"Gentleman, government contracts typically go to the most affordable bidder, and in this case that would be you two. The board, in their infinite wisdom, has decided that hiring a couple of cheap cell Fixers makes more sense than increasing the budget and just paying a second tier Fixer who could do the job correctly." Mr. Boyd gave both Fixers in front of him a long look that silenced both men's protests.
"You can leave if you don't like the idea of working together. I can find someone to replace you. No takers? Very well. The target is Dr. Fleming, our chief researcher, kidnapped and being held for auction to the highest bidder. Your parameters are simple: rescue Dr. Fleming via whatever means necessary, but do so quietly! As a sanctioned government contract, you will have temporary immunity from the police, but do not let this get out to any news network. It would make us look weak if tomorrow's headline shows that we can't protect our people; and that's not the image we need right now. If this leaks to the news, you will not get paid, and I'll make sure your blacklisted and burned so badly that not even the stimmed out hobos will want to share a cardboard box with you. Am I clear?" Politicians are good at assuming control and looking down their noses at everyone, but Fixers carry their own chips on their shoulders, too. Before Abmrose could cut loose, the Fixer next to him spoke.
"Bruv, you dun wan' dis man-child on a stealth mission. I seen 'im twa hour gone, 'e so off stealth you con 'lieve it. Ims a suicide for dis; take my honor on it." Rusty had a thick lunar accent that Mr. Boyd was clearly having difficulty understanding. Rusty also happened to be the same Fixer at the Auged Leprechaun who had seen the fight with Lex. If he had been impressed then, he didn't show it now. The other Fixer's eyes were auged, covered with red lenses that probably gave him night optic capabilities or perhaps enhanced his vision. He openly wore stim ports on various parts of his body: one for pleasure on his neck, one on the back of his shaved head for mental stims, and a few others for muscle, speed, and reflex stims. His equipment wasn't bad either. He wore a Shield on his forearm in matte black. It was the equivalent of ballistic armor and energy armor all rolled into one; only a Saber could pierce it. Like all Shields though, it had to be activated before use, making it impractical for defense against surprise attacks. Probably why Rusty was currently wearing light ballistic armor. The pair of Saber knives he carried were clearly designed for execution work, not a fight like Ambrose's heavy blade. Rusty also carried a railgun with a couple of suppressor mods. In short, everything about him screamed a Fixer who could only do one thing: sneak.
Fixers had one job they had to be good at, and that was everything. With the advancement of augmetics, stimulants, and Shield and Saber technology, what once took a specifically trained ops team to do could now be accomplished by one man. This is what set Fixers apart from hitmen, assassins, thieves, couriers, bodyguards, kidnappers and every other clandestine job out there. A Fixer, in theory, could do it all. This explained why such a low government contract could afford to pay for someone like Rusty with all his very expensive gear; he clearly wasn't a good Fixer if sneaking was all he was good for. Then again... Ambrose self-consciously glanced at his reflection in Mr. Boyd's family portrait. He had no armor, definitely no Shields, and no fancy guns except for the Goose and the Elmington needler on its way to be delivered. He hoped that gave him a mysterious edge, and not a broke looking edge.
Mr. Boyd was still staring blankly at Rusty who was staring back with equal incredulity. Ambrose sighed and took it upon himself to translate.
"Rusty here thinks I am incapable of successfully executing a stealth mission. I don't mind translating the lunar dialect for you, as my record speaks for itself."
"Mr. Rusty," the Fixer's face screwed up as though he'd bitten into bad fruit at the title given him, "your no doubt warranted criticisms of Mr. 'Brose notwithstanding, the department has elected to move forward with him as a sanctioned agent for this project. Be thankful that you also have been afforded the same grace." It sounded to Ambrose like a little research on Rusty before they began would not be amiss.
They were not given any government equipment, assets, or weapons beyond a promise that, as sanctioned Fixers, there would be no police backlash. It wasn't too surprising to Ambrose, after all. That's why you hired a Fixer: so that you didn't have to worry about those sorts of peripherals. Ambrose and Rusty agreed to meet in two hours to plot out their next move. Mr. Boyd had not provided so much as a location as to where Dr. Fleming might be held at present; after all that's what he had hired Fixers for.
After grabbing his newly purchased needler and buying three magazines for it, Ambrose collected a few other things he would need for the government job. He stashed them in the alley where Rusty had wanted to meet and waited. It wasn't long before the younger man arrived, pulling up in a sleek hoverbike. He powered the vehicle down and strode over, one hand resting on the hilt of each Saber knife.
