At their lunch break I borrowed a sorting outfit, bumped into the girl just as she was finishing up her nutrient bar, and deftly slipped my hand into her pocket. It really was a little too easy. The ring was mine and I was pretty sure that I was home free.
Walking—all right, I was swaggering—through the Dump, I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. I was imagining the impressed look on Alison’s face when I turned up with the goods. In my fantasy, she and I were more like sisters than employer and employee. Completely distracted, I turned a corner and there was Locket, covered in blood and fighting for his life. Both he and his opponent, a tough looking guy with tattoos on his face, were brandishing mean looking knives. I have a knife that I keep in my boot, but it doesn’t look anything like what they had in their hands.
Both of them were exhausted. Blood was running down their faces, they had cuts all over their bodies, and they were barely able to focus. I should have known to just get out of there. But, like an idiot, I watched them with a stunned expression on my face.
It wasn’t until a few moments later that the tattooed guy noticed me. “Is this one of your little slaves, Rian?”
Locket risked a glance my way. “Get the hell out of here, kid.”
It was too late. The tattooed guy rushed me. I remember the disconnected way that I examined his bloody knife as he ran towards me. I was used to fighting for scraps on the street; this clash was the next step up, something far beyond anything I could understand. So I stood there like a statue, waiting for the man, and his knife, to disappear.
Locket stepped in and deflected the blow. The strength behind the attack was staggering; my unlikely champion fell to his knees. His adversary raised his knife high and drove it down, opening a horrible wound from Locket’s neck down to the bottom of his rib cage.
“You always were a hero, asshole,” the tattooed guy said. Sneering in triumph, he prepared for the killing blow.
Jolted back into reality, I launched myself at him. It was a stupid move, he was far stronger than me, but it gave Locket the extra second he needed. As I fell to the ground between them, Locket spotted the hilt of my knife peeking out of my boot. Quick as lightning, he pulled it out and rammed the blade straight into his opponent’s stomach.
The guy didn’t make any kind of a sound. He just stared into Locket’s eyes as a jagged wound was carved from his navel to his chest.
“Fuck you, Paris.” There was a look of pure malevolence on Locket’s face as he cradled his victim. “Your brother will be happy to see you.”
“I’ll be sure and find your sister, too,” the dying man rasped nastily. “Cumming inside of her was fucking paradise.”
Locket reached his arm into the guy’s abdomen, up under his rib cage, and ripped out his heart.
What do you say to the man who killed your best friend right in front of you, saved your life, just threw a human heart into the streets, and is rummaging through a butchered man’s clothes?
“That guy dead?” I asked dumbly.
Locket’s threatening glare made my hair stand on end. Young that I was, I met and held his intense gaze without blinking. But a small girl who doesn’t know to run when there’s trouble isn’t going to intimidate a man like Locket.
“You didn’t see or hear a damn thing,” he barked. “Understood?”
Pressing my lips together, worried that I might be his next victim, I nodded carefully.
Locket’s search through the tattooed man’s pockets turned up nothing. Standing on shaking legs, he cleaned his blade on his victim’s jacket and examined his bleeding wounds. He grabbed a pack on the ground and opened it. Right in front of me, he poured a clear substance over his torso, flinching in pain as it burned. Then he sat down, threaded a curved needle, and began sewing his neck and chest wound together. How he managed without a mirror is beyond me.
When he was done, I was beyond traumatized.
I only had one thing to offer him for saving my life. “I can get you out of Q.”
He didn’t have to say anything. I led him to my contact, but the pass I had was only good for one. I dropped Alison’s name to the gate-keeper, the people who guard the exits and entrances between sectors, and she let us both through. Locket went his way and I gave the ring to Alison. Of course, she wouldn’t hire me again when she found out that I’d used her name to smuggle a blood-covered man through a gate.
