The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy Read Free Page B

Bridge figured he could count on, it was his client’s inability to admit they couldn’t lay pipe at a moment’s notice. They would lie to each other, maybe even lie to themselves, but the odds they would put two and two together to equal Bridge were astronomical. It may have cost Bridge his entire fee, but it was worth it.
    Bridge thought about Angela with a scowl darkening his face. Angela had made her arrangements moments after he slammed the door. His shit would be gone by the time he returned. He thought briefly about calling her, about trying to explain what he’d done, but dismissed it. He could explain all he wanted, but the distance between them had grown too wide, had grown with every job he’d done, with every minute he’d spent doing this thing he had to do.
     
     
    *****
     
     
    BOOK 1: UNDER THE AMORAL BRIDGE, A CYBERPUNK NOVEL
     
    *****
     
     

Chapter 1
    August 28, 2028
    11:42 p.m.
     
    “I know a guy,” were the only important words Artemis Bridge uttered these days. All of his conversations with those words were a carefully choreographed dance routine, each step planned out in advance with only rare deviations from his expectations. Before those words came the usual bullshit, the greetings, the give and get probing Bridge used to determine if the prospective client was a cop trying to entrap him or a legitimate person with an illegitimate need. After those words, the dance was all details, the who-is and the where-wills and all the rest of the important minutiae that would get the job done. But “I know a guy,” those were the focal point of Bridge’s life. Those words were the music that drove the dance.
    Bridge didn’t yet know the well-dressed man coming across the Glitter bar towards him, but he could read the guy like a web site from the moment the sharp-dresser had entered the club. Bridge thought, ‘Here’s a guy that gets a little action on the side, a little weird action his girlfriend or wife won’t give him. He’s some well-heeled corporate douchebag looking for someone to help him exploit something.’ The man’s bearing was all faux confidence. His suit was Armani, his job was corporate, but his bravado was a subtly tarnished facade. Bridge pegged the client at around 32, desperately hoping he was still as cool as he was in high school, but deep down all too aware that the young things gyrating wildly in the club around him had moved on to more interesting predators. He was not cool, he was not crunk, he wasn’t even hip and he sure wasn’t cyber. He ogled the pretty girls as he straightened his silk tie uncomfortably, his eyes shifting nervously from one younger alpha male to the next as he gestured for the bartender’ip s attention. The man’s eyes never held anything for long, except for constant predatory stares at any young female that happened by. He seemed especially interested in the girls with the cybernetic replacement limbs. ‘Must have a metal fetish,’ thought Bridge. The bartender directed the client over towards Bridge’s table with an indifferent shrug, signaling at Bridge as the client turned his back. Costello the bartender was a stand-up guy who vetted prospective clients. All he ever asked for was a bit of hard-to-get ‘70’s porn. Bridge knew a guy.
    Sharp-Dressed stuck out a hand to Bridge as he approached the table, offering a handshake of dubious merit. Bridge waved off the proffered hand. “Sorry, I don’t do physical contact,” Bridge apologized. “There’s too many crazy things can be transferred by touch in this business.” Sharp-Dressed sat down quickly with a slightly offended expression, his eyes darting nervously as he straightened his jacket.
    Bridge’s paranoia excuse was a valid one. The people he dealt with were often lying shitheels of the worst kind. There were nanotech listening devices that could be planted through skin-to-skin contact, contact poisons and diseases of varying lethality, and portable weapons bladed and