"I do some dig inna your rap ol'-man, say you haf a score 'o real."
"Thanks Rusty, I am rather proud of that perfect score-"
"But you hear me on dis wan, I need dis job and I seen how you op'rate. Dat ki'na bullwollock not flying wit me ole-man. You jus stay back, you on'y slow mine down, or worse get us louded."
"Listen you spent cells for brains, I d'wan prob which Fix-man, but I've looked at your stats too, and they're not that great. You have some impressive skills and fancy equipment listed, but you haven't done a single job before this. Not one. That's worse even than a 3:5 ratio. So you can forget about calling the shots. Either work with me and listen to what I have to say, or sideline yourself and ride my coattails to your first success." As Ambrose had calculated, it rankled the young Lunar Fixer to be called out on his lack of experience and stung him even more to hear Ambrose suggest that he could get credit for the older Fixer's work. That would be good for Ambrose, considering he really needed Rusty and his equipment for his plan to work.
"Okay 'Brose-man, whatch big plan for fin'ing out where fin' dis man."
"Follow me, and I'll show you." Turning a corner at the back of the alley both Fixers walked while, unseen by them, a tall man with a toothy smile and carefully coiffed synthetic hair watched them from a stealth field. The black hair with brown highlights, vintage detective look of the man's clothes, and deep set eyes were all anyone would have needed to identify the city's number one reporter: Glade Cardile. He had been tipped off to this meeting and, after hearing that a government chief of Research was missing, there was no way he was going to let anyone else get the inside story on what was unfolding.
At the end of the alley were trash bags from a nearby restaurant that bordered a basketball court. Opening the dumpster that was also there, Ambrose pulled out a body. It grunted as it hit the paved ground.
"This is a member of Isentata, one of-"
"I 'ware what das freaking Isentata dis, you freak-mad for catching a mafia-man??" hissed Rusty somewhat hysterically. Ambrose pursed his lips, but soon broke back into his small smile as he secured the mafia man's hands and feet to the chain link fence, spread eagled like an X. He then rolled his sleeves and, humming to himself, began punching the bound man. The mafia man was dressed in designer clothes and looked not much older than Rusty. He didn't even seem to need the gag in his mouth to suppress his moans as he was struck. In fact, he glared defiantly at Ambrose as the blows continued to rain in across his body. Rusty grabbed the man's head and tilted it forward, checking for mental stims or augs. Sure enough, there was a stim port at the back of the man's head.
"Y'fool, him blocking pain with stims! Dis bad idea 'Brose-man." Ambrose continued bobbing and weaving, throwing blow after blow at the bound man.
"Oh, I know. I slept in and didn't get a chance to work out; this is just to stay sharp. The real torture will be psychological, not this." Ambrose finished his set, panting, and both the mafia man and the other Fixer stared at him with disbelief in their faces. Ambrose rummaged around the alley until he found a bucket and spoke as he upended it.
"Okay Rock, I doubt that's your name but that's what your ID says so I'll guess we'll roll with it. I hope you won't hold it against us that we don't have some fancy modified virt chamber to question you in, meaning that this has to happen in real space. We are also short on tools, so I'm going to have to ask your pardon again." Ambrose hopped in the dumpster with the bucket as he continued speaking.
"I know you're used to fancy internal drills, auged torture tools, stimware that burrows into the brain through stim ports," his voice came out oddly distorted from inside the metal container and was punctuated by strange squealing sounds. "But I think you'll find what we have cooked up here pretty..." Ambrose stuck his head out from the dumpster, his clothes all covered in a dark grime holding the bucket that now shook of its own volition in his hands. "...pretty terrifying," he completed with a grin. Climbing the rest of the way out, Ambrose walked over with the bucket, from which came menacing scuttling sounds. With a few directions from Ambrose, Rusty secured Rock to a broken bar stool that kept the mafia man a foot off the ground with his back to the fence again. Ambrose dropped a remnant of somebody's meal that he had found in a trash bag and dropped it in the bucket. High squeals emanated from the bucket. Placing it in front of the bound Rock so that he could see the large rats fighting over the scrap of burger, Ambrose began talking again.
