Hawk

by James Patterson

  “He’s such a dick,” I told Ridley, and she shook out her feathers, obvs totally agreeing with me. I smiled as I remembered the Ope wearing a Max T-shirt. I had three of them myself, swiped from someone’s street table. Sure, the seller had yelled at me, said she’d sic her brothers on me, that she had a gun and would take me out the next time she saw me.

  Really, lady? You’re gonna get upset about losing a couple shirts that you got off the back of a truck? Yeah? C’mon. And you got a gun? Hell, I figured. Babies around here come out of their moms dragging a pistol after them.

  I used to have a gun myself, a Barracuda. I’d gotten it years ago, and in my fifteen years I’d only ever killed one person. At that thought, I stuck my tongue hard against the tooth Tony had knocked loose, letting the pain distract me. I didn’t need to think about that person now, and I didn’t want to carry a gun anymore. I had bigger concerns.

  Now I needed to get home to my kids.

  CHAPTER 4

  I take different routes home through the City of the Dead. They call it that because, a couple years before I was dumped here like trash, everyone who lived within like a mile all got sick and died. A couple of the Oldies told me about it—it was horrible, and to this day no one knows what happened. But they all just up and died. Over the years, other people moved into the empty apartments, like a free move-in day. All you’ve got to do is carry out the dead, and it’s yours.

  So everyone here is from somewhere else, and the City of the Dead has filled up with Opes, Oldies, Rebs, Freaks, and Tourists. I like the Rebs. They’ve never messed with me. They plastered colorful posters around, advertising their particular gangs: Smothered, SlavesNoMore, Freedom… there were a couple others. Of course it was pointless, rebelling against McCallum

  . I didn’t know how they’d managed to string two thoughts together to make these posters, what with the Voxvoce and the Proclamations and the Emergencies. But they had, and I liked looking at the posters stuck to the walls of burned-out buildings. A little bit of color never hurt anybody, and sometimes I tore them down, took them home to help teach my kids how to read.

  It was the Tourists who were the worst. There weren’t many—fewer every year. They came here from non–Cities of the Dead and looked at us like we were slime molds. Like, Look, honey, there’s an Ope getting beat up! Take a picture! Once I saw Smiley actually posing for someone, showing off her empty gums in exchange for a handful of coins. It pissed me off—not at her—a girl’s gotta do what she’s got to do. But if I ever saw that Tourist again, I’d show them what a mouth with teeth in it is for.

  Sometimes if I’m standing at my corner they’ll offer me money, like I was begging. I’d love to make them swallow it. Instead I grit my teeth and take it, shoving it deep in my pocket. Because money is money. Money means food, medicine, favors. I couldn’t afford to throw it back at them.

  A couple years ago this shiny clean Tourist came up to me and I waited for him to hold out some onesie coins. He didn’t.

  “You’re what they call an Ope, aren’t you?” he’d whispered, pulling a baggie of blue powder out of his jacket pocket. “Tell you what—we go into this alley over here and you let me do anything I want, and I’ll give you… half this bag. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Half a bag of dope? Just for you?” He smiled encouragingly, trying to screw a thirteen-year-old kid.

  I’d broken his jaw.

  While he was writhing on the ground, some Opes had run up and mugged him, taking everything, including his car keys. I’d almost laughed myself sick.

  Maybe Tourists shouldn’t come here. Or maybe I should leave. But I can’t. I promised.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Hawk!”

  Night was falling. In the City of the Dead it was more like heavy, greasy clouds looming down from the sky, wiping out the stars, dulling the moon. I was tired and wanted to go home, but I knew that voice.

  “Pietro,” I said as he came up to me.

  Ridley gave a huff and took off into the night. I’m pretty much the only person she likes.

  “How ya been?” He looked like he really cared. Some people asked just because they wanted you to ask back, and are too busy answering with a long sob story that they never notice you didn’t actually ask.

  “I’m always fine, Pietro,” I said. We’d been pals when we were like seven, eight years old, but then his father had forbidden him to play with the riffraff and told him to stick to his own kind. His own kind being from the Six.