But I can’t tell Lily this story. Locket doesn’t want anyone knowing about that fight. If it got back to him that I was talking about it he wouldn’t hesitate to cut me down. Like I said, there’s no hiding from that sonofabitch. No matter where you are, he’ll find you. And because I have something on him, he hates me. I’ve never given him a legitimate excuse to kill me but I can always sense him watching; he’s waiting for a reason to slit my throat.
Besides that, I never found any information on the man he killed. It should have been easy. Most people avoid tattoos because they’re symbols of enslavement. The Court and Homestead are full of slaves, and all of them bear the mark of their master. I described the tattoos to a few experts, but there aren’t any families that brand their slaves on the face. It brings down their re-sale value.
Hyde motions at me from the crowd. Glaring unhappily at a rough man who bumps into him, he desperately checks his suit for rips or stains. His search reveals that his clothes are undamaged and he sighs in relief.
“I hope to keep this intact for a while,” he explains.
“Luck to that,” I return.
Following him through the crowd, I conquer my nerves by biting down hard on the inside of my cheek. The sharp pain helps me focus. I’m going to need all my wits about me when I come face to face with Lyons.
6
Seven years ago, a Criminal named Nick Redden hired me. I was supposed to get rid of someone who was getting in his way. I’ve killed in self defence, for survival, but contract killing is a different business. Some naïve, arrogant part of me thought I could do it. In the Criminal world, if you take a contract you make good on it, or your employer owns you. When I didn’t deliver my end of the bargain, Redden owned me. First he raped me, and then he beat me into a bloody pulp.
For months afterwards, I walked around in a strange daze. People would be talking to me but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I’d wander the streets for hours, oblivious to my surroundings, and then realize I was circling the warehouse where I’d met Redden for the last time. My mind had erased the rape; but then it started coming back to me in small, agonizing waves. Sometimes, when I least expect it, I’ll remember something he said. I’ll hear his crew cheering and jeering somewhere in the darker recesses of my memory. When that happens I feel like someone has reached into my chest and ripped out my spine. My body freezes up, I lose the ability to speak and I disappear. It can take hours of concentration to put the memories back where they belong.
After the assault, I was unconscious for three days. When I woke up, I was in Lyons’ infirmary. At first, I thought he was going to torture me to death, but he was only fixing me up. Apparently, someone had found me and brought me straight to him. Lyons wouldn’t tell me who. I couldn’t pay him for the treatment so I’ve owed him a favour ever since.
To make matters even more interesting, two days before Lyons gave me a clean bill of health, Nick Redden was found dead in a Collection bin. His tongue had been ripped out and his balls had been cut off. I wish I could say that I got my revenge, but what he did to me is acceptable in the Criminal world. If I’d retaliated I never would have worked again. No one ever took credit for his death, either, so whoever killed him didn’t have a legitimate reason. That kind of a kill will start a war. I can’t name one Criminal who wants another one of those. They cut into business and everyone starves.
Hyde leads me to the back of the bar. Madman’s booth is tucked away from the rowdier areas. I’m staring down at the big guy himself. Actually, comparatively, Lyons is kind of small. He’s never beefed up like other Crimin
als. In the last two years he’s earned a few more lines of distinction around his eyes, but his face still lays claim to a touch of youth. His eyes have that deep, arcane quality—you get the feeling that nothing gets by him. And I suppose nothing really does.
He’s scribbling madly on a board with charcoal and it’s absorbing all of his attention. There’s plenty of art all around the City. For some people it’s like a virus. It gets into their system and, instead of coughing or sneezing, they paint, draw, sculpt, whatever they have to. Wulff, one of my oldest friends, is one of them. He loves colour, probably because there isn’t much of it around. He loves real green especially; we all like real green.
Too nervous to speak, I hang back instead of making my presence known. I don’t want to ruin his concentration. A hollow-faced, wiry man is sitting to Lyons’ left. He sees me and his overly large eyes bulge out of his face.
“Hey, Copper,” he calls as he puts his hand under the table. “What am I holding in my hand?”
He leers at me as his body starts to shake…it looks like he’s beating off under the table. Beck is an insecure jackass. Years ago, I beat him into submission after he tried to feel me up. His ego still hasn’t recovered.
