The Word Cloud

Not exactly being prolific at the moment - winter blues setting in a little bit, and the rewriting of Air has turned into a reworking of the main character, technology, politics and the point of the story. Still, there's always more of this bit of indulgence! (This is the 3rd part, the first two are in the blog too, should someone stumble on this and want to have a read). ~C

Over the next few hours we hammered out the details of our plan. Time was tight; Mr Johnson had specified delivery in a little over a day and a half. We decided that taking the dwarf near his home would attract too much attention - there existed too large a chance that a neighbour or other resident would recognise the man before we could bundle him into the van. We would, therefore, tail him from his place of work, and look for an opportunity in the less built up areas in southern Downtown, nearer the industrial area. We would attempt the snatch that evening. It’s risky to rush things so; I for one preferred a longer lead time to properly nail down as many variables as possible, but Willem and Clifton were of a similar ‘kick the door down and deal with what’s on the other side’ mentality. I’d just have to go with the flow for now. Sometimes you just have to take a little risk.

We headed into Downtown early that afternoon to reconnoitre the building in which the Seattle Tribune resided, enduring a bouncy ride in Willem’s truck. I was dropped three blocks to the west of the building, giving me the opportunity to walk past the target, observing everything I could while the others scouted for a place to park.

Phoenix Plaza is a smallish, irregularly shaped tower block on the southern edge of the main business district, home to, among others, an import/export business, a small maritime insurance underwriters, and the offices of a company dealing in mail order magic totems, fetishes and other curios. The Tribune is on the top four floors of the fifty three storey tower. The tower had its own underground parking facilities, entered through a fairly secure looking portcullis like entrance just off the street passing west of the building. The front entrance was on the southern facing. The building had probably looked impressive thirty years ago, but decades of pollution, smog and acid rain had stained the mirrored glass, causing streaks of grime and rust to stain the steelwork, so that the building now looked as if it was suffering from an oozing skin disease. To the north a huge grey pyramidal monolith of a building of indeterminate usage overshadowed the squat office block, and to the east a trio of new obsidian like, blade shaped towers several times the height of Phoenix Plaza lanced into the sky.

The misty but sunny start to the day had given way to clouds so dark they appeared green, and a low rumble of thunder and the popping of my ears hinted at a coming storm. Ribbons of drizzle whipped around the buildings. I wandered through the darkening streets, collar turned up against the questing rain, and watched. Traffic was fairly limited in this area; it was nice and quiet. A large BMW saloon car purred past, in the dirty beige and blue of Lone Star, the cities privately contracted ‘Enforcement Agency’. Corrupt rent-a-cop’s, the lot of them. I should know, I had had a low level desk sergeant on my personal pay roll. I made a mental note to look him up.

I walked on past the plaza, sneaking a glance into the building through the splashed and grimy plate glass windows. There was a large lobby area, carpeted in red and decked out in what appeared to be a dark hardwood. Probably a veneered plastic. Across the lobby ran a long reception desk. A prim looking human sat behind it. He was using an old style handheld telephone. In addition there was a large ork in a dark blue uniform. Obviously security. My ear bead buzzed, tickling my ear lobe. I tapped it once, and the call connected.

“Hey Dex, where are you?”

It was Clifton.

“Nearly at the corner of Griffith and 3rd. I’ve checked the lobby; one security, one staff member. There is an underground car park on the west side, entrance covered by a light weight roll-over portcullis and a key card slot. Where are you?”

“Two blocks away to the south, in a side alley. I am coming your way, Willem is staying here.”

I turned right, away from the street on which Phoenix Plaza squatted, and walked on, intent on doubling back via a convenient alleyway I’d seen nearly opposite the buildings’ entrance. A hundred metres or so down this side street, a narrow alleyway opened up on my right. It was barred by a chain link fence tipped with razor wire.

