12-04-2019, 02:51 PM
Contessa Helena de San Finzione sat in the passenger seat of a 1984 Ford Mustang. She stared, as she had for the past five minutes, at the car in front of her with the bumper sticker that read "Your Honor Student Blows My Kid for Meth," which she and Mander had stopped laughing at three minutes ago.
"Fuck, I have not missed traffic." She said, lighting a cigarette. "Is this really how I got around before security officer sirens and flashing lights became a GOOD thing for me?"
"Prob'ly because of the protests." Mander replied from the driver's seat. "Susan said that Seattle traffic's bad enough when it ain't even thinking about it. With this shit goin' on, they're taking it seriously now."
"You know," Helen said, taking a frustrated drag. "I HAVE diplomatic immunity. You wanna trade seats, I can ram us through this shit in minutes. I'm thinking the Grand Theft Auto approach: Plow through the other cars until this one catches fire, then get out and jack another one and get away before the old car explodes, repeat until we're there."
"Heh," Mander responded. "In Africa, we'd just fire a few rounds into the air, that'd give the wanker at the front of all this some incentive. But nah, might be quicker if Your Countessness just rolled down the window, stuck your head out, an' did your Thing an' shouted at everyone in front of us to make 'em let us through."
Helen gave some semi-serious thought to the idea before deciding against it. A few moments later, vehicles began slowly rolling forward again.
"Odd that Whyte ain't called back to gloat or taunt or something. You tried him?"
"Nah, no point. He knew it wasn't me at the hotel, and the losses were all on the Triads' side. What's he gonna taunt? 'Ha ha, I failed again?'"
"Well," Mander said as he found a way into the next lane. They wouldn't get off for another few exits, but it seemed the time to start planning now. "He hasn't done much to ya directly since Morgan, yeah. But he has kept you on the defensive. Your Countessness is the clever one, so I know you've already considered that this might be what he's after: You an' them in the same place."
"I've considered it." Helen answered with a drag. She tossed the lit cigarette out the window and took another from her pack, blowing loose tobacco dust off of it. "He'd know that The Elders would insist that no Ultimados come along. Hell, bringing you was a negotiation all by itself. And we don't know how many mercs answered his ad."
"Yeah. You see 'em, you know. In this game. Guys comin' round the same old shady hangouts, hopin' maybe today, someone'll be hard up enough to give 'em a shot. Ya buy 'em a pint, cause you know you're one bad day away from bein' right there with 'em."
Mander thought for a moment.
"How do you suppose he's giving 'em orders? Whyte doesn't strike me as the type who'd bother taking up sign language."
Helen thought on that, then took out her phone and started a text.
"Good call, Mander. Passing that along to Ortega. He'd have to hire an interpreter. Probably a few of them in Seattle, but it's something.
Traffic began to crawl again. Helen lit her cigarette and again contemplated Mander's idea of just getting out and commanding people to get out of their way.
"Text sent, at least." Helen told him. "Whyte's not jamming the phone signals right now. Of course, he can't leave the entire city without cell service all week, just to fuck with me."
"Hmm." Helen hmmed, as the thought begat another. She sent a second, longer text.
* * *
"Fuck, I have not missed traffic." She said, lighting a cigarette. "Is this really how I got around before security officer sirens and flashing lights became a GOOD thing for me?"
"Prob'ly because of the protests." Mander replied from the driver's seat. "Susan said that Seattle traffic's bad enough when it ain't even thinking about it. With this shit goin' on, they're taking it seriously now."
"You know," Helen said, taking a frustrated drag. "I HAVE diplomatic immunity. You wanna trade seats, I can ram us through this shit in minutes. I'm thinking the Grand Theft Auto approach: Plow through the other cars until this one catches fire, then get out and jack another one and get away before the old car explodes, repeat until we're there."
"Heh," Mander responded. "In Africa, we'd just fire a few rounds into the air, that'd give the wanker at the front of all this some incentive. But nah, might be quicker if Your Countessness just rolled down the window, stuck your head out, an' did your Thing an' shouted at everyone in front of us to make 'em let us through."
Helen gave some semi-serious thought to the idea before deciding against it. A few moments later, vehicles began slowly rolling forward again.
"Odd that Whyte ain't called back to gloat or taunt or something. You tried him?"
"Nah, no point. He knew it wasn't me at the hotel, and the losses were all on the Triads' side. What's he gonna taunt? 'Ha ha, I failed again?'"
"Well," Mander said as he found a way into the next lane. They wouldn't get off for another few exits, but it seemed the time to start planning now. "He hasn't done much to ya directly since Morgan, yeah. But he has kept you on the defensive. Your Countessness is the clever one, so I know you've already considered that this might be what he's after: You an' them in the same place."
"I've considered it." Helen answered with a drag. She tossed the lit cigarette out the window and took another from her pack, blowing loose tobacco dust off of it. "He'd know that The Elders would insist that no Ultimados come along. Hell, bringing you was a negotiation all by itself. And we don't know how many mercs answered his ad."
"Yeah. You see 'em, you know. In this game. Guys comin' round the same old shady hangouts, hopin' maybe today, someone'll be hard up enough to give 'em a shot. Ya buy 'em a pint, cause you know you're one bad day away from bein' right there with 'em."
Mander thought for a moment.
"How do you suppose he's giving 'em orders? Whyte doesn't strike me as the type who'd bother taking up sign language."
Helen thought on that, then took out her phone and started a text.
"Good call, Mander. Passing that along to Ortega. He'd have to hire an interpreter. Probably a few of them in Seattle, but it's something.
Traffic began to crawl again. Helen lit her cigarette and again contemplated Mander's idea of just getting out and commanding people to get out of their way.
"Text sent, at least." Helen told him. "Whyte's not jamming the phone signals right now. Of course, he can't leave the entire city without cell service all week, just to fuck with me."
"Hmm." Helen hmmed, as the thought begat another. She sent a second, longer text.
* * *
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