Gunslinger Girl

by Lyndsay Ely

  Pity smoothed a hair behind her ear, wondering what Sheridan was doing here. “I should thank you again for the wine. It was the best thing I drank all night.”

  “One thing among many, I’m sure.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  He chuckled—a sincere, disarming sound. “You were celebrating. And from what I can tell, a hangover is practically the morning uniform around here.”

  But not for you. Sheridan’s crisp demeanor rivaled Beau’s. “Well, I’ve tried it on and I can’t say I like it.”

  The Tin Man returned as the elevator door dinged open. “You can go up now.”

  “Not that I’m complaining,” Sheridan said as the doors closed, “but I was under the impression that I’d have Selene to myself this morning. Getting her alone is something of a challenge, it seems. She prefers to conduct business after dark, among her…distractions. I, however, do not.”

  And what business is that, exactly? Pity wondered, recalling what Max had said about all the illicit dealings that took place at Casimir.

  “Then again, now that your boyfriend isn’t here, maybe I’ll have a chance to hear your story.”

  Pity tensed. “Max isn’t my boyfriend.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed. It’s only that he seemed quite defensive of you.”

  “It’s all right,” she lied. A gut-sick feeling stirred in her. “Max is just a friend. And there’s not much to tell. We… I was headed for the eastern cities. Things turned out different.”

  Selene was watering one of her potted trees as they stepped out of the elevator. “Ah, there you are.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Pity spied Adora, spinning lazily in Selene’s chair, and Beau, stone-still by the terrace door. “I hope we didn’t make you wait.”

  “Not at all. It’s not too early, is it? Sometimes I forget that morning isn’t Casimir’s forte, but I’ve always been an early riser.”

  “I’ll confess, Selene,” said Sheridan, reaching out to touch the broad, flat leaves of the tree. “All these plants, from all over the world. I don’t know how you keep them alive out here in the middle of this barren nothing.”

  “It’s simple.” Selene’s words came out as ripe as the little fruits on the tree beside her. “Providing one knows what it takes to keep them thriving. Adora, have the meal sent out now, will you?”

  Selene led them to the terrace, beyond where Beau stood, half cast in the morning light. He eyed Pity, waiting until Selene and Sheridan had passed before tapping the breast of his jacket. Pity brushed a thumb over the butt of one gun in response.

  A pair of Tin Men were stationed outside, one at either end of the large, curved balcony. In the center sat a table set for three—three plates, three sets of utensils on linen napkins, and one white envelope. There was a faint breeze, carrying with it a melodious hum from the city below. Drawn by the sound, Pity went to the edge of the terrace. Below, a dense white mass billowed along the black road that led to Casimir. The Reformationists, she realized, in their pristine white robes, singing hymns. They gathered around the great fountain, their voices strengthening, though Pity still couldn’t pick out the words.

  Sheridan came up beside her. “Looks like we’ll have a serenade. Did you arrange this, Selene?”

  “Absolutely not,” she replied, though not without a hint of playfulness. “But they’re almost pleasant from this distance, aren’t they?”

  “I’m surprised you let them get that close.” He went to the table and pulled out Selene’s chair. “Seems like they could be bad for trade.”

  “They’re harmless. A few good souls to help balance out the bad.”

  Sheridan moved on to Pity’s seat. She slid into it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “Patrick, please.”

  Pity unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap, burying her hands in it as the food arrived. The others began serving themselves, but she waited, feeling like an extra body at the table. She might have earned her place in Casimir, but she hadn’t gotten the seat warm quite yet.

  Selene noted the hesitance. “Wondering why you’re here, aren’t you?” With a sly smile, she slid the envelope over to Pity. “Your first wages. I always make it a point to deliver them myself. Go on.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Pity took the envelope and glanced inside. Her fingers stiffened, and for a brief moment she wondered if a mistake had been made. On the commune it would have taken her half a year of solid work to earn the same amount.