"All I am asking is that you tell me what any information broker could, if I had the means to pay one. Where are your people keeping Dr. Fleming, how many guards does he have, and what are they armed and armored with? Nod your head if you want to talk, and do not waste my time." Rock did not flinch, though his face had drained a little of color. Ambrose nodded as if he had expected this, then began whistling as he grabbed Rock's hand, poured water on it and sprinkled it with seasoning from a disposable packet he had found. He then plunged the man's meaty hand into the bucket, his other hand tangled in the man's hair as he forced Rock to watch the rats chew away at the flesh on his hand in their greedy attempts to eat the sodium. Even though he might not be feeling the pain, Rock could still feel the pressure of the teeth and claws as they scratched and tore at his hands. He began to sweat and started shaking.
"What's the matter, Rock? I'm not asking you to betray your family; just tell me what other people already know! C'mon, tough guy, nod your head if- Oh, you don't want to? Well then, you little freaking turd-" Ambrose tore open some sort of sauce packet with his teeth, smeared it all over Rock's face, then rammed the man's head into the bucket of rats. It took his whole bodyweight to keep the now thrashing mafioso down and his other hand to keep the bucket from tipping. Rusty turned away gagging.
"You like that, you freak? You like getting your precious face gnawed off by street rats? Yeah! You gonna talk now? No? Okay, then back in you go! That's right, big man, you hold on to the info that's already common knowledge to half the city; no need to share it with one more blazing person, right?" Rock was screaming through his gag now, but Abmrose continued to taunt the man as he held him head-first in the bucket of vermin as they clawed and chewed on every inch of the man's face. Rock didn't have to feel the pain to be terrified of what was happening. Ambrose pulled him out of the bucket, not even looking at the mafioso's wildly nodding head and the tears streaming down his face. He grabbed a soupy dish of someone's old dinner and sloshed it all over the man's lap, then began to unfasten his pants enough to pull his waistband away from his body. Grabbing a squealing rat from the bucket, Ambrose held it head-first over the neat tunnel that led straight to Rock's food-soaked genitals. Only then did he look hard into the eyes of the mafia man, who screamed against his gag and wildly nodded his head, tears now pouring from his eyes as his breath came in ragged gasps. His face looked like it had been attacked by a cheese grater, his nose, ears, cheeks and lips were all torn and bleeding. One of his eyes seemed to have been punctured and was collapsed.
"Rock, you better not waste my time, or I swear by my blade that I will let this rat chew it's way straight through your manhood. But if you're honest with me, I also promise to let you go. Rusty, would you pull his gag out?" Rusty, shaking not nearly as bad as Rock but still enough to be obvious, replied with a dry, "Yeah 'Brose-man," as he pulled off the tape and took out the cloth that had been stuffed in Rock's mouth. As soon as it came out the mafioso wept openly, trying to breathe and speak all at once. The information came flowing out of his torn and bloody mouth: None of the men should be armored. They had a few energy guns but mostly Sabers and ballistic weapons. There was a hotel that the Isentata owned and the researcher was in one of the suites. Rock was also more than happy to point out that the auction would be concluded early that morning. Ambrose listened intently, finally putting the rat back in the bucket, then gently wiped off the crying mafioso's face and hands. Then he tied up Rock again and threw him back into the dumpster.
"If your information is correct, I'll come back in the morning and let you out. If you lied," Ambrose placed the bucket of rats in the dumpster as well, "I'll leave your new friends in here to starve themselves enough to finish what we started." As the Fixers left the alley to the sounds of Rock's renewed weeping, Ambrose explained the rest of his plan. He was counting on the shaken Rusty to agree with anything he said and on him missing the wink he sent in the direction of Glade Cardile, who stood still behind his stealth screen, wiping vomit from the corner of his mouth with a hand that shook.
A few hours later found Glade Cardile looking a lot haler. He pulled out a calming stim, which he hadn't used in ages, since his kind of reporting tended to harden a man to the cruelties that abounded in the City. He fitted the metal capsule to the mental stim port in the back of his neck, preparing to inject himself with the stimulant. There was a sudden flash of pain as something struck his hand, and he jerked it away, dropping the stimpack. A man with grey, balding hair and a pleasant smile on his face stepped from behind him, humming, a bulky gun bulging through his jacket.
"'Brose. Did you just slap my hand?? Blazes man, what the hell were you thinking?? Torturing one of the mafioso! You know when they find out they will kill you."
