down the hallway in search of cover.

Stonewall fired two more shots down the hall before yanking Bridge up violently by the arm. A little of Bridge’s hearing had returned, allowing him to catch the gist of what the Mexican was telling him. It amounted to moving his ass and Bridge obeyed with the blood rushing in his head. Dizziness followed by nausea passed over him, but he maintained his balance and kept going. Stonewall pushed him around a soft bend to the left, which switched back to the right in a serpentine pattern.

Suddenly the tunnel exploded in light, brighter than the sun. Only the fact that Bridge faced away from the source saved his eyesight, but spots still danced in front of his eyes. The concussive force of the flashbang replaced what little hearing he’d gained back with a new piercing ringing. He cursed out loud, but kept moving. Stonewall’s reassuring hand still pressed on his back, pushing him forward, around corners, and through a bewildering maze of tunnels that so thoroughly disoriented Bridge that he could have emerged from the tunnels into the kingdom of the Mole People and not been the least bit surprised.

Finally, Stonewall yanked his shirt, stopping him cold. The Mexican said something to Bridge, but Bridge still couldn’t quite hear it. The enforcer aimed his shotgun at one of the red lights illuminating the tunnel and blasted it, then took similar aim at lights to either side of the now darkened air and repeated his pinpoint shooting. Bridge was now thoroughly blind again, but Stonewall’s hand on his arm pulled him towards where he knew the wall to be. Bridge reached out his hands blindly, his fingers touching cold metal instead of the expected stone. It was a door of some kind, and he fumbled around until he found a handle. The door opened inward, a sliver of yellow light briefly dispelling the darkness. Stoney pushed him through quickly, shutting the door behind him with silent care. He emptied the shotgun of shells and jammed it into the silver bar that opened the door on this side. It would take some major effort to open the door from the other side.

“Give… pistol…” Stonewall said, barely breaking through the ringing filling Bridge’s head. He handed over the pistol and clips eagerly. Stonewall checked the magazine, slamming it back into place forcefully before hiding the gun in the small of his back.

“Where the fuck are we?” Bridge asked.

Stonewall pointed at the ground where a pair of rails ran into the darkness in both directions. “Subway,” he said gruffly. “They won’t want to follow us down here.”

“How do you know they won't?” Bridge asked, his vision starting to clear with only the occasional floater throwing off his balance. He felt the distant rumble of a train somewhere.

“Cops aren't coming into the subways anymore. They've given it to us.”

“Us who?”

“The gangsters, the gangs. The criminals, the hobos, the naco. They've been giving this place up more and more since the corps took over.” Stonewall pointed down the tunnel behind Bridge and started walking towards the barely perceptible speck of light. “Nobody takes the subway anymore. The rich got that new dirigible, the middle class got the taxis and the buses. The poor, they take the subway or they beat feet. Ain't no cops on the trains, hell, most stations don't even charge anymore. Haven't you noticed?”

Bridge shrugged, trudging along beside Stonewall. “I don't take the subway. My clients expect a certain style. I show up on the subway, they’ll think I’m some kind of lowlife. Ok, some OTHER kind of lowlife. But why aren't the cops down here?”

“Have you just really not been paying attention to what these pendejos have been doing to this town?” Bridge shrugged again, and Stonewall scoffed. “I suppose you haven't noticed what they're turning the Warehouse District into either.”

“I don't do business in the Warehouse District.”

“That's right; you don't deal with the poor people, do you?” Stonewall said with an irritable disdain creeping into his voice. “You just get the bourgeois their dirty pleasures from the lower classes.”

“You sound like some kind of communist.”

“Just know how the world is, brother.”

“Don't forget you're one of those bourgeois, brother.”

“Yeah, I am.” Stonewall's voice took on a wistful edge. “CLED’s been busy since the LGL got passed. They call it pacification, settling down all the neighborhoods that are still resisting the whole LGL thing. That's bullshit, of course. Those riots ran out of steam once the food came back. But the CLED's got to show some progress, bring the crime rate down to prove the grand LGL experiment is a success. How do you think they pull that off? By moving the crime around like the queen in three-card Monty. They've been busy evicting folks from houses, pushing the drug trade and hookers and dice games and whatever else they can into the areas with the lowest crime rates. The crime rate in the hot spots goes down. Even if it goes up in other places, it averages out, see? And if you look hard enough, you can see where they are moving the worst of the worst. It's a series of lines that run the length of the subways. And all of 'em lead down here. They're creating their own little version of ethnic cleansing, their little invisible class war.”

