“If it’s the game this evening, you could’ve just called,” he said, approaching the counter anyway. “This is no place for a lady. Got your own stake, we’re happy to have you.”
The game. It felt like she’d left that world a decade ago, even as the WPT was still in swing today. She wondered who was winning. “I’m not here about the game. It’s our . . . other business.”
Monroe stopped. He put his thumb to his chin, in thought. Really pressed it in, like this was some special technique he had for problem-solving. “Something more you gotta offer me, or something you want for yourself? Be very careful with the latter, I’ve given you a lot, sweetheart.”
Pax bit her lip. “It’s neither. It’s something I heard. Bees was in the tunnels. The ones I warned you to steer clear of. I’m guessing that’s why he wasn’t at the game last night.”
“You heard all that.” Monroe’s voice was strained. Not liking this. Friendly and reasonable as all hell when it’d work for him, less so faced with a problem. “And, what, you thought these rumours were worth something more than your current compensation?”
Pax shook her head. “I’m only asking. About the how of it. I mean – how you –”
“How, how,” Monroe said. “We got a bloody Indian in here?” He opened a drawer. Please don’t pull a knife, please don’t pull a knife. He took out a folded piece of paper, walked to the middle of the room and placed it on the coffee table between them. “How we fared with the advice we were given?”
It was futile to answer not knowing what was on the paper. Hedging her bets, Pax said, “After my warnings, I hoped you might consult with me before . . . you know.”
“Between that and this,” he said, flicking his hand at the paper, “you’re sending me very mixed messages, darling. Haven’t I done right by you?”
So the note had supposedly come from her. Tightly wound already, he was unlikely to appreciate the idea that someone had tricked him. She gestured. “Can I just check that?”
“I asked you a fucking question.”
“There might be more –” she tried, hoping to explain.
“Ah, there we go.” Monroe gave her a faint, fuck-you kind of smile. He took a little phone from his jacket, a two-decade-old plastic lump, and he pressed two buttons. Holding it to his ear, he said, “It’s been a long morning, love. We were all up late.” Someone answered. “Jones, get down here.” As Jones replied, Monroe suddenly yelled, “I don’t give a shit about your nails, get your lazy fucking arrogant arse down here this second!”
He hung up and placed the phone calmly back in a pocket, using his free hand to pat a bit of sweat from his brow, face red. Pax was frozen stiff. Damn Lucky and his trucker girlfriend, they’d sowed the seeds of a very angry little man. He didn’t even know what Pax wanted and he was furious. He said, “Sorry. I’ve got staff obviously can’t take care of their own business today, haven’t I? Now. You want to tell me how it is you see I haven’t done right by you already?”
Pax held his gaze, not particularly wanting to tell him anything. The wrong word could make him explode. But that paper was her clue towards the real culprit. “You have done right by me, Mr Monroe. I’d only like to double-check the note you received.”
“Oh, you’re leading me up the garden path now,” Monroe said. “Thinks she’s fucking” – he drilled an index finger into his temple – “smart. Let’s have out with it, shall we? Tell me what it is you’re after to give me an idea of how big a moron you are.”
Pax shook her head, taking a step back. He grabbed the piece of paper and thrust it her way, barely reaching her with its weightless flight. “Go on and tell me, love, what it is you can add, and what it’s worth, above what I already done for you?”
The paper flopped open. Pax couldn’t make out what it said at this distance, but she recognised the handwriting. There were numbers, a couple of paragraphs of instructions. All in her writing. “Fuck . . .”
The door burst open behind her and Pax jumped. Howling Jowls Jones filled the exit, his usual cheery face fixed with concern, hair swept sideways from the run. “What’s the beef –” he started, before spotting Pax. “Boss?”
“Pax is back, as you can see,” Monroe said.
“As I can see,” Jones answered carefully, picking up on the room’s tense mood.
“Says Bees has been down those tunnels of hers. Wants to consider a few details about how it is we came to know about that business. Seems sore about it.”
Jones kept quiet.
