Kat and Mouse, Guns For Hire: Payback

By Abner Senires

COLLECTING "SEASON 2" OF THE CYBERPUNK WEBFICTION SERIAL

Things are heating up for near-future female mercenaries Kat and Mouse as they tackle even more hair-raising jobs for shadowy clients and run afoul of terrorists, freedom fighters, hired assassins, a Japanese crime syndicate, and warring punkergangs. And smack in the middle of this, an enemy from the past is back and wants revenge on the duo.

Now these two sassy sisters-in-arms must fight back and survive...and still get their jobs done.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abner Senires
• Release date: Aug 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310835384

Abner Senires

Abner Senires writes sci-fi pulp adventure and has been published in Anotherealm, Neverary, Pulp and Dagger, and millenniumSHIFT, among others. He confesses to being a SF/Fantasy/movie/genre TV/comic book/anime/manga fan. He lives in just outside Seattle, WA with his wife and a pair of rambunctious cats.

Book preview

SECRETS

Mouse and I perched on the bar stools inside the Red Dog.

Behind the bar, Revell stood with his arms folded across his barrel chest.

It’s true? said Mouse.

Da, said Revell. Is true."

"You’re Nicolai Medvedev," I said.

He nodded. Once. Long ago.

I leaned forward, elbows on the bar top, fingers laced together. What’s going on, Revell?

Revell’s brow furrowed. He looked at Mouse. Then at me. Then let out a long exhale. There is something you need to know. About this Sakura.

He paused, then added: And there is something you need to know about Murphy.

I don’t like the sound of that, I said.

Me either, said Mouse.

First, Sakura, said Revell. She is assassin. Or was assassin. No one has seen her in five years.

Great, Mouse said and threw up her hands. So she comes out of hiding and goes after us.

Revell’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, hands on the edge of the bar. What is this?

I told him about the last three hours.

When I finished, his frown deepened and his eyes vanished beneath his bushy eyebrows. "Boszhe moi," he said.

What I don’t get, Mouse said, is this joint assignment she mentioned. If she knows who we are and what we do, she knows we don’t do wetwork.

She mentioned you, Rev, I said. "By name. By real name."

Revell nodded. We have met before.

When?

Five years ago. For short time, Murphy and Sakura were lovers.

I felt the wind go out of me, as if I’d been kicked in the stomach.

Holy shit, said Mouse.

Revell said, She would stay here sometimes. Or Murphy would go away for a few days.

How long? I said. The two of them?

Maybe six months, said Revell. Seven. And then she did not show up anymore.

What happened?

Murphy found out what she did.

You mean he didn’t know? said Mouse.

Revell shook his head. As far as he was concerned, she was ronin. Like him. Like you.

How’d he find out? I said.

Caught her in middle of job, Revell said. She admitted it.

A thought struck.

That was about the time she disappeared, right? I said.

"Da," said Revell.

If she’s been gone all that time, said Mouse, what was that bullshit about ‘He was right about you two’? I’m pretty sure the ‘he’ was Murphy. When did he tell Sakura about us?

Perhaps they met again, said Revell. Before Murphy died. I do not know. If they did, Murphy did not tell me of it.

I said to Revell, Was Sakura a freelancer?

Revell let out a long exhale and was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, he said No.

Who did she work for? I said.

He looked at each of us, then said: She was assassin for White Lotus.

DATE NIGHT

Holy shit!said Mouse, my partner and fellow ronin, and dropped the sixteen-ounce plastic bottle of Crystal Mountain water.

I looked from Mouse back to Jake Steele and said, What did you say?

Jake leaned back in the beat-up mustard yellow couch, fingers laced across his chest, and his lopsided smile widened two more notches. Have dinner with me, he said. Tonight.

Just another day in the life of a ronin. Street mercenary. Gun for hire.

Me. Name’s Kat.

I swallowed. Hard.

The butterflies in my stomach went batshit and I fought them down.

Jake quirked an eyebrow at me. Well?

I lost the butterfly battle. They went batshit again. Times ten.

The three of us were in the back office of the Red Dog Bar. I had been checking shipping invoices for Revell on the desk terminal while Mouse sat on the couch sharpening one of her tactical folders when Jake came in, sat on the couch, and asked about dinner.

Are we talking a date? said Mouse. It’s about damn time.

I jabbed a finger at Mouse. I am not—

No date, said Jake. Biz.

Good, I said.

But now that you mention it... Jake said.

When? I said.

Jake smiled. The date?

Yes, said Mouse.

No, I said. Biz.

Party pooper, said Mouse.

I’ll come back in an hour, Jake said. We meet the client in two.

I checked my optic clock. 16:59:57.

Fine, I said.

Jake got up from the couch and started out, then stopped and looked back at me. Dress nice, he said, and went out the office door.

***

I was standing in front of my closet in our shared apartment above the Red Dog and adjusting my double-holster shoulder rig over the white blouse I was wearing when Mouse walked up and held a cellphone to my face.

It’s Specs, she said.

Everybody’s favorite info-broker.

He called? I said.

Mouse shook her head. But he wants to talk to you.

I took the phone. What’s up?

