Shadowrun: Chaser: A Shadowrun Novella by Russell Zimmerman

Author:Russell Zimmerman [Zimmerman, Russell]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Catalyst Game Labs

Twelve

Spiro’s Gyros was a staple of northern Puyallup, a trendy lunchtime spot that offered casual dining and a friendly atmosphere, affordable soy-lamb, and plenty of sitting space. On a weekday, especially in the early afternoon, it’d be packed. On a Saturday morning, less so.

There was still a bit of a line, though, so when I finally go to the front of it—mouth practically watering—and placed an order, I felt bad for asking to talk to Nicky, too.

Nicholas Petridis, “Nicky The Greek,” was another staple of the community. But it was a different community.

I finished my gyro a second before the character entered the room, a troll large as life and twice as hairy. He wore an old flat-cap, loved gaudy suspenders, and hauled me to my feet like I weighed nothing at all.

“Hiya, Nicky.” I grinned through the bone-crushing hug. “Sorry to bug ya when there’s a line.”

“Mr. Kincaid! No, no! For you, is no problem! For you, I have nothing but all the time! Yes, yes!”

With a companionable arm around my shoulder, he led me back into the kitchen.

“You see? The new boy, Pietro, he will take care of the cook for me, yes? It is time for him to learn, and is only Saturday, you see, so the crowd, it will not be so bad! Ha ha! For you, is no problem! We talk! Come, come, to my office!”

Then—of course—the companionable arm around my shoulders turned into a straight-arm that lifted me off my feet. The thick accent was dropped as Nicky leaned in close, breath sour with onions. His voice was pure Puyallup, coarse as mine, a Barrens brat. “What th’frag’re you thinkin’, comin’ into my place in broad daylight?”

I fought for breath as one huge hand pinned my chest in place, crushing me against his office wall. “I thought…for me…is…no problem!”

He let me down, shaking that huge head, scowling. “You come into my place, Jimmy, and crack jokes? Are they on you?”

“Who?”

“The Ancients, you pointy-eared prick, you kno—”

“No! Jeeze, this has nothing to do with them.”

“That’s what any elf would say.” He settled into a rickety little chair behind his desk, causing it to squeak alarmingly.

“C’mon, Nicky, you know me better’n that. I don’t buy into their bullshit.”

“Yeah? Word is you’ve worked for ’em. And recently.”

“So? I work for everybody. I’m not with them, any more than I’m in the mob or the fucking Yakuza, or hell, city hall. I’m not part of your pointy-eared conspiracy, pal, okay?”

Nicky was paranoid for a reason. The Ancients and the Laesa were business rivals, and their rivals didn’t always last very long. While the all-elven groups made a killing—literally—bringing in goods from our elven neighbors, Nicky worked the coastline, instead, bypassing the Tír entirely, running goods up from the CalFree state. He and elves didn’t get along. I was, normally, an exception.

He glared at me across his desk and reached into a drawer. If he came up with a gun, I had a plan. A stupid one. If he came up with bottle of rakomelo instead, I also had a plan for that.

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