The Runner (From the World of The Vale)

by Brian D. Anderson

  The Runner

  From the world of The Vale

  By: Brian D. Anderson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Published Longfire Press, January 2018

  Cover Illustration Gene Mollica Studios

  Copyright © 2018 Brian D. Anderson

  More Books by Brian D. Anderson

  The Godling Chronicles Series

  The Sword of Truth (Book One)

  Of Gods and Elves (Book Two)

  The Shadow of Gods (Book Three)

  A Trial of Souls (Book Four)

  Madness of the Fallen (Book Five)

  The Reborn King (Book Six)

  Dragonvein

  Books 1-5

  Books by Brian D. Anderson and Steven Savile

  Akiri

  The Scepter of Xarbaal

  Sands of Darkness

  Dragonbane

  Without a rifle and scope, most men would not stand a chance in hell of making a shot from such a distance. But Drake Sharazi was not most men. And his P37 was a million miles away from being a typical handgun.

  The heat in Drake's chest rose as the mana flowed into his weapon. One tiny movement of his finger and it would be all over. A clean head shot. Mana would stream from the barrel and drill a finger-sized hole straight through the runner’s temple. Job done! And then it would be time to collect his bounty and go home – if you could actually call the dilapidated sewer of an apartment he slept in a home.

  A smile formed as the unsuspecting man trapped in his sights turned up a bottle. Only seconds away from death and he was having a party, oblivious to his peril. Not a terrible way to die, Drake considered. There were far worse ways to go. This would be quick and virtually painless.

  Except, with a rush, Drake knew it wasn't going to happen. Do it and he would be no different from the others. Heaving a sigh, he allowed the mana to recede, and he lifted his finger from the trigger.

  He had never killed a man who didn’t have it coming. It could be argued, of course, that a runner by definition already had it coming. In fact, the justification was often argued in that exact way. Not between himself and other hawkers, of course. He couldn’t stand them. Nothing but a bunch of low-life goons – too lazy to get real work and too damn nasty to do the land of Vale a favor by dying. No. This was a debate he had in the quiet times. When he was alone. Which these days, was pretty much all of the time.

  Brant Varish. That was the name that belonged the laughing face more than five hundred yards away. Not that Drake cared; a name was a tool, nothing more. A way to track a target. Other than that, it had no real meaning. Not for him. Not for any hawker.

  He backed away from the edge of his rooftop perch. “Soon,” he muttered.

  Patience was what made the difference between a good hawker and a dead one. It kept him from starving in the pitiless squalor of the outer provinces. Delivering dead runners meant half the bounty, and the bounty on Varish was one hell of a payday. Enough to keep him alive for months. Enough to think about taking a break for a while.

  Of course, he knew full well that it wasn’t really the extra money that had kept him from pulling the trigger. Even half the bounty was more than enough for his needs. Drake was many things, but he was no assassin. In the years since being exiled from the city of Troi he had become almost unrecognizable to his former self. He’d done things that would have been unthinkable only a few years ago. And yes, he had killed runners, though only when there was no other choice. Only when they were trying to kill him. Varish was clever, but he was no real fighter. Besides, if the client had wanted this runner dead, he would surely not have gone to so much trouble in finding a hawker with Drake’s reputation for bringing his targets back alive and in one piece.

  No sense staying up here all day, he told himself. Varish felt safe surrounded by his friends. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a while, at least.

  Let him feel safe. Secure. Let him think he’s gotten away.

  “Get off the damn street!”

  Drake instantly recognized Sheriff Barnaby’s rough baritone. Easing himself back to the edge, he could see the bloated worm of a man rousting the poor sods who were scrounging around for metal to sell to the recycling plant. They weren’t doing anything wrong; just trying to feed themselves. Not that Barnaby was really out to arrest anyone. For him, kicking people who were down was sport.

  Drake wanted to hate the sorry bastard. But he didn’t… he couldn’t. This was life in the provinces. Those with power hurt those without. Drake had learned to accept the way things were. But it filled him with self-loathing.

  Focusing a tiny bit of mana into the chamber P37, he regarded the scene. Below, Barnaby was repeatedly smacking some poor ragged fellow across the face with a small leather strap. “How many times do I have to tell you people?” the sheriff shouted. “No scavenging around here.”

  Drake sniffed in disgust. No scavenging… unless you worked for Barnaby. And then he’d take ninety percent of what you collected. Or he might just take it all if you didn’t bring enough. Aiming for the side of the man’s neck, Drake pulled the trigger. His target let out a loud yelp, swatting at the point of impact and jerking his ample frame about in a comical dance.

  Seizing his opportunity, the sheriff’s victim scrambled away as fast as his legs could carry him. Drake watched for a moment, a satisfied grin on his face. For a second, he considered taking another shot, but thought better of it. Barnaby might be a corrupt jerk of a man, but he was still the sheriff and as such, he could cause Drake no end of trouble.

  Drake holstered his weapon and backed away out of sight.

