Revolution (Replica)

by Jenna Black

  CHAPTER SIX

  There were no clocks at Angel’s, and Nadia wasn’t wearing a watch, but she knew she and her friends had been sitting here at this corner table, waiting for whatever Angel had in store for them, for hours. It had to be well past midnight by now, and Nadia hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of their hostess since she’d left the table. Djinni the Blue Giant, however, hovered constantly, always watching them.

  Talking over the music was hard—and inadvisable with Djinni hanging on their every word—so they mostly just sat in brooding silence. Which gave Nadia little else to do but to look around and see what kind of a place this really was.

  Angel’s was packed to the gills with people of all kinds. Lots of Basement-dwellers, of course, but a startling number of Employees and Executives as well. Some of them people Nate and Nadia knew personally, although luckily no one seemed to recognize them through their Basement disguises. Nadia knew that going to the Basement with a pack of buddies to take a walk on the wild side was something like a rite of passage for teenage boys, but most of the Employees and Executives in the club were a long way from being teenagers. They still traveled in packs, some even with bodyguards, and Angel’s staff fawned on them, said fawning often involving the removal of clothes.

  There were strippers everywhere, some of them dressed like the Basement-dwellers they were, some wearing outfits that mimicked Executive attire. Every few minutes, one of them would climb onto the bar or a table and start doing a bump-and-grind to the music, and men would flock to that area to stuff bills in garters. Usually, the strippers were women—though some were young enough that Nadia thought the term “girls” might be more appropriate—but there was the occasional man as well. Nadia had squirmed uncomfortably when the first female stripper started her act, but when the first man climbed up on a table only a few feet away, her face went hot and she hurriedly looked away. Beside her, Agnes was staring at the show with a look on her face that was somewhere between horror and fascination.

  Nadia glanced over at Nate, who sat shoulder to shoulder with Bishop. They each took a moment to admire the stripper, but they were far more into each other than the show. It looked like they were holding hands under the table. They had grown increasingly less wary of revealing their relationship in public, a kind of openness she knew Nate had been longing for ever since he’d figured out his sexual preference.

  “I can’t believe Nate actually likes this place,” Dante said, practically shouting in her ear to be heard. He was looking at the stripper with his nose wrinkled in distaste. To his credit, he’d looked at the female strippers with a similar expression. Nadia knew because she hadn’t been able to resist glancing at him to check out his reaction.

  “I don’t think he does anymore,” Nadia said. “And I think what he really liked was being able to be with Bishop without having to hide it.”

  Which wasn’t the whole truth—she knew Nate had enjoyed the club because coming here had made him feel wild and rebellious. Once upon a time, he’d been blind to the ugliness of Angel’s and of life in the Basement itself. Cheerfully oblivious. He had changed over the last few weeks, and though he’d been her best friend for as long as she could remember, she liked him a hell of a lot better now than she had before.

  One of the club’s servers came over to their table and laid out five glasses of something bright pink in color. “Compliments of the house,” the server said, then darted away.

  The crush of so many bodies gave Angel’s club the sultry atmosphere of a tropical greenhouse, and Nadia became acutely aware of how dry her mouth was. And yet all five of them stared at the glasses with evident distrust.

  Bishop was the first to reach for a glass, but he held it up to his nose and sniffed before daring to drink. Apparently it didn’t smell like poison, so he took a tentative sip while the rest of them watched. He swished it around his mouth, and Nadia found herself holding her breath. Then he swallowed, shaking his head and smiling wryly.

  “It’s fucking fruit punch,” he announced, then drained the rest of his glass in a few gulps.

  “Fruit punch?” Nate said incredulously. “Angel serves fruit punch?”

  Dante snorted and reached for a glass. “I think it’s supposed to be an insult. You know, fruit punch for the kiddies.”

  “Ya think?” Bishop said. “Best to wait a coupla minutes before anyone else drinks it. Just in case.”

  “If you weren’t sure it was safe, why did you drink it?” Nate asked anxiously.

  Bishop shrugged. “I was thirsty. I don’t think Angel would try to drug us, but it never hurts to be too careful.”

