The room was bright. The furniture new and modern. The shelves made of clean wood and shiny metal, the coffee table made of glass and steel that also illuminated anything placed upon it, the seats made of firm but comfortable comfortable polymers with soft, tactile handles and a pleasantly crafted seatback. The large windows were covered by elaborate curtains. On the table sat an empty bottle of Courvoisier XO, three coasters surrounded it.
A loud, boisterous laughter filled the room. The source was a balding, rotund man who was laying back in his chair. He looked in his mid/late forties, auburn hair (what was left of it), an unremarkable nose, pudgy face, hazel eyes, white teeth. The Irishman was clean shaven, he wore a casual, plaid shirt with dark pants. It was Daniel “Danny” O'Donnell, current governor of California. Graduated UCLA, traded stocks and bonds, tried his hand in Washington lobbying, then landed a cushy job taking bribes from various corporations in exchange for good publicity and allowing them more corporate freedom.
“Epstein,” he blurted, chuckling, “you’re a fucking hoot, you know that?”
Joshua Epstein, freelance lobbyist for large firearms manufacturers and automobile producers. Graduated from NYU, went to law school at Yale. Joshua is an older gentleman, around a decade older than Daniel. He sports a large nose with a weary face. He dressed formally, wearing a three piece suit, although it was clear he was at least semi-relaxed.
“I’m serious, Dan,” Epstein muttered, “it’ll be a great investment!”
Daniel stopped laughing. He stared at Epstein, his gaze cold, determined, heavy. He finished his glass and went to pour himself some more, yet the bottle sat empty.
“Amanda!” Dan called, “We need more cognac!” His demeanor relaxed momentarily as he called for his maid. Amanda wore a revealing blue dress with long, thin stockings. She quickly made her way to pick up the bottle and went to retrieve another. The bar was not far, so her trip was short, yet all three men eyed her the whole way through, in almost complete silence. She placed the bottle on the table and made to leave them alone, yet Daniel interrupted her escape, “Wait a minute, dearie, open the bottle first, won’t you?” She complied, begrudgingly. She bent over and made to open the bottle for them, trying to work through the procedure as quickly as possible. She noticed Epstein looking at her ass, while Daniel examined her cleavage. She placed the bottle down as quickly as she could and scurried off, this time unaccosted by the men’s gaze.
“Anyway, back to business,” Daniel steeled his gaze at Epstein once more as he poured himself a drink, “Josh, we’re friends, so I’m gonna be nice to you, but know that I wouldn’t be as cordial if you were almost anyone else. If some two-shoed motherfucker who just got done sucking all of Congress’ dicks came to me and asked me to sign off this kind of land to Militech, you can bet I would sock him straight in the jaw for trying to pull that kind of bullshit on me,” Daniel sighed, Epstein looked away, as if ashamed, “Two fucking months from the election and you ask me to sign away hundreds of acres of Anza-Borrego to Militech of all people?! Christ almighty! Do you understand what they’d say about me? I’d get fucking crucified for that type of ploy! ‘Good luck with re-election, dickhead!’ Good luck having a fucking job anywhere other than Washington when all of California knows you as the fuckboy who literally sold off the area of land he is supposed to govern to a fucking gun company! I’m dead fucking serious, after CNN and MSNBC get their hands on the story and spin it to oblivion, they’re gonna expect me to start clubbing seals and killing kittens! Do you understand?”
“He’s right. You knew that before you proposed this shit, Josh,” the third man interjected. He, too, wore a suit. He was younger than both of them. Late thirties, still had a decent set of hair, nice dark blond color. White, clean shaven, a thin face and lanky body. Isaac Argen, personal friend of Daniel. Owned a successful bakery chain that ran between Night City and San Diego. “Even barring the natural feeling of betrayal Dan’s constituents will feel, it’s Militech, for christ’s sake. Who is their biggest rival? Arasaka. Do you know where we are? You know how many lemmings Arasaka has to throw around in California? Rhetorical question. The answer is: a lot. You don’t think that San Fran’s mayor isn’t an Arasaka plant? You don’t think he’ll make a move to publicly disavow the action using some hamfisted environmentalist or anti-capitalist message Arasaka will put on his doorstep? You don’t think that the weapons trade scandal that happened in San Fran wasn’t the result of, oh, I don’t know, him and his cronies turning a blind eye to Arasaka’s meddling?
“Ok, San Fran isn’t the entire state, right? There’s still Night City, L.A., San Diego, everywhere else, right?” He took a sip, “Wrong. The mayor of L.A. is a weaboo, half of San Diego’s city council has history working with Arasaka, and Night City will just vote what the media tells them to. This plot was stupid to begin with, Josh, so let's cut the politics talk and relax, ok?”
Roger Ortega was head of security for Daniel. Tall, heavy, with broad shoulders and a defined jawline: Roger was an ideal specimen for this type of job. He was imposing, but his neatly trimmed goatee and his slicked back hair gave him an aura of both professionalism and liveliness. Born in San Jose, he had a rough and tumble life. Raised by a single mother, he took solace in hanging out with the bigger boys, the ones in the gangs. Was a gang member himself, before this job took him. An enforcer for the 6th Street Salamanders (they had a thing for alliteration). Pretty good one too, judging by how he managed to stay alive in a job that gave him a fair amount of enemies. He had this job for a decent number of years now, becoming a personal friend of Mr. O'Donnell.
