Shadowboxer Read Online Free Page B

not a VR simulation. It was fairly rare tech, but Erika herself used just such a simulation when working on her own side deals. When using her VR simulation with callers, she looked and sounded like a grizzled old norm who looked and talked straight off the street.
    “Sir!” she said. “What a pleasant surprise. How may I assist you this evening?”
    “What I need from you is important,” he said, “And confidential.”
    “Of course,” Erika said. She was ambitious, but not glitched. Gunderson Corporation owned Miami, and as far as Erika Johnson was concerned, that meant they owned her too. James Harvin was Gunderson’s CEO.
    “Good,” said Harvin. “I always count on you, Erika.”
    She stubbed out her cigarette. It wasn’t like him to beat around the bush like this.
    “Let me ask you something, Erika,” he said finally. “How much do you know about a place, or a person, called IronHell?”

2
    Only an hour after opening this morning, the mixed crowd of laughing locals at Walt’s Crypt were thick as fleas on a dead gutterpunk, moving irregularly over the smooth ice of the oval rink, going round and round. Sitting comfy in his office, Adam Two Bears watched the patrons on the other side of the huge Armorlite bulletproof window struggle to stay upright, while kids over at the counter happily munched on ice cream cones dished out by his nephew and niece, and a score of oldsters just sat on benches sucking up the AC and luxuriating. It was going to be another blistering day in Miami, and that meant lots of biz.
    What a gold mine this place was, Two Bears complimented himself proudly. Walt’s Crypt had started as a dodge to hide his income as a fixer and from doing the occasional shadowrun here in Miami, but the damn thing took off and now was so profitable that Two Bears hadn’t personally done a run for years. Last one was against the Brick Boys, a neighborhood gang who thought they could claim his place as private turf. But Two Bears wanted Walt’s Crypt as strictly neutral territory, and after he did some corrective knee surgery on several of the Bricks with his fave sledgehammer, the go-gang saw the wisdom of his position and all had been arctic since. He and the bloody five-kilogram sledge were a tough combination to reason with. Or escape from. The stainless steel lady had never failed him yet as a precise negotiating tool.
    “Well, chummer?” prompted the Johnson, his gruff visage filling the old telecom sitting on the corner of his macroplas desk. The screen was angled so that any callers only saw Two Bears sitting before the smooth blank wall behind him, not the rink beyond the office window. “Do you know anything about it, or not?”
    “Iron hell?” repeated Adam Two Bears, scratching his head. Self-consciously, he patted his thinning hair back into place trying to hide his growing bald spot.
    The grizzled norm on the telecom screen scowled impatiently. “It’s one word. IronHell.”
    Big smegging deal. Okay, IronHell. Kicking back in his battered easy chair, Adam Two Bears tugged on the gold stud in his earlobe as an aid to thought. Not expecting any business calls today, he was in casual attire with only a light armored vest underneath and a legal Narcoject pistol holstered at his hip. Not his best togs, but thankfully, not his worst either. Good thing he’d decided to help Louie fix the public lav tomorrow and not today. Chewing a lip, Two Bears shook his head. “No. Sorry. Don’t know the guy.”
    “I expected as much,” grumbled the norm, looking regretful.
    “So, do you want me to find the chummer and haul him in?” asked Two Bears. Then he sat upright. “I don’t do wet-work. Not my cuppa.”
    The old guy on the telecom accepted that with a Japper bow. “Termination is not necessary or required, my friend. Simply find out who, or what it is. And where it is. Then report to me. Any further actions will be based upon your initial report.”
    “Price.” Two Bears didn’t