What’s your size? said the reedy voice on the other end of the line.

What?

Dress size, Specs said. I got a slinky black number here. With those sparkly dots.

Sequins.

Whatever. Got a couple of them, actually. But I need your size.

What for?

Mouse told me you’re going on a fancy date with Jake Steele and needed a dress. So I asked Miss Renee.

Miss Renee ran The Velvet Lounge, an upscale escort service. I felt my cheeks go warm.

She said congrats on the catch, Specs went on, and said you’re either a 10 or a 12. So I got one of each.

Good-bye, Specs, I said.

Hey! What about—!

I hung up and shot Mouse a dagger-filled glare.

It’s a date, for Chrissake! Mouse said. You gotta look good.

I gestured to my clothes. White blouse. Black slacks. Low-heeled shoes. And what’s this?

She pointed at the Twins, Bonnie and Clyde, my pair of Colt-Springfield M2001 .45-caliber high-capacity pistols snug in my shoulder rig. You’re armed and you’re missing the glitz.

We’re meeting a client.

You want to jump his bones.

I grabbed my black blazer off the hanger and headed for the flat’s doors. I’m not listening.

Don’t fight it, Mouse called out. You know you want to.

I shut the door on her and went downstairs.

At 18:00 on the dot, I stepped out into the alley next to the Red Dog.

Jake wore a black tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and tapered waist. He stood on the driver’s side of a gray BMW sedan, the door open, looking at me over the car’s roof, a lopsided smile turning up the corner of his mouth. No little black dress?

Once more, I fought down the butterflies in my gut. In your dreams, I said.

Every night.

The butterflies went batshit again.

I took a long breath, opened the passenger side door, and got inside.

Jake got in. I thought this was date?

I turned and glared at him, still fighting the butterflies and the growing heat in my gut. Just drive.

His smile widened another few notches. I love it when you’re serious. He gave a low chuckle, started the car, and headed north on Garner toward downtown.

Who’s the client, I said.

Guy named Callahan, said Jake. Small time boss with delusions of grandeur.

Not in B.C.

Northwood. Righetti and Vittorio would have his balls if he tried that here.

I said, So what am I doing here?

Callahan knows me as a duo. Female partner. That’s where you come in.

So you’ve done this before.

Twice.

I felt my jaw clench. Really.

Purely Biz.

I’ve heard that before.

Last two times was with Raven, Jake said.

Oh. Raven was another ronin who used to run in B.C. but now worked out of the Portland Metroplex. I knew her by reputation. Ex-Mossad. An efficient operator whose tastes ran toward explosives and women.

You weren’t around then, Jake went on. She was.

So now it’s my turn.

Something like that.

Thanks.

Don’t take it the wrong way. Raven was good. But you, you’re…

He paused.

I turned toward him. The butterflies quivered.

Jake said: Raven was quiet and deadly. You’re loud and deadly. Another pause, then: I prefer loud and deadly.

Then he looked over at me, eyes narrowed, and smiled.

I turned my attention to the street ahead as it rolled underneath the BMW’s hood. Past the car taillights and the flashing signboards, the glass and steel ’scrapers of the Bay City skyline loomed ahead. Beyond them, the dark violet sky of evening.

I forced myself to concentrate on the upcoming meet.

But the smell of soap and gun oil wafted past my nose and the butterflies started their frenzy again.

Dammit all to hell.

***

The meet was at the rooftop restaurant of the Palladium Hotel.

Callahan was fiftyish and hook-nosed in dark blue pinstripes. He sat at a large round table at the far end of the restaurant, his back to the huge picture windows that looked out over 10th Street twenty stories below.

At a table behind Callahan sat a huge bald man stuffed into a badly-fitting dark suit.

Muscle.

He looked at us from behind a pair of mirrorshades and gave a brief nod. His face stayed expressionless.

When we reached the table, Callahan gestured to the four empty chairs around him. Sit, sit, he said.

Jake and I sat in chairs to either side of him, angled so we could see the restaurant entrance.

Callahan reached for the wine bottle on his right and held it out to us. Romanee Conti, twenty years old. From my own cellar. Paid over twenty thousand Creds at auction for this. Per bottle. He grinned. Got seven more at home. Glass?

We’re here for business, Mr. Callahan, said Jake.

Callahan chuckled and refilled his glass. Focused. Always liked that about you. He took a sip of wine then set the glass back on the table and inclined his head at me. She’s not the same one.

Jake shook his head. This is Marie.

What happened to the other one?

Harsh business. Things happen.

Callahan nodded. Too bad. His eyes narrowed at me. Could pass for her sister, though.

Business, said Jake.

Callahan turned to him, reached inside his suit jacket, and pulled out a creditchip. He passed it across the table to Jake. Ten thousand. As promised. Balance on completion.

Jake took the ’chip, pulled the reader from his suit jacket, scanned it. He nodded. The job?

It’s an extraction, said Callahan.

Who’s the target? I said.

‘What’ is a better word.

What, said Jake, is the target?

An item of value, said Callahan. You’ll need to take in transit.

Why then? I said.

Callahan said: There’s going to be—

Three rapid cracks.

Gunfire.

