Almost an hour later, Gordo came out.
"You gotta leave. This is crazy."
"It's not crazy. Something big is going down. No one's listening."
"I'm listening. I put the kid you banged up to bed. I got three of my best men guarding the house and Olivia. I'm going to get Collins. I'll bring him home. He can get extra men over here fast. Go do what you gotta do. She's upset. I heard her crying."
Gordo's last words hit him like a lightening strike. The man was right. If he were standing here when Collins came home that would only cause more trouble for Olivia.
They walked to his airship together. He noted that Burkhart's airship was gone, which explained why he hadn't answered the phone when Fortinbras had conferred with the other cartel leaders. His absence also confirmed Fortinbras' suspicion that Burkhart was behind this.
He flew over the city one more time before going home. The groups he'd spotted earlier hadn't moved, one positive in a night of missteps. The town was safe for a few more hours, which would give Akbar time to get Legates in place, and time for him, Archangel, and Corday to take action.
As he landed, he saw the kid curled up in a corner of the roof. As the airship approached, she stood, cupping her hands around her eyes, and staring up at him. At least she had the good sense to back away from his landing pad. When he disembarked, he tied the airship down and placed locks on all four anchors.
The kid watched him.
"Get off my roof," he said.
"I just wanna talk."
"Well, I don't. Go."
"Can I go through your place?"
"No, you may not. Go down the way you came up."
He slammed the door leading to his apartment and locked it before going down. Who did she think he was? A goddamn humanitarian? He was a Legate. When he wasn't feeling guilty about hurting the woman he loved, he kicked ass and busted heads together. He'd played goddamn fool tonight. He wouldn't do that again. What had he got for it? Well, he wouldn't be riding to the rescue anytime soon. Why bother to care about anyone? There was no thanks in it. He'd take care of himself and to hell with everyone else.
Downstairs, he locked the door. If that little urchin got through the first door, she sure as hell wasn't getting through his metal door. He marched to the kitchen, opened a new bottle of whiskey, poured a generous glass, and pounded it down before pouring another.
He glanced at the door leading to the roof and swore. He marched to the hall closet and grabbed a blanket and a pillow. Taking the stairs two at a time, he threw the door opened and stepped out onto the rooftop.
"Kid," he shouted.
The kid came from around the stack of wood.
"Still here, I see."
"I ain't dumb enough to climb down in the dark."
"Good, you might make a brain surgeon after all," he said, tossing the blanket and pillow at her before heading back downstairs. Halfway down, he raced back up the stairs.
The kid was still gaping at the door he'd just slammed.
"Get in here."
She didn't move.
"Now."
She followed him down the stairs, saying, "You ain't about to kill me, are you?"
"Yes, I always give blankets and pillows to people I'm going to kill. That way I don't get blood on my floor." He locked the second door. "And, I'm not giving those to you. You're borrowing them for the night. I expect them returned in the morning."
He undid the locks on the front door, waited for the gears to stop turning before opening it, and shooed her into the hall.
"I ain't going to sleep inside?"
"The hall is inside."
She stared at him with her giant blue eyes, which were far too big for her face and made her seem like a cartoon figure rather than a real person. "Well, then, thanks for the blanket and pillow. If I could find a soft bed, it'd be grand."
"Good luck with that," he said as he slammed the door, locking her out.
He grabbed his drink, and moved to his office. He flicked on the ham radio.
"Archangel? Over."
He sipped his whiskey and waited.
"Archangel, where are you? Over."
"We're still here. Over." Archangel sounded groggy.
"No one's listening." Fortinbras said, "So far I'm the only one who's going to fight this thing. Over."
Archangel chuckled into the mic. "You sound pissed. You tried to save Olivia, and she turned you down. Over."
He washed his anger down with a swig of whiskey and didn't answer.
"Okay." Archangel said. "They'll wait for daylight. That gives us time. Over."
"Yeah. My gut is screaming bloody murder. Over."
