For years, Hunter’s Point was an eyesore, a forgotten stretch of abandoned waterfront property. This was before developers saw the old factory buildings as gold mines and started renovating them or tearing them down and building high-rise luxury apartment towers.
Now its selling point was the skyline view and proximity to the city. For over inflated prices, that could get you a house anywhere else in the country, but you too could live in a closet five minutes from Manhattan. They called it spitting distance. I’ve yet to meet anyone strong enough to spit across the East River.
I heard the crunch of boots mixed with the raspy breathing of the men around me as I lay motionless. I must’ve broken one of their noses. My heartbeat pulsed in my ears and it was all I could do to remain still as the driver opened the door.
“What the hell?” the driver said as he climbed inside. “You need to call this in.”
The procedure would be for the driver to enter the vehicle while his partner covered him with his weapon. He would try to radio it in only to discover his radio didn’t work.
“Command, come in command,” the partner said. “I got nothing. Try yours.”
The driver reached across his body to use the shoulder mic. I kicked up using the floor of the van as support and drove my heel into the side of his head. I grabbed him as he fell forward and shoved him out the back and into his partner, who fired several times.
The combat armor worn by the driver stopped the rounds as I closed on his partner and drove a fist into the partner’s sternum, doubling him over and forcing the air out of his lungs. I finished with a descending elbow to his head, knocking him out.
I fished in the drivers pocket and grabbed the keys to the van and the lockbox. I put the driver and his partner in the back of the van and drove a few blocks to a deserted street near the Eleventh Street Basin.
When the van failed to arrive on time, they would issue the SOS. It would take them another few hours before they tracked the route they used. The beacon, along with all the electronics being fried meant they would have to find them the old-fashioned way. I would be long gone by then.
My first stop would need to be Dragonflies to get the Cuda and the bag Luca left me. Then I needed to head to Haven and get Jude. He still had plenty of training to go through.
FOURTEEN
DESPITE WHAT ANYONE says about New York City subways, they are the most efficient way to get around the city. Especially when Division 13 trackers were following you.
Called Bloodhounds, the trackers had specialized abilities to follow, find, and finish a target by homing in on a particular energy signature. Today I was the special of the day. I glanced down and checked Cait, but my brace was still in recovery mode.
The two on the platform appeared to be lower ranked and tasked with the fringe of the tracking area. I could lose them once I got on the train. If it had been Paul, the Division head, I would’ve had a lethal situation. He was the reason they were dubbed the Bloodhounds.
The SOS must have gone out the moment the van deviated from the prearranged route. I noticed the two of them once I reached the empty platform on the subway. The fact that there were only two disappointed me. I’m sure I merited at least ten trackers, even on the fringe. They had come down the stairs about a minute after me, trying to blend in by keeping their distance and hugging the walls.
They were failing spectacularly. Dressed identically, in fashionable funeral wear, they sported the usual Division 13 ensemble: black suit, black shirt, with dark tie. Two trackers on an F train platform in the middle of the day were about as inconspicuous as a pair of clowns in full makeup complete with red noses. I would have to have a word with Paul about how his people should ‘blend in.’
I took a deep breath and did the one thing the tracker twins didn’t expect. I walked toward one of them. He was hovering near the stairwell at the far end of the platform, corresponding to the rear of the train once it arrived at the station.
He tried his best not to look at me, sliding his hand slowly to his side. I was certain the tracker behind me was moving in to flank me. In the distance, I could see the faint light of the F train approaching the station.
I kept my hands in sight and approached.
“Hey, hi. Maybe you could help me?” I kept my voice level. “Am I on the right station? I need to get to Times Square.”
I looked around quickly, feigning confusion, using the opportunity to gauge how far his partner was. Too far to do damage without using his gun.
Tracker Twin One did his best to look past me and lock on to his partner. I stepped into his line of sight and pointed to the subway map on the wall next to him. He turned to look at the map—clearly he was fresh out of the Division Academy because he followed my finger to the map.
He took his eyes off me.
I introduced his face into the subway map, which rested in a steel frame on a ceramic wall. Both surfaces were harder than your face and substantially harder than your skull. I heard the crunch of his nose proving me right and the quick footsteps of Tracker Twin Two rushing to his rescue.
I grabbed the first twin by the neck and restricted the flow of blood in his carotid artery. I made sure not to crush his trachea or any of the other delicate bones in his neck as he crumpled to the ground.
I drew Thorn and whirled on Twin Two, who pulled up short. Another mistake. His gun should have been in his hand and he should’ve been shooting instead of staring at the barrel of my gun with his hands up.
“How new are you two?” The F train was much closer now. I needed to disengage and disappear. “Never mind. Cuffs.”
He pulled out a pair of kagome cuffs. They weren’t standard issue, which meant they’d upgraded my threat level to ‘mildly annoying,’ if I knew Paul.
He would be livid once he discovered two of his hounds had been taken out of commission and he would upgrade my threat level to ‘royal pain in the ass.’ The thought warmed my heart.
“Open them and cuff yourself to sleeping beauty over here.”
