Voices

"It is good to see you again, Nelson," he said at last.

"Likewise," Nelson drawled.

"It has been a long while. Are you in need of some credit? You know yours is always good here," Chang said, his voice carrying a note of almost hunger.

"Thank you," Nelson said, "But I think I can afford it"

Chang straightened himself in his chair. He was all business now.

"What can my humble home offer you?" he asked.

Nelson tossed a crumpled piece of paper on the desk. Chang snatched it up and scanned it. Nelson could almost see the wheels turning in the man's head. It was a fairly extensive list. The little man took out a calculator and began to speak into it. After a while he looked carefully at Nelson.

"Sixteen thousand. I can have it in three weeks."

"No good, I need it by tomorrow," Nelson replied. This was the part he hated. Haggling. It wasn't in his nature. And he always left feeling he had been screwed.

"Not possible. This is going to take a while. These items are rare and not exactly easy to acquire. I am sure you understand," Chang said with a false smile plastered on his face.

"Enough of this friendly crap, Chang. What's it going to cost?" Nelson exploded

A very shrewd look passed over Chang's face. The eyes grew ratlike. His every action oozed greed.

"If you're in that kind of rush, I might be able to accommodate you. But it will cost you," he said in his reedy voice, the English badly accented.

"How much?" Nelson asked

"Twenty-five thousand," he said. Before Nelson could protest, he added "Delivered. And I will throw in the ammunition for nothing, since you're such a dear friend."

Nelson placed the black attaché case on the table and scribbled a delivery address.

"Done," he said on his way out the door.

Monday, March 16th, 11:00 hours.

Nelson walked easily down the street. His movements had taken on the smooth fluidity that denoted a fighter. Two days back and he was beginning to resemble the man he had been. People moved out of his way and often looked down as he passed not wanting to make eye contact. Street punks were rampant here and they were all on edge. The regular denizens were often the targets of their angst. As a result they avoided anyone who had the look and Nelson certainly had it.

He looked again at the scrap of paper for the tenth time. He was lost. This part of Singapore wasn't called The Maze for nothing. He turned down a side street and saw what he was looking for. An ancient looking building with only a metal door. There were no windows. Three punks loitered near the door.

As Nelson approached, the punks pushed themselves off the wall and arrayed themselves across the sidewalk. Nelson had seen this before. He felt the old adrenaline rush. With the speed of a thought, he kicked up the mags on his eyes. Three punks. Too much weight for skin. Polyastic body plating? Yeah, that would account for the sheen of their skin. In the space of a step, he switched into infrared. Arms and legs were metal, no real heat, just artificially generated stuff. The next step he was back to regular sight. He kicked the mag up again, this time to high res. He looked at the eyes of the two behind the leader. The smaller one had NJK-2's, the larger NJK-5's. Cheap ass shit, Nelson thought as his next step carried him closer. He didn't bother with the leader's eyes. He had already decided he would kill him first.

Nelson smiled faintly. You could always tell by the eyes. It was an afterthought for street hoods. They wanted the muscles, the weapons, the chrome, they never thought of the eyes. Who had told him that? The Major, maybe.

Little place in Indochina. That was the time Jones had bought it. He had been a street kid, like Nelson. Black eyes full of mirth and a constant smile on his face. To him, the army life was heaven. Before he had joined, he had never had a full belly or a dry place to sleep on a regular basis. He and Nelson had become fast friends.

Then he was dead. Nelson had started off to get drunk and had ended up AWOL. He didn't care any more. He drank and fought his way through the bars and clubs of the city. Each night brought him to lower and lower class establishments as his money dwindled. He had ended up in this place. A tiny bar with ceiling fans that did no more than stir the heat and keep the smells of rancid beer, urine and vomit hanging in the wet air.

Three toughs sat at a table eyeing him. He knew they would make a move eventually. He was too tempting a target. The weight of the .45 felt good in his shoulder holster. He was itching to use it.

The army had given up on finding him, but not the Major. As the toughs rose and started to advance, he was there. Nelson wasn't sure how or why. But he was there.

