YUKON HOTEL – DETROIT – UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Wilder ignored the acid looks he got from the natch residents of the Yukon as he strode across the expensively minimalist lobby toward the elevator bank. Decorated largely in crushed black velvet and gray brushed steel, the structure of the original building showed through in artfully random patches of raw brick, but for the most part the interior was achingly post-modern. Security was cleverly worked into the ornamental panels and sculptures dotted around the space, from the thick bullet-proof glass doors to the low kennels hiding dormant patrol bots. The Yukon had always been a place for rich snobs with a high degree of paranoia, and ever since the Aug Incident it had come into its own. Many of those people with money – but not quite enough to quit the protected inner enclaves of Detroit – called it home.

A large man in a black suit with the craggy, broken nose of a career boxer stepped up to discreetly block Wilder’s path before he could reach for the elevator’s call button. The guard had barely raised his hand when he halted, blankly cocking his head in that way that those with active infolinks always did. Their eyes met, and the other man stepped aside. “Go on up, sir,” he added. “You’re expected.”

Wilder sneered and entered the elevator. There were no buttons or floor indicators on the inside. Once the door shut, he was whisked up the side of the Yukon and delivered to where he was expected to be.

She had a modest suite on the twenty-second floor that shared the same abstract geometric décor as the lobby. All the windows were fully polarized to obsidian black, and in the central room of the suite the only items that appeared to belong to her were an armored briefcase containing a portable computer, what Wilder guessed was an encrypted communications rig and a commercial-grade portable hard drive, the kind from an ordinary office desktop. Those, and a black-anodized Mustang Arms pistol sporting a targeting laser and integral silencer.

Wilder’s own weapon, a thick-framed revolver resting in a paddle holster in the small of his back, seemed like an anchor, causing drag with every step he took. On the way over, he’d taken a cocktail of zee and nu-poz, hoping that the drug combination would keep his edge sharp; but he found it hard to stop himself continually making and relaxing a fist with his cyberarm.

She had her rust-colored hair up in a precise cluster, and if anything it made her look even paler than she had when Wilder had first met her. Back then, he’d made a lame joke about her having a misspent youth as a goth chick, and the withering glance the comment had got him stopped Wilder from even thinking about speaking out of turn in her presence ever again.

She was busy making herself a cup of herbal tea. “Why are you here?” she asked, in the way a teacher would disparage a particularly dim pupil. “We established a protocol, and you were told to stick to it.”

“Yeah, well,” he began, holding his nerve. “Things change. I’m gonna have to cut short our association here and now. We’re done.”

“Are we?” She carefully poured boiling water on to a teabag and the aroma of strawberries filled the room.

Wilder nodded, looking around again. Jensen’s surprise appearance in Detroit had been the one complication that he hadn’t planned for, but now with him left out for police custody and Kellman dealt with, Wilder had no more reason to remain in the city. There had always been a risk that one of those MCB punks might have been able to put the spotlight on him, but that wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle… However, Adam Jensen was another story. Wilder’s former boss had the potential to cause some serious blowback, and the baffling order to let him live complicated matters immeasurably.

He laid that all out for her while she made her tea, all the while acting like she wasn’t listening to a word of it. “I mean, I don’t get it. Why the hell didn’t you just let me ice the son-of-a-bitch?”

She favored him with a brief look for the first time since he had entered the suite. “I have instructions. If Jensen has to be killed, it won’t be down to you to pull the trigger.” The way she said it showed she wasn’t happy about the order either.

He snorted and glanced away. His optics caught sight of a series of nested video displays on the screen of the portable computer. They looked like security camera feeds, and he saw shots of large warehouses with broad frontage, wide open expanses of tarmac and big shadows moving behind bright spotlights.

“Okay, fine. Whatever you say.” Wilder shook his head. “I don’t give a fuck. But as of now, I am out. Pay me and color me gone.”

“All right.” She put down the cup. “A finish to our cooperation, then. I’ll be honest with you, in terms of usefulness, you’ve been mediocre at best.”

“What?” Wilder bristled at her tone. “To hell with you,” he retorted.

She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “You complicated matters needlessly by interfering with the gang members and their tasks, not to mention the murder of Kellman. Why not just pay him and be done with it?” Wilder didn’t get time to reply. “You’ve made a number of mistakes, and served largely to remind me why it is I don’t often use local talent. Understand this: if you hadn’t granted access to what my employer required to facilitate this transfer, you never would have been part of the operation.”

His cheeks darkened as his anger rose. “Y-you don’t get to talk to me like that! I made this happen! Now give me my damn money!” Wilder’s hand slipped toward the paddle holster and the butt of the revolver.

But then she moved so fast that even with his new, high-acuity optic implants, the woman was a blur of black material, pale skin and red hair – and she suddenly had that silenced pistol in her hand pointed right at him.

“Hey, wait…” His tone became one of pleading. “Fine, forget the cash. You keep it, Thorne.”

She shook her head slightly. “Don’t say my name.” The pistol jerked in her grip, discharging a single caseless bullet with a chug of noise.

* * *

The round hit Wilder in the chest, just below his heart. It penetrated his lungs and broke apart into thousands of frangible needles, kinetic energy immediately translating into a murderous shock effect. The bullet was designed never to exit the body, removing the untidy issue of ragged exit wounds, blood spatter and all the other mess that shooting someone at close range usually left behind.

Wilder staggered back and collapsed to the floor, dying with a gasp as he lay slumped against the edge of an ornate couch. Pink foam collected around his mouth and nostrils.

Jenna Thorne put down the gun and tapped a string of numbers into the encrypted comm unit. A moment later she heard the line open and the gruff voice of the gang leader, Magnet.

“Yeah?” In the background, the whine of jet engines faded into the distance.

“This is a warning. Wilder may have compromised the operation. You need to be aware.”

She heard Magnet spit. “That asshole. Gotta be messing with everything… Don’t worry. MCBs got this. Anyone comes around… they get smoked.”

“See to it. The pick-up is on its way.” She cut the line before Magnet could reply, then entered another code. Thorne’s gaze fell to study Wilder’s slack face and sightless eyes as she waited for a link. She would need to deal with his remains before leaving the hotel.

The second call connected, whispering through a myriad of digital masking subroutines, blind servers and redirects. “Thorne,” she said aloud, knowing that the word would be deconstructed by smart scanner programs clever enough to parse her voice as clearly as if it were a fingerprint.

Circumstances have changed, she went on, mouthing the words without sound, knowing that her masters were listening to her silent, subvocalized speech. I advise we move the secondary contingency plan to active status and prepare to execute.

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