  In our city, only that barking, false-fronted rager McCallum was more important than the Six. The Six were the gangs who ran this city, and not in a kindly, thoughtful way, either. They’d carved out their territories and set up their own leaders. Pietro was a prince; his father was Giacomo Pater. Their gang was One of Six, and I lived in their territory.

  Two of Six were the McLeods. Three of Six were the Harrises. Four of Six were the Stolks, Five of Six were the Diazes, and Six of Six were the Chungs. They made life fun around here, and by fun I meant violent and scary.

  “What brings you down to the dirt, Pietro?” I asked.

  His handsome face suddenly hardened, and he gestured behind me with one hand.

  “That piece of trash over there,” he said. I turned to see another prince, tall and pale with thick, shiny, red-brown hair and a face that was all angles. He came out of an alley like he’d been waiting on somebody. I could only hope it was Pietro he was looking for, and not me.

  “Chung?” I guessed.

  “Yep,” he bit out and spit on the sidewalk.

  “Okay, what about him?” I asked.

  Pietro frowned. “They tried to open a business two blocks into our territory. The Chungs are trying to muscle in, and my father wants to send a clear message. So he called for a duel.”

  Duels happened pretty often, but not all in the same territory. They were exciting as hell—if you didn’t care that one of your friends might be about to die.

  “Do you have to?” I asked.

  He nodded, looking unhappy. Suddenly he looked into my eyes and took my hand. “Hawk, I wish—”

  “Duel!” someone shouted, and instantly the crowd picked up the chant, making it impossible for either Pietro or the Chung prince to back down now. I saw one of Giacomo’s henchmen edging out of the crowd, standing in the street with his arms folded. Likewise, one of the Chung henchmen stood on the opposite side of the street, the gold symbol of the Chung clan embroidered on his blue silk jogging suit.

  Pietro dropped my hand and walked to the middle of the street.

  There were rules about duels, even if there weren’t many rules about anything else. 1) Whoever called the duel shot second. 2) They had to use single-fire handguns. 3) They had to bring a second, someone who would carry their body home if they died. 4) It had to be a public place, with plenty of witnesses.

  So here they were. I was one of the plenty of witnesses. My stomach twisted and my mouth was suddenly dry. I was about to watch Pietro get a bullet in the head.

  We hadn’t been close in years, but he’d been my best friend for a while. We’d played “hide from the plague people” together. We’d played “behind enemy lines” and “lava floor.” We’d practiced stealing from street markets together. Together we had collected trash and sorted it and sold it to the trash peddlers. And here I was about to watch him catch a bullet just because that’s how things were done in the City of the Dead when you were a prince of the Paters, a One.

  I wanted to tell him it didn’t have to be this way, but there were too many people and the chant had begun to die down, the crowd aware that they were going to get what they wanted. If I stood in the way of that, I’d risk being hurt myself. I stepped to the side, giving Pietro a nod for good luck.

  “Begin!” shouted Pietro’s second.

  Pietro and the Chung prince stood back-to-back. Pietro was trembling slightly, so slightly that probably no one saw it but me. His face was set, his mouth pressed into a firm line.

  “Co
unt off!” the Chung second yelled.

  “One!” “Two!” “Three!” The boys counted their paces as they walked away from each other, taking big steps.

  The streetlamps came on, casting a sickening orange glow over all of us. Pietro looked even worse in the light, his skin a harsh color as he paced off with the shouts. I was starting to get mad. This was so freaking stupid! This was just gangs flexing their muscles! Was Giacomo really willing to sacrifice his son over a couple blocks of territory? There was no way a Chung would deliberately miss a Pater! I pictured myself storming up to Pietro’s big house and yelling at Giacomo.

  Then I pictured one of their soldiers throwing my body over the wall into the city dump, Ridley soaring over my body for days as she waited for me to get up. I swallowed hard, my fists clenched.

  The two princes pivoted and faced each other.