Roger stood quietly outside the room. He was alone in his vigil, many of the other guards went home or were relaxing in the recreation room. He could only faintly make out some of the boisterous conversation occurring behind the thick metal doors. Daniel liked having his conversations in private, so he made sure to pay extra for sound-insulating walls.
He saw a figure walking down the hallway. The figure was a man, shorter than him, he was tan, Middle Eastern, with a large beard and an eyepatch on his left eye. He wore military fatigues and his hair was blasted back with a blue bandana, leaving his forehead exposed. His eyes were a dark brown, they were fierce but were accompanied by very thin eyebrows. The man held a gun in his right hand. It was large, exposed, crude: not something of modern design. The barrel was unpolished, as was the receiver, the stock unrefined, the handguard uneven. It didn’t look the best, but it did the job.
“Roger”
“How’d it go, Stripe?”
“Eh, lost a few guys, but things are moving along,”
“Is everything ready?”
“Oh yeah, heli is in the back, loaded up and everything”
“So, you know how he looks like, right?”
“Of course! Do you know how long we’ve trained for this?”
“What’s with the boom-stick?”
“Something a couple of the gun nuts decided was a good idea. They have a hard on for the AKM,”
“Right . . . I’ll let you in then,”
“Ready when you are,”
Roger turned his back on the new arrival, now looking at the door. There was a small keypad on the left side. Roger entered the password.
********
The door opened.
“You know that cheese we tried, that I liked? That we couldn’t figure out the name of? It was swiss cheese!”
A hearty laugh distracted the occupants.
The two walked in. Stripe raised the reproduction AKM and fired. Three shots went into Isaac, four into Epstein. The noise was deafening. Daniel recoiled in fear, blubbering like a child.
“Mr. O’Donnel, please, follow me, we have to get you out of here. I’ll explain the situation later. You’re in grave danger,”
Daniel looked up at his bodyguard, lowering his hands. He was terrified, petrified, stupefied. He had no choice. He stood up and made to follow his bodyguard.
“Stripe, you sure your guys got everyone?”
“Yep. We counted. Six guards, two butlers, and a janitor. Sco—”
“Was there a girl, a maid?” Roger interrupted,
“No, not that I know o—,”
“Shit.”
“What?”
“Tell your men to scour the building. There’s still a maid somewhere! Don’t let her escape,” Roger commanded. “Come on, Mr. O’Donnel. Let’s go.”
Daniel looked in disbelief as he followed his bodyguard. Dead. Everyone was dead. Roger helped them. He wanted to speak, to protest, but his mouth was shut. He couldn’t etch out a single word. He knew this wasn’t the time. If they did that to them without a second thought, what would be his repercussions for dissent?
Amanda was relaxing in the side room, entranced by the mellow colors of the vast selection of alcohol. The room had no door, but it has enough space for her to sit out of sight yet still hear everything going on in the main chamber. She heard the metal door lurch open. Guests?
Seven deafening bangs clouded her conscience.
Not guests, guns.
Shit. This was bad. She had to get out.
Amanda slid away through the servant’s hallway. A convenient, if not claustrophobic, method of transport for the rest of the staff. She ran without thinking, but stopped when she realized that she didn’t know where to go.
If the gunman got all the way into that room, they must have killed all the guards. She couldn’t go through any of the main entrances for fear of being stopped by accomplices. She didn’t have a car, and she had no idea how to steal one, so trying to look for someone’s corpse and then run all the way to the garage was a big no-no. She was trapped, there was no way to escape.
But then she realized something.
There was a lower level which housed the laundry and storage rooms. There was an exit to the forest outside somewhere around there.
She ran towards the lower level, which was conveniently connected to the underground. She wiggled her way through the maze of cardboard boxes until she finally saw the exit. A cellar door, plain, made of metal, colored a coppery red.
The outside was dark, only a few stray lights from the building illuminated some choice areas of the forest ahead, but not enough for her to see much. Amanda stumbled for a while in the complete darkness, but quickly gained her footing as her eyes got more accustomed to the night. She looked behind her. Lights. Flashlights. They were searching for her. She heard a sound, farther away. A helicopter. Moving away from her. Thank god. She kept moving. She had to run faster. She had to escape.
She tripped.
A manhole, placed into an indentation into the ground. It was the sewage system.
She could go through there.
The manhole was heavy. Too heavy for her to fully grasp, let alone lift it completely. She could see the lights coming closer towards her. She used every ounce of her strength to open the manhole, using her leg to stop it from closing. She began to slide in. The friction tore at her skin and clothing. She could feel the metal scratching into her legs and arms and back.
But she made it though.
She was more than roughed up, but she made it. Ahead: black. No lights. Only her. Dankness filled the air as she closed the manhole.
And she moved on into the darkness.
8:00 P.M. - September 10 - Night City, California
Two men waited in the warehouse by the pier. They wore suits. One black, one white. Big, burly men. Manly men. They had sunglasses on, yet the night had came and the sun had set. They just wanted to look cool. They were corporate. Literally and figuratively.
For them, today was the big day.
So they waited.
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Jacob Hunter