  “Every cent deserved and then some.” Sheridan tore the corner off a pastry. “I wouldn’t mind having your eye for talent, Selene.”

  “Oh, don’t be coy about your own aptitudes.” A playful smile spread on Selene’s lips. “Pity, Patrick here took next to nothing and spun it into one of the largest non-corporate fortunes on the continent.”

  “A gift for facts, figures, and faces,” said Sheridan. “Little different from what you do here, I suspect.”

  “If that’s the case,” said Selene, “maybe you should be coy. Most of my business isn’t exactly appropriate for the next president of the Confederation of North America to engage in.”

  Pity nearly dropped the envelope. “Pardon?”

  Sheridan laughed and leaned back in his seat. “A bit premature to announce that, don’t you think?”

  “Not if I have my way,” said Selene. “And I usually do.”

  So that’s Sheridan’s business with Selene. Pity had expected black market goods or services, maybe even weapons, but the presidency? How deep did Selene’s power run?

  “Besides,” Selene continued, “it’s no secret back east that you’ve thrown your hat into that ring.”

  “It might as well be. What little attention I’ve garnered hasn’t exactly been promising.” Frustration crept into Sheridan’s voice. “One would think two decades would be enough to make people forget which side of the war you were on.”

  “You were a Patriot?” said Pity.

  “Guilty as charged,” he replied. “Though barely. I wasn’t much older than you when the conflict ended, but… well, memories last longer than wars, don’t they?”

  “That’s why it will be all the more satisfying when you win.” Selene sipped her coffee as if they were discussing a feat already accomplished. “CONA’s first former Patriot leader.”

  “My mother was a Patriot.” Pity felt a pang of familiar grief. “My father never let her forget it, either. Or me, after she died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Sheridan.

  “She was the one who taught Pity to shoot,” Selene explained. “And I think she’d be very proud to see what you’ve made of yourself.”

  Pity slid the envelope of currency under the edge of her plate. I hope so.

  “If there is one thing I’ve learned in life,” Selene continued, “it’s that there’s no circumstance that can’t be overcome. My family was from Singapore, a city completely destroyed in the Pacific Event. We were fortunate enough to be away when it occurred, but it was a mixed blessing; everything and everyone we had ever known was gone. My parents rebuilt a life for us here, piece by hard-won piece. And years later, I arrived in a chaotic, ailing city populated by thieves and predators, and I saw the potential in it.” She smirked and gestured around her. “What it offers today draws people from all over the world.”

  “Okay, you’ve made your case,” Sheridan conceded with a chuckle. “But you’re right. For all that’s come before, what’s important remains in front of us. Speaking of which—Pity, what are you going to do with your newfound fortune?”

  The fortune stared up at her. “I honestly have no idea,” she said. “I haven’t had a chance to—”

  Over Selene’s shoulder, a flash of movement caught her eye. A black orb plunked onto the balcony and rolled to a stop at the foot of the nearest guard.

  Pity had just enough time to throw herself to the ground as a thunderous explosion consumed the morning.

  CHAPTER 18


  Pity was fast, but Beau was lightning. Before she hit the stone of the terrace, he tackled Selene, shielding her with his body. The bright morning disappeared, gone in a cloud of smoke.

  Pity coughed and blinked away tears. Her ears rang as she pushed herself up, peripherally aware that little damage had been done. The small explosive was a common one, meant to disorient and disarm, not kill.

  Except…

  The Tin Man was gone, blown off the balcony. Three dull pops sounded behind her. When she twisted around, the other guard was on his knees, blood pouring from his chest. He collapsed as long black snakes of rope fell into view. She stumbled to her feet and looked up to see men in armor and helmets rappelling from the roof. As the first figure touched down on the terrace, she drew. Her shot caught him in the chest. He hit the edge of the railing and fell to the ground.

  A few feet away, Sheridan was up, too, but dazed. Beau had his weapon drawn and an arm around Selene’s waist, supporting her. A thin line of blood ran down her face.

  “Move!” he screamed, dragging Selene forward.