He hesitated and I shot him in the leg. Negation rounds don’t dissolve humans. The runic treatment they undergo keys to the supernatural signatures and undoes them. Fatal if you’re not human, excruciating if you’re a human wearing a dragonscale-lined suit, which he was.
He fell to the ground with a grunt of pain but didn’t yell. I gave him points for not screaming. I took a quick two steps and right-crossed him across the jaw, careful not to shatter it. I pulled him next to his partner and cuffed them together on the nearest bench. Now they just appeared to be two good friends taking a nap on the subway.
I pulled a handkerchief and wiped the bloody face of Twin One. I placed the handkerchief in Twin Two’s hand and stepped back to observe the tableau. It was the picture of compassion, a Samaritan helping out his less fortunate fellow. I holstered Thorn and walked to the edge of the platform.
The F train roared into the station, causing paper and debris all over the platform to whirl around in small gusts of air. The doors opened with a familiar chime and no one got off. I climbed on and turned to look back at the trackers as the train pulled out of the station. It was possible Paul would upgrade my threat level to ‘right bastard’ after this.
I smiled and then remembered I needed to speak to Honor, who happened to be one of the crankiest mages I knew.
“This day just keeps getting better,” I muttered as we headed into the darkness of the tunnel.
FIFTEEN
DRAGONFLIES IN THE Reeds was located in downtown Manhattan. It took up half a block on Broadway from Warren to North Murray streets, making it the largest library of its kind on the Eastern seaboard.
I got off at the East Broadway stop in the heart of SoHo and walked down Broadway until I saw the familiar façade of Dragonflies. Broadway in the afternoon was a mass of life, not all of it human. It was perfect for losing any trackers that would be patrolling the area near Dragonflies.
I made sure to circle the block several times an
d even stopped in several smaller shops, using windows and mirrors to check behind me. I crossed Broadway in the middle of flowing traffic a few times, which is dangerously suicidal in the city.
When I was confident I had lost any trackers, I approached the central Archive from the rear entrance. I punched a code in the panel on the wall next to the door. It opened with a click and a quiet rush of air, reminding me of a small airlock.
In addition to being a neutral location, Dragonflies was the central Archive for the supernatural community. I called it a glorified library, which was inaccurate. It also housed the only coffee shop in the entire city that served Deathwish coffee. To me, this made it a glorified library with the only coffee shop in the city.
As a neutral location, violence of any kind was strictly prohibited within the confines of the library. In Honor’s Archive, which was what we called it in the Division, you followed the rules or you were bagged and tagged. If Honor didn’t like you and you broke his rules, they swept up what was left and carried you out in a small plastic bag. No one broke a rule twice in the Archive.
I noticed the intricate runic symbols on the doorframe. They were designed to prevent anyone from entering or exiting the Archive if needed. The door I used led to the Archive coffee shop. The sweet smell of coffee grounds filled my lungs, reminding me that I had missed my usual cup this morning.
I felt my techbrace vibrate, which signaled the recovery period had ended. The interior of the Archive reminded me of a large Zendo or meditation hall. Several tiered levels contained rows and rows of books. The center of the floor space contained neatly arranged desks and large tables for study. On every table sat several green mini bankers’ lamps with glass shades. Most of them were off because the large windows near the ceiling let in the midday sun.
I stepped into the coffee area, which was situated to the rear of the main floor. They served every kind of beverage. Some I knew, some were foreign, and if it wasn’t coffee, I really wasn’t interested. Behind the counter stood Honor’s right-hand woman.
If Honor was the storm, Rahbi was the calm before it. She looked up, gave me a nod, and prepared my brew as I approached the counter. She moved with a lithe grace that disguised a coiled lethality.
She was about Luca’s height. Pale gray eyes and jet-black hair down to her shoulders offset her brown skin. The rumors were that she was as powerful as Honor and that she came to the Archive after burning down a sect in her country. No one knew for sure and I wasn’t about to start asking today. Some things were best left unsaid and unasked.
We carried our past and many times our past carried us.
“Rough morning,” she said, her words crisp with a hint of an accent I could never place.
“You have no clue.”
She raised an eyebrow, letting me know she had every clue, and slid the cup across the counter. I took it, inhaling the aroma, and closing my eyes as the warmth of the cup spread throughout my hand. She made another cup and motioned for me to take it with me.
“He’s waiting for you. His office.”
“Thank you.” I raised my cup in a small salute, grabbed the second one, and headed up the staircase next to the coffee shop. The second level of the Archive was reserved for rare books, which were sealed behind glass cases. If you wanted a rare book, it required either Honor or Rahbi to access the case, before escorting you to a sealed reading room.
Some of the books were never allowed out of their cases. The most dangerous and rarest books were inside Honor’s office. I stood at the rune-covered door, took a deep breath, and knocked.
“Come in, Ronin,” a deep voice said.
SIXTEEN
THE DOOR OPENED gently, inviting me in. My skin tingled as I walked past the threshold. I stepped into the mid-sized office and paused. Sunlight shone through the skylight, bathing the space in natural light. A large desk, carved from granite, dominated one side of the office.
Freddy Mercury’s voice softy asked me if I wanted to live forever as I took in the office.