“How the hell did you get so political?” Bridge asked. He had a newfound respect for the footballer. He'd always thought of Stonewall as a typical superstar jock, a hardguy with little need for education. He'd probably underestimated the man by a mile.

“You think I'm just some dumb footballer, brother?” He shook his head. “You white guys, still think us Latinos are just lazy ass gangsters throwing down for our colors. My set went to college, motherfucker. Pumas didn't recruit me out of some Mexico City shithole, I got my degree in political science. I was gonna help the poor kids when I got done with soccer. I guess you never listened to Aristotle and me talking shit, did you?” Bridge shook his head. He noticed the ambient illumination growing with each step. The speck of light in the distance had grown taller and wider. They were nearing a station. “Course you didn't. That's a smart motherfucker. You should listen to him. Or at least, don't get him killed. We could use a smart brother like that. We're here.”

Stonewall reached a hand up to the platform about chest high. Bridge was surprised to find a hand reaching down to help the footballer up onto the platform. He looked up to see three gang members with automatic weapons and tattoos up and down their arms offering to lift Bridge up along with Stonewall. The Mexican began speaking in hurried Spanish to the three. One began talking to himself, and Bridge figured he was speaking to someone on a cell connection. After a few minutes, Stonewall turned his attention back to Bridge.

“We got you a ride coming,” he said flatly. “Take you into Downtown. Cops won't bother you there. You can also use the phones on the car, call anyone you want. It won't get traced. We've zeroed that bitch out. That line doesn't even exist in the records anymore.” Bridge was impressed.

“You're not coming with me?”

Stonewall shook his head. “No, brother, Twiggs' boys are going to have some serious heat on them once that slaughterhouse gets searched. I expect the Arsenal is going to get hot pretty soon. I'm headed back to Mexico for a little while, lay low. Whoever you got me involved with, they got the power to fuck with us something fierce.”

“Yeah, the mayor can do that,” Bridge said. Stonewall didn't bat an eyelash.

“Figures. That fucker’s in Chronosoft’s pocket so deep, he’s eating lint. I don't wanna know any more. Watch your ass, amigo.”

“You too. I owe you, Stoney,” Bridge said, trying to sound sincerely grateful.

“Save it. That thing you hooked me up with? Saved my life, whether you know it or not. We ain't square by a long shot.” The platform filled with a rumbling sound, the train pulling into the station behind Bridge. “Castro here gon' see you safe,” he said, indicating one of the three guards should accompany Bridge. “Nobody will fuck with you.”

Bridge shook his hand wordlessly then hopped on the train. Among the trash and gang tags littering the train, Bridge found a barely clean seat, trying hard to disguise his disgust at the accommodations. Castro didn't seem to notice or care. He leaned over a seat near the window, automatic weapon at the ready, one leg hiked up on the seat. Bridge noticed the tattoos on his left arm weren't tattoos, but decals covering the cybernetics like a sleeve. As the train got underway, he located the phone and began to make calls, a dangerous yet unavoidable plan forming in his mind. A ball of nervous resignation plummeted into his stomach as he settled on his next move.

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Chapter 9

August 30, 2028
1:14 p.m.

Bridge lingered long over an after lunch coffee, his mind in a tumult. In the best of circumstances, he would have had five paying options for selling this recording and moving on, but time was against him. Few would touch something this hot without demanding a serious discount for the added danger. Tom’s intuition, for all its sarcasm, was spot on. There was definitely a fix in. Losman trying to pass Soto off as some kind of shining knight crusader might play well on the evening news but Bridge knew better. The network's sudden reluctance to break any sort of election scandal just exacerbated his natural paranoia. The kind of high-level string-pulling this would require made his asshole twitch.