In the background, Corday shouted, "We got the travel pass."
"You hear that? We'll go directly to the academy and talk to Akbar. Over."
Fortinbras rubbed his chin, considering their options. He and Akbar got along about as well as hot weather and snow, but if things got bad, the man would have their back. He always kept his word. More Legates would be helpful. Akbar could round up Legates quickly. Knowing him, he might already be preparing.
"Fort? Over."
"Yeah, I'm here. Just thinking. I guess we'll need Akbar. Over."
"You thought about martial law? He'll want guarantees before he commits. Over."
"Yeah, I hate the idea, but we need him. He'll use that as a bargaining chip. Let Corday do the bargaining." He paused and finally said, "Over."
Archangel laughed. "Sure thing. The woman does have a way with words. Grab an hour of sleep. Nothing's going to happen until dawn. Over."
"Get your skinny white ass back here and make yourself useful. Over."
"Get your fat brown ass to bed. You're grumpy when you don't get your beauty sleep."
He heard Corday wrestling for the mic. "Hugs and kisses, Cowboy. Over."
He grinned at her words. Her voice was as high as a little girl's, but she was woman through and through. He'd always remembered her as the short, thin Asian girl with a tongue as sharp as Akbar's sword. She bossed Archangel and him around like a nagging sergeant. Grabbing his glass and the whiskey bottle, he trudged to his bedroom. He looked at the bottle. Being drunk in the middle of who knows what wasn't his style. Thinking of Olivia, rage burned in his chest. He threw the bottle across the room and watched as it splattered the wall with sticky liquor and shards of glass.
He stripped to his skivvies and crawled into bed. It was almost one. He set the alarm for two-thirty.
PART II
He dreamed of a funeral procession with pounding metallic drums. He raced through empty streets, looking for some unknown thing. The insistent thump of metal beats echoed around him. Turning corners, he searched, moving closer and closer to his destination. The drums grew louder and louder. Not sure if he were chasing the funeral or if it was following him, he continued running. His subconscious mind shook his conscious mind awake, and the metallic thuds of his dream became a reality. Someone was banging on his door. His melancholy mood hadn't deserted him. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he stared at the broken whiskey bottle and tried to ignore the persistent noise.
Whoever was on the other side of the door wasn't bringing good news. He massaged the top of his head and rubbed his short nappy hair. He took a deep, deliberate breath and exhaled. He should hurry? No. He knew it was too late. He had to dig deep inside for some energy.
"Fortinbras, open the goddamn door. We know you're in there."
Now, two fists struck the door. Bang, bang. Bang, bang.
He hated being told what to. If someone said open, he closed. If the command was run, he meandered. The need to push back rarely served him well. But, if he'd learned anything in his twenty-eight years, it was that resisting life was fruitless. Yet, he continued to resist. Life's troubles were river rapids. Anyone in their way was caught and swept along life's chaotic path.
He slipped on his pants. On his way to the door, he glanced at
the security screen. Two thugs stood in the dimly lit hall. Gordo lounged against the metal frame. The man beating the metal door was a stranger.
Seeing movement behind them, Fortinbras squinted at the screen. The kid hid in a substantial hole in the far wall. Their exchange still irked him. For a Wasteland kid, she was clean and neat, but since he'd last seen her, she'd smeared her face and arms with dirt. The blanket and pillow were crumpled in the far corner. He gave her credit--she was resourceful and tenacious.
He tapped the console screen. "Security," he said.
"How may I help you?" a female voice asked.
"Electricity, front door."
Seconds later, the unknown man slammed his fist against the door, electric pulses surged through the metal. Both men bolted back, swearing.
Fortinbras waited a few beats. "Turn it off, Lola."
He unlatched three deadbolts and moved the stainless steel lever to open. The sound of gears turning lasted about fifteen seconds.
Pulling the door open, he said, "Hi, dumbasses."