I grinned; this was one of the reasons I had been in this line of work for so long - there were few obstacles that even slowed me down, and people paid well for a skill like that. I glanced up and down the street. There were a number of parked vehicles, but none appeared occupied. The shadow of the building to my right, and the general dull tone of my clothes would serve to hide me for the short moment required. I broke into a springy run in two strides, leaped, and kicked off the damp wall that hemmed the alleyway. I twisted and did likewise on the opposite wall, but twisted in order to perform a half somersault. My gloved hands landed on the razor-wire topped fence, and I pushed off, coming to land a couple of metres inside the alley in a low crouch and only a light splashing noise from the small brackish puddles covering the ground. Damn, I’m good! I walked on carefully, grinning to myself.

The alley was dark and dank. The tall buildings on either side served to prevent any intrusion by the sullen grey daylight, and the overhanging fire escape gantries broke what little illumination there was into complex patterns. Combined with the musty, damp and muddy ground, the alley had more in common with a deep forest trail than an city street. Water dripped from the steel gantries above, and gurgled noisily from a blocked roof gutter further up the alley, clattered sonorously on a steel rubbish bin in the passage below, and splashed in the myriad small pools on the alley floor.

I could see a corner now. Another alley disappeared off to the right, back toward 3rd Street and Phoenix Plaza. My stealthy approach disturbed a pair of rats, interrupting their fight in the damp ooze and causing them to run. The blurred chittering shapes disappeared behind another group of rusting rubbish containers.

Around the corner was more of the same, but beyond the thin alley mouth I could see the very edge of the plate glass frontage of Phoenix Plaza. Perfect.

I looked around. More fire escaped littered the sides these buildings. These were old buildings, over a hundred and fifty years old; brick and rusting iron monstrosities. Not exactly suitable for the world of the 2060’s. I ran at the wall, sprang, grasped the railing of the lowest fire escape, and swung up and over. I landed lightly on the metal walkway. Easy. I began to climb the rickety ladders as quietly as I could.

In a few short, busy minutes, I crouched fifteen floors up in the shadow of a ventilation housing on the roof, hidden from prying eyes in the Plaza’s upper floors, but with a good birds-eye view of both the car park entrance and the front door of the building. I double tapped my ear bud.

“In position; on the roof opposite the Plaza’s main entrance. A1 visibility.”

“Gotcha, mate. I am in the park opposite the car lot entrance. Car we are looking for is a silver Honda Aspect, old model. Stafford is a dwarf, dirty blonde hair. Think we are here for the long haul, lads”, replied Clifton.

At that, there was a flash and a rumble. A huge drop of water landed on my head, followed in short order by all of it’s friends. Within moments the sounds of the city were drowned in the hiss of falling water, a white noise that threatened to drown out thought. A rivulet of water ran between my feet on its way to the drain in the corner.

“Fucking brilliant”, muttered Clifton in a flat voice.

            *                *                *

The rain continued for the rest of the day. I watched the sun go down from my elevated vantage point, although the sunsets vague reflections in the tumultuous waters of the Puget Sound paled in comparison to the thunderstorm that raged across downtown, fuelled by the wet pacific wind. Finally, in the fifth hour of our vigil we got lucky. My ear bead buzzed. I tapped it.

“Yep?”

“Got movement, Dex. Silver car, dwarven driver. Think its our man... dwarf.”

I peered over the edge and just made out, through the driving rain, a battered old Honda. Through the sunroof I made out the blond head of the driver, distorted by the film of water.

“Looks like it. Lets get after him. Willem, you’re up!”

“On my way.”

I dropped off the roof, swinging from fire escape to fire escape, and landed in the alley’s ankle deep mush with a wet splat. I sauntered out onto the sidewalk as Willem’s red monster roared around the corner and stopped a hundred metres or so down the street. I walked down as Clifton emerged from across the road. We met at the back of the ‘van’.

“After you”, he said, opening the armoured rear door and giving me an excited grin.

I ducked, hopped in and clumped to the small door in the partition between the rear of the truck and the drivers compartment. I opened it and slipped into the passenger seat as I heard the door close behind me.

“He was heading east, continue straight on”, I told Willem, and without a word, he pulled out into traffic, headlights struggling to pierce the torrential downpour. I could see stationary brake lights ahead. As we got closer I made out the silver Honda in the queue at a set of traffic lights.