Soto had a reputation that Bridge was all too familiar with, even though he’d never done any business with the man. Soto had earned his reputation during the riots just like Bridge. Soto had lived in a lower middle class subdivision, not the type of place you’d see corporate types living in. Mostly Hispanic, it was populated by workmen, janitors, school teachers and retail workers, the kind of barely-above-the-poverty-level residents that politicians pandered to for elections before forgetting completely. He had been a struggling real estate developer living in the home his parents had bought back in the early ‘80’s when home ownership was still attainable with hard work. The neighborhood had the unfortunate providence of being on the border between the poor areas that exploded into chaos during the riots and the targets of that chaotic rage, the downtown corporate sectors. It quickly found itself under siege, with rioters on one side wanting to march through the streets burning and looting everything along the way and the corporate cops on the other side trying to protect their employer’s interests. Soto organized the neighborhood’s defense, successfully fighting off both sides for days. When the LGL was passed, LAPD and the corporate cops were joined into one peacekeeping force which more often served as agents of corporate vengeance. Soto negotiated publicly with these forces to ensure their neighborhood was excluded from the overly violent pacification sweeps. As a result, his neighborhood was one of the least devastated areas in the city.

But Bridge knew a guy who lived there during the riots. Paco had cowered in his parents’ basement most of the time, until Soto conscripted him. Paco hadn’t wanted to fight, but Soto left him little choice, strong-arming the 17-year old into manning a barricade against the rioters. Paco had been a quiet hacker, the kind of kid that couldn’t fight off swirlies in high school. When Soto was done with him, the kid was hard. The riots had done that to a lot of people, but Paco was a kid. He spoke about the things Soto had done, the murders he’d committed and the ones he’d ordered. Soto had been particularly brutal, at one point stringing up a rioter by his ankles and leaving him to die screaming yards in front of the barricades to discourage other invaders. Somehow, that brutality never made it into the official Soto story.

That made Bridge skeptical about the Soto campaign’s desire for honor. Soto wasn’t the kind of man who was squeamish about literally and figuratively crucifying his enemy when the situation called for it. His campaign manager having more scruples than her candidate was a nigh impossibility. The fix was in, but Bridge was damned if he could figure out the angle.

Bridge paid for his meal and strode outside, not quite sure what his next move should be. He spotted a street term and logged in using another disposable ID to check his messages. The first six were all from Nicky, barely veiled threats at first, escalating with each successive call until the final message had lost all semblance of subtlety. Nicky was ready to put Bridge down, and had gotten pissed enough not to care that such a threat was being recorded. He was going to have to do something about Nicky, but that had to take a back seat to this Sunderland situation. He also had a message from that executive, Thames. The normally confident executive’s voice sounded thin and frayed, and Bridge imagined his bosses were putting serious pressure on him. He’d have to wait as well. There was no way Bridge could stick his head out into the hacker pool far enough to hook up a leaker, not with a hit order floating around the GlobalNet. Aristotle had called to check up, and Bridge smiled a bit at the bodyguard’s undeserved loyalty. Bridge really needed to give him a bonus.

The last message was from Stonewall, short and cryptic enough to make Bridge's heart skip a beat. “Yo, Bridge, give me a call about that thing, eh? I got news.” Stonewall was really good at disguising his criminal activities with code words. Bridge immediately purchased another disposable ID and returned the call.

“Yo, Bridge, where you been?”

“Working another angle. You got something for me?”

“Yeah, but it ain’t what you want. Louie Lou, eh?” The ex-footballer hung up without even a goodbye. That meant nothing good, and probably a whole lot of bad. The code words Louie Lou was a location where the two could meet.

Louie Lou was a restaurant on the decaying edge of the warehouse district, a shithole diner that saw more rendezvous traffic than regular diners. They had good coffee and crappy food, but if you needed to meet somewhere away from where the shit was going down, Louie Lou’s was the place. Bridge caught a cab immediately, not even bothering to hide his trail. If Stoney wanted to meet at Louie Lou, it was an emergency.

Stonewall sat sipping coffee at a corner booth with a good view of the entire diner and the street outside. Catching sight of Bridge, he immediately dropped a few bills on the table and walked out. He greeted Bridge on the street with a curt, “Follow me.” The lack of chit-chat made Bridge keep his mouth shut as they stalked west a few blocks into rows of warehouses. Three blocks into the walk and Stonewall started talking. “So we took your boy Paulie’s crew to a safehouse and went to work on them. One of them didn’t last the trip. The second one managed to make it all night. Poor bastard didn’t talk though.” Bridge had lost track of where exactly he was when Stonewall stopped at the side door of a large warehouse. The building was so dilapidated that Bridge at first thought it was abandoned. The keypad entry was pristine, however, and the Mexican quickly entered a combination and opened the door. Bridge began to follow him in when he noticed the chaotic pattern of a shotgun blast in the dead center of the door. The door’s metal was perforated, blackened holes at waist height giving Bridge a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Watch your step,” Stonewall warned. Bridge narrowly avoided stepping directly in the puddle of blood on the floor. Whoever had been standing behind the door had taken the shotgun blast badly.