  With her free hand, Pity grabbed Sheridan and pushed him ahead of her. She heard more boots hit the stone as they ran. Inside, Beau threw Selene behind the desk, turned, and fired. His shot zipped over Pity’s shoulder, hitting a man inches behind her. She hadn’t even seen him. She started for the desk, too, but staggered as a series of shots perforated the floor in front of her. This time, Sheridan reached for her, pulling her from the line of fire; clarity had returned to his face. They bolted a dozen yards and dove behind a pair of large stone planters.

  Oh, Lord… oh, Lord…

  Blood pounded in her veins as she pulled her other gun and clutched it to her chest. “Are you hurt?” Sheridan didn’t seem to hear her at first. She kicked him. “Hey!”

  “No… no.”

  “Good. Stay down!” She leaned low and peeked around the planter. Beau was crouched behind the desk, Selene beside him. In the archway to the terrace she counted eight attackers, all carrying rifles. None seemed to be looking her way.

  They want Selene.

  Beau pushed up his shirt cuff, revealing a dark metal band, and pressed something on it. With a hiss of air, the terrace partitioned off, a latticework of windows appearing where there had been open air a moment before. Two of the men were cut off outside. One of the inside attackers signaled; the others covered him as he peppered the windows with shots. White spiderwebs spread across the glass, but it didn’t break.

  Six targets, she revised. Eleven bullets left, plus whatever Beau had. And the men were wearing body armor—the attacker Beau had shot was hunched over but still on his feet. She cursed under her breath.

  The intruders gave up on the doors. “Drop your weapons and surrender!” one called out. “We’d like you alive, but dead’ll do!”

  Pity’s grip tightened on her guns. Think.

  Six targets, eleven shots… and body armor. Her bullets would barely put a dent in it. But it didn’t cover everything. Neck, joints, faces—all hard to protect. She would have to choose her shots wisely.

  And if you want to walk away from this—the thought came to her in her mother’s voice, not with a parent’s timbre, but rather that of a battle-scarred veteran—you’d better shoot to kill.

  Pity raised herself into a crouch.

  “What are you doing?” hissed Sheridan.

  “Shhh!”

  She peeked out a little farther. Beau spotted her. He shook his head.

  She ignored him, leaned out, and fired twice, aiming for the man who had spoken. His exposed face was her target, but the bullets glanced off his helmet. He fell to the ground, stunned.

  The other five turned on her and fired.

  “Shit!” Pity curled into a ball as bits of stone and dirt exploded around her, leaves raining down. Then it ceased, though she still heard shots. She scrambled around Sheridan to risk a glance from the other side of the planters. Another assassin was down, a pool of blood spreading around him.

  Dead.

  Beau hadn’t missed. Pity swore again, quietly.

  Breathe. Think.

  Sheridan pulled her back. “Pity, stop! You heard them—we can surrender!”

  She shook him off. “Are you willing to risk your life to find out if they’re telling the truth?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Think.

  The attackers no longer had the element of surprise. And with the impenetrable glass at their back and no cover, they were exposed. But they still have the numbers and the firepower. Pity cocked her guns. Any moment they’re going to realize that, rush Beau and Selene, and then us. Gotta keep them off-balance.

  Nine shots left.

  Inhale, aim. Exhale, shoot.

  She rolled out from behind the planter, came up on one knee, and fired.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

  A heartbeat later she rolled back, bullets filling the space where she had been. She bit back a scream as a sudden, searing pain lanced through her calf. A red stain spread on the fabric of her pants.

  One more assassin was dead. This time her aim had been better, the man’s left eye exploding in a telling spray of crimson. But her other shots had gone wide or hit armor. That left three and the stunned man, who might recover at any moment.

  Pity swallowed the dry spit in her mouth and tried to tune out the throbbing pain in her leg. Staccato shots sounded. One of the remaining attackers was firing at the glass again, his partners covering him. As she watched, one pane gave way. Behind the desk, Beau’s gaze darted between the exits and Pity. Finally, it settled on her.