"Glade Cardile... You're rumored to be one of the best reporters in the City, digging up news about people and events that no one else was even aware was going on. You're something of a legend. Don't use that stim; you'll need a clear mind for what's ahead. You did say you wanted this story when I contacted you, correct?" Glade had been picking up the pleasure stim but thought better of using it and instead slipped it into the pocket of his vintage trench coat.
"Yes, and I am very appreciative of the tip."
"You have done as I asked, planting enough false trails and using your considerable clout to make sure that no other news services will witness what happens tonight, right? Things will be noisy, so I need to know none of the networks will be trying to snoop around." Glade Cardile sighed and slid over his phone, showing a list of messages. Some were vague hints that stories might be going down in other parts of the City; others were straight up blackmail. All were tightly woven together and keeping the hotel where the Isentata had Dr. Fleming in a pocket of security. No news agency would be close enough to respond, or even dare to.
"Mr. 'Brose, you said that you would give me an exclusive look into what's about to happen. You said I could accompany you."
"I did not lie, Glade," Abmrose's voice was sharp, and the smile left his face. "I hope you brought armor; you're not leaving my side." Glade pulled open his trenchcoat to reveal energy body armor and a Shield on his forearm. "Crap, even the news flunkie has a Shield? I really need to get one of those again," muttered Ambrose to himself as he shrugged uncomfortably in his jacket, aware he had no protection whatsoever. "Alright, let's go."
"I assume the Fixer with the perfect record has some plan for infiltrating the mafia suite?"
"Sure, we can call it that."
Ambrose and Glade Cardile walked up to the Isentata owned hotel across the street. It was a 3 star, not so fancy as to attract politicians and other crooks but not so cheap that the scum of the streets would be staying there. It still had a gate though, manned by an armed security guard. Not Isentata himself; the patch on his uniform declared him a third party secforce, Steel. Ambrose walked up to the booth, Glade behind him.
"Excuse me, I need to get in." The bored man looked up from the lewd video he had been watching.
"Are you expected?"
"Oh, I hope not. But I do need to get in."
"No admittance without a reservation." Ambrose leaned in the window, stabbing his Saber knife into the computer lines that connected the live security feed to the camera in the booth, grabbed the back of the man's head and smashed it into the knife hilt that stuck up from the desk. Then he did it again. And again. And a fourth time. The man's body finally went limp and Ambrose pulled his knife free with ease, inspecting the edge with a frown.
"You just-you can't-oh holy-" Ambrose grabbed the back of Glade's collar, keyed the gate from inside the booth and walked towards the hotel with the still gaping and spluttering newsman in tow. The pair stepped into the lobby without a fuss and made a beeline for the elevators. Ambrose pressed the buttons for the third through the sixth floors, getting off at the third. He then rushed Glade into the stairwell, sprinting with the man up to the sixth floor. The suites were up there. He shoved Glade into a corner at the top of the stairwell, opened the door, and peeked into the hall. The suites were all evenly spaced and all looked the same. Except for the one with the two tatted mafiosos hanging out in front of it. According to what Rock had said there would be more inside. Ambrose drew his Elmington needler, running the back of his hand over his receding hair as he dialed a number on his phone. As it rung, he turned and spoke to Glade Cardile as the man cowered in a corner.
"You might want to turn that Shield on." Over the phone he uttered three words before all hell broke loose. "Light it up." The sudden sound of exploding concrete was followed quickly by shouts of alarm. Glade Cardille had just flicked on his Shield, the shimmering field surrounding him, when Ambrose jerked the man up and threw one arm around his neck and buried the cold, wide muzzle of the needler past the Shield into the man's back. The newsman had been taken hostage once before, and this was exactly how it felt.
"Go go go!" Ambrose rushed out the stairwell toward the two mafioso, one of whom was peeking inside the suite, while the other looked around nervously. They were almost halfway down the hall before the men opened fire. Ambrose stayed as low as possible to Glade as he rushed down the hall with his improvised cover. A few rounds went singing off to the sides of the hall as they struck and were deflected by the Shield, Glade screaming at each round that hit, but still Ambrose didn't fire. The sounds of concrete cracking continued, accompanied by sporadic bursts of small arms fire from the suite, punctuated by a sharp scream.
"For the love of whatever unholy demon you worship, Ambrose, shoot someone!!" Glade was crying, though he didn't register the tears that slid down his glossy, newsman's complexion. The Fixer finally pulled out the Elmington, firing twice at close to point blank range. The showers of metal shavings disintegrated one man's head and sheared the face off the other. Glade thought they would crash straight through the doors and was surprised when they jerked to a stop just in front of them. It was only then that he heard Abmrose counting under his breath and realized that every number was spoken just after the sound of cracking concrete and distant booms.
