Shadowboxer Read Online Free PDF Page B

net, at least. The private grids, of course, might be a totally different story. But that meant he was going to have to use his street sources, which would cut his monstrous profit margin to merely tremendous, but that was his cross to bear.
    A flurry of movement on the other side of the office window caught his attention, and Two Bears swiveled about in his chair just in time to watch Louie teach a fine-wire expert that picking pockets in The Crypt was a mother-fragging bad idea. It was over and done with in ticks, and the skating continued unabated over the red spot on the ice with only minor slippage.
    Back to biz. IronHell, what could it be? Might be the street name of a professional merc, or maybe even that of a Mafia or yakuza hitman. That he would never trace, unless he could by some miracle find a decker who could get past the lethal black IC protecting the datastores of either Lone Star or Atlantic Security. Between them they handled all the municipal and corporate security in the sprawl.
    This was going to be a tough run. He was going to need someone laser-hot. Twist from Seattle—no, he didn’t deck anymore for some reason. Maybe Shadowman, Leo the Lizard, or, no, that new kid, Sister Wizard from Orlando. For a newbie, the elf had quite a solid rep in the shadows. She also cost more than god on overtime. His profit was getting slashed like a loanshark’s throat. Drek.
    The decision made, Two Bears locked his desk, paused to grab a hat, sighed, rammed the hat on his head and headed for the exit. ’Kay, he’d track down Sister Wiz and see what the private grids might have to say about IronHell. Two Bears knew he couldn’t use the office telecom. Too risky. Better to make the call from a mall, or on the streets. Stay mobile. Much more difficult to trace him, just in case anyone wanted to try. A distinct possibility since somebody was always after somebody’s hoop in this rocking burg. Blood feuds seemed more popular than Urban Brawl. Hey, welcome to Blue City, chummer, please try not to bleed on the carpet as we steal your teeth.
    * * *
    Thumbs stepped off the rattletrap Miami gov bus and stood on the cracked sidewalk of SW Fourteenth Street, the sizzling sun baking down on the top of his tattooed bald head. The sounds and smells of home turf enveloped him like a soothing balm. Sixty back-breaking days in the dank hell of the Fort Lauderdale Citadel making one big one out of little ones for Resisting Arrest made an inner-city troll long for the hot open streets again. It was fragging wonderful to be back. Right where he belonged, on Slammer turf.
    At the corner, a stoplight loudly changed, and a trio of bikini-clad blonde bikers frantically peddled through the honking traffic, all trying to reach the ocean alive. A remote-controlled truck rumbled by with no driver or markings. It didn’t need one since trucks like these usually carried machine parts or tox chems for dumping into the swamps up north. Could be anything. Two orks, probably a married couple, were screaming at each other in some foreign language. Wafting steam carried the overly spicy aroma of soydog from a cart operated by a blind norm, her snarling hellhound keeping away fast fingers and fake credsticks at the same time. Sunlight glittered off the ancient three brass balls of a pawnshop that dealt in everything and anything that could fit through the black steel doorway. Resting against the rough louvered trunk of a palm tree, a leggy slot-machine girl in a stained white sailor suit yawned widely, trying to stay awake at the ungodly hour of noon. A snoring Japper toff—in a fragging tuxedo of all things!—was lying atop the rusted wreck of a wheelless Jackrabbit in the middle of a weed-filled lot. The drunk was getting expertly stripped by a bunch of troll kids, while amused passersby stopped to make wagers on whether he’d wake up before they finished the job. Odds were running six to two in favor.
    Pausing to buy a dog with the works and wolf