After cooling off, Quinn went to her sink and scrubbed her brass knuckles with soap just in case. She toweled it off without bothering to waste water on rinsing, and stuffed the weapon back into her pocket. She then took the energy weapon from her right pocket, studying it for a moment. Smaller, lighter, quieter… and deadlier than a handgun. Energy weapons were only used by the military; even cops didn’t carry them. They were highly illegal, and extremely difficult to find. Which was good, as it meant most thugs and undergrounders couldn’t get their hands on one.
Quinn got hers on a job she did a few years ago, when she jacked a guy who was former military Special Forces. He had a violent streak and had killed a few people. The cops couldn’t get a bead on him, so some unknown agent—probably military but Quinn wasn’t sure—hired the Protectorate to jack the guy and get the evidence they needed to deal with him. Quinn and Daria did him in his tiny cabin in the desert hills, and offered up the evidence to the Protectorate. It was the job that had gotten Quinn promoted to Tier Two. The target was never seen again and his cabin sat unused, slowly desiccating in the burning desert sun.
After they’d jacked the guy, as he dozed and Quinn began gathering her equipment, she’d bumped against the sleeping man’s pocket and felt the weapon.
And she took it.
She’d never used it other than to scare a few perps into backing down, but she loved knowing she had it, just in case. She didn’t tell Daria about it, not wanting to implicate her if anything ever happened. Possession of an energy weapon carried a stiff penalty. Not mindjacking stiff, but stiff.
The brass knuckles were also illegal, and the penalty for possession of them was reasonably steep as well. They too were difficult to come by, and printing them was far too expensive an endeavor for your average thug or criminal.
Quinn knew her lifestyle meant flouting more laws than she could count. She didn’t care. She’d learned long ago, from Wyatt and countless others, that she’d have to do whatever it took to level the playing field. It was her or them, and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be her. Not anymore.
Just one more job and she could leave this mess and move to Midtown. Only a couple miles away, but an entirely different world.
Quinn sat down at her computer, her place finally starting to cool off. That was one good thing about her sardine can of an apartment: less square footage to cool.
Two hundred glorious square feet. A so-called “micro-apartment,” one of many in the Downtown area, created as part of El Diablo’s laughable affordable housing program. They weren’t that affordable, but they were still less expensive than anything in Midtown. The apartment was little more than one room and a bathroom, with a tiny fridge, hot plate, sink, and cupboard that functioned as a kitchen. It had tile floors and a small window that faced another brick wall. Other than a foam bed and a desk with a small computer, she had few belongings. Quinn couldn’t afford niceties and didn’t have room for them. At least her place was on a high floor, farther away from danger.
She and Daria had talked about sharing an apartment. But it was too dangerous, given that they worked together and did the sort of work they did. In their world, the specter of getting dimed or arrested always hovered over them. If Quinn went down, she didn’t want Daria going with her. Or vice versa.
When Quinn glanced at her calendar, and felt a jolt of alarm. She had plans that night. A date. And she needed to be there in thirty minutes.
“Shit,” she muttered, jumping in the shower for a quick rinse.
As she dried off, she glanced in the mirror, spotting the blotchy red marks on her neck, getting darker by the moment and threatening to turn into bruises. Damn it. It figured that would happen on a night she had a date. She wouldn’t normally care, but this was a guy she was actually interested in meeting.
She sighed. It was bad enough that she was a Downtownie; now she was going to show up looking like a she-thug or an abuse victim? She considered rescheduling, but decided against it. They’d already rescheduled twice thanks to each having a work conflict, and she really could use the distraction tonight. That was assuming he wasn’t an asshole, on top of all the other assholes she’d dealt with that day.
She’d have to wear a top with a high neck. In summertime.
Quinn threw on her best skirt, the one high-necked blouse she owned, and sandals with ankle straps. She preferred jeans and t-shirts, but there was no way she could survive in jeans in this heat. And jeans would easily mark her as a Downtownie. She grabbed her favorite leather jacket and stuffed each pocket with her special friends. At least she wouldn’t look strange wearing a jacket in Midtown, where the air conditioning flowed in the bars and restaurants.
