by Julian North
“So, we follow them,” I said.
I didn’t need to see Alexander’s eyes to know they had narrowed with disapproval. That expression had become familiar over the past two months. I imagined the stiff metal cogs in his brain churning to find some ridiculous reason why he could risk his life and I couldn’t. But he took too long before speaking. Not that his words would’ve mattered. Sounds of men on the move came from the corridor. We stuck our heads outside the doorway to investigate: they were climbing the ladder. And they were dragging the body up with them. Why were they determined to lug a corpse with them? It couldn’t be to conceal his identity. The Authority would discover the blood in the locker room and run it through their database. They would know who he was in seconds. It had to be something else.
When they had disappeared up the ladder, I asked, “What’s the plan?”
“I need to know who they are.”
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
“It is me they wanted to kill. You have your own fight already. I don’t want to add to that burden. Is there any way that you will stay here?”
“Blood takes care of blood.”
Alexander released an unhappy breath, then ran toward the ladder. I followed. It led us to the back room of a clothing fabrication store. Light crept in to the high windows that lined the walls from the street outside. Boxes were piled about in a haphazard fashion. Alexander scrambled through the clutter, far too confident that his attackers would not be looking behind them. He was unarmed and, if these people truly could not be trilled, defenseless. We passed through an open door to the front of the store, where a glass window looked onto the street. A car was parked outside. I froze from instinct. It was an Authority patrol car, sleek and dark, its windows reflective. The last of Alexander’s assailants was getting inside.
“That’s how they’re going to travel despite the curfew,” Alexander said.
“There’s no way we can follow them.” I wasn’t totally unhappy about it.
Alexander shook his head. “You’re thinking like someone… not from Manhattan. The Protection Authority isn’t the enemy here.”
He ran outside as the stolen patrol car pulled away. I followed warily. A November chill was in the air. We were still dressed in track shorts. Alexander flicked his viser while waving his hands in the air. He looked frantic, ridiculous.
“Are you crazy? You red pinged the black boots?” I struggled to keep myself from screaming it.
“I told you, the PA isn’t our enemy.”
A surveyor drone descended from the sky no more than thirty seconds later. It hovered ten feet above the ground, its lights flashing in my eyes. Wind from its turbo fans sent debris swirling around us.
Its loudspeaker blared at us. “Citizen, a curfew is in effect. You are ordered to return to your home or to the nearest interim shelter immediately.”
“I am Alexander Foster-Rose-Hart. I must make a report of illegal activity,” Alexander called back. “Men nearby have committed a Class 1 Violation.”
The machine hummed. “Citizen, a curfew is in effect. You are ordered to return to your home or to the nearest shelter immediately.”
“You’re talking to a damn box.” I tugged at Alexander’s shoulder. I didn’t want to be out here. I didn’t want to speak with the Authority or their mechanized minions. The last time I had, I’d ended up in the back of one of their black vans.
A moment later, the cool-blue flashing lights of an Authority patrol sedan appeared. The vehicle stopped directly in front of Alexander, and two black-clad thugs with force pistols at their waist hurried out. Their bearing wasn’t friendly. I squeezed his shoulder tighter in warning. I’d seen the look these two goons wore: these officers were spoiling for trouble. Alexander might be rich, and he might be highborn, but he was wearing bloody track clothes on a dark street in violation of curfew on the night the perpetual president had been shot.
The lead patrolman drew his weapon, clutching its handle in both hands and aiming it at the ground as he approached.
“On your knees, citizens,” he ordered, but I knew from experience that he was hoping we didn’t comply. Even if we did, it was going to end badly.
“Officer, let me be clear. I am…”
“I said, on your knees.” He raised the force pistol to Alexander’s chest. His partner drew his weapon and aimed it at me. Their faces were angry. On another night, they might have been more careful. More polite. This was Manhattan, not BC. But this neighborhood wasn’t the Upper East Side. Masterman Stadium was hardly in the most elite section of Manhattan. And we didn’t look important. Tonight, they had orders to shoot to kill. Adrenaline was pumping in their thick heads, and they thought they could do anything.