"9...10...11!" Ambrose kicked open the door, slamming his back against it as he swept the room with his muzzle, still clutching Glade around the throat and pulling the man close to him. The shrieking sound of the needler pierced the confusion inside the suite, and every time it did someone collapsed to the ground or staggered backward, eviscerated by shards of metal or clutching a bleeding stump where a limb used to be. Halfway through clearing the room the mafioso began returning fire. Energy rounds and ballistics pinged into the Shield, which was beginning to emit a slow pulsing light from its battery status. Glade began to struggle, but Ambrose tightened his hold on the man's throat and continued firing. The right side of the room was littered with dead and dying men, but the left part of the suite still had several of the Isentata who were very much alive. They had found cover behind overturned tables, planters, and corners, most of which a high caliber gun would punch straight through, but the Elmington needler had very little stopping power. The mafiosos all seemed to have recovered from the initial shock of Ambrose entrance, and they were in better cover with more effective weapons.
"'Brose you slagging cho get us out of here before-" Glade Cardille's expletives were cut off as the Fixer rushed the nearest mafioso. Ambrose fired twice more before the needler made a hollow pinging sound as the clip ejected from the pistol, but it was enough to make the man get back behind cover. Shoving the news reporter to the side, away from the other men, he holstered his needler, grabbed his Saber, and ducked around the corner that the mafioso was hiding behind. There was a split second where Ambrose was staring down the muzzle of a large caliber Colton, the kind of pistol that punched holes through most cars. Then he was sweeping it to the side as he ripped upwards with the Saber. Warm guts spilled over his hand at the same time the gun exploded out another round right next to Ambrose's ear. Almost instantly all sound vanished for Ambrose, similar to taking a focus stim, but far more painful. It may have been what saved the Fixer's life. He leapt, laughing even though he couldn't hear the sound towards the next mafioso, a small man who had pulled a long Saber knife of his own. As the two men grappled with each other, the rest of the men in the room surged forward, but not firing for fear of hitting their own man. Just as Ambrose had planned. The stillness in his ears, coupled with the pain, echoed the stillness in Ambrose's mind, and for a few moments it almost seemed as if he was using a speed stim and focus stim at the same time. Time felt slower; his movements felt more sure. The usual chaos of battle was reduced to nothing more than steps in a choreographed dance. Now that the other men had stopped firing and were too close to effectively use their guns without harming each other, the Fixer didn't need to keep the pretense of struggling with the small mafioso. He delivered a punishing strike with his knee, slid the blade through the man's throat, laughing with unmistakable joy as the severed veins pumped blood high into the air. On the follow through of the slash, Ambrose released his knife in a throw that caught another man squarely in the chest, just over the left lung. It was an easy target at five feet. Before the first man had even toppled over, Ambrose was already moving to the third man, pinning his gun hand between their bodies and striking him open palmed in the face hard, twice. Pivoting to keep the mafioso between him and the last man, Ambrose stepped backwards and torqued the now limp wrist of his opponent. The gun tore away exactly as he knew it would. Just as he knew that by stepping offline and delivering a crushing kick to the man's midsection would put him in the perfect spot to fire the disarmed Beam pistol at the other mafioso. His first shot caught the man in the shoulder; his second shot never came. Whether it was because the weapon jammed or was empty, Ambrose didn't know. He threw the pistol at the mafioso who was still trying to get a clear shot on Ambrose, and the man involuntarily flinched. Sweeping up a piece of broken concrete off the floor Ambrose jumped, clearing the gun offline from his body in a do or die move. Then crashing down on the stunned man with an overhead strike that struck the man's skull, jagged stone bit through bone into the man's soft brain. Glancing behind him Ambrose saw the man he had disarmed was rushing him and, with no time to react, Ambrose lashed out with a rear kick that caught the man in the forward leg. He landed sprawled at the Fixer's feet. With a near casual grace, Ambrose kicked the man in the head to stun him, drew his Goose, and shot the mafioso in the back of the head.
Glade watched wide-eyed from the velvet couch he'd crawled under as Ambrose put a bullet in the back of every man's head, whether they appeared to be living or not. The chuckling Fixer hummed too loudly to himself as he quickly and efficiently ended the life of every wounded and dying man in the room. This was another terror entirely thought the reporter.