After a quick train ride, she hurried to Afterglow, a decent bar in Midtown. She was only a couple minutes late, but she hated being late at all. Inside, the cool air hit her as she looked around the place with its fancy tile, its carved wooden tables, and its big tinted windows that showcased the glow of the setting sun. The place was packed with men in polo shirts and women in pretty sundresses. No tattoos or shaven heads here.
Quinn searched for him, the one whose face she’d memorized from his photos. Her eyes landed on one guy sitting at the bar—tousled dark hair, fit body, and brown eyes that seemed to cut through everything and see right into her. It was him, and Quinn felt a wisp of excitement.
He was even better in person.
But those eyes. Something told her they would immediately recognize that she was a Downtownie, that she was lower class, even with one of her best outfits on. Which meant he would probably buy her a drink and talk politely for forty-five minutes before excusing himself to meet with friends, or buy her a second drink in the hopes of getting her into the sack.
But as she approached, the intelligent brown eyes didn’t look dismissive. They looked intrigued.
Smile, Quinn.
It worked. He smiled back. He motioned to the empty seat next to him at the bar, the only empty one in the entire place. Quinn removed her leather jacket, sensing him appraising her appearance as she sat down and lay her jacket on her lap. She never gave her jacket to coat check or hung it over the back of her chair. Where she came from, that was asking to get it stolen.
“I had to fight off two big guys and one ill-tempered woman for that seat,” he said, his eyes sparkling with humor.
Quinn giggled. “You’re my hero.”
He gleamed at the flattery. It wasn’t like her to be flirty, but she meant what she said. A guy who could score a seat at a popular Midtown bar on a scorching summer night, and save a second one for a woman he’d never met, was no ordinary guy.
“Quinn, I take it,” he said. When Quinn nodded, struck by how different he seemed than the others, he added, “You look like a Quinn.”
“And you look like a Noah.”
“What does a Noah look like?”
“Like a Midtowner,” she quipped.
Her comment was a reveal, making clear her status as a Downtownie and perhaps not the smartest thing to say. But Quinn wouldn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t. She was raised Downtown and still resided Downtown, and it was important to assess a guy’s reaction to that. Which she could easily do; she’d had plenty of practice because she only dated Midtown guys. She wanted nothing to do with the losers she grew up with.
Noah laughed at her “Midtowner” quip, showing no sign of disapproval. It only made her like him more.
“Get you a drink?” he said.
She nodded. “Diablo, please.”
As Noah flagged down the bartender, Quinn side-eyed him. Suddenly, feelings of inadequacy nipped at her. He was out of her league. But she immediately shook such thoughts away. It didn’t matter. This was for fun, for company. She didn’t do relationships. Relationships were difficult, at best, in her line of work.
The bartender whipped up her Diablo right in front of them and handed it to her.
Noah raised his glass. “A toast, to finally getting to meet after, what,
three reschedules?”
“Only two.” She clinked her glass with his and took a sip. Oh God, it tasted good. The Midtown version of the diablo, with real lime juice, was ten times better.
“Like that?” Noah said, smiling, tiny dimples appearing on his face.
Great, another sign that she was low class and not used to real lime juice. Before she could come up with a good reply, he went on.
“So, Quinn. I’d ask you what it is you do for work that makes it hard to schedule a simple meet-and-greet, but I’m just as guilty. And to be honest,” he added, swirling his drink, “making small talk about work is boring as fuck.”
Quinn smiled, feeling a small wave of relief run through her. What she did for a living was usually the first thing men asked her, and the one question she couldn’t answer without lying. She hated lying, even with strangers. Fortunately, Noah had given her an out.
“I agree,” she said. “Talking about work is boring, right up there with the weather and baseball.”
Noah raised his eyebrows. “I’ll try to forgive the slander against baseball.”
She giggled at that. Of course he loved baseball. Most people did. It was a thing in El Diablo. Midtowners and Uptowners could afford to go to Demons games, while Downtownies watched on television.
Noah sat back in his chair and his eyes settled on her for a moment, as if thinking. “Tell me, in one word, something that means everything to you.”
“Justice,” Quinn said without hesitation.
Almost immediately she felt silly. Not because it wasn’t true, but because going down that road was a little much for a guy she’d only known five minutes. Especially when he was a Midtowner and probably couldn’t relate.
