Chapitre 12: Self Employment
Adrian took a moment to savor the smell of new furniture in the remodeled office he'd had Vance set up for him. Seeing as there was no reason to let a perfectly good building go to waste, he had McClean's old stomping grounds converted into something that better suited his needs.
Settling into the high-backed leather chair behind the massive wooden desk, he enjoyed the feeling of power the layout seemed to give him black. The furnishings had obviously cost quite a bit, which was a good sign. It meant his new followers were taking their job seriously. It also meant he wouldn't have to take action to correct them.
Speaking of which. "You better not throw up on the rug. It's brand new."
Miranda was on her hands and knees, gasping like a dying fish. At his voice, she started trembling. Her fearful gaze fixed on him. "W-What are you?"
"Why I'm Adrian Veldt, the man you spent the better part of the last three years pursuing." He replied with a wicked grin. "Don't tell me you're disappointed, now that you've finally succeeded.
Seeing the normally neat and tidy Miranda in a state of disarray and panic, was exciting a sadistic side of him that he didn't know he had. He was looking forward to observing her reactions as she came to understand exactly what she'd agreed to.
Then again, she'd always had a way of betraying his expectations, and it seemed that this was no different.
Miranda issued a slightly strangled sob, then took several deep breaths, steeling herself before fixing him with her gaze once more. There was a hint of determination there now, displacing the abject terror of earlier. "So what now? What do you want from me?"
[Interesting.]
"What do you mean? I'm merely showing off my new office to my lover. Don't you like it? I know it's a bit humble compared to my other place of business, but I think it suits me." He answered while leaning back in his chair, throwing his hands behind his head, and propping his feet on the desk.
"Don't toy with me." Miranda spoke in a cold, authoritative voice, one that he now suspected was her real one. "You didn't bring me here just to play make believe. What is it that you want?"
[Very interesting. If you had been this way from the start, things might have been different.]
The grin left his face, as he answered her cold glare with one of his own. "Simple really. You belong to me, and unless you want to end up food for the Hall, I suggest you make yourself useful." He gestured to the building, "I'm starting a business of sorts, and find myself in need of an assistant that can handle the more…legitimate side. My other assistant Vance is quite dedicated, but his talents lie elsewhere."
She gritted her teeth. "You want me to be an assistant? That's ridiculous! I'm better than that, and you know it!"
[That's what she's angry about? Or is really angry at all? It's always so hard to tell with her.]
"Enough!" His command cut off any further argument. "Like it or not, you are in my power. The sooner you accept it, the better off you'll be." He sighed. "Anyway, think of this as a probationary position. Once you've proven yourself capable, we can certainly reevaluate your title."
She finally got up, patting her clothes and straightening her hair, as if just now realizing the state of her appearance. "Hmph. So, what is this business of yours?"
Adrian's grin returned in force. He'd been waiting for her to ask. "Well, my dear. We'll be going into the wishing business."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gunshots rang out in the club, scattering the dancing crowd in a flurry of screams. Jordan dived under a table, before scrambling to push through the maze of legs. He looked back at Carlos, "Hurry up! This way."
Ducking through a door marked 'Authorized Personnel Only,' he started running past confused club employees, shoving them out of the way when he had to. Three years as a starting linebacker had made him unstoppable in circumstances like this.
They quickly broke out into the alley behind the club. Jordan took a moment to scan the surroundings before pointing to a fence blocking off one of their exits. "There! Up and over."
"Shit." Carlos cursed under his breath before following. Neither one of them wanted to get caught by the NS-42 gangers who were hot on their heels.
Jordan scaled the fence quickly, pausing at the top to pull his less athletically inclined friend up with him. They had just started their descent when he heard the first of their pursuers enter the alley. It wasn't long before they were spotted. "Over there! You fuckers aren't getting away!"
Gunshots rang out again, and Jordan heard the whine of bullets passing nearby. He felt a tug on the left leg of his jeans, but didn't have time to worry about it. There were much more pressing matters.
"Shit! They're trying to cut us off!" Carlos yelled as he caught sight of a car full of gang members screeching to a halt at the other end of the alley.
Knowing they only had seconds to act, Jordan threw all of his 105 kg bulk against a wooden door leading into an old apartment building, busting it open. "Come on!"
They sprinted through the building, quickly pushing past a terrified old lady that was screaming at them. In a matter of moments they were standing on the street. Spotting an open cab, he all but threw Carlos into the backseat, pushing a couple of tourists out of the way to do so.
The overweight man wearing a fanny pack started to complain, but took one look at the gun in Jordan's waistband, and thought better of it.
"Get us out of here, man!" He shouted at the driver.
"I don't want any trouble!" The cabby replied through a thick accent.
"They've spotted us!" Carlos shouted as he frantically tried to buckle his seat belt.
Pulling out the handgun and leveling it at the driver's face, Jordan spoke in his most threatening voice. "Well you're about to have trouble, if you don't get us the hell out of here!"