  “I’m glad they pick each other off every so often,” a woman next to me said. In general I agreed with her—the fewer gangsters, the better. But this was Pietro, and whatever he was destined to become in his family, there’d been a time when he was a fun, good-natured kid.

  The Chung prince raised his gun, pointing it directly at Pietro. Pietro wasn’t that far away; it was a shot I could make easily. Laser aimers weren’t allowed, of course. Maybe the Chung prince had bad eyesight? No—he would have had it fixed by now. They had that kind of money, and as much as the princes were used to settle their fathers’ scores, they’d want to make sure they had every possible edge.

  Pietro stood without flinching, even as the Chung prince fired. Then he jerked to one side, his hand clapped against his head. I almost screamed his name but covered my mouth.

  He was still standing. Dark red blood ran through his fingers and splattered on the street. Slowly he straightened, shook the blood off his hand, and wiped it on his maroon Pater uniform.

  Please don’t kill him, I thought, as if my thoughts could influence Pietro. Please don’t kill the Chung dude. Don’t become the killer your dad wants you to be. Just injure him a little, like he did you, and you’ll both save face. Please.

  Pietro raised his gun. I held my breath. The Chung prince’s chest heaved as he tried to control his breathing. His arm hung limply at his side, the gun shaking in his grip as he waited for a bullet. Running would be a disgrace, and so he stood, waiting to die.

  Please, I thought.

  Pietro fired. The Chung prince whipped backward as the bullet struck his arm. The crowd was so still that we could all heard the clink of the bullet as it hit the wall behind him. Someone cheered, and then we all cheered. Pietro had shot the Chung prince in the arm; the bullet had gone cleanly through. It would be an easy recovery.

  Beaming, I yelled Pietro’s name. I saw the Pater henchman spit on the ground in disgust. I guessed Giacomo wouldn’t be too happy, but I was proud of Pietro for making his own decision. The Chung henchman was walking toward his prince. The Pater henchman left Pietro’s side and also walked toward the Chung prince. Before anyone could react, he grabbed the Chung prince with big, meaty hands, and snapped his head around. We all heard the loud crack of bones breaking, saw the light leave his dark eyes, saw him crumple to the ground, dead. He was still smiling from relief at living through the duel. Several of the Chung footmen started toward the Pater goon, but the Chung henchman stopped them.

  “It is over!” he said, but he was obviously furious at the Pater killer.

  I stopped in my tracks, my own smile disappearing. The crowd cheered even louder. A duel was one thing; a flat-out murder another. This was enough excitement for days.

  Pietro looked at me, saw my expression. “I didn’t do that! I didn’t want that to happen!” he yelled.

  I turned and walked away, disgusted with all of the Six. He might not have wanted the prince dead, but he had still been a part of this. Everyone in the Six families was as bad as the rest, including Pietro. He was a full-blooded Pater now.

  CHAPTER 6

  Okay, the show was over. Time to get home. As I walked past a vegetable stand, the woman threw a bunch of rejects into the gutter. Me and a bunch of Opes fell on them, and I snagged some sprouting carrots and a plastic bag of not quite rotten apples. I put them in my backpack. The sooner I was away from this street—this corner—the better. Obviously my parents hadn’t come. They were either dead or had long forgotten me. This was the last day I would waste like this.

  Hearing footsteps behind me, I glanced over my shoulder and groaned quietly to myself. I was being followed.

  I sped up a bit—enough excitement already—but a sneaky look back showed me that it was two men, strangers. Great.

  I knew this city. I’d been exploring it since I was five years old. I knew every abandoned building in the City of the Dead, every sewer, every tunnel, every escape route. And the closest one was four blocks away. I sped up more, now able to hear the men’s eager mutterings. I could stay and fight, of course, but I just wanted to get home. Plus, I’d been collecting food all day and now had about twenty pounds of nutrition in my backpack. I was just tired of this shit. Girls out on their own faced a different kind of danger than boys, and trying to explain I was just getting food for my kids wouldn’t earn me any mercy.

