Runner's Companion.pdf - Free

Simon Wentworth (order #1132857) 9to be home. With all the shit going down there was nowhere hefelt safer.The pickup had gone sour and he was coming back emptyhanded. Kettlemyer had been jumped by the cops. If Ortega hadbeen on time, he’d have been right there when the Star came down.And what the fuck was up with Kettlemyer? The dealer had tossedaround Stars like they were soda cans.That was when Ortega noticed the three figures. He knewevery face in the ‘hood. Half of them were his clients. These had nobusiness on his corner. He scanned the porches and the look out.No sign of Nadal or Malmuerto. No problem, he could handle thelightweights on his lonesome.He strode right over. He was used to seeing natives, a lot ofthem along the Verge. But the Asian kid with the tribal tattoomarking the side of his face—he was as out of place as a nakedchica in a men’s prison. Tatt-Boy and the two natives with himwore black leathers in various stages of disrepair. Hard to tell ifthey were street toughs or corp kids who paid hand over fist todress down. They could have been customers.The Asian turned towards Ortega flashing a tee shirt underhis leathers. Red and green; Christmas in the barrens. TrollKillers were in bed with the First Nations, and here were thesethree clowns standing on his corner sporting colors. Color flushedOrtega’s pale gray face like a bull seeing red. Even if he didn’t buyinto all their hype, he was Crimson Crush through and through.He was an ork, and wherever he squatted was Crush turf until hesaid otherwise.As he closed Ortega measured them up. He’d learned to readpeople. It was a survival skill. He could tell they were packing, butnot wired. Troll Killers couldn’t afford it. Well, maybe Tatt-Boy.The runt was too confident for his size. The other two were bruisers,though not in Ortega’s league. Long as he kept things fromgoing ballistic he was icy.Tatt-Boy flicked shut an Erika wrist commlink—expensivemodel, Ortega had been saving up for a ‘link, maybe now he couldsave himself some money. But the Asian was measuring him uptoo, and wasn’t backing down. Most people did. 90 kilos of angryork wasn’t something you wanted in your face.He asked them if they were lost, giving them a chance to run.He popped his cyberspur idly to impress. Sometimes it was bestto pound the message into people’s heads, but he was hungry anddidn’t feel like a rumble.The Asian said, “Not lost, omae, but if you’re looking for ascore I got a derm that will set your soul on fire.”Ortega’s face twisted into a mask of rage. Hunger vanished,replaced by a new yearning. “You know who I am, bitch?”Tatt-Boy smiled. That only made Ortega angrier.The other two were on their game now. They stepped upbehind the leader, looking for a fight. “You’re an ork. That’s all weneed to know.”“So you Troll Killer bitches think you can sell on my block?”He never gave them time to answer. Ortega slammed a massive fistinto Tatt-Boy’s smug grin. Teeth and flesh gave way beneath.The two Amerinds came at him from each side. He caughtthe little one by the head squeezing enough to make him cry out.The other dodged under his spur, reached for something in hisRunner’s Companionjacket. A gun? Ortega went for the old Manhunter tucked intohis waistband.In the moment it took Ortega to look, the Asian did something.Mumbling through broken teeth, he held a hand outtowards Ortega.Ortega’s heart stuck in his chest. He felt himself falling, thestrength draining out of his ankles, then knees, finally his thighs.Ortega’s arms grew heavy, his tongue caught between his teeth ashe fell and he clamped down hard. Pain followed, diligently. Hetasted blood, thick and coppery. He suspected on some basic levelthat his fluids were splattering against the pavement black or rustred, emulating his gang colors. That thought should have poweredhim to his knees, courage funneling through his veins.The first time he rumbled for the Crimson Crush he wasbeaten like this. A half dozen Night Hunters beat him near unconscious.Still, he got up, got back in the fight. He’d earned hiscolors that night, 4 years ago. But now was different. Tatt-Boy hadlaid some mojo on him. Fuck but he hated magic; he should haveguessed. A terrified grunt pushed through his cracked lips.“You hit like a girl, omae. You’re just lucky I let you get thatone in. See, this is TK turf now.” Tatt-Boy was gloating, standingover him, spitting globs of blood into Ortega’s face. He loweredhis hand, finger extended as if pointing a gun. “That means noorks allowed.”The last thing Ortega ever saw was Tatt-Boy mouthing, ‘Bang.’177life on the run . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .