Free Striper Assassin by Nyx Smith Page A

“At once.”

12
    The room is quiet and smells of urine and sweat and the humid aromas of sex. Raman discreetly lifts his head to look around, then rises from the bed, going first to the door, then back to the window, a massive Dragon Slayer knife gripped tightly in his hand. At the door he hears nothing, and a quick look into the hallway reveals only the darkness and decay of this tenement located on Philadelphia’s north side. The only window provides a view of the garbage-littered alley. Nothing moves. Twilight is fading into night.
    The female sprawled naked on the bed mutters something, but does not awaken. Raman watches her for a moment. She drank enough alcohol to become extremely intoxicated and to admit things to him. She calls herself Angel, but that’s only the name she goes by in the Matrix of the global computer net. Her real name is Neona, Neona Jaxx. From Dallas, though most recently of Miami.
    Raman finds her appealing. He particularly admires the dark hue of her skin and its yielding softness, tempered by supple muscles. She is lively in bed and is also a decker, but that does not make her worth keeping around any longer. Deckers can be purchased when required, then discarded. Female companionship is no less disposable. Raman has had many females. Most have been like this one, hungry for the company of a male, eager to shield themselves behind his strength and power. It is a dangerous world. He supposes it is only natural that some females should barter their physical appeal for the protection offered by a strong male. Most females he has met are about as capable of defending themselves as infants or snowflakes.
    What he needs now is a shower. If he had a pot of water he would plunge his head into it and wring his hair out, spill the water over his body. Failing that, he pulls on yesterday’s clothes, thrusts back his hair, and ties the bandanna around his brow. Life on the move is often a matter of making do. It is the lifestyle he prefers. He travels light.
    Raman pulls on his jacket, the studded, fringed jacket marked with the mountain lion logo of the Sioux Wildcats. He obtained the jacket in Atlanta, where he killed the jacket’s owner in a fight. He has since worn it with the intent of encouraging the misconceptions of those he meets. With his dark skin, long black hair, and chiseled facial features, people often mistake Raman for an Amerind, and that is convenient. He would rather be taken for an Amerind than other things. For example, something that might verge on the truth. Truth could be very dangerous in the wrong hands.
    He distributes his weapons about his person, and thrusts a heavy pistol into the holster built into the lining of the studded jacket. It’s time to get down to biz, find his contact and make some nuyen, and that means going it alone. He throws a last look at the female sprawled on the bed, then steps through the door, down the hall and into the night. Down in the alley, his Harley chopper is waiting.

13
    It promises to be a nasty little piece of work, and naturally Dana hasn’t stopped mouthing about it since they got started.
    “I’m not a killer,” she says for the ten millionth time. “I’m not going to just walk in and start killing people.”
    “Why not?” Mickey jokes. “Sounds like fun.”
    “It’s wrong! ” Dana exclaims.
    “Who says so?” Dog Bite demands. “We got ourselves a contract, woman! There ain’t nothing wrong with that!”
    “That’s not what I’m saying!”
    “We don’t know who these chummers be! They deserve to get smoked! Somebody’s payin’ to get ’em smoked! It don’t get any righter than that!”
    “Dog Bite, you’re not even listening …”
    “I’ll tell you what’s wrong! You got your brain screwed in wrong!”
    Sitting in the passenger seat of the van. Hammer lights a final Millennium Red, takes a deep drag, and checks his watch. It’s a couple minutes past twenty-two hundred hours. Any time now.
    The corpse in