“Yeah, and I’m St. Nick.”

“You’re wrong. Crenshaw. I’m hoping to save some lives.”

“Starting with your own.”

“No. Starting with some of our fellow employees at the arcology.” Sam told her how Sally’s group had been duped, and their decision to do something about it. “I’m going with them when they take the counteragent in.”

“Trying to be a hero?”

The thought hadn’t crossed Sam’s mind. “They need my help.”

“Heroes get dead, kid. Those clowns got in once before. They don’t need you to do it.”

Sam supposed she was right, but surely Renraku security would have found and closed-whatever entryway the runners had used last time. “Maybe I just want to be sure they really do it.”

Crenshaw looked unconvinced. “Stow the hype, kid. Let’s pretend you’ve convinced me of your noble heart. Sentiments are worth a fused BTL chip when the shooting starts. You aren’t trained for this stuff, It’s dangerous, you know.”

“I don’t care.” Sam was surprised by the conviction in his own voice. “It has to be done.”

“Crenshaw-san is right,” Jiro whispered from the corner where he was huddled. Sam had not even realized that the salaryman was awake. “Let it go. You will jeopardize your position with the company.”

“So she has infected you now, Tanaka-san. Sam shook his head sadly. “I’m not worried about my position with the company. They will understand that my loyalty compels me to make this effort. I have to keep the shadowrunners from misusing their time within the arcology.”

Crenshaw smirked and Tanaka hung his head, listless again. Sam could see that his arguments would not affect them. It was just as well. His short cyberspace run, added to his lack of sleep, had left him exhausted. He needed rest. The run was to take place the next night and it was definitely going to be dangerous. He would have to be alert. Sam lay down where he was, stretching out on the hard boards. In moments, he was asleep.

Sam awoke to a hand on his shoulder. Red light flooded the room through the open doorway. The glow illuminated Ghost’s face as he leaned close.

“Time to move, paleface.”

Sam sat up groggily, shaking his head to clear it. For a moment, he was confused, but the smell soon brought it all back. A quick glance told him that he and the Amerindian were the only two people in the room.

“Where are the others?”

“We thought it best to move them to a safer place till we get back.”

Sam nodded as Ghost padded silently across the room. Perhaps the man spoke true. Or perhaps the runners were holding the others hostage for his good behavior. He didn’t want to believe that they had killed his fellows to be free of the need to guard them, but that possibility nagged, too. Crenshaw’s cynical voice echoed in his head. Could he really trust these people?

Sam creaked his way across the old boards. In the outer room, he found Sally, Ghost, and the Ork all strapping on various bits of gear and checking their weapons.

“Where’s Dodger?”

Sally gave him a smile. “Don’t worry. He’s in a place where he can jack into the Matrix undisturbed. He’ll be riding shotgun in cyberspace, just like last time.”

“Are the others with him?”

“Let’s not get too inquisitive,” she advised.

Having inserted a knife into his boot sheath, Ghost scooped a bundle from the floor and tossed it. Sam fumbled the catch, surprised by its weight. The black paper garment was obviously covering some bulky object. He poked at it, revealing the soft gleam of metal. Sam unwrapped it further.

“A slivergun,” Ghost informed him. “Can you use it?” Sam looked down at the evilly gleaming weapon. “No.”

“Great,” moaned the Ork. “He’s gonna get our behinds fried, Sally.”

“If he does, he goes with us,” she replied. “You do understand that, Verner?”

He did. All too well. He tried saying so, but the words stuck in his throat. He nodded instead.

“And don’t forget it,” the Ork snarled. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”

Under that watchful eye, Sam carefully placed the pistol on the floor and pulled on the coveralls that had enshrouded it. After sealing them closed, he buckled on the belt and holster he had missed in the excitement of discovering the gun.

“Ooh, look,” the Ork cooed. “A ferocious shadowrunner. I’m so frightened.”

“Dump it, Kham,” Sally ordered. “Verner will do all right if you ease up a bit.”

She settled her weapon belt across her hips and, in a swirl of fringed duster, turned for the window. Sam started to follow, but came up short as a hand gripped his arm. He craned his neck around to find Ghost’s ragged grin. A poke in his ribs directed his gaze down toward the gun the Amerindian was holding. Sam swallowed hard. He didn’t want it, but if they trusted him to carry it, he probably should trust their belief that it might be necessary. He took the weapon, settling its unfamiliar weight into the holster.

The fire escape creaked and rattled under the combined weight of the shadowrunners. Sam feared that it would rip loose from the crumbling brick wall and pitch them all into the alley. To his surprise, the rickety construct was still intact when they reached the bottom.

Three motorcycles waited in the alley. Two of the bikes were sleek Yamaha Rapiers, their chrome and plastic smooth and unmarked. The third was a heavy hog its nameplate proclaiming it a Harley Scorpion. The machine was all motor, iron, and mysterious clamps and fastenings.

“You ride with me,” the Ork grunted as he swung onto the big Scorpion.

Sam climbed up behind the odorous metahuman. There was nothing to grip but the Ork himself, a decision Sam had barely made when Kham jumped the bike forward. Sam nearly tumbled off as they rounded the corner. The petrochem roar of the Rapiers soon joined the howl of the Scorpion, and they cruised in vee-formation down the streets of the Barrens.

The ride through the streets showed Sam the same face of Seattle he had seen on their walk to meet the fixer, at least until they left the urban wasteland of the Barrens. Once into the more civilized districts, the street crowds thinned and the noise and glare diminished. Somehow the runners did not look out of place. There were still other bikers in leather and long coats. The hard-edged types that had filled the streets of the Barrens were leavened with more ordinary folks, salarymen, families, and ordinary workers out for a good time.

Seattle was a border town, isolated among the wild lands of the Salish-Shidhe Council. It was an outpost of the United Canadian-American States in the midst of a foreign land, a trading post within the world of the Pacific. As such, it could be a rough-and-tumble place, just like in the old days of the wild west, Sam decided, when a man or woman often carried the law in a holster.