“It would be very foolish of him to say so at this point,” said the accountant. “Foolish indeed. I’m Mr. Tocker. I run… everything for Mr. Caul.”
Bowie stepped forward and set the case on the large desk.
“My name isn’t important. Pay me the going price for ten kilos and they’re yours.”
“Precisely. That’s what we’ll do,” said Tocker in business-like tones. As though he were already outlining the terms of agreement at hand. “Because Ice is the rarest drug in the galaxy and it would be our pleasure, Mr… ah… yes. You don’t want to be named. Except that your name is…” the accountant looked down and consulted a screen on the ornately carved desk. “Mr. Bowie. One Jackson Bowie late of the Republic Navy. Dishonorably discharged. Interesting skill set.”
Jack took off his sunglasses.
“We have very detailed files of everyone on planet. Mr. Caul prefers to know with whom he’s dealing at all times. Especially during these times. But please, don’t worry. We would very much like to conclude this transaction with the highest of hopes that you can provide more of your specialty import. Much, much more. Big things are happening for Kublar. And we find that Ice helps make much better arrangements with our friends. Either because they’ve acquired a taste for the stuff, or because the antics they get up to under the influence can be used against them. Either way works for us. So… I’m authorizing a data card now for twenty million. Non-traceable. And before you do a happy dance… don’t. Because the credits only exist there for the moment. I’d like to see the goods.”
Bowie stepped forward and undid the locks and biometric scans on both. Then he opened the case. He had no doubt that if there weren’t ten bags filled with translucent silver powder, Varo might not even let him make it to the tyrannasquid feeding.
But there were, and Varo whistled at seeing so much of the stuff.
“Excellent.” Mr. Tocker held out the card. It flashed a secure bank QC and the amount it contained. Twenty million credits.
“You may enjoy the rest of the day with us, Mr. Bowie. We’ve ordered some girls up. The finest from out along the Rigel Worlds. You may select any one of them and consider it a bonus from Mr. Caul personally. And we hope we might have further business with you in the near future.”
Bowie stepped away from the desk as Tocker and Varo set to collecting the bags from the briefcase. He put on his sunglasses.
Incoming message. Via text this time.
Terminate Zahid Bum Shak. He is located within the Pleasure Palace.
Then an ident targeting file installed on his HUD. If he spotted the target, it would confirm through visual comparison with a ninety-eight point nine percent certainty that the target had been verified by facial recognition scan.
Varo’s security team had searched him for the blaster and taken it. And the two knives. They’d left him with the corkscrew.
Bowie returned to the desk and closed the briefcase.
“You won’t be needing this?” he asked easily.
The accountant nodded. Busy at the business of accounting high-end drugs. Varo had his hands full of the sliver-dust bags. He smiled dumbly.
“Which way to the Pleasure Palace?”
Without looking up, the accountant tsk-tsked.
“Even with the considerable deal you’ve just done, those areas are off-limits to all but Mr. Caul’s closest business associates. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do for the evening with any number of our other… ahem… activities.”
But Bowie already had a pretty good idea in which quadrant the palace was located once he’d looked out on the inner garden of the fortress from Tocker’s cupola office. The area with the cameras mounted on the roof and the two snipers standing guard in the shadows of some demonic-looking gargoyles along the roof. He could cross the other covered gardens to access it.
He tapped a button on the side of the case and the weapon entered its primary configuration as panels and plates deployed out and forward and a trigger and metallic stock took shape.
In an instant the briefcase wasn’t.
Both men heard the low metallic whine of the weapon assembling itself. It looked vaguely like a Steiger sub-compact internally suppressed assault blaster. Used for close quarters fighting and never good at any real range. A mean vicious weapon used by tactical police forces to clear buildings and put down threats with extreme prejudice.
Some thought it was a little excessive. Bowie had always found it to be just right for the job that needed doing. Especially if that job was close quarters killing.
It looked like a Steiger sub-compact because it was that.
Except this was the very expensive model that could disguise itself as an actual high security briefcase. Bowie leveled the weapon and pulled the trigger firing a continuous burst that tore both men, and the bags of drugs they were holding, to pieces. The muffled blasts sounded like the flash of ancient cameras. On highspeed. And dozens in seconds.
Silver dust blossomed into the air as both men fell over dead, bleeding out on a carpet that was beyond expensive.
Bowie remained still, listening to the local silence within the deserted suite of offices, and the distant murmur of party chatter and music.
Late afternoon was coming on quickly. He moved toward the window, staying far enough away so as not to be seen from outside. His sunglasses switched over to IR and picked up both snipers hiding in the rooftop shadows of the two gargoyles. Private contractor types. Both were scanning the rooftops against outside infiltration. Oblivious to the activities going on in the Pleasure Palace below their eyes.
Both were working for the wrong team.
Bowie took something from a hidden panel in the weapon’s stock and attached it to the sight of the Steiger while covering behind the heavy curtains. He worked fast, taking quick, furtive glances to scan the roof and