The toughs hesitated. Against one man they were sure of themselves. Against two they were not. And there was something about the Major that always made men think twice. But these three were not that smart. They decided to push it. Fanning out around the two men they prepared to make a rush. Nelson could feel the sweat oozing from his pores. His hand snaked inside his jacket. The cool steel of the pistol grip was comforting. The air was suddenly stifling. The leader moved and Nelson could still see it all. Like watching a movie in slow motion.

With a speed beyond belief the Major had attacked. The first of them was dead before his surprised eyes could register the blow that had expertly broken his neck. The Major's elbow had smashed into the second man's temple and he crumpled like a sack of wet cement. The third almost got a butterfly knife out before the Major broke his wrist. The man had no time to howl in pain before a wicked right smashed into his jaw. He, too, crumpled to the floor. In that space of time, Nelson had not even gotten his gun out of the holster.

The Major looked at him. Those eyes gave away less than a Saigon hooker on a Saturday night. Nelson looked at the three downed men.

"How did you know which one to take first?" he slurred.

The Major lit a cigarette, that same thoughtful drag Nelson had seen on the day he pulled him out of that hell on earth deep in the jungle.

"The eyes," he said simply. "The most dangerous man is always the one with the best eyes."

Nelson took the last three steps and stopped within an arm's length of the leader. He was tall, with a blonde mohawk and several piercings on his face. He had the perpetual sneer of the bully. Hopped up to the point where no one ever challenged him. Nelson realized with mild surprise he was going to enjoy this.

Next would come the challenge. The arrogant sneer and derogatory comments. It was how they did things on the street. It was almost as stylized as the old rules of dueling. Nelson didn't give him the chance.

Nelson swung his fist at the leader's head. As he swung a small opening appeared between the bones of Nelson's wrist. The long depleted uranium spike slid into place with an audible click, the artificial sphincter of neoskin widening to allow its passage. The punk's eyes widened in the few microseconds of life he had. He had thought he was fast, but he knew well before the blow landed that he had decided to push the wrong man.

The depleted uranium spike struck him in the forehead. Polyastic body plating flexed then gave way. Subdermal padding, designed to absord shock, was no match for the spike and in an instant it was lodged deep in the punk's braincase.

Even as he withdrew his arm the spike was sliding back into its concealed place. A spinning kick sent the larger of the two gang members flying. With a motion as smooth as silk, the third found himself looking down the bore of one of the Martell model 9s, his 10mm Smith still mostly in the shoulder rig.

"I'd let it drop, friend," Nelson said conversationally.

The punk looked at his friends. One was dead, the other groaning on the sidewalk holding his abdomen. Seeing no help from that quarter, he gently released his hold on his own pistol. Nelson holstered the Martell in an instant.

"Now, you two can take the garbage with you and disappear or you can reach for your pieces," Nelson said easily. The challenge was there, hanging in the air.

He stood there casually, his arms folded over his chest. He could read their thoughts. They wanted desperately to go for their guns, but they were not at all sure if they were fast enough. Nelson enjoyed it. Let them know how the people they abuse feel. Nelson knew they would walk. The balls of this crew were already gone, bleeding on the pavement. With spiteful looks the two hoods picked up their fallen leader and hustled him off down a side street.

Nelson watched them go, never evidencing more than casual interest. But he knew what would happen. Too many times he had seen it. His hands inched inside the black duster and hovered over the wood-grained butts of the Martells.

With a howl of rage, the two men pounded back out of the alley guns drawn. Life or death on the streets very often was a matter of mere seconds. When it came to a man like Nelson, maybe even fractions of seconds. As the two hoods came around the corner Nelson's hands flashed. A Martell appeared in each hand as if by magic. Each pistol sighed once. The larger of the two punks caught the titanium shard in his chest. His body was tossed back several feet to land in a heap on the dirty concrete.

The smaller one took his in his mouth. Blood, brains and shards of teeth blasting out in an exit wound the size of a big man's fist. The body hung there for a moment. In slow motion, the 10mm fell from nerveless fingers to clatter on the sidewalk. Then the body collapsed to its knees, and fell over on its side. Nelson's guns were back in their holsters before the smaller man hit the ground.

Nelson turned to survey the door, the dead hoods no more a thought in his mind than a fly he had swatted months ago. Life was cheap. And when you weren't the one that was dead or maimed, you simply counted it a victory and moved on.