“I think it’s about time,” Monroe said, “that you took her for a ride. Far enough to, I don’t know, have a conversation about manners, coming to my place of work, talking about what people owe one another. You know?”
“I didn’t come looking for a handout!” Pax stepped towards him before she realised she’d moved. “I came because I didn’t write that note – and whoever did got Bees killed!”
The temperature dropped by degrees. Jones shifted, looking from Pax to Monroe and back again, hands opening and closing like he didn’t know what to do with them. Monroe didn’t blink. He said, “Second thoughts, she oughta take a seat.”
“I’m not taking a seat,” Pax said, eyes running back to the note. If the Ministry proper were on their way, that was exactly the incriminating evidence she’d feared. Worse than she feared: with her handwriting, perfectly recreated, it pointed to the blue screens. How could she convince Obrington of that? “I just want to take –”
Monroe snapped ferociously, “Come in here talking about Bees killed and then you’re talking about fucking taking? Jones. Help her out.”
“Wait, you’re –”
“Not another fucking word, you’re doing my head in. Jones.”
Jones’ face was a regretful, horrible grimace. Pax stepped back, into the wall. There was the barest slither of space between Jones and the door – the outside world, freedom. Shit, there was a torture chamber somewhere here. She ran, hard and low, driving her shoulder towards Jones’ crotch. He moved deftly, a big hand slapping her off balance. The other lifted her deftly off the ground, making her spin as she kicked and cried out.
“Let her go,” came a voice from the door.
Pax kept kicking as Jones went still, his grip like steel. She connected her heel with his gut and he wheezed, hands releasing. She darted out of his range, and found he hadn’t moved. The massive man steadied himself with a recovery breath, staring past her, with Monroe motionless beyond him, equally still. Landon was standing in the doorway, Ward watching over his shoulder. His legs were spread, arms up, both hands clamped on a pistol.
“Don’t know what your game is, my man,” Monroe said, voice thickly aggressive, “but you are trespassing.”
“Mr Stacey Monroe, we can get onto who’s breaking whose rules,” Landon said, “right after you both step away from this young lady.”
“Bollocks,” Monroe answered. “You’re not going to shoot a couple of upstanding citizens in their own place of work.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t make me.”
“Fucking desk jockey, isn’t he?” Jones said. “Security guards playing at being spooks, I swear.”
“I told you about the Ministry!” Pax said hurriedly. “There’s still a –”
She jumped as Monroe’s phone rang. He lifted it as Landon warned, “Don’t move!”
“Relax,” Monroe said. “Unlike some people, I believe in good manners. Someone calls, you answer.” Unchecked by Landon, he pressed a button, “Monroe.” A pause. “Yeah, we do have company in fact. Glad you bloody noticed. What the fuck you think I want you to do?” He hung up. Eyes fixed fiercely on Landon.
With failing conviction, Landon instructed, “I’m going to ask you to both back off. Through there, come on with you –”
“You think we’re alone here, you daft bastard?”
Landon said nothing, giving a sideways glance to Pax. Yeah. This was escalating.
“You got a tool?” Monroe said, eyes still on Landon.
&
nbsp; “Yeah, I got a tool,” Jones replied, one arm moving slowly towards his waistline.
“I said don’t move!” Landon raised his voice.
“That you did, mate.” Jones put on his wide, white grin. It looked psychotic now. “But there’s something I got to show you –”
Landon fired.
16
Outside, Pax took cover behind a low wall, hands on her ears as gunfire punctured the sky. Each explosive sound made her flinch. It was a miracle she’d made it out, she wasn’t even sure how it happened; in her short darting sprint she must have dodged one or two bullets.
Now there were at least three criminals shooting, and with Ward having produced a pistol there were two shooting back. Pax had no idea exactly where any of them were, save some enterprising lunatic who kept popping up in the upstairs windows of the warehouse, spitting bullets into the street. Landon had rushed inside as Monroe fled, roaring orders. Ward had sprinted to skirt the big building, looking for another way in. And here was Pax, crouched, under fire, jumping at every sound.