  When ten minutes later Bishop didn’t show any sign of being drugged, he gave the okay, and everyone else picked up a glass. Nadia took a sip and wrinkled her nose. The stuff was fruit-punch-flavored, but she doubted there was any actual fruit in it, and it was sickeningly sweet. Still, it was wet, so she drank it.

  When she put down her glass, she saw Angel wending her way through the crowd toward them, a man following close in her wake. He was of medium height and build, in his early twenties or maybe late teens, with dark skin and curly, neon-orange hair cropped close to his skull. The orange was just the right shade to clash with the crimson muscle shirt and wine-red leather pants he wore. Still not completely used to the Basement mode of dress, Nadia’s first thought was that the guy looked like a clown, but then she noticed the nervous glances Angel’s clientele shot in his direction, the way they hurried to get out of his way, and he didn’t look so clownish anymore.

  Bishop made a little groaning sound and rubbed his eyes. “I shoulda known,” he said, then pushed to his feet, holding out a hand to indicate that the rest of them should stay sitting down. “Let me handle this.”

  Handle what? Nadia wondered, sharing a mystified gaze with Nate. Nate shrugged.

  The man caught sight of Bishop and his face broke out in a grin, flashing a gold front tooth. There was no irony in that smile, and Nadia swore there was genuine warmth in those eyes, making Bishop’s reaction even more puzzling. Angel stepped aside, inviting the man to pass her, which he did. Bishop returned the smile, stepping forward and holding out his hand. The two of them clasped hands and bumped shoulders.

  Bishop was still smiling as he turned to the rest of them, but there was a warning in his eyes. “Everyone, this is my friend Shrimp. Shrimp, this is everyone.”

  Shrimp? It was obviously a street name, but Nadia had no clue how the guy had earned it. She’d expect someone named Shrimp to be either very big or very small.

  “Yo,” Shrimp said in greeting, touching his fingers to his forehead as if tipping a cap.

  “Pull up a chair,” Bishop invited, and Shrimp obliged him.

  “I’ll leave you to get reacquainted,” Angel said before wandering off into the crowd.

  Shrimp turned the chair around and straddled it, resting his forearms on the back as his keenly intelligent eyes scanned over them one by one before returning to Bishop.

  “So, Angel tells me y’all need a place to hide. Again.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head in apparent exasperation.

  Nadia had a sudden realization of who Shrimp might be—or at least whom he might represent. He obviously knew about Bishop’s time in hiding with the Red Death. And he was ostentatiously wearing red. And the locals were clearly wary of him, despite his average build and friendly demeanor.

  “Yeah,” Bishop said. “Can’t seem to keep outta trouble.”

  “I hear ya. But we’re always there for you, bro.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bishop responded. “As long as there’s money involved.”

  Shrimp grinned, unrepentant. “What’d ya expect? Charity?”

  Bishop looked pointedly from Nate, to Agnes, to Nadia before meeting Shrimp’s gaze again. “Angel tell you who they are?”

  “Yep,” Shrimp confirmed. “Said she’d take care of room and board for all five of you.”

  “For how long?”

  “Till she gets tired
of paying, I reckon.”

  Nadia supposed it was as good a use of their money as any, though she would have much preferred to hold the purse strings herself. She didn’t like the idea of Angel holding their future in her hands.

  “Or till Maiden decides he can get more by turning us in?” Bishop challenged.

  Nadia shivered. Bishop had mentioned the leader of the Red Death was called Maiden because he collected—and used—iron maidens. Not exactly the kind of person she was eager to cast in a “protector” role.

  Shrimp’s expression hardened. “I know I didn’t just hear you insult my brother while you’re sitting here asking for help.”

  Bishop raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just sayin’ … He’s not one to stick his neck out, and we’re pretty hot right now.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll be well paid for our trouble.” He broke into his easy smile once again. “Besides, can you see Maiden making friendly with security?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Bishop said, but he still looked uneasy. He gave Agnes and Nadia another furtive glance. “Be straight with me. Are my girls gonna be safe?”