Alexander looked more annoyed than frightened. “We don’t have time for this. I told you—”
The officer slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of Alexander’s ribs. He hunched over in pain and shock. The goon touched the gun barrel to the top of Alexander’s skull. “Do you intend to continue to defy an Authority directive?”
I’d seen too many people treated this way. In BC, I’d seen it but been powerless. I wasn’t powerless now. Anger erupted from within me. I stepped toward the officer with his gun pressed to Alexander’s head. My face was blank with cold rage while my eyes roared. But it was my voice that commanded true power.
“Fear him. Listen to what he says. He speaks the truth,” I trilled.
The wall protecting the mind of the Authority officer was a petty thing of brittle plastika. My will smashed through it. My trill pierced his mind, making my will his own. Pleasure surged through me as I overwhelmed the consciousness of this man of the Authority. I smiled as the gun was lowered and holstered. The other officer looked on, confused at my words and the reaction of his partner. My eyes narrowed on his pale, doughy face, prepared to strike at him as well, should it be necessary.
“I may have acted in haste, citizen.” The words were hesitant, laced with fear: a dog that belatedly realized that bigger teeth did not make him the master of the house.
Alexander rose, his eyes flickering to me meaningfully for a moment.
“I am Alexander Foster-Rose-Hart,” he declared. So proud. I am the lion, hear me roar. “An attempt was made upon my life not more than twenty minutes ago. The men who carried out this act are escaping in an Authority vehicle, license designation HAL20-10.”
The officer nodded curtly. “We’re on it, sir.” He spoke quickly into his viser. His partner watched warily as the encounter took a drastically different direction. He holstered his pistol and flicked his viser—checking Alexander’s identity, most likely.
“We already have a location fix on that vehicle from our drones,” the first officer said to Alexander. “They’re not more than a mile from here. All units are on alert. They’ll be in custody in minutes, sir, I can assure you. We’re headed over there ourselves now.”
“We’re coming with you,” Alexander said, his eyes intense, his words carrying an echo of power around their edges. I studied his eyes, the tension in his face: he was trilling. I shook my head in disgust. I couldn’t believe that he wanted to get into the back of an Authority patrol vehicle. Sometimes Alexander just didn’t get it.
Still, I followed as the others rushed to their seats. I had insisted on coming with him. I would see it through.
The electric engine hummed as we whipped through the deserted Manhattan streets at high speed. Other vehicles joined us, sirens blaring. The street lights were off. A few of the larger buildings were lit by internal power supplies, but the rest were dark. A large bluekent class drone, flying no more than ten feet from the ground, overtook us along the same route. I saw several other drones approaching from two other directions. The Authority did not lack resources.
We turned a corner to find a small armada of surface and aerial vehicles surrounding the rogue patrol car. The Authority’s forces spanned the avenue, blocking off the road in both directions. There must have been twe
nty vehicles, mostly patrol cars, but there were at least two armored sub-tanks as well. The black boots only brought those into BC when there were armed riots. Officers in full body armor, force rifles in hand, poured from the back of the tactical operation van like black paint split on charcoal. The sounds of their heavy boots echoed in my ears.
“All passengers are ordered to exit the vehicle, hands in the air,” shouted an amplified voice. “You have five seconds to comply.”
“We need them alive,” Alexander said to the men in our car.
“We know, sir,” the driver assured us. “The tac ops team has gas grenades and heavy stun weapons—they’ve been ordered to use nonlethal force. We’ll get them.”
A small army surrounded Alexander’s assailants. Whoever they were, they weren’t going anywhere but to an Authority interrogation cell. We would know their identities soon enough. But that didn’t bring me any comfort. I just couldn’t think of the Authority as an ally. Alexander was correct—I didn’t think like someone from Manhattan. Because I wasn’t, and never would be.