"Hey Rusty, I'm wrapping up here. Meet you at the pickup." Ambrose had pulled out his phone and was all but shouting into the receiver. "What? Speak up; my hearing is shot to blazes. No, not yet, but-ah, there he is." Putting the phone away the Fixer jogged quickly to the far side of the room where a young man in a nice suit was huddled in a corner, holding a hand loosely over an open fracture in his arm. He matched the pictures of the head of research they were looking for.
"Doc Fleming? Blazes. For a man with education you know very little about taking care of yourself; give me your belt. Listen, you're bleeding badly, probably had your artery torn open in the fight. I'm using this as a tourniquet. It should slow the bleeding. Hopefully you'll live long enough to get some medical attention." He didn't. The police arrived but once they saw the government contract that Ambrose carried, they quietly departed.
Less than an hour later Rusty, the now dead Dr. Fleming, Glade Cardille, and Ambrose were all in the office of Mr. Boyd. They had to wait for the federal employee to arrive, and once he did everything began to fall apart. The federal man was far from happy with the Fixers.
"You insufferable fools! Why the hell is the City's best reporter in my office?! And I see you failed equally with Fleming; the man's dead! I am going to have you both blacklisted and buried so deep that no one will-"
"Shut you mouf boss-man, I said dis bruv was a bad one what for stealth!'E 'ad me firing blind into a room wiv all my stealth mods removed, and which is it you not telling us da freaking Isentata was who had your boy??" asked Rusty angrily.
"I can't understand a word you're saying you, fool! Speak properly or, better yet, just shut up, you spent cell piece of-" Ambrose had been quiet during the whole exchange, and now stepped in and casually backhanded Boyd in the mouth. The sharp smack cut the raging discord like a knife and silence bled out of it.
"Mr. Boyd, you will pay us in full. Consider, there has been no news leakage about what happened, as per your stipulation. Mr. Cardille is here because I tipped him off to the whole thing from the beginning. I needed his clout in the news services to keep them off our backs, promising him the whole inside story, which he now has. And after a brief but invigorating conversation, he has sworn to take this to the grave." Glade Cardille nodded his ashen face. He had seen Ambrose with next to no resources locate and liberate a high value target, slipping past security and overcoming every obstacle with a savagery that he had never before seen on the streets of the City. He did not want this animal coming for him next.
"Consider, you asked us to retrieve Dr. Fleming; you never once stipulated the condition he was to be returned in. His death is regrettable, but the job was completed successfully as per your instructions. No news leakage, and now you have your chief researcher. No other branches of the government will be learning your secrets." Turning to Rusty, Ambrose continued talking, a smile threatening to break out on his face. "You provided the distraction and chaos I needed before breaking into the suite. Your rail-rifle punched straight through the wall and, since we didn't need to worry about the police or the news, the loud reports would be helpful in further disorienting the Isentata. Which, by the way, are all dead. The ones guarding Fleming, anyway. There is no way for them to trace what happened back to us now. Oh, Rock? Don't make me laugh. Blazes, you're green Rusty. He's a mafioso! If he breathes a word that he betrayed his family and reveals who we are, he will be agonizingly tortured over days by his own cousins for being a rat. He won't say a word, so that loop is closed too." There was a moment of silence as everyone stared at Ambrose.
"Fine, but you are getting the worst rating possible you worthless Fixer." Growled Boyd angrily as he began transferring the money.
"Fine," retorted Ambrose with an easy grin, "as long as you report the success."
Later that night Javadi stepped into a suite littered with corpses. Empty shell casings clinked against his designer shoes, and he was careful to avoid the pools of blood. It wasn't easy. As his crew fanned out into the room, the Isentata Lieutenant noted the fist-sized holes in the far wall, obviously made by a large caliber weapon, probably a rail-rifle. He noted the way bullets and energy burns were deflected into walls and surmised that a Shield had been used. He inspected jagged pieces of metal that shredded the room and bodies that had been savaged with blunt objects. Everything pointed to high quality, first, or maybe second, tier Fixers. Everything except... Javadi bent over and picked up a shell casing, squinting at it. Goose rounds. Now why would a high-level Fixer be using a Worlds War era Gustav pistol, unless. . . Unless it was all he could afford.
"We have a lead, boys," the half dozen mafioso of Javadi's crew instantly perked up. "Tell Dom Pappy we will find the men responsible for disgracing the family, and we already know where to look."