[Thursday June 18th, 2076, ~01:15, Soho, London]
Al steered the dirty white panel van through the graffiti-riddled canyons of Soho’s lanes and alleys, following the lead of the outriders. He couldn’t always see them, but he knew at least one of them had him in sight all the time, and he had all their positions on the heads-up the stretched across his windshield, a local map overlay piped in from his comm. Isaint was choreographing their movements in some sort of paramilitary street dance, but Al had to hand it to the ork, he was keeping them all in striking distance of the drop point without ever repeating a pattern and without looking like they were all together.
He’d been happy when the lights of London had come into view. Unlike the drive out to Oxford, the trip back had been pure misery. First Doctor Dick had complained the music was too loud. Hurting his ears or something. Like he’d never been flashbanged before. Then there were a couple of Chinese fire drills as they moved the whole damned clan into the van. Smartest play, but that didn’t make it a laugh. Right off the bat, the damned pimply-faced kid had almost lost a hand trying to pet Spike. Then little miss too-cute-for-proper clothes had started in on the smoke. Child didn’t even have sense enough to wear a full set of clothes, and here she was on him about a few cigarettes. He’d tried ignoring her, but then she was off about how many poor Africans could be fed if they converted all the tobacco fields into damned rice paddies. So he’d put down a window and then of course Miss Precious was too cold. Eventually her bellyaching had taken all the pleasure out of the thing and he’d tossed the butt out the window, only to be lectured about the environment or some such. And then there were the potty stops. And the hell that broke loose with the wife when he’d handed them an empty beer can to use.
At least he’d had a few cans left that weren’t empty, but they were soon gone.
So now, the oil drum fires in the alleys and the passed out drunks on the street were a promise of eventually getting off the clock. He hadn't slept in a few days, and he was starting to feel due. Solo was in back living up to his name, scouting the drop about every way a body could without actually using a body. Then they’d send in an advance team. He had to hand it to these people, they covered their bases. Not like the seat-of-their-pants jobs he’d done in Seattle.
Well, they’d soon see how much good it did them. In his experience, the only thing surer than bad things happening was the eternal truth that, no matter what you did, they’d happen when you weren’t looking for them.