Unfazed by his vulgar pantomime, I use my psychic talent to take a peek under the table.
“A salt shaker.”
Flashing me a look of loathing, Beck puts the shaker back on the table. Now Madman knows that I haven’t lost my psychic talent. He’s still working away with the coal and isn’t looking up. Running my hand anxiously through my hair, I study Madman’s tough looking bodyguards; they’re standing behind the booth and looking at me with equal parts interest and distrust. Along with their scarred knuckles, muscular bodies and mean expressions, I can see fierce loyalty burning in their eyes. One false move from anyone and they won’t hesitate in cutting them down.
“I can never quite get the eyes right,” Lyons finally says. He rubs his fingers over the board he’s holding. The coal has gotten all over his hands and shirt. When he wipes his face a streak of black appears on his forehead and cheek. He holds the board away from him to examine his work. “You should sit down, Daryl. Beck was just leaving.”
Throwing me a malicious glare, Beck slides out of the booth, buttons his withered jacket, and disappears into the crowd.
“I need your opinion,” Lyons says.
Too tense to say anything, I sit down and watch him draw. Every time I shift I cringe at the noise that I make. The split vinyl covering the bench squeaks uncomfortably, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I can’t get out of here soon enough.
“How does it look?” Madman asks. He turns the board so that I can see his work.
My own face, captured exquisitely on the yellowish-brown wood, peers out from its rectangular jail; there’s an ethereal yet wholly lifelike quality to my features. I look young, mischievous, elated—a far cry from what I’ve become. Sorrow erupts in my chest. Shaken and irritated, I allow myself a catty response.
“You missed the sarcastic smirk and the smart-ass attitude. Did you mistake me for someone else?”
“When I thought of you this was the image that came to mind,” he replies, unfazed by my bitterness. Amusement glitters in his mysterious eyes as he studies the portrait. “But now it’s all wrong, isn’t it?”
Madman extends his hand behind him. Producing another rectangular board from his jacket, one of his bodyguards places it into his boss’ palm. Focusing intently, Lyons begins another masterpiece and does not look up at me again. His coal rubs madly against the solid wood, his artist’s face twitches and contracts as his vision slowly takes form. A few more moments of this and I’m liable to jump out of my skin. Finally, after what seems like hours, he tells me what he wants.
“I need you to get in to A Sector.”
Funny, he doesn’t look like he’s joking.
“Cop Sector…?” He doesn’t react to my incredulous tone. I have to assume that he’s serious. “Nobody gets into Cop Sector.”
Studying the board with a squinted eye, Madman grunts disapprovingly at his work. “You did.”
“I got out of Cop Sector. There’s a big difference.”
“You grew up there, Daryl. Long before you decided to become a Criminal you were a little baby Copling, learning how to get paid by catching us evil-doers.” He never lifts his gaze to catch my eye; his work is absorbing his attention. “You know the way they eat and sleep, the way they work and play; you know what Cop Sector looks like and how Cops act when they’re not working. That’s a step above every other Criminal, wouldn’t you say? And, if there’s a way out, there must be a way in.”
I must admit, it’s hard to argue with his logic.
I had hoped that people would forget about my origins over time. I never advertised that I was from Cop Sector, but it didn’t take long for others to find out. Coplings, as Madman so accurately put it, are trained from birth to hunt and catch people with non-lethal force: more pay if the Criminal is in good working order when you get them to the Prison. The Cop fighting technique is distinctive and easy to spot if you’ve fought one before. In my first few public fights (I managed to avoid them for years), somebody recognized it and that was that. Being the only Cop turned Criminal has never been easy. For a few years, I was everybody’s scapegoat.
Madman finally puts down his coal and board to look at me. “You owe me. I want a line into A. You have three days.”
He wants what Heathcliff Jackson has to F—a path into a heavily guarded sector that can provide him with a monopoly. Madman could make an astounding amount of credit and maybe, just maybe, entice more Criminals into his protection.
