Neon Revenge
Book One of the Neon Lex Trilogy
Graeme J Greenan
Copyright
Copyright © 2019 by Graeme J Greenan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
Epilogue
Authors Note
Further Reading
For mum and dad
Prologue
Malcolm Jacobson watched the procession amble along the dimly-lit tunnel against the backdrop of their tall, shuffling shadows. Their heads were bowed low; their demeanour that of defeat. High spirits were scarce within the hollow tube they marched through. They all knew where they were headed; the destination was more or less spelt out for them during their interrogation. It was an inevitability which would have had them fighting with every fibre of their being under any other circumstances. But now, Jacobson thought with mild amusement, his lips twitching into a satisfied grin, they almost looked like they welcomed it.
He found the whole spectacle sad, especially since this group in particular, at one point, would have been the definition of defiance. Not now, and if he was being honest with himself, he’d probably feel the same way if he’d played host to the attentions of the bleeders for as long as they had.
He shivered at the thought.
He leaned forward, taking hold of the grubby rail, and gazed down. He began to feel pity for them in their current state; their torn, sodden clothes hung off their frames in tattered strips; wounds varying in severity, haphazardly patched up or left open for all to see; their pathetic faces painted the perfect picture of persecuted misery. The initial emotion brought on a wave of anger which swept away his absurd bout of empathy. He clenched the railing, his skin stretching his knuckles white. These pathetic creatures were outcasts, firebrands, and troublemakers. They were enemies of the state who, if given the opportunity, would pull down order with their disillusioned ambitions to wreak havoc and chaos.
They were reaping what they’d sown, it was as simple as that.
He’d been tasked with the ‘necessary exodus’ – as it was officially labelled within the inner circles of government – for the last couple of years now, and as he stood above the sorry group, he still knew it was a matter of self-preservation that the rose bush was trimmed from time to time. It was better for everyone that a few bad apples were thrown away before their rot spread to the rest of the orchard; to maintain the Prime’s vigilance to keep humanity safe from those who would do her harm. And if that meant expunging those who’d decided to fight against society into the barren wastelands, then so be it.
He watched, stoic, the initial sympathy for the way these traitors had been treated already fading, his focus returned, as their pathetic squalls and cries echoed down the tunnel. He should have brought earplugs. In Jacobson’s eyes, they’d brought this on themselves. Prime Vonn had given them the best possible chance to thrive, and how did they repay this gift? He shook his head, feeling repulsed as their stench invaded and insulted his senses.
If it were up to him, he’d line them up against a wall and spray them in a hail of lead and be done with it. It was how the task had been carried out before, that was until… He grimaced, pushing the memory to the back of his mind before it could rear its ugly head and plague him with shit, he was more inclined to repress. Six months ago, this whole operation had been placed in jeopardy by his inability to keep one of his own from stepping out of line. Luckily, it had been taken care of; the threat dealt with before it had cost him his place – though, his reputation had suffered because of it.
Good riddance, he thought, gritting his teeth and letting go of the rust-pitted balustrade and walking away from the scene below. He marched along the narrow balcony fixed on stanchions to the cylindrical wall of the tunnel, his boots clunking against the thick steel of the floor. A few guards stationed below – overseeing the exodus of prisoners – glanced up at the sudden noise above their heads. He paid them no heed, feeling the need to be out of this wretched place. They knew who he was, and thus quickly returning their attention to the prisoners.
Very few knew of this place’s existence. It was deep below the city, only accessed via an elevator within a dull, well-guarded warehouse in a section of the city rarely frequented by citizens. A series of corridors led away from the elevator through multiple doorways and checkpoints. The tunnel itself was strewn with the remnants of a bygone era; of times when war reigned supreme. Old cruisers – or cars as they were once known; primitive vehicles which ran on petroleum-based fuels, long-gone from the world – lay piled against the outer walls like a scrapheap graveyard; dust and debris lay so thick upon the twisted, battered metal, it was like a layer of skin.
He reached the end of the walkway to the exit stairwell and began to descend, leaving the cacophony of footfalls and the stench of their march behind him. He wanted to be as far away from the tunnel as possible before the outer doors were opened; the reek of the barren wastelands, beyond the outer walls of the city, was an unpleasantness he could do without.
Halfway down the creaking stairwell, the lights failed. His heart thumped against his ribcage as he squinted in the gloom. The only source of light came from the faint glow of the tunnel, which given its distance from his position, was almost useless. Cursing, he reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat and fished out his lighter – the lighter he’d received as a gift from the Proxy on his ascension, solid silver with his initials emblazoned in gold on its front – and ran his thumb down the small wheel sparking it into light, casting the narrow stairwell in a soft orange glow. The small flame flickered and danced as he continued down the steps. He took each step with caution so as not to accidentally slip or stumble and risk the chance of dropping his only source of light. If he fell and broke his ankle, he’d never hear the end of it from his fellow comrades – he was on thin ice as it was.
