Monaco

Monaco loved meetings with Mr. Johnson’s. The pair of them sat there in their Mortimer suits sipping designer coffee, smiling their poker smiles, talking in riddles. There was a certain charm to the manoeuvrings of corporate types that reminded her of the courtiers in the Tir.

What he was saying without directly saying it, was that he wanted to employ a team of Shadow Runners to track down and bring in a man, forcefully if need be, who was probably somewhere in San Francisco. His reasons for wanting to remain at arms length from the kidnap were all too obvious, the last thing his corporation would want, is to be seen involved with activities like this. What she couldn’t yet determine was why they wanted him.

Sliding a couple of images of the man across the table, the Mr Johnson answered her unasked question. Stills from a closed circuit monitoring feed showed a man in a leather jacket smoking a cigarette, the distinctive logo of the Haloweeners biker gang clearly on his sleeve.

Smiling still she agreed a fee, took the photos and left the Mr Johnson to pick up the tab at the coffee shop. She knew a few people who would find this line of work just what they were looking for, and was dialling the first number before she was on the sidewalk.