“Time’s up,” shouted the policeman. Men with guns were already in motion. A pair of smoking projectiles shot downward from one of the ominous machines hovering above. The end was near. The men in the stolen car realized it as well.
The vehicle exploded.
Chapter 5
An Authority patrol car dropped us off at Alexander’s towering Upper East Side residence about two hours after the explosion incinerated the assassins and their vehicle. The city’s street lights were back on, as were the lights in Alexander’s home.
“Curfew expires at midnight, ma’am, but transit into and out of Manhattan will be restricted until further notice,” the Authority officer told me, then flashed a false smile that reminded me of a snake giving a mouse directions home. I didn’t reply as I exited the car.
“Mr. Foster-Rose-Hart, sir, someone will likely be in touch with you tomorrow with some additional questions. Thank you for your cooperation this evening. And for your bravery. We almost had them.”
“Almost isn’t much comfort, Officer,” Alexander replied without scorn. It was simply a statement.
“We’ll find the people responsible. No one can escape the Protection Authority,” the black boot assured Alexander. I kept my face blank.
I tried to red ping Kortilla for the fifth time since the car had exploded, without any success. We walked across the grounds—across a lawn more valuable than several blocks of Bronx City—to the main house. Gibbs, tall, gray, and distinguished in his immaculate uniform, greeted us at the door with aplomb, as if Alexander returning just before midnight in an Authority patrol cruiser on the night the president had been shot was perfectly normal.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” he intoned. It sounded perfunctory, probably because it was.
“A bit of a tough night, Gibbs. Any issues here?”
“There was a power outage. But the backup systems activated immediately. The grounds are secure.”
“I’d like you to increase security at the house. Have Jenkins bring in some more men. And ping him to let him know I want to meet with him tomorrow to discuss security procedures.”
Gibbs frowned. “Ah, Mr. Alridge-Payne gave explicit instructions that he had to approve any orders regarding the security service, as they are paid by Rose-Hart and are not part of your personal household, nor covered by your personal expense allocation. Shall I pass your request on to him?” Gibbs left little doubt as to his thoughts on what Alridge-Payne’s reply would be.
Something akin to annoyance flashed in Alexander’s sapphire eyes. It was gone in a moment. “I will speak to him, Mr. Gibbs. Make sure the doors are locked and the security system is active. We’ll be upstairs. That will be all, Mr. Gibbs.”
Gibbs gave a slight bow before walking off, but not before shooting a smoldering glance of disapproval in my direction. I was used to his attitude by now, although I still couldn’t explain it. Alexander treated Gibbs with as much warmth as he would a piece of furniture, but the old man resented my presence.
“Maybe you should have Nythan look at your security systems,” I suggested. “He’s more likely to be of help than that warden.”
“With what has just happened, I think Alridge-Payne will authorize the additional security deployment. He is bound by fiduciary duty to act impartially, and the situation—”
“He’s a jack-A,” I said, more curtly than I’d intended. My eyes were heavy, my body ached, and I didn’t know where Kortilla was. “The guy is wet, Alexander. Face it.”
He arched a brow at me. “Wet?”
I rolled my eyes. “On the take. He’s owned by someone else. One of your enemies. Arik maybe. They want Rose-Hart.”
Alexander’s features clouded. “He is a highborn—the court-appointed warden of my father’s estate until the final disposition is decided.”
“Which you told me could take years with all the fighting that’s going on. Look, I don’t know squat about fancy Manhattan courts or legal crap. But I know when someone is owned. He’s done squat for you, squeezed you of funds, and made it as difficult as possible for you to help Nythan and Mateo and everyone else. He’s not going to put additional security at your disposal. Even if he did, you couldn’t trust anyone he gets for you.”
Alexander pursed his lips, mulling my words. “As you would say, I can take care of my—”
My arm shook as a red ping came in. It was Nythan.
“Where are you?”
“Defying curfew and about to hop the gate of the Alexander palace-of-a-house. Shut off the damn security system so I don’t get toasted, please.”