The gunmen shouted the nonsensical shrieks of men fuelled by adrenaline. Howling Jowls Jones, back in the dentist’s office, bleated, “My leg! My fucking leg! You fucking fuck!”
Pax searched for a way out. Across the road, there was a dumpster, good cover before getting into an alleyway, out of sight. But it was a ten-metre dash, at least. Up the road, there was a pick-up truck, another ten-metre dash. It had already sunk on a rear wheel that had been shot out. Taken bullets without anyone near it.
Then there was back the way she’d come. The dentist’s office, with that bit of paper lying somewhere on the floor. With luck maybe Jones would drag himself over it and soak it in blood.
A bullet hit the road near Pax, chipping tarmac with a spark. Beyond that – a manhole cover. She’d never open it in time.
“You’re fucking dead!” someone screamed from a high window, followed by another volley of gunfire that scattered around Pax’s wall. Holy hell, that was directed at her – why did that frenetic bastard want to kill her?
“Get me a fucking medic!” Jones yelled, close to hysterics.
Pax fought her nerves, the instinct to stay put, not move, not make a sound. She shouted, from her gut, “Jones! Tell them to stop and I’ll help!”
“Shove it!” Jones replied at full volume. “Right up your fucking arse!”
Rude.
He kept going, stringing out insults until they degenerated into blubbering, and finally an odd stream of consciousness. “ . . . Cottage on Whistler, fucking A . . . never had it . . . small, handy size!”
The maniac inside opened fire again, half a dozen shots tearing through the side of the pick-up truck, shattering a window. He was no more in control than Jones, lashing out madly. Had Monroe simply armed a couple of madmen with instructions to raise hell if anyone started trouble around here?
Pax watched the sky. Where were Fresko and Mix? They’d saved her from one shootout, why not now? Letty would’ve made short work of this mess . . .
Far on the other side of the warehouse, another gun fired. Lighter, one of the pistols? Small rifle fire (presumably) answered it. Another pistol shot, from off to the right – that sounded like two people advancing on one? A pincer movement, both Landon and Ward still alive? Christ, hopefully.
The madman aiming at Pax had taken a break, and Jones had gone quiet, leaving the road in silence as the wispy mist of gunsmoke rolled over it. Keeping her head down, Pax reassessed her escape routes, left and right. A man dashed across the road, the heavy woollen suit of Monroe. He had the ungainly run of someone who’d heard how to do it from a mate down the pub. But he was getting away, trotting between another pair of buildings.
Bloody hell.
He was getting away to what? Call more boys to finish them off? Send men to watch her home? She had enough unknowns hanging over her.
More gunfire erupted, way off, and a strangled shout said the madman had moved, opening fire at the other side of the building. She was clear. Maybe. Just her and Monroe out here, now. Hell. She had to see where he was going, at least.
Rising to a crouching run, Pax raced after him. She cringed as she went, arms cocked high at her sides as if she might deflect bullets, expecting a shot at any second. But she made it across the road, around the corner, with no one shooting. Another pistol sounded in the distance. Pax picked up speed, breathing hard, and saw the flap of Monroe’s jacket disappearing into an alley. She ran after him, and slowed at the alley entrance. He’d slowed too, up ahead. His laboured breath came with curses, phone up at his ear. “Insolent fucks. Reggie? Reggie, I’m gonna cut your balls off when you hear this. I got a job for you.”
Pax pushed down her concerns. Any job he wanted to organise at this minute could piss off. She charged down the alley after him, bracing herself, and he turned at the sound of her approach. She jumped, taking no chances, and hit him with all her body. He fell like he weighed nothing, landing heavily on his back to cushion her. Pax bounced, air knocked out of her, but held on, hands on his arms. He tried to buck, snarling and snapping, spit spraying her face, so she dropped her weight onto him, a knee either side of his gut, pinning him down.
“Get off me you fat bitch, I’ll cut your throat out!” he snarled, but she held fast, riding him like a bronco. In any other position he might’ve had the strength to throw her off, but he couldn’t lift her weight off his belly, not with her squeezing his arms in – in his thrashing, he snapped himself back into the ground and hit his head. The fight went out of him with a grunt, and he was suddenly limp. His head lolled to the side, a trickle of blood on the concrete behind it. Pax sat back slightly.