"You son-of-a-bitch." This morning, Gordo looked big, muscular, and solemn.
The other guy, whose misshapen face suggested a Latino Frankenstein monster, had survived too many fights. He opened and closed his extra-large hands several times and shook them.
"You forget about the electricity? Or did you set up your ugly friend?"
Narrowing his eyes, the fighter glanced at Gordo, who shrugged.
Motioning with his head, Fortinbras said, "Come in."
Gordo stepped inside.
"I ain't going in there with no half-naked guy." The fighter took a step back.
Fortinbras shrugged, pushed the door, and waited as the heavy metal clanked against the door frame.
"Sorry about that. He's new."
Gordo glanced around the Spartan entry, and Fortinbras waved him into the living room.
"I see you've fixed the place up." His voice sounded edgy and nervous. "I seen repairs as I came up. I still don't get why you live here."
"Cut the crap. We both know you didn't come here to tell me I live in the garbage-dump side of town."
Gordo took a deep breath. "The boss wants you."
Folding his arms across his chest, Fortinbras waited.
"If you didn't live in this goddamn fortress, you'd know the city's burning."
He strolled into the living room, waved his hand upward over the control panel. Amid clanking, grinding, and gear turning, the window armor rolled back. The overpowering stench of smoke seeped into the apartment. Dots of soot painted an impressionist pattern on the window.
His apartment had once been a penthouse. Now it was the top floor of a crumbling building. The luxury of the past had worn away decades ago, but no place else had the view. Beyond the nearest dilapidated buildings, lay the somewhat more respectable Residential District and the Business District, where lit windows were visible. Beyond that the dark skyline flickered yellow and orange. Black and gray smoke billowed upward, creating a mushrooming cloud. The Palace District was on fire. They hadn't waited for dawn.
He could see his somber reflection in the window, behind him Gordo's reflection. The shadowy outline of Fortinbras' body in the glass reminded him of how much taller and broader he was than most men. He stared at the fire unable to stop his hands from balling into fists. He fought the urge to slam something through the window. Knowing about impending disaster was one thing, seeing it knotted his insides.
All he could think about was Olivia. Her brown eyes, her long hair, and her smile. He knew. No one had to tell him she was dead. He'd known before he answered the door, before he heard the first knock, before he woke from a dead sleep.
Dark hollowness spread through his body. It took a clock beat for a new kind of revenge to fill the empty space. The heart shaped locket she'd given him years ago hung on a heavy chain and lay against his bare chest. He grabbed the locket. It felt hot in his palm.
"Riots?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound calm.
Nodding, Gordo said, "It started about a half hour after we left the Palace."
"You and Collins weren't there."
"No, it took awhile to find him and his friend."
"Friend? Since when did you get polite?"
"About an hour ago."
"So, it's not the city that's burning. Just the Palace District."
Gordo pressed his lips together and nodded.
He wanted to ask but he couldn't. He knew if someone said the words aloud, he'd lose control.
"How close to your neighborhood?" He was reaching for anything to say. "Jack and the kid safe?"
"We're okay. And, it's kids now. We took in two half-starved foundlings."
His mind felt foggy and distant. Finally, he managed a response.
"You're a good man. Get away from Collins."
"Good men have to feed their families. The boss is in bad shape. He's hit hard."
"Not my problem," Fortinbras said.
"The boss--"
"Tell Collins, I'll be there as soon as I can."
"We can wait for you."
Fortinbras shook his head. He wasn't ready to come face to face with Collins.
Gordo had the look of a man ready to protest, but he shrugged instead.
"Whatever. He's at the office." Gordo moved toward the door but stopped halfway across the room. "The news is bad. She's--"
"Don't say it," Fortinbras interrupted.
"But--"
"I'll kill you if you say it."
Gordo's eyes reflected a deep pity.
"Even Legates got feelings."
"Feelings are a luxury. Is anything happening in other parts of the town?"
Gordo shook his head.
