Brak tossed the heavy briefcase into the side car of his Mitsubishi Roadster, heavily modified for his considerable weight, and then straddled the bike. He gave a last mock salute to his employer before revving the hog up and driving out of the half-crumbled parking garage.

“Good riddance,” Tibault muttered under his breathe, dropping the accent. His hair felt itchy under the wig of messy dreadlocks and his shoulders ached from the weight of the plating Marcus had fitted into the old brown leather trench coat Tibault wore for this particular meet.

A quick series of button presses on the comlink sent a signal to the synthetic eye which rested a little lopsided in his left socket, the discount surgeons hadn’t done a great job on the install. The street outside lit up with enhanced reality ads, picked up by the network in his comlink and displayed through the eye.

“Drekkin’ corps” Tibault said as he brought up a list of numbers and gave one a call. A gruff voice with a russian accent answered.

“Speak quick.”