There’s just one catch. I wasn’t joking when I said no one gets into Cop Sector. Madman has just given me a bullshit job.
My mind buzzes miserably as I put the pieces together. He already knows I can’t deliver; he either wants me under his thumb or out of his way. If I don’t give him what he wants I belong to him…just like I belonged to Redden all those years ago. That sadistic bastard’s sweaty face flashes through my brain. Gasping anxiously under my breath, I put a hand on the table to steady my trembling nerves.
Fuck that. I’m not going to belong to anyone ever again. My only choice is to go into hiding. That’s the only way I survive Madman’s trap. It’s risky, but I’ve got no problems with disappearing.
My tenuous control over my roaring anxiety is slipping. I get up without waiting to be excused. Lyons doesn’t react. Jamming my hands into my pockets so that no one will see how they’re shaking, I retreat into the crowd.
Lily and Hyde are waiting for me in a small booth.
Hyde gestures at all the people in the bar. “You’re already a Legend, Daryl.”
Looking around, I realize that gazes are pointed in my direction. They all think I’m back in action. That’s big news. I’m supposed to be half-dead. Amongst the crowd I recognize a malevolent stare and tip my head to Beck. He’s glowering at me with pure hatred.
“Be careful of that one,” Lily warns. “He’s out for blood. Hyde overheard him talking to Cullen.”
“Tonight…?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs helplessly. “Don’t fight him. Let’s get out of here instead.”
A thrill of excitement shoots up my spine. My hands stop shaking when I think about crushing Beck’s face. I see my arms wrapped around his neck, his face turning blue before I drop him with a quick jerk. His body falls to the floor in a heap as I watch him take his last breath. Sweet, intoxicating power flows through my muscles…I’m alive again.
“Daryl…?” Lily puts her hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Pulling myself out of my fantasy, I nod. “You’re right. I just have to hit the bathrooms first.”
“We’ll meet you at the bar,” Hyde calls after me.
The crowd swallows me whole and I have to push my way through the mass of bodies. I’m starting to get used to the crush. Actually, the n
oise and violence is becoming a comfort. I used to thrive on it. Braggs Bar is an unofficial let’s-even-the-score zone. People meet, others lay down bets, and then they have a no rules fight. There have already been a few tonight, but I’ve been so preoccupied I didn’t really notice them. To my left, two women are slugging it out and Braggs’ other patrons are yelling and shouting at the top of their lungs.
“Three hundred credits on the blonde!” an overly excited man calls from right behind me.
Elbowing my way over to the bar, I spot Theo chatting with Locket. She’s gracing him with her world-class sexy pout and coy, come-violate-my-innocence gaze. Wow. I’m not usually attracted to women, but that look would get me out of my clothes pretty quick.
I have to walk by them to get to the bathrooms. Theo sees my approach and pretends she doesn’t know me. Locket stares as I walk past. I shoot him an unpleasant look before continuing on my way.
The bathroom is crowded and noisy, just like the rest of the bar. Urinals line the wall to my right and stalls line the wall to my left. Most people aren’t here for the toilets so I find an empty stall. Just as I open the door someone grabs me from behind. Shrieking in protest, I struggle helplessly before I’m pushed towards the toilet. The stall door bolts shut with gruesome finality.
I finally snap. This day has been too much for me. It’s been one thing after another, with no rest and no peace. Releasing a horrific, ravenous battle cry I dig my nails into my attackers flesh.
Swearing under his breath, he lets me go. I swing at him without thought, reaching for his face and kicking at his legs. But my opponent is a clever bastard. Grabbing my wrist and shoulder, he spins me into a painful shoulder lock, neutralizing my fists. It’s the kind of move I was taught back in Cop Sector. There’s no getting out of this without severely crippling myself. It’s that thought, and that thought only, that forces me to calm down. I swallow my panic. Gasping pathetically, my head bent towards the toilet bowl, I silently ask Luck for a quick death.
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