Echoes

by Therin Knite

  A bead of sweat rolls down the man’s cheek, and his eyes widen as the words fly off my tongue. Dynara is dangerous because she is ruthless, cunning, clever, and experienced. I am dangerous because I can read people like open books, decode them down to the kerning between individual letters.

  I scan the shooter from head to toe. There are flecks of paper and food in his hair and slimy dark sludge on his hands. And he reeks of three-day-old rotten fish. “You were near a dumpster. You put something in that dumpster.”

  He stiffens, mouth agape.

  “Was it the other guy who was with us? There’s blood on your left leg, but you were shot in the right shoulder. So you must’ve gotten it on you some other way. You shot the other man, and you stuffed him in the dumpster in the alley outside the club, right?”

  “Who…Who are you?”

  “My name is Adem Adamend. Didn’t your employer tell you that?”

  He shuts up, realizing his mistake.

  “Seems like an obvious choice. Give your hitman the target’s name. Unless your employer doesn’t know my name. Unless they know what I look like but not who I am. Know I occasionally come to Club Valkyrie but don’t know anywhere else I frequent. That’s why you’re so dirty, right? You waited for several hours outside in the damp, filthy alleyway because you weren’t given a timeframe for when I would arrive. Your employer didn’t know. Your employer—”

  “Baby, don’t leave me on a Saturday night! Baby, don’t give up the fight of our lives! Baby, I love you like the stars in the sky. Baby, you’re a galaxy shining bright.”

  Electro-pop music bounces off the walls and spills out into the empty hallway, mocking the club’s former state of liveliness. The hitman gawks at me in confusion, and Dynara stifles a laugh. “That is quite possibly the worst ringtone I’ve ever heard,” she says.

  I fish my Ocom out of my coat pocket to see the humorous office party picture of Jin’s face smiling back at me. “I set his ringtone to this to make sure I always know when it’s him calling.”

  “Is it sad I don’t even need to ask who he is?”

  “Yes, it is. Should I get this now, or would you prefer I wait until we’re finished?”

  “Oh, no. Go ahead and have your little chat.” She moves from the doorway and starts a slow advance toward the hitman, her smile brightening as they make eye contact. “I can finish up here without you.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Quite.”

  The flight response takes over, and I all but slam the lounge door shut behind me. There is nothing I want less than to watch Dynara work that guy over.

  I find myself on the floor, staring at my scuffed shoes and wondering how I started the day in a hospital after a near-death experience and ended it watching a woman who looks like a college freshman go head to head in a death match with a contract killer. Am I supposed to laugh or cry?

  Taking a moment to reclaim my composure, I hit the answer button on my Ocom. The picture is swapped out for Jin’s actual face, the one nursing a pint as he sits alone in a corner booth in the rundown bar at the end of his block. Before he catches sight of me, I select no outgoing video.

  Not that I needed to hurry. It takes him a good minute to realize I’ve answered.

  “Oh, Adem! Hey, there you are. What took so long? Bathroom break?”

  “Nothing. You’re just impatient.” My voice wavers as the adrenaline from my interaction with the hitman begins to wane, and I pray he’s too buzzed to notice. “It’s not like you’re in a hurry or anything.”

  His heavy mug clanks against the tabletop. “Hey, I have important stuff to do too, you know? And I have been doing very important stuff all evening, like you haven’t already seen it.”

  “Seen what?”

  “You didn’t get them?”

  “Get what?”

  “The files.”

  “What files?”

  “The EDPA files!”

  I check my inbox to find it contains a new addition: one massive folder labeled EDPA History. “Oh, I missed that. Sorry. I had my message app sound on silent.” That is, silent compared to the booming club music that was blasting while Dynara and I had our little dance.

  Jin squints, skeptical. “Are you okay? You sound a bit off. And why isn’t your video on?”

  “Because I don’t want it to be.” I double-tap the folder, and it opens to reveal a detailed list of files littered with “top secret” designations. “Uh, Jin, how did you get these?”