Then panicked voices and hurried footfalls.

I turned toward the sound.

Half a dozen figures wearing food-stained aprons bolted out of the kitchen into the dining area.

Followed by a figure wearing a ski mask and dark overcoat with the lapels turned up, an semi-automatic pistol in his left hand, the barrel pointed at the ceiling.

Movement at the corner of my eye.

Turned.

Two more figures. Also with ski masks, overcoats, and carrying UZI submachineguns. They herded the serving staff further into the dining area.

Beyond them, the doors leading in the restaurant were closed.

Dammit. Bakersfield all over again.

I glanced over at Jake.

He gave a small shake of his head.

Steven, said Callahan.

Callahan’s muscle rose from his chair at the adjacent table, pistol clearing his suit coat from a shoulder holster beneath. An old Desert Eagle.

He strode forward, stopped in front and to one side of our table, and leveled the pistol at the gunmen. Drop the guns, he said.

The figure from the kitchen turned toward Steven. Then he slowly pulled his overcoat aside with his free hand.

My gut dropped.

He was wearing a load-bearing vest carrying at least three blocks of C4, fully wired, with a plastic bag packed with metal ball bearings duct-taped to each block.

A suicide vest.

Shit.

The figure smiled.

Then a short chatter.

Steven’s head jerked back and exploded in a spray of blood, gray matter, and bone fragments. He dropped the pistol and toppled backwards on the adjacent table, slammed his head against the edge and flipped it sideways in a clatter of silverware.

A diner screamed.

Quiet! said Kitchen Man.

The scream trailed away into a muffled strangle.

I saw one of the gunmen lower his UZI.

That’s better, Kitchen Man said with a smile. Instead of screaming, y’all should be singing hallelujahs. Because today you’re going to be saved from your earthly trials.

The other two figures spread out along the front of the restaurant, still facing us, subguns leveled.

History lesson, said Kitchen Man. Ten years ago on this very day, the Alliance marched on the lawless states of the so-called Border League to reclaim rightful Alliance lands. Because the Lord commanded us just like he did Joshua: ‘Ye shall drive out all the inhabitants of the land from before you and dwell therein for I have given you the land to possess it.’

Goddamn fanatical sons of bitches, said Callahan, lips pulled back in a snarl.

Kitchen Man turned to Callahan. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord, thy God, in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.

Fuck you, said Callahan.

Kitchen Man leveled his pistol at Callahan and shot him three times in the chest.

Callahan jerked in his chair with each shot, then slid off, and thudded to the floor.

Kitchen Man pointed the pistol at me.

I held my hands above the table, palms out.

He gave me a nod, then pointed the gun at Jake.

Are we going to have trouble with you? Kitchen Man said.

Jake shook his head. No trouble.

Kitchen Man looked from him to Callahan’s empty chair then back to Jake. You pick sinful friends.

Client, said Jake and gave a small chuckle. Actually, I always thought he was a pompous jerk.

Kitchen Man smirked.

Okay if I sit next to my wife? said Jake and inclined his head at me.

I blinked.

Kitchen Man glanced at me, then back to Jake and nodded.

Jake got up, crossed in front of our table, and took a seat in the empty chair to my left. He reached out, took my hand, then covered it with his other hand and squeezed. It’s okay, he said to me, loud enough for Kitchen Man to hear.

I looked at him, fighting down the frenzied butterflies in my stomach.

His expression said: Go with it.

I nodded and gave him what I thought was a nervous smile.

Kitchen Man slid his pistol into a leg holster and turned back toward the other diners. Like I was saying, he went on. Y’all have been chosen to take part in this historic occasion. It’s now 19:45. In fifteen minutes, we’re going to remind everyone that those who continue to live in ungodly ways will suffer the holy vengeance of eternal fire. And we’re going to proclaim that moment with an example.

The other two figures shrugged off their overcoats and my chest tightened.

Both wore suicide vests. Like Kitchen Man’s.

I counted four blocks of C4 in front and at least that many at the back, plastic-packed ball bearings also duct-taped to the blocks.

Kitchen Man reached up to his vest’s lapel and unhooked a pen-sized cylinder. A length of braided wire connected the cylinder to the vest. He depressed a switch with his thumb and held it there.

Deadman’s switch.

Next to me, Jake sucked in air through gritted teeth.

I know, I said, under my breath.

This could get ugly.

Kitchen Man turned toward the other diners. Like Jesus said to the second thief—verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with me in paradise.

Amen! the other two figures said.

Yes, amen! said Kitchen Man. Praise the Lord for he is good.

I check my optic clock.

19:47:33.

We have to end this, I said to Jake, keeping my voice low and trying not to move my lips.

Jake indicated Kitchen Man with a nod of his head. He’s key. Take him out, other two might hesitate.

Ideas?

Working.

I looked back at Kitchen Man. He was reciting something about a lake of fire. His left hand still held the deadman’s switch.

Then I looked at the other two figures. They still held their UZIs with both hands.

And a thought struck.

Got something, I said to Jake.

You lead.

Optic clock: 19:49:22.

I let out a long exhale.

Grabbed the cloth napkin from the table, unrolled it until it was a length of