The door was an alloy and gleamed dully in the bright sunlight. No key pad or door knob. A single camera eye, like a baleful cyclops, stared down at Nelson from above the doorway. Nelson reached into the duster and removed a packet about the size of a cigarette pack. As he was pressing the powerful plastic explosive into the cracks around the door jam, the speaker under the sensor eye crackled to life.

"Jack Nelson, don't you dare!" a soft, rasping feminine voice exclaimed. The German accent was almost masked by the speaker. How many times had that voice whispered in his ear?

Her name was Carrie. She was the daughter of a high class L.A. call girl and a German businessman. By the time Jack met her, she was already a respected force on the L.A. matrix. Operating under the handle Ladyfire she had already come to the attention of several corporate security teams. She had also come to the attention of Spatz. Spatz had been Nelson's contact in L.A. for several years. He operated out of the back of a semi-legit bordello in the worst part of a bad city.

Spatz's specialty was organizing and recruiting black ops for shady clientele. Nelson's team had lost their deck rider on a soft probe of Myramax's L.A. subsidiary, Myroki. No one really knew what happened to him. Black ICE of some sort had left him a drooling vegetable.

Spatz needed Nelson to run a particularly dangerous extraction so he had introduced him, electronically of course, to Carrie. Ten maybe twenty jobs followed, with her riding the net to cover for his team. He never met her. She was always that disembodied voice, whispering in his ear.

When he finally did meet her face to face, it proved to be less than either had hoped. There was a mutual attraction, but they lived in different worlds. There had been a two month relationship with great sex and rotten arguments before he had left L.A. Three years later, she turned up in Singapore out of the blue.

They saw each other a couple of times. Then she had disappeared for three months. When he saw her next she was standing at the door of Transcom Corp's downtown office in a smart business suit. Nelson was tempted to call or go see her, but it was the same story. They lived in separate worlds. Jack turned down any job offered against Transcom after that. His team thought it was out of foolish sentimentality, but it wasn't. It was out of respect. She was that good, and he had no intention of dying.

It had been a year or so after his retirement that Duffy showed up. He had given Nelson a data card and refused to stay. Kind of odd for Duffy, who loved to talk and loved to drink. Nelson had popped the card in. No picture, just a voice. She had been fired from Transcom. She gave an address where she could be reached. Nothing more.

Nelson had gone to sleep with the data card playing, his dreams filled with that soft rasping voice.

"Killing the hired help is one thing, blowing up my door is quite another," the voice rasped.

Nelson smiled to himself and removed the gummy plastic, retuning it to its container and making it disappear back into his duster. Same Carrie, hired hard men were a dime a dozen, but that door was expensive.

"Figured that would get your attention," he said.

A sound, perhaps laughter, issued from the speaker.

"You're still good. What can I do for you?" she asked. The tone a bit harder.

"Biz," Jack said simply. The metal door slid open.

Monday, March 16th, 19:00 hours

O'Shea's was one of the oddities of Singapore's landscape. An authentic Irish pub, shipped over from Dublin brick by brick. They carried only Irish liquors. And the only beer you could get was Guinness, served at room temperature. The bar was crowed tonight. Irish nationals who worked in Singapore made up the majority of the crowd. A few Englishmen in business suits sat in one corner, looking for anything to remind them of home. Jack sat in a dark corner booth, his Jameson's untouched. This was the Irishman's favorite haunt. And the only place Nelson could remember where he might make contact with him. So far he hadn't appeared, but Nelson was unconcerned. It was still early.

By the time he appeared, the crowd was getting restive. Debates on politics and football were at the point of becoming brawls. Just the kind of crowd Irish would prefer. He came in from the darkness and for just a moment the room was still. Then fifty conversations resumed. Nelson noticed how the crowd parted around him as he moved towards the bar.

He downed a Guinness and was getting a second poured when he noticed Nelson. His body gave no indication of recognition, but his eyes did. With a slow step he walked back towards the men's room passing the booth. When he returned he slid in across from Nelson.

"Been a while, lad" he said in a deep baritone, the Irish brogue almost hidden now behind a hundred different accents.

Nelson remembered the first time he had heard that voice. It had been different then, the brogue so thick he could barely make out the words.