“There he is”, I said, and pointed out the battered vehicle, “follow that car.”

“You had to say it, didn’t you.”, muttered Willem, shaking his head.

Twenty minutes of meandering through the dense city traffic followed. The distorted red and white lights of the watery world beyond the vans windows, mixing with the hypnotic flapping of the trucks wipers and hiss of rain on the roof contrived to send me into a daze. I sipped at my hip flask, gazing out at the storm and the flavours of metahuman trudging through their lives behind that cold glass pane.

“Oi, Dex, you hear me?”

I snapped out of the reverie; “Huh? Sorry Willem, what?”

“I said, something’s wrong. He signalled right for the freeway, but went straight on. There aren’t many cars this way, leads to Redmond and the factory zones.”

“So?” I sipped at my flask again; my headache was returning.

“He means that he might notice us following”, said Clifton from the rear compartment, “and it’s not as if we are easy to miss, now, is it?”

“Ah, crap. Well, we can’t lose him; keep following Willem, lets see where this takes us.”

Willem accelerated, leaving much of the rush hour traffic behind. The bright halogen street lights soon gave way to older, sullen sodium based lamps. Ahead was the great dark sprawl of Redmond, squatting on the distant rise like a dung heap, small twinkling lights occasionally becoming visible through unseen gaps in the maze of shantys, tombstone like tenements and rickety shacks. A huge road-train thundered past in the gloom. I could see warehouses, factories and depots looming over the road, dark save for the occasional security lodge.

“He’s pulling in.”

I looked ahead; the Honda’s turn signal was blinking. A ghastly neon sign on a tall stand by the kerb illuminated the sodden road in sickly pink and yellow. It proclaimed “Kite’s Diner”, and “A Big Meal For Small Moolah!”. I glanced at Clifton. His expression mirrored my own. Something was up; either this place sold much better food than it appeared, or our friend was clumsily trying to spot a tail.

“Pass the diner, Willem, and pull up. We’ll go back on foot.”

As we rumbled past the garish eatery, I took in all I could about the building and it’s surroundings. The Honda had parked next to the buildings entrance, and a stumpy figure was scurrying inside, collar pulled up almost to the brim of his wide hat. He glanced at us as we drove past, and pushed open the front door. Then the high wall that bordered the property obscured my view.

“He went inside. Pull off here, Willem, onto this waste ground”, I said. Willem obeyed silently. The vehicles bounced and splashed onto the rough, rubble strewn plot.

I looked around, and pointed into the darkness opposite the road. “Cliff, that’s the railway, it runs past the back of the diner. Go that way, and secure any rear entrance - I don’t want him getting out that way. I’ll go in and see if I can see him. Willem, stay here. It’ll be up to you to stop him if he makes it back to his car.”

“Roger”, uttered the big man. Clifton merely game me a thumbs up and his ubiquitous grin, before he hopped out of the van and disappeared into the gloom.

I opened the van’s passenger door, and sauntered back onto the sidewalk as Willem quietly turned the vehicle around so that it was pointing back toward the road, bumping over the rubble and through the many small puddles.

The diner was brightly lit, harsh neon lights glaring through the plate glass windows, illuminating the sheets of rain and reflecting in the large pools of murky standing water. I couldn’t see the dwarf from the car lot, but I could see a number of patrons through the streaky glass. A large group of elf-posers, all fake ears, jewelery, hair dye, over the top leather garments and unhealthy fetishes, sat in a corner booth. I sneered, climbed the few steps to the front door and pushed my way inside.

Inside was chaotic. The elf-posers were harassing the “mundane”, i.e. human, waitress, and a troll biker gang in the opposite corner were eyeing them while trying to eat burgers, which looked like vol-au-vents in their huge hands. My scan of the room eventually lead to the top of a blond head and a pair of blue eyes poking over the top of a menu. I forced my gaze to continue sweeping the bar, and pretended to focus on the haggard young man behind the counter. My ear bead buzzed. I tapped it surreptitiously, while pretending to scratch my ear.