Alexander twitched a couple of fingers.
“It’s off,” I said. “Where’s Kortilla?”
“I’ll see you inside.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Got anything stronger?” Nythan asked as Alexander handed him a glass of water.
We sat around a grand marble-topped table inside Alexander’s sprawling kitchen. Glittering appliances surrounded us like steel sentinels, and genuine copper pans hung from the kitchen ceiling, more dangling trophies of art than functional tools. Someone would have to be mad, and insanely rich, to actually cook on one of those. As far as I knew, Alexander was only the latter. And I had never seen him even think about cooking.
Alexander frowned at Nythan’s request.
“Inebriation laws don’t apply to private merchandise and residences,” Nythan reminded him.
Alexander shrugged. “Scotch?”
“Bourbon, if you have it. Which I’m sure you do.”
I gritted my teeth but held my tongue. This was just the way richies behaved, I told myself. Now wasn’t the time to start another fight.
“Before you’re drunk under the table, tell me where the hell Kortilla is.”
Nythan gave me a weary look. I finally noticed the ugly red and purple splotch on his otherwise pale face. Alexander fiddled with crystal decanters and fancy glasses in front of a mirrored liquor cabinet at the far end of the kitchen.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically heavy.
“What does that mean? When did you see her last?”
The bourbon arrived, its powerful aroma creeping into my nostrils. Nythan downed the caramel liquor in a single gulp.
“That stings.”
I didn’t know if he meant the drink or his face.
“Talk, Nythan.”
“The Authority has her.” He studied the bottom of the glass. “They took her.”
I leaped to my feet. “What the hell does the Authority want with her?” I shouted at him. Alexander laid a calming hand on my shoulder. But I wasn’t in the mood to be calmed.
Nythan brushed the expanding blemish on the left side of his face. “I tried to explain that to them. They weren’t totally persuaded by my arguments.” He met my angry stare with guilty eyes. “She may have come under suspicion for being one of the only residents of BC in the
stadium. Being neither highborn nor rich didn’t help. No one ever accused the Authority of being subtle.”
I wheeled around to face Alexander. “We need to get her out.”
“Of course, I’ll do what I can… but they won’t harm her—”
“Like they didn’t harm Nythan?” I demanded. “Like they weren’t about to put a hole in your head this evening? Like they haven’t been doing whatever they like, to whomever they like, in BC for years. It’s time for direct measures.” He knew what I was talking about: trilling.
“We’ll get her out,” Alexander said, his tone maddeningly calm. So reasonable. “Trilling is a risk. I know I was a party to that today. But if we didn’t act, the assassins would have escaped.”
“You just aren’t willing to do it for my friend, my sister?”
“We don’t even know where she is,” Alexander answered. “But we’ll find out. Please, I’m going to do all I can, of course.”
Nythan stood. “I’ll find out where she is right now. Direct me to a terminal.”
Alexander frowned. “You’re going to hack confidential PA data from a terminal in my house?”
“I won’t get you caught, tough guy.” More softly, he added, “It’s the least I can do.”
I recognized the tension on Alexander’s face. He had worn that expression often enough while battling for control of his father’s company. Being connected to criminal activity wouldn’t be helpful. I stared at him, desperate for him not to disappoint me. Not in this.
Gibbs interrupted with a deliberate clearing of his throat at the entryway to the kitchen.
“Damn, you’re quiet, man,” Nythan remarked. “Like the frakkin’ Phantom of the Opera. No offense.”
“There is a vehicle at the gates with a special Protection Authority curfew travel permit and a human driver. He has indicated his passenger is a Ms. Kortilla Gonzales.”
“Kortilla! Let her in,” I said.
Gibbs held up a hand of caution. “There are at least three men in the car in addition to a young woman. We cannot know if it actually is your… acquaintance. House scanners indicate the presence of several force weapons of military caliber within the vehicle. Also, the sedan is registered to the ArgoGood Corporation.”