"Have you seen Betrayers? Gangs?"
"No."
"Go tell Collins this is just starting."
"But, most of the leaders are--"
"Dead or hurt," Fortinbras finished. "Let me get the door for you."
He waited for Gordo to step into the dingy hallway. Then he grinned at the fighter, who scowled.
"I heard about you," the fighter said, stepping back.
"Good." Fortinbras winked, and the man flipped him the bird.
He stepped forward. He wanted to punch something and this ugly bastard was as good as anything. Gordo moved between them.
"Let's go." Gordo pointed toward the stairway.
As the pair walked down the poorly lit stairway, Gordo whispered, "Knock it off. He'd kill you for kicks."
"I ain't afraid of no naked son-of-a-bitch."
"I'm not afraid of that naked son-of-a-bitch," Fortinbras corrected.
When they disappeared from sight, he whistled and waved to the kid.
"Follow them. Listen. See if they meet anyone or talk to anyone. And, watch which direction they go."
"If I do, will ya talk to me?"
"Yeah, yeah. Go."
* * * * *
Before dressing, he stood at the window, watching the expanding gray cloud. A numbness settled into his body and mind. He saw without seeing. Time slowed as a cocoon of disbelief wrapped around him. He wasn't sure how long that sense of limbo lasted, but when he snapped out of his stupor, reality hit him like a tempest.
She was gone. Her death had probably been brutal. Never again would he hear her words or her laugh. Right now he would give anything to see her disapproving frown. Who would tell him to be a better person? Never again would a gentle light fill her eyes when she caught sight of him. Beyond this room, others suffered the stripping away of life, but he didn't care. He only cared about himself and the emptiness that surrounded him.
He wept. He shouted at the room, cursing everything and everyone. He hadn't felt this deeply since he was ten years old. Finally, he gave himself to the pain and let it pass through and over him.
His rage was replaced with a hollowness that came with deaden emotions. Olivia once told him he was better
at denying his emotions and acting like a bastard than anyone else she knew. That ability would serve him today. He would do what had to be done. The only thing he had left was the town. He sure as hell wasn't about to let a territory war rip Orange Hope apart.
He dressed with care. The day demanded black. Before he slipped into his black leather vest, he carefully buttoned light body armor around his chest. He strapped a bracer on each wrist, securing his daggers and checking the spring mechanism. Finally, he strapped on his Glock pistols. Without hesitation, he reached for his Legate coat, making sure the two extra pistols were loaded.
Whenever Legates gathered, they wore their black leather dusters, creating a dark sea of men and women who were admired and feared. Few people knew Legates preserved cultural wisdom--books, art, music, film, anything they could gather up and save until humans evolved enough to create a civilized society. They were the only group in society educated beyond what was necessary and trained to kill with precision--assassins to keep the criminal city rulers from destroying what was left of the dwindling population. Society's librarians ready to step in and create law and order.
"Lola, I need information retrieval. Pull up the last twelve hours of security feed, inside and outside the building. Are Corday and Archangel in town?"
"Feed will be up and ready in fifty-six seconds." There was a short pause before the computer said, "They checked into the Academy forty-five minutes ago."
Send them this message, "I'm in the Business District. Collins first, then Burkhart." He paused for a moment. "I'm positive Burkhart's the leader. Join me when you can. Tell Akbar to get his men in place. Palace is burning. The main attack hasn't started."
Five minutes later, Fortinbras trekked down the shabby staircase. On the next floor, old Grandma Luisa struggled to pull a wooden box up the stairs. She pulled it up two steps and the box slid back one.
"Let me help you," he said, grabbing the box and carrying it to her door.
"Thank you." Her brown eyes looked him up and down before letting out a long, hard sigh. She always smelled like garlic, which he somehow found reassuring and pleasant. She brushed her gray hair away from her face. "I don't like it when you dress like that. It's like puttin' a sign on your back. Shoot me. I'm a Legate."
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