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Authors: Gerald Brandt
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to the next down-ramp late at night wasn’t my idea of a good time, but I didn’t know what else to do. I had to get back to somewhere I knew, somewhere I could hide. Only one place came to mind, and I shuddered at the thought.
The next down-ramp was about fifteen kilometers away, which meant a little over a couple of hours before I got there, longer if I stuck to the shadows. The good news was it was an express, skipping Level 2 entirely, and it dropped me right on the edge of my old Level 1 neighborhood. I took the Taser out of my jacket and checked its charge. Empty. Maybe if I held it, it might give anyone second thoughts.
The sound of another vehicle coming up the ramp forced me into an alley. I watched from behind a pile of stinking garbage as a blue hatchback zipped down the street. I must have kneeled in the alley for close to half an hour, alternating between being convinced Quincy was waiting for me to move and knowing he was nowhere near.
When I finally left the alley, I headed away from the path the vans had taken. I skulked through the shadows, dashing across the open spaces to the next dark pool, where I stood still, looking around to see if I had been spotted. The only sound I heard was my own footsteps echoing down the empty alleys and streets. The first time my jacket scraped against the side of a building, I jumped, thinking someone was creeping up behind me. Thoughts of the night’s events kept rolling through my head, the pieces falling into place where they could. The more I tried to figure out what happened, the deeper a cold shaft of fear jabbed into my brain. I went over it one more time.
Okay, Dispatch gives me a late delivery, no big deal. The pickupis a pain in the ass, but again, no big deal. The drop-off was totally fucked. How did you even do that to a man? Wasn’t there bone and shit in there to stop that? The image of Quincy’s face thrust into my head. I was sure I’d never seen him before, and I was usually pretty good with faces. Was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time? No, no, that couldn’t be it. Quincy had asked where the package was. They were there to get the package. It could have been any courier, they didn’t give a shit that it was me. Did they? If they didn’t care, then how did they track me back to my place? Dispatch wouldn’t give that information to a client. Besides, no one was at the depot this late at night, so what the fuck?
Wait a sec. When I left the drop-off, Quincy had come running out of the building and pointed something at me. I thought maybe it was a gun, but there were no shots. What if it had been a comm unit?
Somehow, the idea didn’t comfort me.
If the guy had butchered someone, run down five flights of stairs, and had the intelligence to not shoot at a moving motorcycle, but to grab a picture instead . . . That definitely sounded like a pro, not some hack job trying to grab an unknown package. These guys—Quincy—knew what was in the package. And when it was going to be delivered. How the crap did they do that? Then again, if they could figure out where I live from a snapshot of my bike, they might be able to track courier logs as well.
The thought sent a shiver up my back.
That meant big money. And big money meant the corporations. I was royally fucked. I had to get rid of the package, and let them know I didn’t have it anymore. If they had feeds into the courier system, then in theory all I had to do was return the package to Dispatch and disappear for a while. But then would the next courier get hit? Would it be Howie? I didn’t want others to die because of me.
At the top of the express ramp to Level 1, I’d made up my mind. First, I needed a place to hole up for the rest of the night. Not that there was much left of it. I checked the time on my helmet. Christ, the walk here took almost twice as long as it should have. Tomorrow, I would return the package to Dispatch and give a full and detailed account of what
The next down-ramp was about fifteen kilometers away, which meant a little over a couple of hours before I got there, longer if I stuck to the shadows. The good news was it was an express, skipping Level 2 entirely, and it dropped me right on the edge of my old Level 1 neighborhood. I took the Taser out of my jacket and checked its charge. Empty. Maybe if I held it, it might give anyone second thoughts.
The sound of another vehicle coming up the ramp forced me into an alley. I watched from behind a pile of stinking garbage as a blue hatchback zipped down the street. I must have kneeled in the alley for close to half an hour, alternating between being convinced Quincy was waiting for me to move and knowing he was nowhere near.
When I finally left the alley, I headed away from the path the vans had taken. I skulked through the shadows, dashing across the open spaces to the next dark pool, where I stood still, looking around to see if I had been spotted. The only sound I heard was my own footsteps echoing down the empty alleys and streets. The first time my jacket scraped against the side of a building, I jumped, thinking someone was creeping up behind me. Thoughts of the night’s events kept rolling through my head, the pieces falling into place where they could. The more I tried to figure out what happened, the deeper a cold shaft of fear jabbed into my brain. I went over it one more time.
Okay, Dispatch gives me a late delivery, no big deal. The pickupis a pain in the ass, but again, no big deal. The drop-off was totally fucked. How did you even do that to a man? Wasn’t there bone and shit in there to stop that? The image of Quincy’s face thrust into my head. I was sure I’d never seen him before, and I was usually pretty good with faces. Was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time? No, no, that couldn’t be it. Quincy had asked where the package was. They were there to get the package. It could have been any courier, they didn’t give a shit that it was me. Did they? If they didn’t care, then how did they track me back to my place? Dispatch wouldn’t give that information to a client. Besides, no one was at the depot this late at night, so what the fuck?
Wait a sec. When I left the drop-off, Quincy had come running out of the building and pointed something at me. I thought maybe it was a gun, but there were no shots. What if it had been a comm unit?
Somehow, the idea didn’t comfort me.
If the guy had butchered someone, run down five flights of stairs, and had the intelligence to not shoot at a moving motorcycle, but to grab a picture instead . . . That definitely sounded like a pro, not some hack job trying to grab an unknown package. These guys—Quincy—knew what was in the package. And when it was going to be delivered. How the crap did they do that? Then again, if they could figure out where I live from a snapshot of my bike, they might be able to track courier logs as well.
The thought sent a shiver up my back.
That meant big money. And big money meant the corporations. I was royally fucked. I had to get rid of the package, and let them know I didn’t have it anymore. If they had feeds into the courier system, then in theory all I had to do was return the package to Dispatch and disappear for a while. But then would the next courier get hit? Would it be Howie? I didn’t want others to die because of me.
At the top of the express ramp to Level 1, I’d made up my mind. First, I needed a place to hole up for the rest of the night. Not that there was much left of it. I checked the time on my helmet. Christ, the walk here took almost twice as long as it should have. Tomorrow, I would return the package to Dispatch and give a full and detailed account of what
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