Chapter Eighteen - Big Money

I never expected to have to explain to Sharp that my previous work paid well. It was one of those things that hadn't occurred to me.

"So, you are aware that my previous career involved me... killing people, yes?"

"I was trying not to think too hard about it, to be honest," Sharp said. She was checking the front fender of the bike. There was a small chip in the paint, but it wasn't so bad. "It's... well, I don't want to say it's evil. There are some bad people in the world, and maybe you worked with, uh, on them?"

"Sure," I said. If that's what she wanted to believe, then so be it. I'd never been one to hesitate too hard when it came to doing my job, but I understood that others had to be eased into it.Of course, there were plenty of stories about killers who took one life and then lost their minds over the fact.

I always felt a little sorry for those who suffered from PTSD just for carrying out their job, but on the flip side of that same token, I found them a little... pitiful. I, for one, never had any issues sleeping.

And I wasn't a psychopath or a sociopath. I'd had expensive therapists confirm it for me. "In any case. The average low-level assassination job pays anywhere from twenty to forty thousand."

"That's... so much."

"Not really. There are a limited number of professional killers in any given city. It's not like it's a job that allows for over-saturation of the market, and the risks are pretty high. Getting caught once is often the end for a contractor."

"Uh, okay. You're not... going to encourage me to kill people, right? I don't want to be that kind of edgerunner," She asked the last while kneeling before the front of the bike.

I met her eyes, then blinked slowly. "No. To be honest, you don't have the temperament." Yet.

"Okay," Sharp said. "I guess... I don't know. I don't think I've ever had to decide where killing people fits on my moral code."

She had a code? That seemed like a foolish thing to hold dear. It sounded like the kind of thing that would do more to imprison and render one inflexible than anything else. "If that's what you want, then so be it," I said. "In any case, this last job was relatively difficult. This dead drop is the second half of my payment."

Sharp choked. "It was a hundred and fifty thousand?" she asked.

"A bit more than that," I said. "There's middleman fees, transference fees. Expenses... Now, the one true advantage is that I don't pay taxes, so even all those small inconveniences come up to significantly less than what I'd have to pay if I were a proper tax-paying citizen. Not that I don't donate and such. I do my part to keep my community clean and healthy."

Sharp gave me a rather dubious look. "With the money you made killing people."

I shrugged. "How much is one person's life really worth? I'll have you know that I paid for the construction of two animal shelters and a dog park. I don't even like dogs."

Sharp shook her head as she got back onto the bike. "You'd think a person's life would be worth more than a dog park... well, maybe not, I guess land is kind of expensive."

"Now you're getting it."

Sharp got back onto the bike, then kicked off and we were on our way again. There were other deliveries to take care of before we went to the gym and grabbed my dead drop. It was best not to carry that kind of cash around for any longer than necessary.

Then again, we'd probably be stashing it in Sharp's room at the Bloody Bat.

Right, I'd need to open a secure account for her. A younger woman, not yet a legal adult, no job or work history... opening an account at a respectable bank would be difficult. Depositing seventy-plus thousand would raise more alarms than if Sharp walked into the bank with a ski mask and a sawed off shotgun.

Keeping the money as cash was an option, of course. It would let her buy what she needed to get to my place, at the very least.

Oh well. No rush. It would get us some basic equipment in the area, maybe access to good transportation, and we could start building a more realistic identity for Sharp. Something that would stand up to some scrutiny and explain why she had some of the money she had.

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Not the sums I had access to, of course, but lesser amounts? That was doable. Edgerunners have existed for a while, and young fools taking big risks and somehow surviving them... well, it had happened before.

Sharp was rather quiet as we went about doing our last delivery in the area, then we had to pause for a moment before entering Cambridge.

There was a bridge across the river in Fenway, and it was the easiest way across. It even allowed bikes to pass, though for a small toll. The issue would be getting across Cambridge itself.

Not because of gangs, but because of extremely high levels of corpo-sec. The region was dominated by a few large schools and universities, but also hundreds of labs and research centres. It was also home to the Three Towers. A set of three all-black pillars, brutalist architecture at its finest, and Boston Two's centre for all things magical.

We'd be avoiding those. Both the security and the mages, wizards, acolytes, and any warlocks serving whichever Eidolon was popular at the moment.

Our delivery in Cambridge was, luckily, not near the towers and also not too terribly far from Groovy Galaxy.

"Just over there," I said after we dropped off the last package. The gym was in a small mall, next to a pharmacy and a grocery store, as well as a sub shop. The entire front was all glass, letting those on the streetside see fit young people sweating it out on various machines.

I'd never been one for these kinds of places. The less my face got caught in the periphery of some gym nut's Instabook stream the better.

Sharp parked the courier bike next to a few others on a rack outside, then locked it in place. This was a nicer neighbourhood, mostly because surveillance drones hummed ominous overhead every few minutes and corpo-sec was only a shout away at all times.

Petty bike thieves wouldn't make a good career here, so we didn't have to worry too much.

Sharp tucked me into her coat, and we walked into the gym only to be immediately assaulted by faint disco lighting and not-so-faint disco music.

Groovy beats were thumping out of bass-boosted speakers and there was an entire dance-ercise group in the rear in colourful spandex working through a routine.

Sharp moved up to the counter, presented herself as a courier, and the overworked teen behind the desk quickly shoved her off to a manager. From there it was one passphrase before we were allowed into the non-binary locker rooms.

"Twenty-Six... .twenty-six... here it is," Sharp said. She reached the right locker, and I fed her the seven-digit code.

The locker opened to reveal a plain black duffel bag. Sharp grabbed it, hitched it over her shoulder, and a minute later we were back on the bike, though we didn't go far. Sharp turned into an alley soon after.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I want to see," she said.

That was... probably unwise. Though checking for trackers was never a bad idea. Most couriers would bring it to their office where a manager like Mark would transfer the loose cash into another bag for the return trip... for a small nominal fee. It was hard to trust couriers sometimes, but those who cheated their clients often found themselves dead, so the survivors who'd been around for a while were generally trustworthy.

"Very well."

I moved off the bag and watched as Sharp unzipped it and tugged it open.

As promised, the interior was filled with small bundles of cash, each bill freshly pressed with a nice one hundred on the top. There were eight little stacks in the bag, next to some loose towels to pad it all out.

"It looks like so little," she breathed.

"Well, yes. Did you expect nothing but ones? That wouldn't be convenient, now would it?"

"I, uh, guess," she said before zipping the bag closed. Her hands were shaking.

I reached over and pressed a paw over them. "It'll be fine," I said. "Just exercise your ability not to think about things, and soon you won't even be bothered by it."

"I don't know. This is... this is huge. But yeah, you're right, let's get back home. We can decide what colour the mansion walls can be once we're back in our room."

Mansion? Oh, this sweet child. A mansion, in this economy, with only five figures? She was going to learn the painful way that big bundles of cash moved fast in this world.

***