  “I snagged them from the Federal Agency Archive. There were more, but they had higher-level encryption.”

  “You stole top-secret files from a government server?”

  “I am a hacker, after all.”

  “No, you are a Cybersecurity agent working for the IBI, and if anybody finds out you did this, you will be fired and sent to jail.” I recall standing on the dance floor, Dynara forcing me to spin around and around as she revealed the elusive truth of EDPA. If I’d told Jin I was meeting her to get the exact information contained in these files, he never would’ve put himself at risk. “Is that why you were smiling earlier? When you left for inspection?”

  “Yeah, well, I decided I didn’t actually want to break up with you.” He chugs another fourth of the glass down. “I figured a make-up gift would do us good.”

  “This is not a gift. This is idiocy.”

  He flinches like I punched him in the gut. “Sorry, it’s just…you looked so interested in EDPA, and I figured the sooner you found out everything you wanted to know, the sooner things could go back to normal.”

  Normal. Threw that out the window when I nearly got killed by a dragon.

  “Jin, how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want you to risk your well-being for me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because.”

  “Because?” The rest of his brew disappears down his throat. “Because you don’t think you’re worth it?”

  “This isn’t about me.”

  “It’s always about you.”

  “Jin—”

  A scream tears through the lounge door. Jin starts, knocking his glass off the table. It shatters when it hits the floor. He swipes up his Ocom and holds it closer to his face, like he’s trying to will himself through the screen to my side of the situation. “What the fuck was that?”

  “Um…”

  The lounge door swings open, and a blood-spattered Dynara saunters into the hallway wearing the smile of a serial killer. “Well, that was every bit as easy as I expected.” She looks down to find me propped against the wall. “Oh, I didn’t realize you weren’t finished.”

  Betrayal mars Jin’s face for the seconds it takes him to end the call, and then I’m left to stare at the picture of his happy smile I’ll be lucky to see him wear again in real life. “I think you may have just ended my friendship.”

  “It’s not my fault he’s so clingy.”

  “He’s not clingy.”

  “Are we talking about the same guy?”

  “Oh, forget it.”

  “Fine with me. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but I need help dumping this guy.” She points toward the hitman, now slumped over in the chair and decorated with an assortment of dislocated joints and gaping lacerations. “I’m thinking we should drop him off in an alley next to that police station a few streets over. Someone will report him. Then they’ll ID him and realize he’s a wanted criminal. Vigilante justice at its finest, no?”

  “What the hell did you do to him?”

  “Extracted all of his remaining intel.”

  I follow the drip, drip, drip of a steady stream of the man’s blood onto the carpeted lounge floor, but where each drop lands is a mystery. The floor is already a saturated red.

  “Dynara,” I say slowly, “was it really necessary to beat him that badly?”

  “No, he spilled in like five minutes. I was just pissed that he called me a cunt.”

  I gawk at her. “You’re crazy.”
<
br />   “I have fewer psych problems on my record than you do, so hush.”

  “You tortured a man with no remorse!”

  “I reserve regret for those deserving of it.” She taps her boot on the floor, impatient. “Petty hitmen are pretty close to the bottom of my naughty list.”

  “Weren’t you an assassin once?”

  “I never said any such thing. You just made that assumption.” She offers me her hand as an olive branch, coaxing me to stand up. When I don’t take it, even after she shakes it in my face, she finally notices that her glove is drenched in blood. She strips off the stained glove and makes the offer again. I take it, but scowl at her as I shakily rise to my feet.

  With a huff, she steps back into the lounge and determines the best angle at which to carry the deadweight hitman out of the room. “Once we drop him off, let’s round back and pick up Paolo’s body.”

  I almost ask, “Who the fuck is Paolo?” when I realize it must be her now deceased assassin friend. “What’ll we do with him?” is what I actually say.