  He raised his hand and signaled. Three targets.

  She signaled back. Five bullets left.

  His features tightened, but he tipped his head back toward the assassins. Chest tight, she nodded.

  “Whatever you do,” she said to Sheridan, voice brittle with fear, “keep down until the shooting stops.”

  “Pity.” His eyes pleaded with her. “You don’t need to do this.”

  But she did. They were out of time.

  The only thing left to do was to end things on their terms.

  CHAPTER 19

  Pity’s hand trembled with the weight of every missed shot as Beau began counting down with his fingers. Blood cascaded through her veins, alternating surges of ember hot and icy cold. She took a deep breath. Across the chasm of floor separating them, Beau looked as calm as a light snowfall.

  Three.

  Beau, who wasn’t injured. Who didn’t hesitate and didn’t miss.

  Two.

  Who only needed a few moments.

  Pity grabbed the jagged lip of the planter and stood. “Hey!”

  She fired double-handed as two of the remaining men snapped toward her.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Her first two bullets found their mark, dropping one assassin before he could get a shot off. The third and fourth were less on target but caught the second man’s rifle, sending it flying from his hands.

  It was the last of the three attackers she knew she’d be too slow for. He spun as his companions faltered, rifle barrel finding Pity as she prayed the seconds she’d bought would be enough.

  Fortunately, a sliver of time was as good as an hour to Beau. He charged from behind the desk, firing.

  A handful of shots and it was over.

  Pity fell to her knees, hands still clenched around her revolvers, waiting for the new pain to come. When it didn’t—when the only blood she found on her person was from the first wound—she started to shake.

  “Pity?”

  As Sheridan spoke, the elevator dinged. Santino and half a dozen Tin Men spilled out, guns raised.

  “It’s about time!” Beau snarled.

  “The alarm just came through.” Wide-eyed, Santino took in the scene.

  Behind the desk, Selene stirred.

  “Stay down for a moment, ma’am.” Beau uncovered his wristband again. “Santino, there are at least two more outside. Rea
dy?”

  The Tin Men formed up around the terrace entrance. At Beau’s command, the windows opened.

  Ignoring Sheridan’s attempts at assistance, Pity pushed to her feet and limped after them, one thought beating in her head like a drum: One bullet left… one bullet left…

  But when she got outside, only a single attacker remained—the man she had shot first—his arm clenched to his ribs. She spotted a pair of hooks gripping the edge of the balcony, ropes pulled taunt behind them. Santino was beside them, looking over the side. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, pulled out a knife, and sawed through the ropes. When that was done he peeked out again before turning back, satisfied.

  “Pity?” Beau appeared beside her. “Are you okay?”

  She blinked at him. Only the faintest flush tinted his sharp cheeks. “I’m fine, thank you.” Her voice sounded thin, distant.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  She looked down. The bottom of her left pant leg was soaked through; bloody footprints trailed behind her. “Oh. A scratch. It barely hurts anymore.”

  “That’s because you’re going into shock. Santino, sit her down before she passes out.”

  “It’s nothing.” But the moment the words were out, a buzz began in her head. She holstered her guns, shivering.

  “Don’t argue.” Santino gathered her into his arms and carried her over to the desk. With his knife, he slashed the fabric of her pants. “Looks like it went straight through,” he said. “Not too bad, but it’ll need attention.”

  “Sir!” called one of the guards. “Got another warm body here!”

  It was the man Pity had hit in the helmet. Some of the Tin Men surrounded him, the others dragged in his cohort from the terrace. The guards bound the attackers’ hands behind their backs and deposited them before Selene, who was steadying herself against the other end of the desk.

  With a tender touch, Beau brushed the hair away from the cut on her forehead and dabbed at it with a handkerchief.

  She waved him away, eyes ablaze. “I’m fine.”

  “You need to see Starr.”

  His tone carried something Pity had never heard in it before: worry.