  I crossed the next street fast, dodging through the pedicabs, occasional cars, trucks, and bicycles and getting honked at, yelled at, sworn at, and flipped off. I gained twenty yards. I needed to turn at the end of this block, but they were trotting now.

  I broke into a run, and so did they. I did a fast left turn and really started running, backpack thumping against me as I went. We were just two blocks off the main street and it was already completely dead back here; people who couldn’t afford the main drag didn’t get streetlights. I passed several Opes, talking to themselves, curled up in doorways.

  I turned right at the next corner, and crossing this street was easy because it was barely more than a garbage alley. Two kilometers upwind was the prison. Three kilometers as the crow flies, southeast, was the city hospice and the factory where they made the dope for the Opes.

  I just had to make it to the last building on this block.

  “Girl, wait!” one of the men yelled.

  Sure! Why not! That’s a great idea!

  With a sudden screech, Ridley swept down and did a power dive on the two men. They ducked and swore, one of them taking out a gun and shooting. Ridley turned sideways and swooped out of reach.

  Then I was at the building, rushing into the darkness, swerving to avoid once-ornate columns and chunks of ceiling. The men were right behind me. I was breathing hard, sweating, and starting to think about plan B in case this one didn’t work. Pushing through a fire-exit door, I grabbed the stairway handrail and headed up two steps at a time. I had passed the second story before the door banged open. There was some muffled discussion, then they started up the stairs after me.

  Well, I knew which treads were rusted out and when to let go of the handrail because it had come loose. I was faster than them, even with a twenty-pound backpack. I was on the fourth floor before they’d gotten to the second, and I rounded the sixth floor when they had barely made it to third.

  My heart was pounding in my throat—despite my grade-A fighting skills, I didn’t want to deal with two determined men with guns. First thing a girl learns on the street is that when men are after you, being fast is your best bet because you’re usually not going to be stronger, and if they’ve got guns, the game’s already over.

  Eighth floor. My feet were slamming down on the rusted metal treads, my calf muscles screaming from the strain. From long practice I automatically jumped over ones that weren’t safe. A yell below told me one of the men hadn’t been so lucky. I thought of the rusted metal scraping against skin, maybe puncturing, getting caught up in some muscle.

  Finally, finally, the tenth floor. I burst through the metal door and rushed out onto the roof, starting to pant, my hair plastered to my head with sweat. The men were at least five stories below.

  I cl
imbed up on the roof ledge, looking down at the City of the Dead. Whatever my parents had intended, this was my city now.

  Ridley was swirling in circles above me with a hurry-up expression in her eyes. Smiling at her, I threw back my poncho and extended my wings, almost groaning with pleasure at finally being able to stretch them out. The constant ache between my shoulder blades released with them. Tip to tip, they were almost four meters across, but I might grow some more.

  I jumped off the roof and felt my wings fill with air. As always it was an amazing feeling—the feeling of being free and strong in a city where no one wanted you to be. Laughing, I swooped away from where the men struggled on the stairway, far below me. They might give up; they might make it to the roof to find that I was somehow just gone. They might assume that like so many others, I’d taken a long, last leap down to the pavement below. Anyway, I never needed to think about them again. I rose above the greasy mix of fog and clouds that blotted out the moon, breathing in cold, clean air. Ridley looped in big arcs around me as if I were slowing her down.

  “Get stuffed, Ridley!” I yelled, laughing to feel so free above the City of the Dead. Even if it was just for a little while.

  CHAPTER 7

  I soared upward, moving my wings strongly, feeling their power as I worked out the kinks I got from keeping them hidden all day. This was—just so great. It was cool and dry and quiet up here. Down below was always warmish, always wettish, noisy, crowded, dangerous. Everything below was old and rotting; everything above fresh and new.

  But up here—no one up here but us birds.

  I flew higher and higher until the air thinned and it became harder to breathe. From up here I could barely see the City of the Dead—it was hidden by the ever-present mucky clouds. I couldn’t see anything else, either. For a good twenty, thirty kilometers, I saw land—bare, rocky, treeless land. No other cities, no other lights, no other clumps of clouds where another city might be hidden beneath. No escape.