Every wall held cases filled with books. Unlike some of the other libraries I had visited, Honor was meticulous about order and organization. There were no books strewn about. Aside from the desk and the bookcases, his office was mostly empty space, except for some footstools to reach the higher shelves.
He kept no chairs for visitors because he never had any in his office. I walked over and placed his cup on the desk. He was, as usual, buried nose-deep in a book. In all the years we’d known each other, I’d never seen him without one in his hand or in a pocket.
The same order and organization he applied to his office carried over into his appearance. Unlike most mages who preferred suits, Honor leaned more toward the casual end of clothing. Jeans, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and work boots made up his usual ensemble.
He kept his gray hair cut short and wore stubble for a beard. It was like looking at construction-worker Gandalf. His deep brown eyes bored into me as I grabbed a footstool, dragged it across the floor noisily, and made myself comfortable.
As long I had known him, I never really knew how powerful he was. Some said he was stronger than an Archmage. All I knew was that the Dark Council, NYTF, and all of the sects left him alone to oversee the Archive. It wasn’t because of his rugged good looks.
“Imagine my surprise when Luca paid me a visit and left this here for you.” He reached on the other side of his boulder of a desk and produced a small, black, Zero Haliburton attaché case. He pushed it across the desk to me.
Ghostcases were the Division 13 equivalent of go bags. They usually contained cash, passports, credit cards, weapons, and extra ammo. Every operative kept one, but if Luca provided this one, it meant I couldn’t go near any of my drops to get mine.
Disabling the external protocols on my brace placed me in the dark. The Division couldn’t track a brace with external protocols shutdown. It didn’t mean they couldn’t track me at all. It just made it harder, which explained the bloodhounds. I examined the ghostcase. I didn’t see any kind of lock or combination mechanism. This meant that Luca splurged and went biometric on this one.
“How long ago did she leave it here?”
“Last week, along with reserving a spot for that hunk of metal you call an automobile.”
“Not all of us can afford or want a Centenario,” I said, adjusting the case on his desk. “Besides the Cuda can take being slammed into a wall. Your carbon fiber ride would go from automotive to abstract art after something like that.”
“Those of us who know how to drive don’t need tanks disguised as cars.” He waved my words away and took a sip of his coffee. “Open it.”
“A week ago?” I placed my hand on the handle of the ghostcase. It flared orange and opened with a click. “How deep has she gone?”
“Quite deep it appears.” He raised an eyebrow and looked into the case. “But not nearly as deep as you may need to go.”
I saw a standard issue S&W SD9 and extra magazines for Thorn. When I checked them, black wisps of energy drifted up into my face. Next to those were a few magazines of ND6s, neural disruptors designed for non-fatal take downs and were standard issue for most operatives working in sensitive, high-profile areas.
“Entropy rounds? How did she get her hands on entropy rounds?”
“Luca is resourceful and entropy rounds are banned, but these read stronger than entropy rounds. Enhanced somehow.
“Enhanced? How do you enhance entropy?”
“I don’t know. The energy signature is scattered. Avoid using them if you can, or only if you need to take down something large and fatal.”
I nodded. “Last resorts, then. Besides, I have the ND6s” I counted twenty magazines. “She thinks I’m going to war?”
“Si vas pacem, para bellum.” Honor pointed to the folder and USB drive attached to it. “May I?”
I handed the folder with the drive to him, and continued to go through the contents of the case. He inserted the USB into the la
ptop that rested on his desk.
I moved the four passports and several stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Each passport had a credit card attached to it. I checked them quickly and noticed the names on the cards corresponded to the passport.
“She expects me to take a trip?” I held up the passports.
He pointed to his screen. “I would say it’s likely in your future.” He turned the laptop around.
I saw an image of Delilah. Next to her image was the image of a stylized tiger. I remembered the same tiger in every depiction of the battle between Heaven and Earth. Except in this case there was no dragon.
“What’s that?” I pointed at the tiger.
“If it’s what I think it is, you should take all of this”—he waved at the contents of the case—“and use it to disappear. For at least a decade or two.”
“Your jokes suck, Honor. What is it?”
“That is the symbol for Tigris.”
“I know what a tiger is, I asked what the image was and why is Delilah’s face attached to it?”
“Tigris, not tiger. Like the river usually mentioned with Euphrates.”
“As in Persian Gulf? That Tigris?”
“Correct. Now think about the ramifications of what you just asked. You work with a group at the highest echelon of secrecy and you don’t know about this Tigris.”
“But Delilah does…”
“And so does Luca, apparently. You need to walk away from this, Ronin. It’s possible she provided this case to give you a means to hide.”
“Luca? Wants me to hide? Even if that were true, I can’t. Humans are being trafficked.”
“Oh, and you’re going to rush in and rescue them?” He shook his head. “You’re Division 13. Your entire purpose is to live in the shadows. You don’t exist.”
“It’s women and children, Honor,” I said quietly. “It’s also our purpose to stop them when no one else can, or will.”
“If you get involved with Tigris, it will be fatal. They employ both human and non-human operatives. They kill with impunity and move across continents like you cross the street.”
The Operative : A Division 13 Story Page 5