Subject: SoCal Halo, Chapter One
From: pb@europa.com (Peat Blackthorne)
Date: 6 Feb 1996 05:34:18 GMT

Hello all, I'm posting "SoCal Halo" chapter by chapter, as they come, in draft form. What I'm looking for is critique. Good, bad, encouragement, flames, etc. I write a lot of short storys, and this is the first chapter in a set that I hope to turn into a longer series.

Again, this is a draft. I hope you enjoy ..

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SoCal Halo, Chapter One.

(written by Peter Blackthorn, pb@europa.com)

I've got a thousand fragmented thoughts running through my head this morning as I look out over the city. Most of them streak through so fast, its
like trying to catch your reflection in the falling shards of a broken mirror.
You just cant do it.
The people below me dont care who I am, and probably couldnt even see
who I am if they squinted up at my perch on top of this parking structure. Not
that I care who they are, but it gives you a feeling of security. Especialy when you're about to pull a job.

Across the street, is the monolithic structure of a building. A bank. 
First National Bank of SoCal. Its all buffed stainless steel and glass,
eighty storys high. Took 'em a solid trillion to build, what with all the 
fancy icing and security. Its an amusing building, one that makes you look 
twice. Sleek and modern, and protective as all hell. A fourty milimeter 
mortar round couldnt punch through that "delecate" facade of eight centimeter 
thick IoGlass. Even the water system in that fucker's got an eight times 
redundant filtering system. Nothin' goes in and out, 'cept a few billion 
bucks a day.
FNBSC, its a great place.

Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Alex, Alex Daeris. I'm a bounty 
hunter, and I'm about to bag myself a years worth of rent and food.

About a month ago, I was sittin in my favorite bar, drinkin' beer and
feelin' the simstim. I unplugged long enough to talk to an old friend of mine,
when this suit walks in. He looked around the room, stops at me, and started
walking towards me.
In my line of work, you do the job, you collect the money, and you forget 
the job. Thats it. Cops dont like us. Feds dont like us, but shit --
you've gotta make a living somehow. Anyhow, I figured this guy was a fed. No
big deal, I'm sure he'd end up in a bag if he started shit here, but its still
un-nerving.
So he walked up to me, sat down, ordered sake', and looked at me. I looked at him. he looked at me. And so on and so fourth. Finaly we got down
to talking.
"I've got a business proposition for you." He stated, as he lifted the bottle to his lips. He looked at me hard.
"Thats nice, but I dont do business. I think you mistook me for someone
else." I turned to the bar, and looked at the dozens of bottles of booze that
lined the rear counter. I watched him in the big mirror at the back of the 
bar. He reached his hand into his jacket, and I figured the shit was about to
hit the probverbial fan.
So I did the only natural thing.
In under a half second, he had a matte black, ten milimeter tube pressed
up against the side of his head. Attached to that tube happened to be a fifteen
round clip of hardened flechette rounds, and a very twitchy finger.
My finger was getting bored.
The bar fell quiet.
I watched as beads of sweat began to pop out of his pristine forehead.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he said in a strained whisper. He
slowly took his hand out of his jacket, holding a fat manilla envelope.
"What the hell do you think YOU'RE doing?" I asked, as I put away the
gun.
He handed me the envelope. I looked inside. It was an inch thick bundle of cash. All of them ten-thousand buck notes.
"A favor? My ass. What the FUCK do you want me to do? Bring down the government?" I said. You dont just take a few million bucks, and say "Thats nice, I'll bump the president for ya." Thats stupid. That'll get you
killed.
He glanced around. So did I. The bar was full of the usual people. Junkies, protitutes, 'punks.
"Look," he said. "I work for a bank. Its a big bank, you've heard of
it. We've got a problem with another bank. They seem to be stealin' our over seas business. Do you know how much that's worth?"
"No. Obviously a lot. How much am I getting for this? I usualy dont
do corporates."
"You'll never have to work again, lets put it that way. In that envelope, you've got enough to last you a comfortable year. Think about it."
"What the hell do you want me to do?" I asked. This was one fuckin' wierd job. First off, he was right. This would last me a year, comfortably.
Not richly, but comfortably. Maybe even get me a new car. Well, a used one.
I was tempted.
"You're gonna wax someone for us. We'll provide a way, you just do the
dirty work. We cant be connected to any acts of violence. We're business men,
we dont do that. We hire people to do that. That `people' just happens to be
you."
This was odd. I swirrled the beer around in its bottle, watching it foam a little. I took a swig.
"Ahh, screw it. I need the money." That last bit was true. I stuck
my hand out, and he shook it. "Now, how the hell am I going to do this?"
He smiled, and laid it out for me.