“I’m in position by the back door. There is only one way out of the building, I think it leads into the kitchens. Any news?”. It was Clifton.

I ordered a coke, and retired to a table to watch the room, whispering to Clifton as I had my back to the dwarf, “I have him, sat at the back near the counter, watching the front door. I’m going to watch and see what he does; don’t want to take him here, a bit public.”

I sat and mimed reading the menu, all the while watching the little sod. He bought a burger, and looked for all the world as if he was enjoying it, but I caught him watching me out of the corner of my eye. Damn, he had made us.

Suddenly there was a crash as an elf-poser, much to the shrieks of glee from her hopeful consorts, knocked the tray of drinks and food from the waitress’ hand. A busy moment later saw several of the troll gang tip up their table, and confront the pseudo-elves in an entertaining display of chivalry. For a moment my view was blocked by several seven foot gnarly frames. As a confused fight began, I peered round a wiry youth being held effortlessly in a headlock, and saw... an empty table.

I swore and quickly took in the scene. Menu on the floor, outraged looking staff behind the counter, one staring at the fight, the other at the kitchens. Kitchen door still swinging. Everything slowed down; this was the feeling I’d missed. The split second decisions, gathering facts and evidence, and that lucid clarity that I now found only in whiskey bottles.

I stood and jumped over a troll who was attempting to strangle one elf-fake with his own jacket, while two of his pointy eared friends were trying to screw the trolls head off by his ears. I tapped my ear bead.

“Willem, he’s bolted, check the front. Clifton, be alert, I think he’s headed through the kitchens!”

“I’m on it. The engine’s running, I’ll pull into the car park.”

Clifton cut in, “I’m outside the back door mate, he’s not come this way. I’ll enter, see if I can catch him as he runs through.”

I sprang forward, vaulted the counter (drawing an indignant “Hey!” from the serving-youth), and barrelled into the kitchen. There were three cooks, two no older than the youth on the counter, and one huge ork in a set of stained whites, brandishing a spatula. The swing door flapped shut, cutting out the cacophony in the restaurant. In the sudden silence I heard a comical “Bong!” sound from behind the stainless steel door in the far corner, followed by a lot of swearing and general commotion.

I opened my coat enough to show the butt of my trusty Predator, and sauntered to the far door giving a casual smile with plenty of canines to the rooms occupants. The cook and his lackeys backed down. I yanked open the door.

The scene in the store room was chaotic. The dwarf lay unconscious in the corner covered in dried lentils. Clifton leaned on a partially collapsed shelving unit, holding the back of his head with one hand, and the barrel of his gun with the other. Somehow, a bag of flour had exploded, covering both the figures, and a fair portion of the room in white powder. A lot more still drifted in the air. A large frying pan, perhaps half a metre across, lay discarded on the floor.

“What the hell?”

“Little fucker hit me with a pan! A god-damned pan! Sneaky little bastard was behind the door!”, exclaimed Clifton, wincing as he prodded the damage.

“So you, what, pistol whipped him?! You might have killed him!”

“A PAN!”, growled Clifton. He kicked the prone figure, although, strangely, not very hard. I grinned as a realisation dawned. He had a funny way of showing it, but Clifton had a new found respect for the dwarf - not many people got the drop on him.

“Oh, stop whining, he can’t have hit you that hard, I’m surprised he could reach! Come on, grab him, lets get out of here.”

Between us we hoisted the dwarf up, and ran out into the rain. The small yard was dark, hemmed in by the building on one side, and a nine foot concrete wall on the other two - the yard backed onto the railway line. A couple of large refuse bins and a cage of gas canisters were the only furniture.  We headed toward the light of the parking lot. As we rounded the building, we saw the truck reversing quickly across the car park, and slide to a halt with the rasp of cold rubber on wet concrete, the brake lights illuminating the gloom in crimson. The rear door opened, and we hurled the dwarf and ourselves inside. Clifton pulled the door shut, and we lurched into the hard bench seats as the truck took off into the night with a roar.