  Nadia thought it a telling detail that Shrimp had bristled at the possibility that his brother might turn them in for the reward money but took the question about the girls’ safety with no sign of offense. She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from making some comment about taking care of herself. She certainly didn’t like Bishop referring to her and Agnes as “my girls.”

  Shrimp gave both Nadia and Agnes a closer look, then nodded at Bishop.

  “I’ll personally guarantee it,” Shrimp said. “But to be extra safe, they should stay at my place. No one’s gonna mess with them there.”

  “Even Maiden?” Bishop pressed.

  “Yeah. Even my bro don’t wanna get on Angel’s bad side. She’s payin’ us to keep you safe. All of you. So that’s what we’re gonna do. Unless my word ain’t good enough for you.” He turned off the smile once again and fixed Bishop with a cold, challenging look.

  Nadia expected a macho showdown of some sort, but Bishop’s shoulders sagged, and he looked suddenly weary.

  “Can we skip this shit and just get outta here?” he asked.

  Shrimp shook his head. “Skip it? No. But we can do the short version.” He looked at each person at the table one by one, his gaze now positively menacing. “The minute you set foot in Red Death territory, you’re ours,” he said. “You do what you’re told. You don’t make waves. You keep your heads down and your mouths shut. If anyone has a problem with that, stay here. Got it?”

  Nadia could see how Nate bristled at Shrimp’s tone. She could also see the pointed look Bishop shot him. It looked like it physically hurt Nate to do so, but he nodded his agreement to Shrimp’s terms. The others all followed suit, and Shrimp dropped the glare like it had been a mask, once again looking genial and friendly.

  “Good deal. Now we can get outta here.”

  * * *

  It came as no great surprise that Angel’s had a secret exit. In fact, Nadia wouldn’t have been surprised if there was more than one. She was similarly unsurprised to see the exit manned by one of Angel’s bouncers. The cashbox on the floor beside him suggested that ordinarily, there was a charge—no doubt a hefty one—for going out the back way.

  They were in a dim hallway behind the main body of the club. Nadia could still feel the pulsing beat of the music beneath her feet, but at least the noise level was reduced. Shrimp stopped them and had them gather around before they set foot outside the exit.

  “We got a long walk coming,” he warned. “There’s a lotta people on the street, but we gotta stay together. We’ll do it by buddy system.” He looked over them all, one by one. “I’ll take the lead; Bishop’ll take the rear. Honey Badger, you’re with me.”

  He flashed Nadia a gold-toothed grin, and she let out an internal sigh of defeat. Looked like she was now officially stuck with the name. Thanks to Angel, no doubt—certainly Nadia hadn’t introduced herself that way.

  “Ghost, you’re with Bishop,” Shrimp continued. “Captain Studly and the girl with no name stay in the middle.”

  “Oh no,” Dante protested. “You are not calling me Captain Studly.” He looked only briefly at Shrimp, then fixed his glare on Nate, who apparently had given him his street name, unbeknown to either of them. Nadia had to suppress a smile, because Dante was actually blushing at the name.

  Shrimp’s cheerful grin remained firmly in place. “Sorry, man. Street names are hard to shake once they’ve stuck to you. I should know.”

  “Well this one hasn’t stuck!” Dante insisted.

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Whatever. But Nadia—I mean Honey Badger—stays with me.”

  Nadia could almost smell the testosterone building in the air. She’d have thought as an agent of the security department, Dante would have had to learn to follow orders, but he never seemed to be very good at it. He was puffing himself up, ready to lock horns with Shrimp in some stupid male power game, but Shrimp derailed the whole thing before it got started.

  “Fine,” he said. “I guess the girl with no name’s with me then.”

  “My name is Agnes,” Agnes said with a raise of her chin.

  “Not here it ain’t,” Shrimp responded, but he said it kindly. “But hey, at least you ain’t stuck with something like Captain Studly.”

  Dante groaned, and Agnes tried a tentative smile.