  As Drake descended the stairs, the stench of rot and decay filled his nostrils. It was the same odor that permeated the outside, but condensed and more pungent indoors. In those first days of exile, he’d been told that you got used to it eventually; though after seven years, he still hadn’t. And the sounds of sorrow and the wailing of hungry children only made it worse.

  He exited the building, relieved to be back in the open air. Barnaby was still on the sidewalk a few yards away, holding up his chrome-plated pistol like a mirror to examine his wound. On spotting Drake, he glowered.

  “What are you doing here, hawker?” he demanded.

  “Visiting friends,” Drake replied, smirking.

  Barnaby snorted a laugh. “Friends? Hawkers don’t have friends. Especially you.”

  Drake feigned hurt feelings. “But I thought we were friends, Barnaby.”

  After taking a final look at his injury, Barnaby holstered his gun. “Don’t get smart with me. Just tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Drake shrugged. “I just told you – I’m visiting friends.” He nodded at the sheriff’s wound, which was now swollen and bright red. “Nasty bite, that. You should get it looked at. Could get infected, and I wouldn’t want to see you get sick… not with you being my friend and all.”

  Barnaby looked up to the top of the apartment building, then back to Drake. “If I find out you did this…” His hand drifted to his gun.

  Drake clicked his tongue. “Now, now, sheriff. You know I wouldn’t do something like that. Not to a friend.”

  Barnaby’s fingers closed around the handle of his weapon, but he stopped short of drawing
it out. The man was cruel and corrupt, but he wasn’t a moron.

  “Out here on the street without your deputies today, I see,” Drake remarked. He shook his head slowly, as if in admonishment. “That’s not very safe. Who knows what could happen?”

  Barnaby glared at him for a long moment, then removed his hand from his gun. “Just get the hell out of here, hawker,” he snarled.

  Drake nodded. “Of course, sheriff. You’re the boss.” Turning around, he set off down the street.

  What the hell were you thinking? he scolded himself, while walking away. It was to avoid this precise situation that had stopped him from taking a second shot. All he’d needed to do was stay put on the roof until Barnaby moved on. The sheriff would have thought a bee or a wasp had stung him. In a couple of days, the swelling would have gone down and he’d have been none the wiser. Drake sighed. He just couldn’t resist goading the man, could he? He’d as much as told Barnaby directly that he had shot him. Now he’d be out for revenge. He wouldn’t act directly; that wasn’t his style. Not unless you were too weak to fight back. All the same, he would find a way to make trouble somehow, and Drake would have to watch his back.

  I guess it’s about time to move on again, he thought. Keep making dumb moves and pretty soon you’ll run out of places to go.

  Rounding the corner, he saw Cal, right where he left her. The mana flakes in her jet-black paint glittered in the sunlight. He took a deep breath. If there was one refuge, one place where he was able to feel normal, it was behind the wheel of Cal.

  Today, his enjoyment would be brief. So long as the runner was in town, he would be, too. His finger touched the mana pad, and the door hissed open. A sigh of pleasure slipped out as the scent of well-cared-for leather forced away the stench of filth from the street.

  He never allowed Cal’s luxury to become something he took for granted. Everything about her was perfection, from the hum of her perfectly tuned engine and comfort of the seats that automatically formed around his body to the knowing way in which she instantly responded to his touch, almost as if she were a living being rather than a mindless machine. When he was in Cal, he was aware of little else. Not the runner...not his current plight...not even his former life in the royal guard. If there was any joy at all for him in this harsh life, it was when his hands were around the wheel and his foot hard down on the accelerator. It was as if he was running from the world. And the world was outmatched.

  He could have easily walked the four blocks to the tavern. As it was, even a few moments’ respite inside Cal helped to settle his mind. There was also the fact that it wouldn’t be long before Barnaby sent his men out looking for him. Not that any of them were stupid enough to do more than shoot him an angry look or two, but even so, they would be keeping a close eye on him from now on. Cal might be a triumph of engineering, but she was not exactly a discreet vehicle.

  “Time to hide, baby,” Drake murmured.

  Pressing the accelerator, he turned left down the next block. After making sure that no one was behind him, he touched the yellow mana pad on the console.

  “Hello, Drake,” a sultry female voice responded. “State your command.”

  “Camouflage mode. Low profile.”

  He watched as the paint on her hood shimmered and distorted; patches of rust popped up randomly. Barnaby’s men could still find him if they looked hard enough, but at least they wouldn’t be tempted to mess around with Cal. That was the line. He’d risk becoming a runner himself if they tried doing that.

  This part of Hilton Landing was about as run-down a place as any in Vale. Not even the magistrate officers visited here, which was probably why Barnaby came around so often. The poorer the people, the easier they were to control and intimidate.

  The small parking lot was little more than half full. Drake pulled in between two battered vehicles that, even when compared to Cal’s low-profile mode, looked to be in terrible condition. The sign to the right of the tavern's front door was faded and riddled with bullet holes from years of fights that had gone way too far. Lucky’s. A parody that the patrons never understood. They were too drunk, too despondent, and too dim to get it. If you were drinking here, you were more than just poor – you were beyond hope. The owner, a man Drake only knew as Bull, had once told him how the ironic name had come about. Originally it was meant to be called Lucy’s, after his wife. However, the sign maker traded the work for drinks, and unfortunately was paid in advance on the day he painted the sign.