“We’d started working on Paulie when Twiggs sent me out for lunch. I was like ok, I’ll pick up where my homies leave off. I couldn’t have been gone half an hour.” Stonewall led Bridge down a shadowy hallway. The blood from the puddle was smeared down the hallway, leading to a body face down in a pool of light. The coppery smell of bloody death seemed to soak the air in the warehouse, the air which was even now closing in on Bridge, so stuffy it was like breathing sawdust and paranoia and impending doom. He could feel the gorge rising in his throat while his back was awash in freezing sweat. Bridge began to say a vain prayer in hopes of warding off the inevitable scene he was about to witness.

“But this is what I found.” Stonewall swept his arms wide to encompass the whole of the scene. The doorway opened into tool storage area off of the main warehouse floor. A haphazard series of cheap metal shelves and cabinets containing various motor parts and tools formed a makeshift room around the doorway. It was well lit with burning incandescent spotlights hanging low from the ceiling. The air was stifling with the smell of settling dust, motor oil, sweat and blood. All the blood. Bridge felt his lunch start to revolt, heading back up his esophagus with sickening force. “Hold it in, hombre, you don’t want the cops sniffing out your DNA ‘cos you yak all over the crime scene.” Bridge got a grip by steadying himself on one of the shelves, which wobbled under his weight. He drew back his hand from something sticky, but was relieved to discover oil on his hand instead of blood. He immediately grabbed a dirty towel from a nearby shelf and wiped both his hand and the shelf where he’d placed the hand. Stonewall approved. “Now you’re learning.”

“What the fuck happened?”

Stonewall surveyed the destruction nonchalantly. “You tell me, brother. Just who the fuck are... were these guys?”

Bridge began to study the scene carefully, reconstructing the interrogation in his head. The victim had been tied to a chair surrounded by three other chairs. Likely the questioner had sat directly across from the victim, the two flanking chairs holding the bruisers who would whale on the victim until he talked. One of the hanging lamps was low enough to be grabbed by the questioner but now swung in a faint elliptical pattern. Various implements such as vice grips, pliers, knives and a blowtorch had been on a table to the right of the victim, a table that now held a bloody corpse. Bridge recognized the corpse as one of Twiggs’ enforcers, Ernesto or Nester or something like that. The dead man’s eyes were frozen open, a surprised expression framing the third eye blooming out of his forehead.

One of the metal shelves directly opposite the table was overturned. A pair of feet was visible, the landing point of another of Twiggs’ employees. The chair to the left of the questioner’s was also spilled, its occupant having flipped over onto his stomach from the force of the blast that had killed him. The final body was the most surprising. In the center of the circle of chairs lay Twiggs, flat on his stomach with his head turned to stare blankly at the light above him. The former striker had taken two large caliber bullets in the back, and a third to the base of his skull, likely both the killing blow and a message. Bridge let out a whispered curse and shot a glance at Stonewall. The enforcer just nodded, a grim nod suffused with a blinding finality. A queer look of melancholy crossed Stoney’s face.

“Shit, Stoney, I'm sorry. I didn't…”

“Save it,” the Mexican cut him off with a wave of his hand. “If it wasn’t you, it was going to be somebody else got us all killed. Twiggs knew the type of bastards he was doing business with. He didn’t promise me a long life, he promised me a job.”

“You think this was a business hit?”

Stoney shook his head. “Not his business. His enemies would have left the two bodies.” He pointed over his shoulder at an area of the warehouse floor where two separate blood stains sat drying in the dust. A piece of plastic film with bloody stains had been left nearby, probably having covered the two missing bodies. “That's where we put the ones didn't make it.” Stoney pulled back the questioner’s chair and sat with a sigh. He pulled out a pack of gum, offering a piece to Bridge who declined. Stonewall insisted silently, and Bridge took a piece with reluctance. “It’ll settle your stomach,” he said with a wry smile. Stonewall indicated that Bridge should sit.

Bridge sank into the chair with a vacant stare. His eyes caught sight of something by the victim’s chair and he stared at it until he could comprehend it. Two fingers lay bleeding on the floor beside the chair. Bridge burped and barely covered his mouth with his hand, forcing the vomit back down with willpower alone. “Whose fingers are those?”

