Holding Pattern

It wasn’t a mid life crisis, not in the traditional sense. I was only twenty-three. I woke up one morning and realized I was going to die. I mean, we’re all going to die sometime but something happens inside of you when you accept that. I did what I could to deal with it. I decided to do something different with my life. I decided to live on the edge. I decided to cash in my cred slips and get myself fixed.

Buying cyberware was easy. I knew a guy and he took care of all the arrangements. I had done military school all the way from K to 12, and for years ROTC after that so I knew how to handle a gun. I figured the rest would come in time.

The friends I had on the streets pointed me towards a fixer. And my fixer got me work. First it was courier jobs. Take a package to this guy; drive this car to this street. Drek work. It’s how we all start out I guess. Only, the good ones get to go further. They get the prime runs and walk away from the shadows millionaires. I’ve always thought of myself as one of the good ones but I’ve never quite made it.

I’ve been close.
After last night, I’m a lot closer.

I was running cover for a blond-haired Johnson with the rest of my crew. We’d been doing cover jobs for him for about eight weeks. The pay was good and he was easy to keep an eye on. Mr. Johnson always met his runners in this nasty little side street dive called Tazzles. Predictable, but effective. Nobody had ever fragged with him there so I guess he saw no reason to go somewhere else. It reached the point where we started calling jobs for him “Holding patterns”, because all we did was sit around and wait for him to get done with his meet. Most nights it was more interesting getting to Tazzles then it was actually being there.

But lately, things have been different. I’ve feel like I’m waiting for something. As if something big is coming to my life. Something final. When the chromed out Troll walked through the bar doors I thought that he was what I’ve been waiting for all along.

He called himself Diamondback but I knew his real name was Cory Sellers. He’d served ROTC with me years back before they kicked him out for beating our drill sergeant till the point that he would never walk straight again. After that he went merc. Last I’d heard he was a contract killer and a damn good one at that.

I know the regular drinkers, pick up artists and barflies that hang at Tazzles. Diamondback wasn’t one of them. He was here for something. The moment he walked in my mind started flashing warnings like a strobe light. I was at the bar, further away from the door than my partners Angel and Lynn. They noticed him too. Our Johnson was at the back of the bar doing business with a greasy little dwarf, he had no idea what was about to happen.

Diamondback stopped at the door. He was wearing a black longcoat and had his hands stuffed into his pockets. His hair was knotted into long, frizzy dreadlocks and his dark skinned face was drawn with intensity. I let my cybereyes un-focus and then zoom in on the form of his coat. At that range I could make out four shapes underneath it. A Ruger, an Uzi and two pistols. He was packing more heat than my whole crew. I knew right then that if it came to guns, we’d all be dead.

Then it did.

He peeled back the flaps of his jacket like a gunslinger readying to draw. Angel moved first. She jumped out of her chair freeing her gun from its holster. Lynn wasn’t so lucky. She had enough time to scream. Then he was upon her.

I drew my gun and dove towards Mr. Johnson. It was my job to protect him, not my partners. Lynn would have done the same, I know it. By the time I reached our Johnson, Diamondback had Lynn’s face locked in a meaty paw. He lifted her off the ground and tossed her aside like a rag doll.

Angel put four browning rounds into the Troll and he howled in pain. He staggered towards the door and drew a Ruger Superwarhawk with his left hand. Its laser designator painted a bright red spot on Angel’s forehead.

I shoved Mr. Johnson to the ground and opened up on Diamondback. Each bullet that hit the Troll sprayed blood like sparks. But he didn’t go down. He swiveled towards me with a toothless grin there was that glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Then he charged. I didn’t get off another shot.

When he hit me I thought he was going to go right through me. The gun flew from my hand and I tumbled to the floor. Diamondback pressed on. He shoved a rocky fist into my chest and I felt my ribs crack. The air exploded out of my lungs and at once the edges of my vision grew fuzzy. I was certain I was going to pass out.

Diamondback growled “Long time no see chummer. Pity you gotta die like this.” He didn’t even tell me why. He put his hand over my face the way he had done to Lynn and started to squeeze. My cheekbones burned. His fingers kneaded fat red swells into my forehead. The pain blurred my senses. I heard screaming somewhere past my graying vision. It took me a moment to realize that the sound was coming from me.

From far away I heard Angel still firing rounds into his armored longcoat. Between his bloody fingers I saw Diamondback grit his teeth. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but it was enough to attract his attention. That was all the distraction I needed. As he turned toward her, I grabbed the uzi at his waist, flipped off the safety, angled towards him and clenched the trigger.

When he fell dead on top of me, I didn’t care about his weight on my chest. I didn’t care about the stench; I really didn’t even care if Mr. Johnson was dead or alive. I just lay there and smiled.

Mr. Johnson was alive. When I pushed him down he’d hit his head and fallen unconscious. Diamondback must of thought that he wasn’t going anywhere because he didn’t even bother to shoot at him. Just us. Lynn was alive too. The Troll had nearly broken her neck but she healed up just fine. Afterwards things were different with our crew. We’re still with Mr. Johnson but the arrangement has changed. No more “Holding patterns”. Now he only brings us along when he knows there will be trouble.