  “Let’s hit the road,” Shrimp said, surprising them all by holding out his elbow to Agnes like an Executive gentleman.

  “Layin’ it on a little thick, aren’t you?” Bishop asked, but he was smiling.

  * * *

  Walking through the crowded Basement streets with Kurt at his side wasn’t a new experience for Nate, and yet tonight’s venture felt utterly foreign. The crowd felt more oppressive, the smells more overwhelming, the sense of danger way past the harmless fun stage. Staying together was a challenge, but Shrimp was a good and conscientious guide. He seemed to be chatting amiably with Agnes, which was something of a miracle, considering her usual reticence. People made way for him with surprising ease, and he probably could have covered the distance in half the time if he weren’t constantly having to wait for the rest of them to catch up.

  “Why is everyone so scared of him?” Nate asked Kurt as they jostled and bumped their way around. “He doesn’t exactly look scary to me. I guess it’s all an act, but he kinda seems like a nice guy.”

  His experience with Basement-dwellers was fairly limited, but it was rare for one of them to give off a nice-guy vibe. Even Kurt, when Nate had first met him, had given off a sense of sexy and dangerous, rather than nice.

  “It’s not an act,” Kurt said. “Shrimp’s a good guy. His brother, on the other hand … Shrimp’s the only guy I know who isn’t scared shitless of Maiden.”

  Nate made a face. How scared could you be of a gang lord who called himself the Maiden?

  “Maiden is about as far from a nice guy as it’s possible to get,” Kurt continued. “He takes good care of his people, and he’d gut anyone who so much as laid a finger on Shrimp, but that’s about it for redeeming features. He’ll be able to hide us from security, and probably from whoever Dorothy’s sent after us, but don’t ever forget that we will not be safe in his territory.”

  “I think the safety boat sailed a long time ago,” Nate said, suddenly feeling tired. How had he gone so fast from being the carefree Chairman Heir of the richest, most powerful state in the world to being a fugitive taking shelter with a notoriously evil gangster?

  The contrast between the teeming streets of the Basement’s free territory and the streets of its gang-controlled heart was striking. There was still pedestrian traffic, and there were still obvious business transactions being carried out right in the open, but the crowd was a lot thinner and the mood more subdued and wary.

  With fewer people around—and no “tourists” to entice—it was easier to se
e the Basement for the seedy slum it was. The pavement was many times cracked and never repaired, as evidenced by the weeds and grass that had taken root in every crevice. Litter blew in the breeze, little slips of paper, glassine packets, torn plastic wrappers. Broken glass and crushed cans gathered in the gutters, some of which were so thoroughly blocked that little algae-filled ponds of rainwater had formed in them like rancid tide pools.

  There was no missing it when you crossed into Red Death territory. Red spray paint marked every building, sometimes in pictures, sometimes in indecipherable script. Every man, woman, and child who walked the streets wore something red, the moving river of people making it look like the city was bleeding.

  Unlike in the free territories, there were actually a few cars and motorcycles parked by the side of the road in Red Death land. All of them red, of course. A dingy red convertible cruised slowly by, music blaring. The driver sat alone in the front seat, and in the back were a couple of scowling men, holding machine guns and scanning the crowd. No one met their eyes—except for Shrimp, who gave them a thumbs-up—and Nate could practically feel the increased tension in the air, tension that wasn’t released until the car reached the next intersection and turned.

  “Maiden’s enforcers patrol the streets twenty-four/seven,” Kurt said. “Nothing happens in his territory that he doesn’t know about.”

  Shrimp led them to a corner building that looked just like all the others, except instead of being marked with red gang tags, it was painted entirely red. The paint job was patchy and amateurish, with about a hundred different shades of red, but the fact that the Basement-dwellers had been able to paint an entire high-rise without the benefit of cranes and scaffolding was pretty damned impressive.

  If the red paint job wasn’t enough to clue you in that this place was Red Death Central, the pair of thugs standing one on each side of the door with machine guns slung over their shoulders would definitely do it.

  “Home sweet home,” Shrimp said, waving cheerfully at the guards, who barely acknowledged his presence.