He sighed with relief when he reached the bottom, his boots crunching on the gravel-strewn concrete. A metallic clang rang out, breaking the silence, causing him to flinch. He wheeled around, raising his lighter up in a feeble attempt to shed light up the stairwell where he thought the noise had come from, but the light emitted from the flame only cast its glow a few feet in front of him.
He remained where he was, rooted to the spot, waiting for a follow up to the sudden noise. He took a step forward, trying to attune his senses – all the while feeling utterly ridiculous. Was there someone on the balcony? Stupid, he thought. The stairwell he’d just traipsed down was the only way in or out. He could still make out the steady hum of the outcasts, their slow rhythmic march thumping its beat. Maybe it had come from the tunnel and the sound had just carried, the practical part of his mind suggested – a guard, perhaps? Maybe one of the prisoners had stepped out of line? He couldn’t be sure; the acoustics in this claustrophobic shithole made it difficult to determine the origins of certain sounds.
Then a thought occurred to him. The guards had seen him leave. Maybe one of those asshole’s had thought it hilarious to play a joke on him. “If I find out this is all part of some elaborate joke, mark my words the perpetrator will find themselves strapped to a bleeder’s table so fast it’ll make their head spin,” he bellowed, but there was no reply.
He waited a few more moments until he was satisfied it was quite probably his tired mind playing tricks on him. He shook his head, managing a half-hearted chuckle. He turned around and made for the exit, deciding he’d earned himself a decent measure of scotch when he got home.
The second his fingers touched the chipped paintwork of the battered door, another clang resounded once more, freezing him in his tracks. This time it sounded closer, a few feet away, maybe halfway up the stairwell.
He slowly turned on his heels, fear gnawing at his insides as his mind tried to work out if there was an entrance onto the walkway he wasn’t aware of; the place was a warren of old service networks, it wouldn’t be entirely improbable if there was more than one way in and out of the tunnel. He could feel his bladder weaken, threatening to vacate its contents. The tunnel freaked him out at the best of times, the last thing he needed was random noises ringing out around about him, exasperating his unease. He raised his hand, the lighter trembling in his grasp, as he took another look up the stairwell. Beads of sweat were beginning to surface on his forehead. Again, there was nothing there. He sighed, his breath causing the flame to wobble, relieved to find he was still alone.
He yelped involuntarily as the lights began to strobe on and off. He squinted from the harshness of it. Spots began to form in the corners of his vision. He had to suppress the urge to scream when, for the briefest of moments, the silhouette of a looming figure stood watching him from above, sinister, wreathed in shadow.
The lights suddenly stopped flashing, dying for a few heart-wrenching moments, before kicking back into life once more, bathing the area in artificial light – presumably powered by the back-up cells. He looked with bulging, fearful eyes to the spot where the strange figure had stood.
There was no one there.
He closed the lighter and turned. Fuck this, he thought. The sooner he got to his cruiser – and his security detail – the better.
Before he’d taken his first step, an echoed, haunting voice called out to him, chilling his very bones. “Jacobson,” it called.
He stiffened, his lighter slipping from his paralysed fingers, as he recognised the voice. It was a voice he’d remember for the rest of his days. A voice he’d listened to as it wailed and screamed for mercy; those cries falling on the deaf ears of the bleeders as they’d set to work on her.
It wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be, could it? He scanned the area with frightened eyes. Where was it coming from? He took a step towards the foot of the stairs. “Hello, who’s there?” he called out, his voice betraying the abject terror he felt.
There was no answer. The silence dragged on for an excruciatingly long time. His overcoat suddenly felt too heavy, claustrophobic. He searched for the source of the voice, but all he could hear was the thump, thump, thump of the exodus in the tunnel.
The silence was broken by a soft hiss, followed by an almighty crack as one of the lights, fixed to the wall, exploded in a spray of sparks and broken glass, the pieces showering the metal steps like confetti. Jacobson stumbled back, wishing he’d brought his pistol.
“You know who this is, Jacobson,” the voice called out, its tone cold and cruel.
“Y… you’re dead,” he cried, not sure where to direct his gaze as he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure where the voice was coming from. He pulled out his scribe – the small handheld tech allocated to all Sanctum-One citizens – and held it aloft. “Whoever you are, if this is some sick joke, know that you’re dealing with a member. I have armed security at my disposal. One call and you’re dead.”