  “I’ll call in a trusted associate to take him to the EDPA morgue. Label him a John Doe for the time being. Don’t want any fanfare. Might catch the attention of the Manson killer or their co-conspirator.” Her nimble fingers release the hitman from his bindings, and she props him up with a palm to prevent him from tumbling into a pool of his own blood.

  “Did he tell you who his employer is?”

  “Nope. Guy’s practically useless. Doesn’t know anything important.” She sighs. “He’s a cheap gun for hire. Someone messaged him anonymously from a restricted profile earlier today, transferred a considerable sum to his bank account, left the gun in a park trashcan for him, and ordered him to wait across the street until you got here. He was supposed to make the kill shot whenever a convenient moment arose, then flee the scene, after which he would receive another considerable payment.” She rounds the chair and loops her arms underneath the man’s armpits, lifting him with strength that is exceptional for a woman her size. “Can you get his legs?”

  “Are you serious? You want me to help you carry a tortured hitman down the street? Do you know how many clubs there are in this sector? There are hundreds of people outside this time of night.” I rub my arms, uncomfortable. “Also, what if he tells somebody what happened?”

  “Right,” she says. “Because he’s going to admit some skinny redhead and a girl about eighteen years old thwarted his murder attempt and then beat him up.”

  “Oh. I guess you have a point there.”

  “You think?” She lowers the guy back into the chair for a breather, and nods at his legs. “Now help me, will you? And have some faith. I know my way around this city. We won’t be seen. And, look, I know you’re not acclimated to danger, but—”

  “Who says I’m not acclimated to danger?”

  “You work CSI, not Homicide. That says it all. If you were willing to step into the danger zone on a daily basis, you’d be in the field searching for the murderer you think killed your mother, not poking around at crime scenes after the crimes are said and done. If you were, you’d spend more time getting shot at and less time deciphering why other people get shot at.” She motions to the bloody scene around us. “This is not your natural playing field, whereas it is mine. Which is why you’re currently on the fence about me. You find my apparent acceptance of violence revolting. I’ll let you in on a secret though: There is not a single decent person who revels in committing violent acts. Everyone who does so to save lives sees a monster when they look in the mirror. Everyone who does so to take lives sees a victor.”

  “So you think you’re a monster?”

  “I am a monster.” A deep smile of spiritual exhaustion creeps onto her face. “In every respect. Stick around long enough and you’ll find out why.”

  “Dy—”

  Her ungloved hand jerks up, silencing me, and her eyes rise toward the ceiling. She listens carefully, lips turning down into a deep scowl. I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when my ears catch the sound as well: the buzz of a pair of approaching hovercopters forming a tight buzzard circle over the dead Valkyrie.

  “We know you’re in there,” someone shouts, voice amplified by a powerful speaker. “Come out, unarmed, with your hands behind your heads, or deadly force will be used.”

  Chapter Nine

  An overbearing spotlight illuminates the window on the far side of the room. Scripted warnings repeat over and over with each copter revolution around the abandoned club. The thumps of slamming car doors from six stories below us filter in through the mauve lounge walls. And the hitman snorts out a glob of blood with unconscious carelessness. Dynara shoves him off the chair, and he smacks the sullied carpet face first.

  “What do we do with him?” I say.

  “Leave him.”

  “Where do we go?”

  “Away from here.”

  “How? The rooftop isn’t a viable method of escape this time.”

  “Who needs an escape route?” She seizes my arm as she rockets out of the room, and I stumble for a few steps until I catch up with her. We sprint down the hallway, she kicks a stairwell door out of our path, and then we descend six stories in a minute and a half. The moment we emerge into a service hallway near another alleyway exit, a SWAT team’s explosive entrance rocks the entire building. They always march in from three strategic points, one group from a side entrance, one through the front door, and one from either the roof or a top-floor window. Standard IBI protocol.

  The alley door blows inward, crumpling into a mass of warped metal as it strikes the hard tile floor. Dynara releases me and yanks out her gun, waiting until five agents in black barrel inside. A single VERA bullet takes them all out in a burst of brilliant azure, and her steel grip then reasserts itself around my wrist. “Stay behind me,” she says before taking off again.

