"Hey, Vito, you're not going to believe what just landed in my lap. Padre dropped us a gig, and he's been asking about you — wants you to co et him after we wrap it up."
Jackie was already running hot when Vito picked up.
"All right, Jackie. Good. How are you walking around after last night? You drank enough to pickle a man."
Jackie laughed. "Honestly? My head feels like it took a direct hit from a nuke. But the second that call ca in, the pain stopped. Vito, this is step one of becoming a legend. Get to the Wild Wolf. Let's link up."
Vito agreed, then went into David's room and pulled a double-barrel shotgun out from under the bed, packed it into a long gift box, and headed for the Wild Wolf.
They t up and Jackie launched straight into the briefing.
"Padre wants us to recover a car for a basketball star nad LeBron. Apparently so street racers lifted it. We need to move fast — word is they already entered it in a race."
Vito set the gift box on the table and pushed it across.
"For you. What's Padre paying for this one?"
Jackie took the box and started opening it.
"Paying? Choom, we're not doing this for the money. We're doing this for the reputation. When we're legends the eddies take care of themselves. What the — why is this shotgun barrel so wide?"
"Little modification I made. Hits best with slugs. All right, legend. Let's go do this. Low-pay gigs aren't my preference, but you're right, you've got to start sowhere."
"Nothing worth doing is easy at the beginning. Co on, I borrowed a car. With any luck we wrap this up today."
They took a Herla EC-V 1660 touring sedan to the coordinates in Wellsprings. They spotted the target vehicle quickly enough: a group of trendy-looking types had it parked at the mouth of an alley, standing around talking.
"Jackie. Pull up alongside them."
The car had barely stopped when the souped-up street crew started laying into them.
"What the hell, you blind? Can you not see there are people here?"
Vito opened the door, got out, and walked over.
"Easy. Before anyone's mouth runs away from them — whose car is this?"
The one sitting on the hood, clearly in charge, shouted back at him.
"It's my car. Mind your own eyes, or I'll pull them out for you."
Jackie stepped out of the car. He had the DB-2 sawed-off that Vito had modified, and with the conversion work done it looked more like a hand cannon than a shotgun.
"Listen up. Mr. Welles is suggesting you dial it back. That's a Falcon you're leaning on. People like you don't buy Falcons."
The crew boss looked at the barrel aid loosely in his direction and swallowed.
"Who said — who said I can't afford it? That's my car."
Vito ran a Kiroshi sweep across the vehicle and walked up to the crew boss.
"That's LeBron's car. Tell how you got it."
The crew boss set his jaw.
"The big guy raced us for it. Fair race, clean rules, open road. Don't believe , ask him yourself. I knew he was going to pull this — couldn't take the loss, so now he sends people to co take it back."
The rest of the crew jumped in.
"That's right. We shook on it before we raced. Don't wave a gun at us — if you've got a problem with the rules, go rob a corp."
Jackie, listening to all of this with nas and details attached, found himself without a clear answer. He looked at Vito.
Vito said: "Walk through exactly how he lost. Don't skip anything. I want to hear whether soone's lying."
The crew talked over each other getting it out, but the picture ca together. LeBron — basketball star out of Heywood — had gotten drunk at a bar and was running his mouth to a racing girl, telling her he'd race her ho. Fernando, the street crew boss, overheard him from across the bar. Fernando didn't follow ball, and the bar was too dark to catch LeBron's face. He told LeBron to put up or shut up and race for real.
Drunk LeBron said yes on the spot. Both crews went outside. Fernando took one look at LeBron's Falcon and nearly backed out — suggested they just bet fifty eddies instead.
LeBron, arm around the girl, waved that off.
"You want to bet, bet the car. If you've got the nerve. If not, go ho."
Fernando had been ready to walk away. Then LeBron's smug look changed his mind. He hit his Flash inhaler and said yes.
What followed: LeBron was too drunk to drive. He nearly put the car into the barrier on the first straight, got scared, and ran autopilot the rest of the way. Fernando won without breaking a sweat. LeBron tried to argue his way out of it, but soone in the crowd recognized him, and he had no choice but to eat it.
Vito and Jackie looked at each other. This job was a ss. Low pay, high hassle.
"Vito. If we take the car by force we're in the wrong here."
Vito sighed.
"We're rcs. Client says do the job, we do the job. Whether we're in the right is not our problem. But LeBron wasn't straight with Padre about what actually happened."
"Should I call Padre?"
"No. Makes us look worse."
Vito turned to Fernando.
"One more race. Street rules. You win, I pay you a thousand eddies on top of the car. I win, you hand the car over and I give you three hundred. What do you say?"
Fernando didn't want more trouble. The rcs who'd shown up seed reasonable enough. Next ti Padre sent people it might not be the sa story. And either way he'd walk out with money. He accepted.
"We start at Ivy Road. Finish at Dinara. Passenger can shoot. Ramming's allowed."
"Works for . Give us a minute to set up."
Jackie was already looking uncertain.
"My driving isn't race-level, Vito. Should I take the passenger seat and shoot?"
Vito adjusted the seat and loaded a quickhack into his neural interface.
"I'll drive. Don't worry about Fernando. I'm going to brake him before the finish."
Jackie didn't ask questions. He took the passenger seat.
Both cars lined up at the start. Vito on the left, Fernando on the right.
The signal dropped and both cars launched. Jackie had a quick idea: the mont they pulled away from the line he swung the sawed-off toward Fernando's car. Fernando flinched and hit the brakes.
They ran ahead and Fernando fell in behind, the Falcon's performance keeping him glued to Vito's rear. He was patient, waiting for his mont. Jackie fired backwards in bursts, keeping Fernando from finding a clean line.
Two kiloters from the finish, Fernando found his opening. He swung wide through a bend in a perfect pendulum move and slid into the lead.
"That's it! Race is mine!"
Five hundred ters out. Fernando had the finish and was pressing everything the Falcon had.
Squeal.
The Falcon's tires scread against the road and locked up. Vito had pushed the quickhack through and triggered a forced brake, cutting the car's systems out from under Fernando mid-sprint.
Vito blew past him.
Race over.
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