Striper Assassin Read Online Free Page B

belongs to the Sicilian mob. The mob does some serious biz down there, but the yakuza rule the sweetest territory, the casino sprawl over on the Camden side of the Delaware River.
    All of the above have interests downtown. Even the Korean Seoulpa Rings have interests downtown.
    If Tikki were to choose the target for a new prime player, she would definitely go for the yaks. Go for the money, the real nuyen. By far the most interesting game.
    Perhaps Adama is here to scout the territory. Perhaps the Green Circle Gang is already here, but undercover. There are many possibilities, most of them basically irrelevant as far as Tikki is concerned, except as interesting speculation. No one Tikki’s talked to lately has heard of any Triads coming to Philly, but that’s not surprising. It’s a big city, a big world, and crime lords like Silicon Ma aren’t in the habit of advertising their plans. Ma in particular would be much more likely to butcher anyone stupid enough to give anything away.
    Tikki follows Adama into the depths of the club.
    The ceiling is lost in darkness. Sizzling bolts of laser light zigzag through the air. The walls are turning fields of stars and oversized trid displays flashing haute modern adverts and flickering scenes from the sunken dance floor. Adama’s table is one of many lining the aisles ringing the dance floor like tiered balconies. The music is loud and ponderous, throbbing, vibrating. The dancers turn and bob like mannikins on strings. Tikki keeps her eyes moving. Most of the club’s patrons are dressed in Penumbra-style: glowing neon over black; silvery monochrome that glints with pinpoints of light like stars; luminescent face paint. Males favor flowing shogun blouses and billowing trousers. Females tend toward kimonos and clinging gowns. Hair is samurai, cut back from the brow and knotted in back; or geisha, piled up on top in intricate weaves. Most of the bodies walking around look to have been sculpted at the better body salons. Credsticks are always glinting.
    “What do you think?” Adama asks.
    Tikki crinkles her nose in distaste, shakes her head. The original Penumbra is not like this. There’s nothing of the wild here, and silver-infected fashions raise her hackles.
    Adama smiles apologetically.
    A waiter brings food and wine. The food is grossly overcooked and smells like burnt-out waste, but Adama doesn’t seem to mind. Probably doesn’t even notice. Like most humans, he has only a token sense of smell. Fortunately, he’s the only one eating. Tikki stands to his left, keeping her hands free. She and her employer are in the open now and there are rules to be observed. Never compromise your hands. Never allow anyone to interfere with your eyes. Stay alert.
    Adama makes the job difficult. He talks to Tikki constantly, as if she were merely a companion rather than a guard. Always, he insists on a reply. “What about that one?” he inquires. “Will she be my Leandra?”
    Tikki has heard the question before. Finding the man’s “Leandra” is the primary objective of a night on the town. What he’s really talking about is finding and then playing with a suitable female, one who fits his specs. It isn’t half as odd as it sounds, and the way Adama plays the game only enhances Tikki’s estimation of him. He doesn’t simply look at the biffs strolling around, he sizes them up, like a hunter. Not a hunter like Tikki, but a hunter all the same. The instincts are right there for her to see in his black marble eyes. Adama knows about predator and prey, killing and death. He knows that killing is sometimes essential and that death is an intrinsic part of life. He knows that humans use a word like murder because they lack the perspective of the hunter, not understanding what occurs between predator and prey in the final moment, when teeth meet flesh and the waters of life pour out steaming and red to stain the earth.
    In the wild, there is no murder, no laws, no moral rights and wrongs.