by Elliot Wake
Then her gaze flashed again to me.
I averted mine. Faked a groan, collapsed into a cracked leather armchair. Put a hand to my head.
Armin said, “It’s no use. We have to reschedule, Lane.”
“We can’t. I paid people off.”
“We’ll pay them off again.”
“The mousetrap is set for tonight. His roommate’s out of town. Things won’t line up like this for months.” I could almost hear her teeth gritting. “I planned this out perfectly.”
“And I fucked it all up,” I said. “Because I’m not perfect, like you.”
Laney didn’t respond, which was response enough.
“He made a mistake,” Armin said. “This is why there’s a plan B.”
Fraternal solidarity. How nice.
“What’s plan B?” I said.
Laney looked at me, expressionless, then headed for the door. Before it opened she said, “Reconvene tomorrow. Same time. Show up sober, or don’t show up again.”
Heavy steel creaked and slammed, so loud it made my teeth ring.
And then there were four. I sank deeper into the chair. Blythe turned to go and Armin caught her hand.
“I’ll talk to Lane,” he said.
“She needs me.”
“You’ll just set each other off. Let me defuse her.”
There was a weird bond between those three. Laney and Blythe were girlfriends, madly in love; Armin was the pseudo-platonic ex who arbitrated their fights, smoothed their jagged edges, kept them together while he lived through them vicariously. Blythe called it a two-and-a-half-sided love triangle. It was sad, clinging to something dead like that.
To someone who didn’t love you the way you loved them.
Blythe scrunched Armin’s sleeve in her fist and let go. The door opened and closed again, gentler.
“Bloody hell,” she said when he was gone. “I wouldn’t mind dismantling the shit out of that bloke.”
“Armin?” Ellis said, looking horrified. But not too horrified.
“No, little bird. That arsehole, ‘Crito.’ Talk about bloody pretentiousness.” Blythe sank her nails into a leather chair back. “Every men’s-rights fuckwit fancies himself some Greek philosopher. A beacon of pure reason, shining a light on our womanly hysteria.”
“You know,” Ellis said, “that word itself is sexist. ‘Hysteria’ literally means ‘suffering in the womb.’ The ancient Greeks actually thought the uterus drove women crazy.”
“Here we are two thousand years later, and some blokes still think it does.”
I shifted uncomfortably.
Thing is, some blokes have a uterus.
“So what’s this plan B?” I said, changing the subject.
“Who bloody knows. Lane never tells me anything.”
“She’s been watching this guy for a while, but never mentioned him before.”
Ellis cleared her throat. “Actually, we’ve kind of known about him the whole time.”
“ ‘We’?” I said.
“Well, me. I mean, obviously all our missions lately were connected. The flower bouquets, the threatening cards. It’s his signature move. We just didn’t know who was behind them.”
“Crito,” I muttered, stroking my stubble.
Ellis eyed me. Then she eyed Blythe. Then she bit her lip.
“You have that thinky look,” I said.
“It’s nothing.”
“That means it’s definitely something.”
Ellis took a step back, loosening her tie. Behind those Buddy Holly glasses, her clear green eyes bounced between us.
“What do you know, E?” I said. “Laney said you’ve built a dossier.”
“She’d kill me if I shared it.”
“We’re all on the same side here.” I stood. “I want to see that data, Ellis.”
She looked pleadingly at Blythe. Blythe merely shrugged.
“I can’t, Ren.”
“Then just give me the address. That’s all I need. I can take this scumbag out myself.”
“Laney set everything up a particular way. If we mess with it, who knows what could happen.”
I could redeem myself, I thought. And then ask for the favor I wanted. “We go way back, old sport. Do me a solid.”
Ellis was grimacing. “Let’s wait till tomorrow. Ren, you’re not sober. Maybe that’s a sign this wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Since when do you believe in signs, Professor?”
“I don’t. I’m just saying—” She sighed and glared at Blythe. “Could you back me up here?”
“Mate, Laney doesn’t like anyone fucking with her plans. She’s allergic to the unexpected. It makes her bite people’s heads off.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two know something you’re not telling me.”
Ellis tossed her hands up. “We’re just trying to keep you out of trouble.”
“Blythe’s middle name is trouble.”
“It’s Spencer, actually.” Ellis sighed again, but with resignation. “This is a really bad idea. If you mess up—”
“Give me an hour and I’ll be fine. I’m a professional, E. I don’t mess up.”
Blythe cackled and said, “Famous last words.”
———
An hour later I clung to a rusty fire escape on the side of an apartment complex, gazing out over the sleeping city. From far away the lights were a swarm of gold fireflies, flickering as if a finger stirred them. When a breeze broke through the thick heat, tinged with the lake’s coolness and a freckling of raindrops, I felt a wild impulse to swing over the rail, swan dive to the pavement.
Testosterone was supposed to toughen me up. But sometimes it gave me just enough edge to make me a danger to myself.
And to others? Always.
I climbed to the top floor. Night sky above, clouds crumpled like foil paper. The window before me was a grimy mirror. In it, a man clad in Kevlar met my stare. Raindrops spattered his masked face, tiny globes of mercury.
I slid a shim into the window frame, caught the lock and lifted. Chilled air rolled out. No movement. Down in the alley Blythe flicked her flashlight, two blinks. All clear.
I whispered into my headset.
REN: I’m in. No sign of target.
ELLIS: His IP traces there. He’s inside. Be careful.
Inside the bedroom the cool blooms of LEDs pulsed in the darkness. I slunk through the shadows, listening. Dead silence. A too-pure, too-still silence, like something that lay tightened, waiting.
The computer showed a black screen saver. I bumped the mouse.
Some online video game. I aimed my body cam at it.
ELLIS: Something’s wrong.
REN: What?
ELLIS: Look at the screen.
I tilted my chest to give them a clearer view.
BLYTHE: That creature is hitting him.
ELLIS: He’s just standing there in a dangerous area.
REN: Why would he do that?
ELLIS: Because he was interrupted. I think we should abort, guys.
REN: Relax. We just got here.
I pulled the .40 from my rib holster and screwed on the suppressor.
My muscles flexed, every fiber coiling, ready. I sidled through the apartment and paused at each door. Bathroom, kitchen, living room: all empty.
ELLIS: I don’t like this. I’ve got a bad feeling.
BLYTHE: Go back to the bedroom. Now.
ELLIS: Why?
BLYTHE: Because I just saw a shadow in the window.
Goose bumps stippled my arms. I gripped the gun tighter.
When I returned to the bedroom I felt that tension in the air, an elusive vibration. Higher now.
The closet door was wide open. It had been closed when I arrived.
I raised my weapon and stalked toward it. Switched the gun light on, prepared to shoot.
No one. Oxfords and chinos, hanging still.
My shoulders unknit. Light off. I began to turn.
And the shadows in the c
orner breathed.
My spine snapped straight. I aimed and at the same time heard the swoop of displaced air, saw the darkness arc with motion.
Someone was aiming at me.
“Drop your weapon,” I barked.
Something clicked.
I was a hair from firing when light exploded in my face. It swiveled aside, and the afterimage cleared. There was a woman.
“Drop yours,” she said.
A woman with a smart British accent. The very same one who’d baited me at Umbra.
Cressida.
BLYTHE: Who the bloody hell?
ELLIS: She’s got our target.
A mass of shadow sprawled on the bed behind her. Two faint white gleams. Eyes. The rest of the man appeared to be thoroughly duct-taped.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded of Cress.
“Lower your weapon. Then we’ll talk.”
“No chance. You first.”
“Count of three, then.”
BLYTHE: Don’t trust her.
ELLIS: You don’t have a choice. Just do it.
BLYTHE: I’m coming up.
ELLIS: No. Artemis, stay put. If you barge in she’ll shoot you.
“One,” Cress said.
Our code names represented our primal selves. Blythe was Artemis, the wild huntress, fierce and indomitable, beholden to no man. Ellis was Blue, the boy she was inside. The part of her she’d hidden for so long.
And I was Cane. You know why.
“Two.”
Metal creaked on the fire escape. The duct-taped mummy moaned through his gag.
“Three.”
And this was where I made a mistake.
I trusted my gut and lowered the gun. “What are—”
“Wrong move,” Cress said.
Before I could blink, something struck me in the face.
If I weren’t still battling the dregs of my drunkenness I would’ve taken it like a champ and struck back, but instead I staggered, fell. Flailed wildly and shattered the computer screen, glass talons slashing at my skin. I rolled with the impact. Cressida’s boot stomped an inch from my head and I seized a handful of debris and hurled it, blind. A nebula of shards and dust spun around us.
Cress recoiled. My gun was on her instantly.
“Lower your weapon,” I growled.
She took aim.
I hurled myself forward and dragged her to the floor. Our limbs locked, her leather groaning under my grip, her nails skittering for purchase on my body armor. We twined together and rolled through the glass and for a moment the violence was almost elegant, like some full-contact ballet. We moved the same way. All grace and flow. Absurdly I thought: she’s a dancer, too. Then we paused and she crouched over me, panting, and I hesitated. She didn’t.
An elbow decked my jaw. I flipped her, pinned her to the hardwood.
Our faces were inches apart. Summer rain and warm sweat filled my senses.
“Stop,” I rasped. “I’m not here for you.”
“You’re good, bad boy. But you hold back too much. That’s why you’re going to lose.”
Her knee swung straight between my legs.
It hurt—getting hit that hard anywhere hurts—and I slammed her down, knocking her breathless. Cress lay limp. Confusion reeled across her face. She hadn’t braced for impact, assuming she’d crushed my balls.
For a second I actually felt shitty for winning this fight. Because of the way I won. Because of what it meant.
I stood, confiscating her weapon. Same caliber, suppressed. She swayed to her feet.
“Get out of here,” I said. “Last chance.”
A steel fang ripped through the darkness. Her knife. Instead of firing I flung my arm out, to catch blade on bone.
Don’t hurt her, don’t hurt her.
Then Blythe flew through the window and tackled us both.
The knife spun away in a fan of silver. The two girls thrashed across the floor, knocking lamps over, a bookshelf they both deftly avoided, a TV neither of them did. I trained my light on them, a blur of slender bodies twisting around and around in vicious helixes.
“Freeze,” I bellowed.
Cress perched over Blythe, but she’d paid for it. Red stripes raked down her neck.
And then it happened.
The knock at the front door.
“Hello?” a woman called.
ELLIS: Oh, shit.
Prim-and-proper Ellis rarely swore. This was bad.
I moved toward the guy on the bed.
“Stop,” Cress hissed. “You take that gag off, he’ll scream for help.”
Tapeface shook his head no emphatically.
Another knock.
“Hello? I live below you. I heard things breaking. Are you okay?”
“Oh, for Christ’s—” Blythe shouldered Cress off and sat up. Her voice turned saccharine. “Er, we’re a little busy right now.”
And she gave a low moan.
And giggled.
From the hall, a pause, then, “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—sorry.”
Footsteps, receding.
I gestured at Cress with my gun. “Stand up.”
Slowly she rose, eyes locked on me. Glass cascaded off her jacket and plinked musically on the floor. Blythe pursed her lips and spit a mouthful of blood, dark as wine.
ELLIS: Are you guys hurt?
REN: I’m fine. Artemis?
BLYTHE: Think she broke my bloody rib.
ELLIS: Can you breathe okay?
BLYTHE: I’ll live. Especially if I can hit her again.
ELLIS: You need to get out of there.
REN: And how do we do that with two hostile captives?
ELLIS: I don’t know. I think . . . maybe we should leave Crito to her.
BLYTHE: You’re joking.
ELLIS: No, I’m not. We’re not supposed to be here, Artemis. Who knows what we’re interfering with.
Cressida watched us as we spoke, not missing a word. Her gaze ricocheted around the room. Planning a move. She was trained, very well trained, but those eyes filled with curiosity when they landed on me. I’d surprised her.
You were wrong, I thought. I’m not some cocky prick who throws his strength around carelessly. I learned how to survive just like you did.
In a female body.
Crito squirmed and mumbled into his gag. It almost sounded like “She’s going to kill me.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked Cress. “Who are you?”
“How amusing. I know who you are, yet you don’t know me.”
“You know a lot of things you shouldn’t. That’s not good for your long-term health.”
Blythe kneaded her side. “Let me beat the truth out of her.”
ELLIS: [Mutters inaudibly.]
BLYTHE: What?
ELLIS: I said, “Don’t you think that’s kind of overkill, Artemis?”
BLYTHE: Me, taking it too far? Never.
I circled closer, putting Cress between me and Blythe. “I don’t want to hurt you. But if you don’t start talking, I’ll have no choice.”
Blythe’s hand crawled toward the knife strapped to her thigh.
Cressida stood there calmly, loose limbed. In the harsh white beam her eyes were pale gold. Small galaxies of crushed glass sparkled around us, dusting the tumbled books like snow.
“You won’t hurt me,” she said. “You’ve had three chances and failed.”
“I didn’t fail. I was trying not to hurt you.”
“How noble. So chivalry isn’t dead.”
“What do you want with this guy?”
“Same as you.” She glanced at him icily. “To give him a taste of true fear.”
Crito’s eyes bugged.
REN: Anyone else bother to notice that this girl’s not wearing a mask?
ELLIS: So?
REN: So she’s not worried who sees her face. Because she’s not planning to leave witnesses.
Something flashed in Cress’s gaze like the flick of a switchblade.
Light carved through the shadows. Cress hooked a foot around Blythe’s ankle just as Blythe swung her knife. I fired low, a disabling shot, but Cress anticipated and juked. She barreled at me and I braced for it, which was just what she wanted, because I felt her wrench the gun from my hand.
I couldn’t shoot at point-blank range. Not her.
Not a woman.
So instead I let her disarm me and thought: This is the way I die.
She dropped the muzzle in line with my heart.
Then pivoted neatly and fired at the bed.
Crito heaved himself away, and Cress kept firing, a sound like giant needles puncturing the air. Feathers jetted up from the quilt. On the white wall above us burst a Rorschach rose painted in blood.
I flung myself at Cress, smothered her against the bed. Her body beneath me was toned and tight, but small. Easy to overpower when I gave myself free rein. Blythe darted in to disarm her.
“You damned idiot,” Cress said. “I’m—”
I pressed her face into the mattress as Blythe cuffed her with a zip tie.
“Shut up,” I said, “or I’ll gag you, too.”
When I released her she shot me a cold glower but didn’t speak.
Quiet permeated the room. Only the redness and rain were alive, falling.
ELLIS: Oh my god. Is he—
Crito flopped onto his back, groaning.
BLYTHE: Much as it pains me to be thankful for this, he survived.
Heavy pounding on the front door. Now a man’s voice said, “Open up. I know there’s a lady in there with you, asshole. What have you done to her?”
“And the shit just got deeper,” Blythe said.
Cress smiled. “Could you have fucked this up any more thoroughly?”
“What did I tell you about talking?”
She kept smiling till I fished the roll of duct tape from my field pack.
“Listen,” she said. “We’re on the same side.”
“Why is your mouth still moving?”
“You don’t want to do this.” I stepped closer, and she blurted, “The Little Wolf sent me, you oaf. I’m plan B.”
Blythe and I stared at each other, startled.
ELLIS: Oh. Huh. I . . . hmm.
“If the Wolf really sent you,” I said, “you’d know this is a nonlethal takedown.”
“And if you could hold your bloody rum,” she spat back, “you’d know I’m here to do the job you couldn’t. She sent me to knock the stuffing out of him and record it. We put that on the Internet, it’ll scare his lackeys shitless.”