Stonewall blinked, said “Huh?” then found the digits Bridge was babbling about. “Oh, those. Probably Paulie’s. We’d just started really working him over when Twiggs sent me out. Guess they figured he was harder than the other two.”

“You notice something else?” Bridge shook his head. “No bullet casings.”
“What’s that mean?”

“Professional team, maybe even corporate. Thorough, but they knew how to make it look like a mob hit. Cops, maybe?” He shrugged. “We never could get a name out of them. Tough fuckers.”

Stonewall leaned over to rest his elbows on his knees, the strangest expression of sadness on his face. Bridge could see something behind his eyes, a storm front of emotion building behind the rocky façade the enforcer put on. He stared down at Twiggs with that look in his eyes, squeezing his hands together until his knuckles turned white. “Did I ever tell you how I lost my knee?” Bridge shook his head. “It wasn’t even in a goddamn game, just some training ground scrimmage shit. Twiggs was making a run right up the midfield, and I tackled him. Clean tackle, no funny business and I got possession. I’m heading back upfield, counterattacking right, gonna pass it off to… fuck, what was that guy’s name?” He clapped his hands together as he remembered. “Ricketts, that was him. Pretty good winger. So I pass it off to him and here comes Twiggs from the side, studs up.”

He sniffled a little, emotion getting the better of him as a solitary tear rolled down from his right eye. “I could feel the kneecap just ripping up, right? It totally shattered, pieces driven up into muscles and ligaments and shit tearing right up. Doctor's told me they could never reconstruct it as is, they had to use cybershit. Course, we all knew that would end it, what with FIFA being such dildos about warez. Twiggs apologized afterwards and you know what I told him? Same thing you always tell a footballer when he sideswipes you. I said, ‘I’d have done the same thing, amigo.’ I told him that, and every time we talked about it, I told him the same thing. No sense him feeling guilty about it, right? That’s what you're taught, from a little dude, make the tackle and apologize afterwards. Never begrudge a man a tackle you'd have made yourself.”

A raging thundercloud of anger erupted on Stonewall’s face. His lips quivered. Something had broken free inside of him. “But that was a lie, dig? Only a fucking striker comes in with a tackle that dangerous. That shit would have got him a red in a game and he fucking knew it. He knew it, man. That’s why he gave me this fucking job, that’s why he always took care of me. You fucking knew it, didn’t you! What was I, just some Catholic guilt you worked off? Did you feel good about yourself making me do all this shit? Did you? You know how many fucking bodies I buried? Yeah, neither do I and that scares the living shit out of me. But he just kept sending me out there. Stoney, crack this guy's jaw. Stoney, plant that deadbeat. And what'd it get you, eh puta? What'd it get you? It got you DEAD! Fuck you and burn in hell, you preppy shitbag! I’m glad you're dead!” Spittle flew off his lips as he screamed at the impassive corpse. His shoulders heaved and his breathing came in ragged gasps. His cathartic outburst over, he stood panting paying Bridge no mind whatsoever. Finally he composed himself, straightening his back and making the sign of the cross over his chest. “I'm glad you're dead,” he said one more time with almost a whisper.

Catching Bridge's look of terrified embarrassment, Stonewall smiled. “That therapist you got me said I should work on releasing my anger in a non-violent manner. He's good.”

“Should we be hanging around this slaughterhouse?”

Stonewall was about to speak, his mouth just opening to form the words when a beeping sound interrupted. He snapped to attention, darting over to an open doorway that led to a security room. Banks of monitors displaying feeds from various cameras all over the warehouse lined the walls. Bridge could see police cars pulling up in at least two of the exterior feeds. Stonewall cursed loudly. “We gotta get out of here,” he said, springing into action. Slamming a button on the monitor console, he pushed Bridge out into the warehouse floor. The vehicle lift of one of the work bays began to rise, revealing the darkened pit of the oil changing bay below. “Somebody’s called the cops on us, and unless you want to get framed for a gangster-style execution, it’s time to beat feet.”

The ex-footballer pushed Bridge down into the darkened bay, grabbing a shotgun, a pistol and some clips from underneath the vehicle lift as he did so. Bridge heard muffled shouts and the thwump of flash bang grenades behind him as he ducked below the level of the warehouse floor into darkness.

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