A sadistic laugh cackled, the awful sound reverberating all around him. “You had armed security, Jacobson. They’re currently lying in pieces in front of the smoking ruin that used to be your cruiser. You’re all alone…”
What remained of the light died. Before he could even attempt to comprehend what was going on, he felt a thin coldness slip into his back and out through his stomach, piercing the fabric of his shirt, followed by a warmth trickling down his torso and down his crotch.
The lights flickered on once more. He shuddered, his legs suddenly growing weak. He glanced down at his midsection where three inches of sharp steel protruded – poking out from a crimson mess that looked very much like his stomach. A hand grabbed him roughly from behind. He felt a warm breath against his ear. “…and you’re all mine,” said the cruel voice.
Jacobson jerked forward as the blade was pulled from his body with a wet slop. He turned his head just in time to see a shadow wielding the blade; swinging it with expert precision towards his neck. The razor-sharp blade cut through bone and sinew like it was cutting water.
The slice was so fast, and so clean, his head – whose face still retained its expression of shock and horror – remained where it was, perched on his neck, blood gurgling out of the thin line which circled its circumference, until his legs finally gave way and his body crumpled to the ground, pitching the head a few feet away.
The dark figure approached the corpse as it continued to spew its contents from the fleshy mess where the head had been attached, and bent down to examine her victim. She searched the body until she found what she was looking for. A gold pin which bore the image of a golden dove, wings outstretched as though in flight, lay against the black backdrop of the man’s lapel. She unclipped the silver clasp that fastened the pin to the dead man’s coat and pocketed it.
It had begun.
I
Jared ran through the precinct, his breath laboured, his thighs burning as his debilitating terror was barely kept in check by the constant waves of adrenaline that coursed through his veins. Keep going, he told himself, keep going. His shirt stuck to his chest; the mixture of blood and sweat pasting the silk to his skin like film; the expensive material stretching with every breath he sucked in, all the while, his lungs felt as though they were on fire.
He took a quick glance behind him to see if his pursuer was close. There were so many neon lights, it was all a blur to him; people, market stalls, and the ever-present strobe of the shop lights. His head beat with its invasiveness.
Too busy glancing over his shoulder, he collided with an elderly woman, laden with shopping bags. They both fell in a tangle of limbs and groceries onto the tiled floor, quickly drawing a multitude of onlookers to the sudden spectacle. His shoulder screamed in protest; the bullet wound raw and burning.
He scrambled to his feet, knocking the woman into a man in the process of pulling her to her feet. He ignored the shouts, and cries of outrage as more people came to the old woman’s aid. He felt a hand grasp at his coat. He slapped it away. They didn’t concern him. All that mattered was escape. All that mattered was sanctuary.
He reached the end of the precinct, and the scene he’d caused. He maintained the speed of his flight as he burst through the doors and out into the street. Another wave of pain and nausea swept over him. He fought with all he had not to pass out.
A few startled citizens stared at his bedraggled state. He ignored them, too busy trying to find his bearings; he’d been so engrossed in fleeing from the maniac, he’d forgotten where he was.
The welcome sight of a nearby street sign told him where he was; he was on the west side of the market district. His apartments – and security personnel – weren’t far. He’d made it this far; he’d be damned if he was going to be caught now.
The whine of a bullet whipped past his head, so close he felt it on his cheek. It ricocheted off the pavement, smashing the light fitting fixed to the side of the door he’d just burst through. He was showered with glass and small shards of metal which nipped his skin.
He screamed in terror, spri
nting north, not waiting for the next bullet to find its mark.
Rain lashed the dimly-lit street as he barrelled down it. His feet kicked and splashed through the puddles that pooled by the kerb, soaking his shoes and the bottom half of his trousers. The smell of shit and waste from the filthy water crawled up his nose, invading his senses, threatening to make him vomit.
He reached an intersection and made a left. He ducked as another bullet smashed into the brickwork above his head. He overshot the corner, careening onto the road, straight into the path of an oncoming taxicab. He stood, transfixed, waiting for it to mow him down. Luckily, it blared its horn as it just managed to swerve out of his path. He heard it collide with something, followed by screams from a few surprised bystanders.
He ignored it as the entrance to his apartments lay ahead. The blue and neon sign fixed onto the lintel was the only thing he focused on – a beacon of salvation.
Rodic and Marr – his two doormen – whipped their heads round in his direction as he splashed and staggered towards them; their eyes widened in shock at the bedraggled figure sprinting straight for them.
Marr pulled out a stun-baton from inside his jacket and held it high, ready to swing it at the crazed stranger. His arm relaxed the moment he realised it was his employer.
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