Dresden 11 - funkplanet

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“What the hell is Craigslist?”
“It’s a site on the Internet,” Justine said. “It’s sort of like a giant classified ads section, only you can get
to it from anywhere in the world. People use it to advertise goods they want to buy or sell.”
“Goods,” Thomas put in, “and services. Help wanted, with veiled language for the less-legal things. A lot
of shady deals happen there because it’s relatively easy to do so anonymously. Escorts, mercenaries, you
name it.”
There was an ad printed on it:
“Hell’s bells,” I cursed quietly.
WANTED FOR PERMANENT POSITION,
DONALD MORGAN, 5MIL FINDER’S FEE,
CONSIDERATIONS.
lostwardenfound@yahoo.com.
I passed the page to Thomas. “A wanted poster,” he said.
I nodded. “And not dead or alive, either. They just want him dead.”
Every supernatural hitter on the bloody planet was going to be coming after Morgan. Not so much for
the money, probably, as for the favors that the ad promised. They carry a hell of a lot more weight than
cash in the world of the weird. The five million was just there to provide scope, a sense of scale for the
favors that would come with it.
“Every button man in the world and his brother,” I muttered. “This just keeps getting better and better.”
“Why would your people do that?” Justine asked.
“They wouldn’t,” I said.
Thomas frowned. “How do you know?”
“Because the Council solves things in-house,” I said. Which was true. They had their own assassin for
jobs like this, when he was needed. I grimaced. “Besides, even if they did put out a hit, they sure as hell
wouldn’t use the Internet to do it.”
Thomas nodded, fingers idly stroking Justine’s rubberized shoulder. “Then who did?”
“Who indeed,” I said. “Is there any way to find out who put this here? Or who this e-mail thingy belongs
to?”
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