  The dull throb of dance music filtered through the thin walls. Why Bull bothered playing music at all baffled Drake. There wasn’t even a dance floor. And even if there were, he doubted that anyone inside would be capable of standing up properly for very long, let alone dancing.

  He scanned the street. No one was about. The few people who had work would be at their jobs, and most of the surrounding buildings were uninhabitable, where inside, he was sure there would be a few scavengers looking to pick clean what little remained of any value. But they wouldn’t emerge until well after dark.

  As Drake pushed open the door, his nose was assaulted by the foul blend of stale beer and urine. A horseshoe-shaped bar was dead center of the room, with a few rickety tables and frequently repaired chairs scattered about in no particular order. Though there were a half dozen cars out front, he saw only three men drinking. Bull himself was leaning heavily against a barrel, scratching his head while staring down at something on the floor that was obscured by the bar.

  Bull was an appropriate name for such an enormous man. Nearly a foot taller than Drake, he looked more like a bouncer than a bar owner. His close-cropped red hair and freckled face gave him a boyish appearance. In contrast to the poor condition of both his bar and its patrons, though, he was usually a pleasant fellow.

  For a moment, Bull didn’t notice his presence. The loud music had masked the sound of the door opening, and the sudden shaft of bright light coming in was not enough to drag his concentration away from whatever it was he was gazing at. When he did finally look up, a broad smile appeared.

  “Well, if it isn’t Drake Sharazi,” he said.

  Drake could barely hear him over the music. He winced, touching his ear. Taking the hint, Bull reached under the lip of the bar. There was a pop and a crackle, and the music decreased to background level.

  “How do you stand listening to that garbage all the time?” Drake asked.

  Bull chuckled. “What? You don’t dance?”

  Drake took a bar stool as far away from the three sorry-looking patrons as he could manage. “Not really. Do you?”

  “Sure I do. I may be big, but I can move pretty good when I’ve a mind to. How do you think I got my wife to marry me?”

  “I always assumed you scared her into it. Or maybe just clubbed her over the head with that chunk of meat you call a hand.”

  Bull burst into laughter. “No wonder you’re still single. I’ll have you know I can be charming when I want to be.”

  Drake smiled. Very few people could make him do that these days, and this alone was worth suffering the appalling smell. Though how Bull remained so upbeat all the time was beyond his comprehension.

  “You’ll only charm me if you have something other than that homemade swill you claim is whiskey,” he grinned.

  Bull held up a finger. “As it so happens, I do.” Spinning with impressive agility for a man of his size, he disappeared through a door at the rear of the bar.

  Now with an unobstructed view, Drake noticed a large depression on the floor where Bull had been staring, the tiles around it badly cracked. At last he understood what had been bothering the bar owner and why he had been so preoccupied.

  Bull returned a few seconds later, his thick fingers wrapped around a large blue bottle. “Bought this two months ago,” he announced. “Just in case you came by.”

  Drake nodded at the damaged floor. “You can’t let Barnaby see that.”

  A flash of anxiety washed over Bull’s face, but it was gone as quickly
as it appeared. “Oh, that’s nothing. Not half as bad as it looks. I can fix it.” He poured Drake a glass of sweet-smelling clear liquid. “Here, try this. It's straight from Troi.”

  That was a lie, of course. Almost nothing from Troi made it this far into the outer provinces. All the same, it was probably expensive enough to make Bull feel that the lie was justified. Drake took a small sip. The sweet smell had not prepared him for the tart taste. With lips pursed, he placed the glass on the bar.

  “You don’t like it?” asked Bull, looking disappointed.

  “It’s fine.” Realizing that this was not sufficient, Drake added: “Really. It’s very good.” He downed the rest and smiled.

  With satisfied pride, Bull poured another. “So what brings you here this time?”

  “Nothing special.”

  The big man snorted a laugh. “Does nothing special have a name?”

  Drake looked over to the three drunks on the other side of the bar.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Bull assured him. “They’ve been here since we opened. They wouldn’t be able to remember a word you said if their lives depended on it.”

  “Okay. The name’s Brant Varish. You know him?”

  Bull scratched his chin. “Can’t say that I do. You want me to ask around?”

  “Thanks, but there’s no need. I already know where he is.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “What makes you think there is a problem?”

  Bull folded his arms, a frown forming. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, Drake. If there wasn’t a problem, you’d already have him shoved in your trunk by now. So let me guess. The only way you can get to this guy is either by killing him, or killing someone else. Am I close?”

  Drake was amazed at how intuitive and insightful Bull could be at times. He had known the man for only a couple of years, but it hadn’t taken anywhere near that long to realize he was far cleverer than most. Inside that giant of a head was a pretty sharp mind.