So, a month later, with new equipment, after a couple weeks of following
dropped briefcases and encoded notes, I'm here, on a parking structure, looking
at my target. I hate this super spy shit, but hey. It pays.
I've got ten minutes, and I run through the plan in my head. I start jogging down the parking structure, just to warm up. Seven minutes later, I'm lounging in a coffee shop a block away, and my beeper goes off, right on time. Three minutes until showtime. I step into
the bathroom, and into a stall. Check my guns.
Two of those pretty Gram-10s, 10mm semi-auto flechette pistols, with burst mode capabilitys. They're a little bigger 'an your normal pistol, weigh
a little more, but when its time to rock and roll, its like boxing with a pillow. Awesome weapons. Anyhow, full load, clean, and holstered.
I hit the streets thirty seconds before ground zero, and look down the
street towards the bank and the parking structure.
My watch beeps. I look up. Shit happens.

They said "We'll get you in. Just be couple blocks away when we crack
the fucker open." I figured tactical rocket attack, maybe a semi, loaded with
plastique parked out front.
Oh no, it was much more dramatic.
As I watched, large flashes and smoke seemed to appear from the front
side of the parking structure -- the side facing the bank. The booms hit a second later, just as I watched the whole mother fucking eight story concrete
structure topple like a stack of dominos.
Right into the bank.
I started running.
I was 50 meters away, when I spotted a way in. Two of the slabs had left a ten foot gap in the front of the building. I whipped out my psuedo- badge, and started yelling "Police! Stand back! Get clear!"
Not that there were many people to clear. It was nearly dead silent for a couple of seconds after the explosion, the only sound the pelting of concrete pebbles reuniting themselfs with the earth.
I leaped up into the gap, and found myself in a shattered lobby. There were perhaps fifty people in there when the building blew, and I could only see twenty, all of whom were in some state of shock. I did my yelling, and dashed towards the stairs. No use taking the elevator, an eight meter length of I beam had taken care of that.

One minute and counting. I ran up the stairs four at a time. I could
hear the building creaking, and people shouting. Four people passed me on the
way down. On the eighth floor, I opened the door, into a room filled with smoke. I pulled my guns, and put on my goggles. Flipped into IR mode.
It was a large room, with a huge oak table in the middle. There were
three people on the floor, all of them suits. I walked up to each one, and emptied a couple rounds into each. I grabbed their wallets, and looked for a
way out.
Three minutes, the cops will be here in seconds. I could hear their high pitched wailing right now. I look towards the street facing windows. Or
what used to be windows. They're not there anymore.
About ten feet down is the top level of the parking platform, having slid itself like a knife into the heart of the bank. Nothing else to do. So
I jump, and hit the slanted concrete drive running. I lept from level to level,
it wasnt that hard. It was like a pile of dominos, or gigantic stairs. On what was the third level, I slowed down, and dusted myself off. I put the guns
back in their holsters, and walked calmly down to street level.
Let me tell you, I've never seen so many emergency vehicals and people
milling around in my life. I wandered off into deeper down town, jumped on the
subway, and headed home.

I paced my living room for hours. I couldnt sleep. I couldnt beleive
what I had just done. I checked over the wallets, and yeah. I got the execs.
I needed a drink. Or three or eight. I was gonna get piss drunk.
But when I got to the bar, all I heard about was the bank. The bank this, the bank that. Am I developing a guilty conscious?
I holed myself up in a corner, and drank, and smoked, and drank.

I passed out.

When I came too, I found myself in the alley behind the bar, dumped unceremoniously in a pile of trash. It was mid-afternoon, and I could feel the sun sapping me of any fluids I once had. Ugh.
I stood up, and stumbled out into the crowds passing on the street. I looked around, and walked painfully towards a deli across the street, dodging
cars, and flipping off the occasional asshole.
I felt like shit. Hangover, and a stiff neck from sleeping in the trash
pile didnt help any. I walked into the deli, ordered coffee, and sat down at
a table in the back. As I sipped my coffee, I leafed through a newspaper left
by a previous customer, and nearly shit myself on reaching the front page.

"Bank Executives Murdered in Cold Blood, Suspect Unfound." Beneith it was a fuzzy photo of me.

What the fuck? I read on.

A couple paragraphs about the tragedy, usual sorrows, etc. A couple paragraphs on the execs' familys. Then a photo.

Of the guy who hired me.

"Vice President to Inherit First National Bank of SoCal"

My brain reeled as I read on.

"'This horrible tragedy will not go unpunished!' The now CEO William
Amstad said to the press this morning .. `We've recovered the security camera
tapes, and found this man running into the building, and shooting the partners.'
.. He has been identified as one Alex Daeris. When FBI agents raided his house
this morning, he was no where to be found. He is considered armed, and dangerous. If he is seen, please call the FBI at ..."

I put down the paper, and looked around. Something in the back of my
head said "Look, no more hangover!", but I didnt really pay it much attension.
I looked down at myself. I looked like shit. I didnt think anyone would recognise me, but I had to get out. And fast.
I took off running, for the subway. The nearest subway was a mile away,
and I was there in fifteen minutes. In three more minutes, I was on the train,
headed out of town.
I looked around, and lay down on the seat, covering myself with my coat, and hoping to god no one found me.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

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Tell me what you think ..


Thanks,
Peter Blackthorne.

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/_/\ Peter Blackthorne /_/\ "Reality is just a collective hunch." /_/\ \_\/ pb@europa.com \_\/  http://www.europa.com/~pb/      \_\/

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