  Dank alley air floods my lungs, and my eyes are rendered blind by the flashlights attached to several high-powered rifles. “Stop right there,” a woman orders. Dynara ignores her on principle, shoving me behind a dumpster positioned against the wall of a neighboring building. And in the second before a shootout begins, nausea crawls up my esophagus at the thought of Paolo’s dead body resting atop a pile of trash inside it.

  Automatic gunfire deafens me. Bullets ricochet off the concrete and bury themselves in the wall of Club Valkyrie, the dumpster siding, and the weedy patch growing through the paved ground a few inches from my feet. I curl in on myself, arms wrapped around my head like they’ll do more than aggravate a round aimed at my face. Someone cries out—it isn’t Dynara—and a heavy body thuds against the dumpster. His arm flops into view, unmoving.

  The gunfire ceases.

  I dare to unfurl and peek around the corner of the dumpster at the perfect moment to watch Dynara slip the helmet off a SWAT agent in one deft move and beat his head repeatedly against the wall of Valkyrie. He collapses into an unconscious heap.

  Four other agents dot the alley as well: the woman who ordered our surrender is drooling blood, one man is propped against the wall upside down, his feet resting near his head, and two others are on their backs, staring up at the night sky through their helmets.

  “Hey, let’s get moving.” Dynara tosses the snatched helmet aside.

  “How did you…?”

  “Questions later. Running now.” She hooks two fingers through a buttonhole in my coat and tugs me along behind her. We wind through a maze of alleys that border the various themed clubs in the sector. Some are bustling, others quiet, and we fly by people making drug deals and having dirty sex surrounded by trash bags. Finally, five streets away from Valkyrie, Dynara slows to a crawl and frees me.

  I hunch over and gulp in air to ease the fire in my chest. “We’re not far enough away. We need to keep going.”

  “We need to, but you can’t.”

  “I just need a minute.”

  “Right. Remember what I said about your physique? How on earth did you pass your fitness ass
essment at the IBI academy?” She paces in circles, her fingers prancing along her hips in a pattern.

  “Director Brennian helped. A little bit.” The admission makes my cheeks burn.

  She groans. “Remind me to punch that guy in the face next time I see him.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Unfortunately. Now hurry up. I’d rather not get caught.”

  “We’re going to get caught anyway. The forensics team will find our DNA. It’ll be all over the lounge.”

  She smacks the back of my skull, and a wicked headache bursts into existence. “It doesn’t matter if we get caught later. I’ll have written permission for this later. But if you get caught now, you’re screwed. I can’t claim your involvement falls under EDPA’s jurisdiction without pre-approval because you don’t officially work for us yet.”

  “And at this rate, I’ll never work for you. Every time we come into contact, I almost die.”

  “And every time, it’s your fault. The bad guys are after you.”

  Wait. That can’t be right.

  I think back to the dragon dream, where the tail spikes ran me through and left me dying, while all Dynara got for her trouble was a few nasty elbow scrapes. Then I jump to the hitman from Valkyrie, who was hired to shoot me and not the EDPA investigator hunting the echomaker who killed Manson. Dynara is right. I’m the target here. “That doesn’t make sense though. I’m just some hapless idiot who got wrapped up in something over my head. You’re the bigger threat.”

  “And yet our murderer and their accomplice appear to think you are.”

  Energy zapped, I rest my throbbing head against the ground, eyes fixed on a murky puddle reflection of the light-polluted sky. Somewhere in the distance, the two hovercopters are still buzzing loudly as they search for a target to trap in their spotlights. Somewhere in the recesses of Valkyrie, a SWAT team is pampering a hitman, unaware their “rescue” will earn them ridicule when they run his identity and find out he’s a wanted criminal. Somewhere in his posh apartment, Briggs is no doubt swearing while he types commands into his Ocom. He’s a SWAT veteran. Naturally, he hates mishandled SWAT operations.