That was apparently all it took to get the man going, and with a squeal of tires they pulled out into traffic leaving a chorus of angry car horns in their wake. Once they'd put a few blocks between them and their pursuers, Jordan took a deep breath of relief.
Carlos started laughing, a little crazily. "That shit was messed up. Sweet fucking Christ, I thought we were dead."
"Not out of the woods yet." The larger man replied, not wanting to say too much in front of the terrified cabbie. "Take us to the corner of Fifth and Baltic."
"Why are we going there? That's Ortega territory. Last thing we need is another gang on our asses." Carlos asked.
"I got a friend who owes me a favor. If we play our cards right, then in a few days we'll be skipping town with money in our pockets instead of bullets in our backs." He replied, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded. "Trust me. I ever steer you wrong before?"
"Alright, but you get me killed and I'm haunting you." His friend said with a shrug, as if to say it didn't really matter at this point.
"We've been over this, ghosts aren't real."
"The hell they aren't. My abuela's (grandmother's) ghost shows up every time we take a family picture, even though she's been dead for five years. You can't tell me that's not real."
Jordan shook his head, already tired of the old argument. "You mean the weird smudge that always shows up in the same spot? That's just a bad lens."
"Nah, man. That's my abuela. You can tell by that disappointed look she's always giving my sister." Carlos argued emphatically.
"Because she never became a nun, right?" He left leg felt a little sore, so he reached down to rub it.
"Ha! Rosa as a nun! That's a good one…Oh shit man, you're bleeding." He was staring at Jordan's hand, which had come away red with.
That's about when the adrenaline wore off and the pain hit, the intensity of which caused him to double over.
"Shit! Alright, don't worry, man. I saw this on TV, we gotta tie a belt around your leg. Or was that for snakebites?"
Gritting his teeth, Jordan took a moment to inspect the wound. It wasn't deep, but it looked like a bullet had scored a line down the side of his leg. It would be painful, but was nothing serious. In fact, he could already see clots forming, and the blood had slowed to a trickle. So long as he had a chance to clean it out at some point in the future, he should be fine.
"Relax, Carlos. It's just a flesh wound. Soon as we're in a safe spot, I'll take care of it."
[Got to thank mom the next time I see her. Looks like those first aid lessons are going to pay off again.]
They'd soon arrived at their destination, and Jordan got out after making the driver circle the block, just in case. He started limping towards the decrepit tenement building once he saw the coast was clear.
Carlos left a few crumpled bills on the backseat of the cab. "Sorry about the blood, my man. I've heard club soda will get that shit right out."
"Carlos! Come on!"
Jordan led the way into the building, took a few minutes to remember which room number he was supposed to go to, and limped his way up to the fourth floor, cursing under his breath the whole way. They eventually made it to room 413, and lacking any doorbell, he hammered on the door with the heel of his hand.
After a few moments, it opened a crack, security chain still in place, unleashing the smell of unwashed bodies and weed. A pair of suspicious eyes stared out at them over a tangled and matted beard. "What you want?"
"I'm looking for Cooper. Is he here?"
The man stared at him for a few seconds, before shutting the door while yelling, "Coop. You got visitors."
The door opened again. This time revealing a painfully thin man dressed in a dirty bathrobe and a pair of boxer shorts. "Jordan! How you doing? Haven't seen you in ages."
"Christ Coop. What the hell happened to you?" He asked looking over the skeletal man.
Cooper shrugged. "Been on a diet. Anyway, come in. Make yourself at home."
They were ushered into a filthy apartment, littered with garbage, and directed to a moldering couch that looked like it was pulled out of the dumpster. Jordan was quickly beginning to regret his decision to come here. Clearly, his old friend wasn't what he used to be.
"So what can I do for you, Jordan?" Their host asked, after sitting in a broken armchair.
"You still got an in with the Ortegas? I've got something I want to sell. Something I think they'll want."
Cooper frowned. "I do, but you should know, their under new management, or something like that. I'm not sure if they're looking to buy anything right now."
Jordan felt his heart sink. This was pretty much their last chance to get out of this situation. The NS-42s were vicious, but no one messed with the Ortegas. If anyone could protect them, they could. "Can you arrange a meeting anyway?"
"Sure thing bud. Just so happens I was just about to call my supplier soon. I'll see if he can't schedule a visit with one of their executives." Cooper replied with a foolish grin, before standing up and pulling out a cellphone. "Just give me a moment."
Carlos watched the malnourished man wander off towards another part of the apartment, before turning towards Jordan. "You sure about this, man? I'm getting a bad feeling."
"We don't have any other choice. He may not look like it now, but Cooper used to be a fixer for the Ortegas. He's the only one I know that can get us a meeting with one of the bosses, and only one of them are going to understand what we're trying to sell." He replied while looking around for something clean to wipe his leg with. He could kill for a shower.
"If you're sure…" Carlos broke off as Cooper came back in.
"Good news! Got you a meeting with the new boss. Apparently you are exactly the kind of clients he's been looking for. They have a car coming to pick you up as we speak."
Jordan suddenly felt a swell of uncertainty. Something about this didn't sit right with him, but what other choice did he have?
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone