Despite the smell and my belly, I resist my initial urge to march across the street and pick up a bag of powdered sugar dusted beignets for myself. I’ve been in a few cities since gaining my powers from Ole Beeze, but never this one. Walking around blind is rarely a good idea, so I force myself to hang back across the street until I get a feel for the place.
It takes me less than a minute to be glad that I did. On the street corner across from me is a man looking off in the direction opposite of me. There’s nothing particularly odd looking about him. Fit, but not so much that I’d peg him for a gym rat or marathoner. Still, something about him rubs me as wrong, and when I think on it for a moment, I decide that it’s his shoes.
He’s wearing trail runners, which really isn’t anything too weird in itself. They’re the kind of thing made to work as well in the city as they do in a campground. I like them myself, because they’re adaptable, and when I’m working, I never know for sure if I’ll end the day on the same continent that I started.
They’re also expensive. Day to day wear is murder on their treads, and I’ve never met anyone else who hadn’t saved them for a workout or something similar.
This guy, fitness freak or not, is definitely not on his way to the gym. He’s wearing blue jeans and a light jacket to keep off the rain, and carries no gym bag to hold towels, shorts, or other essential treadmill-centric things.
Pausing, I take another look around me to see if the man’s choice of footwear is a common thing in these streets. Like I said, I’ve never been in this city, and don’t really know the fashion trends here. This could just be a one-off quirk of New Orleans and nothing to worry about. I could just be imagining things.
Looking around, I see that the plus side is that I’m not imagining anything. There’s another man wearing a pair of trail runners, albeit a little more worn from what I can see. Like the first man, he’s not looking at me, but he is crossing the road to my side of the street. He reaches the sidewalk, makes a turn, and starts wandering in my general direction, his eyes glued to the smartphone held in his hand.
Unalert as he seems, the man triggers the last of the alarm bells that I need to go from worry to full blown damage control. I’ve got good reason because the man now coming towards me has a duffel bag on his back.
Like sensible shoes, duffel bags are wonderful things in my business. They can hold cash, hide contraband, or even carry weapons without giving much of a clue to their contents if one adds other things alongside to fill out the empty spaces. The one on the man’s back is large enough to hold an assault rifle if it has a folding stock, but my gut tells me that it holds something more distinctive, like a Kel Tec KSG.
I really don’t need this shit, I think. My last few days awake have had more commotion than I’d ever have liked, with a large chunk of it provided by a group of mercenaries who favored Kel Tec KSGs. I don’t blame them. That shotgun was a complex mess of a thing, but it came with the ability to fire all kinds of nasty customized shells and came in a frame small enough to hide under a jacket, let alone in a bag.
I also didn’t blame them, too much, for coming after me. I’d done horrible things to their friends, and then I’d let horrible things happen to them. It made sense that still more of their kind would want quality time with me and a pipe wrench.
The last thing I need before meeting with Graham is a fire fight in the streets of her jealously guarded city, much less on the footsteps of a place where she likes to eat. I need to lead these guys away from here, shake them off, and return. All without getting cornered, or worse, getting shot.
I stick my hands in my pocket and rub the borrowed lighter I find there. It won’t be much use to me here - my last few attempts at a drop had left a lot to be wanted. Still, the feel of the tool on the tips of my fingers is enough to give me a sense of familiarity. A sense of confidence that I’ll need to pull off, well, anything.
With my hands in my pockets and head tucked down, I start walking northeast up Decatur. Within two blocks I come to a fork in the road, and take the rightmost one which, to my surprise, brings me up alongside what I assume is the Mississippi. That river winds slow and lazy through the city, its waters dark and choked with the smell of decay. I don’t mind the smell, though, because my hunch had been right about veering right.
The street stretching ahead of me is much less crowded than the one outside of the cafe. There’s people about and walking in clusters thick enough to make a racket if someone tries to grab me, but also thin enough for me to have a clear view of anyone nearby. I pause to tighten my laces when I come up alongside one of these groups, and catch sight of the man with the duffel bag still following me. He’s not hurrying, but something about the tension I see growing in his shoulders tells me that his patience for the chase is growing short.
I’ve been impatient myself, several times in fact, and while I may not be the kind of woman who learns her lessons quickly, I do learn them eventually. I can use his impatience, I think, if I can only find a way away from him. My fingers brush my new lighter again, and I get an idea.
My last few drops since I’d entered Louisiana hadn’t gone well, but that doesn’t mean they hadn’t worked at all. Each of them so far had landed me a few hundred feet away from where I’d aimed, which is a long ways away from the miles that I’m used to. I look around myself, now though, and am pretty sure that miles isn’t what I need at the moment. All I need is to get far away to break line of sight.
The river flowing alongside me gives me pause for a moment. If my next drop goes as unpredictably as my last few have, I’ve got a 50/50 shot of landing in the river. Still, 50/50 is better than the chances I have. The guys following me don’t look like track stars, but their choice of footwear lets me know that they’re more than willing to chase me down if it comes to a footrace.
I rise up from my shoelace inspection and start walking further down the street, veering a little towards the nearest cluster of people. It’s not a big gaggle, maybe six or eight people huddled together, listening and watching something on one of their smartphone screens. They won’t provide me with much cover, but if I can time things right I won’t need much. I wait until I come near them, then turn back to look at the man with the duffel bag behind me. The moment the group of screen watchers passes in between us, I throw a glance at an alley and hope, or maybe even pray, that I wind up there instead of the water, and flick my lighter.
My drop starts immediately after. I barely have time to take in my surrounding downstairs because I try for a landing as soon as I’m able. I haven’t been grabbed in the last 24 hours while in transit, and that’s a record that I’d like to keep going as long as I’m able.
To my surprise, I don’t just drop on dry land, I end up exactly where I’d hoped for, an alley about 200 feet away from where I’d been standing. I take a few steps back to get deeper into the damp shadows it provides, and settle down to watch for any other mercenaries who come my way.
It doesn’t take long for the duffel bag carrying man I’d been avoiding to come even with where I’d just been.
He turns around on his heel and looks around a bit, his face screwed up in a frown of frustration and confusion. I stay put as he raises his smartphone up to his ear, and remain so until another man, someone I hadn’t seen before, comes up to meet him from the direction I’d been walking in originally.
That gives me a little bit of pause. I really hadn’t noticed him, and looking closer, I wouldn’t have spotted him until it had been too late. The man who comes to meet him is older, with a look of boredom on his face. Pot bellied, slow, nothing like what I’d expect from your modern mercenary. The newcomer says a few words to the duffel bag man, none of them looking kind, and walks off, shoulders sloped to merge back into the foot traffic on the street. Close call, I think, closer than anything I’d want to deal with again.
CHAPTER FOUR
The mercenaries wander off o
ut of sight, but I don’t get up and move immediately. Instead, I settle down and think about what I’d just done with more than a little excitement. Not being able to drop had been nagging at me more than I’d realized. After a decade of freedom, being pinned down to one location made me feel like I’d lost an arm or a leg. My last drop, however, hadn’t been random at all. I’d thought of a place, then landed there a moment later - much like I usually did with my drops.
I run a few options through my head, and eventually come up with a guess. Distance. Both of the drops that I’d tried since waking up in Louisiana had been along the lines of my usual trips. I’d aimed for places far away, and was surprised when I landed within throwing distance from where I’d started my drops.
This time, however, I hadn’t aimed to go far, because I’d been expecting a fuck up. I just hoped real hard that I landed in the alley, and after flicking my lighter, there I was.
Distance, I think again. Maybe the lockdown over Louisiana and New Orleans wasn’t a total shutdown kind of thing. Maybe I could make my drops here, so long as I kept them short.
I don’t realize that I’ve decided to give my theory a try until I feel the lighter already back in my hand. I think about my meeting spot at Cafe du Monde, less than four blocks away. I fix the place in my mind, flick my lighter for a drop … and land, with a splash, in the Mississippi River gurgling a few hundred feet away.
The water is so cold it makes my muscles strain and start shivering. I dip below the surface, claw back up, and try to lift my hand far enough out of the water to flick the lighter again. It makes no flame, but there’s sparks, which is good enough for me. I lock my eyes on a rooftop near the alley I’d just dropped away from, flick the lighter again, and drop away from the river.
My landing on the rooftop is clumsier than I’d like because the frantic motions of treading water don’t translate well to standing on dry land. I stumble over my own feet and tip towards the edge of the rooftop, but manage to get my balance back in time to avoid pancaking myself. I back away from the edge of the rooftop, shivering and clutching the lighter in my hand. Good news, all in all. I’m still trapped in this city, but at least, if I’m careful, I won’t be trapped on any particular street.
I reach into my pocket to check the time on my phone, and am actually surprised when the display still works. It’s not often that you find one with decent waterproofing, despite what all of the ads like to say. I double check the timezone, look at the clock, and see that I’ve got about 10 minutes to get back to the cafe, preferably unseen.
Looking down at myself, soaked through to the bone, I figure that making my way there without attracting attention will take some doing. I’ve got my lighter though and, while I’m hamstrung by the short distances, I can make drops again. I’ve always found some way to manage when times got complicated. I refuse to miss this meet with Graham.
I’ve got no time to deal with my wet clothes, and I don’t know how many other mercenaries are looking for me in the streets. My best bet, by my guess at least, is to find a route to the cafe that keeps me off the streets. As much as I’d like to pull a batman and jump from rooftop to rooftop, I decide that a modified version - short drops to locations within line of sight to keep things safe - is the best way to go about things.
I crawl over to the opposite end of the roof to see if I can get a decent view of a way back to the cafe. I don’t really know how long is too long a drop, so I decide to be conservative and stick to things close enough to hit with a rock.The buildings next to me are close enough that I think, well hope, I can reach with one of my Louisiana shortened drops.
It may be a stretch, but I think I can make my way more or less back to the corner I hopped out of the cab at without having to come back down to ground level. I’m already running out of time to meet up with Graham, so I flick my lighter, make a drop, land and repeat.
My last drop to a rooftop lands me across the street from Cafe du Monde. The crowd on Decatur street outside is still thick enough to keep me from easily picking out any mercenaries that I’d missed on my first sweep. So, instead of climbing down and risking getting seen again, I decide to try for a drop straight to the inside of the cafe itself.
From what I can tell, the orders themselves and the actual cooking is done inside the main section of the building. I can’t see inside the building itself, because the glass is dark. I don’t want to try for a drop directly inside, then. With the glass obstructing my vision, I don’t know if trying to land there will go sideways due to a lack of line of sight.
The patio area, however, should be more doable. Cafe du Monde is an outdoors seating kind of place. There’s a large wide patio attached to the thing with a covered tarp overhead, and high railings that obscure the faces of people sitting down to eat.
I know that this may be a little dicey. All of my successful drops in the last few minutes had been within line of sight or less. This drop, however, is a good bit farther, maybe the length of half a football field. If it’s too far, and my drops malfunction again, I could land in the river if I’m lucky, or in front of a yet unseen mercenary grab team if not. It’s not really the kind of risk that I want to take, but It’s pretty much the only one I have available.
I say a silent prayer to myself, trying my best to leave God out of it. I don’t know for sure if He cares about my existence, but given the deals that I’ve made and the company I keep, I figure that it’s best to stay out of His notice.
Prayer done, I flick my lighter one last time, aiming for a lonely spot on the crowded patio, back in the corner.
I’m probably going to surprise someone when I make my landing. There are a lot of eyeballs there after all, but if I move with some confidence immediately after landing, I can probably depend on people to convince themselves that my sudden arrival was just something they imagined.
The drop goes smoothly, and to my relief, so does my landing. I look around briefly to see if anyone outside of the cafe has noticed me, then make a beeline for one of the side entrances into the building itself once I fail to see anything worrying. My shoes squish and squelch as I move, drawing more than a few eyeballs as I brush past patrons.
I keep my pace steady, though, and act as if nothing is amiss. Whatever I’m doing must work pretty well, because an old lady that I pass makes a tsk tsk noise when I come near and says something about young people forgetting to bring umbrellas.
I make my way to the line forming inside of the cafe interior and order a single basket of beignets. The smell from the cooking inside washes over me again, and I change my mind fast enough to turn the order into a double. My food comes out quick enough, and one of the servers must have taken pity on me, because they include a cup of coffee, free of charge, along with the beignets.
I take the pastries back to the patio area, trying to keep my face turned away from the streets as I move. I find myself a table, and against all of my instincts, turn my back to the street so that It’ll be impossible to see my face while I sit down without entering the crowded, very public, confines of the cafe itself.
The smell coming from my basket of beignets is killing me. The pastries are still sizzling with oil, and the mountain of powdered sugar dumped on top of them is thick enough to ski in. For a moment, I consider taking a bite while I wait. After all, Graham did ask me to save one for her, implying that she wanted me to eat. I refrain though, because while I wasn’t raised well, I wasn’t raised in a barn either. I wait for company. Especially company that should terrify me.
It’s a good thing I wait, though, because I’m there for less than a minute before a light brown skinned woman with reed thin wrists and full, inviting lips pulls out a chair and sits across from me.
“I’m impressed. I didn’t expect you to come with support, let alone with men of such quality. It took me a whole three heartbeats to realize they were here.” The woman that I presume is Graham reaches over to dip her
finger into the mound of powdered sugar on one of the pastries. When she licks it off, her dark eyes flick shut in what looks like genuine pleasure before she leans back and stretches like a cat.
“Were they expensive?” she asks. I give her a confused look, prompting her to add “The mercenaries.”
“Oh. Can’t tell you for sure.” I say. “But they knew what they were doing when they tried to grab me.”
Graham narrows her eyes for a moment and looks at me. There’s something wrong with her eyes. Though on second glance I can’t quite tell what. They’re light brown in color, and practically sparkle with intelligence and a razor’s wit. But something about them unnerves me in a way that I haven’t encountered before. They’re wrong. Somehow, in a way I can’t be sure of, but they’re wrong.
She blinks. The moment passes, and Graham speaks again.
“That was not wholly a lie.” she says. “Barely anything of a lie, in fact, but not all together true.”
Graham leans forward, planting her elbows on the edges of the table, her hands clasped together.
“Do not. Lie to me.” she says. “Not now. Not while I accept you as a guest in my home. Not while I sit and break bread with you.”
I glance down at the basket of beignets that, save for the bit of sugar Graham took, remains undisturbed.
“Not much bread broken yet.” I say.
Another pause from Graham, before she reaches out a narrow fingered hand and lifts one of the beignets. She breaks it in half, sprinkling the green painted table top with white powder. She takes half, bites into it, and leaves the rest for me.
“Bread has been broken.” she says. “Now, as I was saying, child. Do not lie to me.”
I reach out to the other half of the beignet and take a bite of it myself. I chew, then nod towards Graham, leaning back in my seat. It takes about every ounce of self control that I have to not lick my fingers when I do so, but I keep myself in check.
The Brimstone Series Page 15