Fuck, she’d broken him.
He groaned again, blinking in dazed pain. Hurriedly, while he was stunned, Pax repositioned, hiking her knees over his arms, freeing her hands. She grabbed his jaw and turned his face towards her, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“You done?” Pax asked, breathlessly.
“You fat bitch,” he wheezed back.
“Yeah, you’re done.”
He hawked up phlegm, but before he could spit she pushed his head away and the spit sprayed up over his own nose. He spluttered on it with increasingly severe curses.
“Some gentleman,” she said, breathing deep. Running down this alley, she’d sealed a particularly shitty fate for herself. He had friends who would burn down her house or cut off her fingers. But right now she was sitting on him and this was a victory. She patted his face, vaguely aware of the sound of a car braking nearby. “Come on . . . apologise and I’ll let you up. You can walk away, no hard feelings.” She even smiled. The Ministry wouldn’t let him walk away, would they? “What was your plan here? Disappear government agents? Police must be on the way.”
“Out here?” Monroe snorted. It was a point. She’d seen his men at work with torture, wandering around in bloodstained overalls. Now, firing rifles across the road. The area was abandoned. Maybe even because of the Ministry, steering the population clear of the Fae.
“Just you and me, then,” Pax said. “But you know what? I’ve killed bigger monsters than you, this past week.”
His weary eyes said he didn’t believe it.
“Yeah.” The gunfire, the panic, or something else, stirred the memories in her, all this shit she’d endured. “Want to count? Hairless creature with pincers and jaws like” – she gnashed her teeth – “which I took its head and rammed it till it popped. Like nothing. And the great – this big bastard tentacled turtle thing with skull heads – I helped drop it down a lift shaft. Then the grugulochs, the simple-minded bloody grugulochs – I put a bullet” – Monroe gave it another go, bucking under her, and she shifted her weight, shoving him firmer into the ground – “I put a bullet in its fucking head! You hear me? I’m not scared of you – I’m not scared – and I’m not letting your cock up get me killed.”
Regaining some of his breath, he snarled, “You’re crazy.”
Seeing the l
ook in his eyes, she could believe it herself. Beyond frustration and anger: he was genuinely frightened by her. And how else did she get here, if she wasn’t mad? Pax said, almost to herself, “I need to be, don’t I?”
“You oughta thank her,” a man’s voice said, and she shot a look to the side. The entrance to the alley was filled by the imposing form of Wayne Obrington. “Now she’s gone and caught you, we don’t get to say you died trying to escape.”
Pax sat motionless. The big man had a pistol out, down at his side. There was no getting past him and she’d used up all her energy for running. She said, “Can we talk?”
Obrington stared at her impassively for what seemed like an age, then reached a conclusion. “You’re gonna do a lot more than that. Monster whisperer.”
Part 3
1
The FTC Council met in a chamber bigger than most Fae homes, with a massive table encircled by tiered rings of desks. Flags hung from near the ceiling; an FTC coat of arms, the wing badges of the Stabilisers, the colours of old families. It could’ve fit a hundred Fae, but there were only eleven stuffy suits gathered around that central table, and a half-dozen less-presentable people scattered through the peripheral desks, with Stabilisers at the perimeter. A big projector screen took up one wall, presenting a list of proposed laws. Number One said Unauthorised Contact is a Capital Crime.
Valoria had given them a dry intro with references to Edwing’s tragic death. Her condolences went out to Flynt, who was doing all he could to keep still at an outer desk. “He had so much to offer us, and shall be remembered. The measures we propose today honour his spirit.”
She ran through various forms of rhetoric to explain how great it would be for the Fae, and the FTC. A new era, combining solidarity and security, backed by firm, decisive measures arranged by her people, which need never burden the public. Regrettable events had led them to this point, but the outcome would be historic.
And so it went, softening up a Council that were already hers.
The Sunken City Trilogy Page 87