There had been a bar fight and Nelson had ended up embroiled in it. He had been fighting three rowdy Irishmen and had just knocked the last one to the floor when the huge man had called out to him across the bar.

Nelson's inability to understand had been taken as mockery by the big man and they had ended up fighting. For over an hour they had traded blows. Nelson's hopped up speed and stamina had helped him cope with the big man's incredible strength and quickness.

The fight ended by mutual agreement. The two had shared innumerable beers and after that night the Irishman had joined his team.

Nelson looked at the big man carefully then nodded "Too long"

"So what's it this time?"

"Black bag job," Nelson replied quietly.

"How many?" asked the Irishman.

"Three besides yourself. All hard men. And Duffy"

"I have just the lads. Pay?" he inquired.

"Twenty-five each for the hard men, forty-five for yourself and ten for Duff," Nelson said, studying the Irishman again.

"Done. The usual place?"

"Yes," was Nelson's reply as he rose and left the bar.

Tuesday, March 17th, 19:00 hours

Night's covering blanket had descended on the city. Pimps, prostitutes, street punks and the rest of the denizens of the night were just beginning to emerge from the cheap rooms and flop houses that protected them from the sun's harsh rays.

On a lonely end of the Singapore waterfront, the lights were on in a small, dingy warehouse. The weak light was barely able to penetrate the few grimy windows. A dilapidated hurricane fence with razor wire ringing it surrounded the small building. An equally dilapidated sign announced that the warehouse belonged to J & N Enterprises. A competent decker could find out in no time that J & N was a company on paper only. A business with only this warehouse as an asset.

J & N was owned by one Johann Netxge. He was a Danish national whose address was also a matter of public record. Anyone going to Mr. Netxge's address would have found it to be a small one bedroom apartment in a very seedy part of the waterfront district. Inquires would reveal that Mr. Netxge traveled extensively and was rarely home. Anyone who could find further information on Mr. Netxge was a magician or a prophet.

Johann Netxge was none other than Jack Nelson. The entire creation of the man from false papers to his questionable business had been the final piece in Nelson's retirement plans. Fearing he would not make it on the outside he had rented the warehouse and room for five years. He had chartered the business license and hired a law firm to manage its tiny assets and pay its bills.

With this cover to return to if things had not turned out to be better on the outside, Jack Nelson had stormed out of Sharky's office that cold, rainy day, confident that he could return if that's what the cards held for him.

A beat-up truck, looking for all the world like it would fall apart pulled up to the deteriorating loading dock. Two men, both orientals, hopped out and furtively banged on the small door. After being let in, the large cargo door opened and the truck was hastily unloaded.

The two men returned to their truck and were gone as quickly as the wheezing old vehicle could carry them. Inside the building, the men watched them go with amused glances and cat calls.

"All right, let's get down to business," Nelson said as the cargo door was lowered into place and locked. All joking ceased. All eyes were on him. Each man intently watched him. Nelson felt the thrill that came with leading men. In a searing epiphany, he realized this was what he loved.

Nelson looked out at the team he had assembled on such short notice. The only one he was sure of was Irish. The man was indomitable. Always upbeat and with a happy-go-lucky demeanor that belied the superbly capable warrior inside him. Like the warrior poets of old, as quick with a quip as with a blade. The only difference being that today's blades were guns.

Dutch Reinhart was a tall blonde of Scandinavian extraction, with pale blues eyes, hidden behind an unruly shock of blonde hair. He was a runner. Usually with a team of his own. Very capable, if a bit belligerent, he had a series of hard luck runs that had cost him his team's confidence and his savings. When Irish had called him he had jumped at the chance to work. Irish told Nelson later that Dutch had been about a week away from going to Chang for work.

The Kid was new to the Biz. From his looks he was related to Irish somehow, but Nelson did not ask such indelicate questions. He trusted Irish to put a team together and he would go with those choices no questions asked.

Duffy was the jockey. He was a bit of an enigma to Nelson. An inveterate drunk, he was usually begging for a bottle somewhere. But jack him into any vehicle and he became a virtuoso. From choppers to cars, his chips made him meld instantly with any vehicle. It seemed he was only really alive when he was jacked into some vehicle. When not jacked in he always seemed to be incomplete.