Sure enough, Noah’s expression changed completely, fading from fascination to… something else. He was silent for a couple moments, as if reassessing whatever positive opinion he’d had of her.
“Too heavy?” she said flatly, trying to cover up her disappointment.
He shook his head. “No. I’m just surprised. That’s mine, too.”
Quinn raised her eyebrows at that, her face flushing as they locked eyes for one long moment.
And they sat there and talked. About justice. About El Diablo. About wanting wealth and power and water rights to be distributed more fairly. About wanting a society where the poor didn’t absorb most of society’s ills and burdens. It was the first time Quinn had talked about that kind of thing since Wyatt. Not that she and Wyatt had done a lot of talking…
Drinks turned to dinner, and Quinn lost all track of time and forgot her troubles as she immersed herself in Noah’s sharp mind, his strong opinions, and his good manners. He listened. He picked up on her subtle cues. He was so… different.
When their plates were cleared and the bill paid—Noah wouldn’t even let her pay the tip—Quinn knew it was time for her to scoot home, before it got so late that she would have to spring for a taxi from the subway station just to ensure she got home safely.
Noah put his wallet away and looked at her again. “So, Quinn. What are the chances you’ll go home with me tonight?”
Quinn hesitated, taken aback by Noah’s directness. Midtown men were never that direct. Only Downtownies were that forward, that blunt, when they wanted to get laid.
The problem was, she wanted to say yes. But she couldn’t. She could go to the home of some Midtowner she hardly knew, where she’d be trapped and far from home in case…
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Noah said, reading her hesitation like he seemed to read everything else. “I believe in asking for what I want, and I won’t insult your intelligence by inviting you in for a ‘nightcap’ or to ‘watch a movie’ like some weasel. I’m going to call you again either way, assuming you give me your number.” He grinned.
Quinn scoffed at that. Now he was really sounding like a Downtownie. “Whatever.”
Noah raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think I’ll call?”
“I know you won’t,” she said archly.
“That sounds like a dare to me.”
“Let me guess, you love dares.”
“I love winning,” Noah said with a self-satisfied look. “Tell you what… let’s make it a bet. I call, you owe me a drink. I don’t…”
“You’ll have to accept that you lost,” Quinn said, unable to avoid smirking as she emphasized that last word.
“Easiest bet I’ve made in months,” he said, unfazed. “So, tonight.” He watched her, his dark eyes traveling over her briefly, weakening her resolve. “I’ll make you pancakes tomorrow…”
It wasn’t the promised call. It wasn’t even the pancakes, despite how much she loved them. Her mom used to make her pancakes, before she died when Quinn was ten. No, it was something else. Quinn had dealt with her share of assholes and this guy wasn’t one, at least not the kind of asshole with whom she needed to guard herself. And in her world, that was something. Besides, she secretly liked the idea of the bet, especially when she knew she would win this one.
Yeah, she liked winning, too.
“Do you cook your pancakes in oil or butter?” she said.
He scowled. “Bacon grease.”
Quinn smiled. “You’re on.”
Chapter 6
Quinn sat in the little electric cab as it weaved its way through the city streets, the late-night Friday traffic still surprisingly heavy. But she barely noticed the nice Midtown buildings, or the billboards advertising the lush botanic gardens or whatever show was popular these days. Her mind was too occupied, remembering.
The taste of Noah as he kissed her, the feel of his hard body on hers, the softness of his sheets when she’d grasped them in pleasure.
His apartment was four times the size of hers, although that wasn’t saying much. Polished wood floors, quiet AC, separate bedroom, and a view of the capitol. She’d had a moment of hesitation upon entering his place, again reminded of how far out of her league Noah was. But she forgot that the moment Noah tried to take her jacket.
He was only being polite, offering to hang it for her. She’d resisted the gesture, perhaps a little too defensively. No one touched her jacket, with her weapons in it. Nobody could know about those. More importantly, she needed to know where they were at all times, just in case.
Noah had backed off, never questioning her. He let her place her jacket where she wanted, and any awkwardness that resulted was forgotten the moment that he kissed her.
However, the awkwardness immediately reappeared when she took off her top. Noah had stared, his eyes flashing with concern. Her neck hurt that night, so she could only imagine how bad it looked by the time the bruising had set in.
“Long story,” she’d said, smiling a little to reassure him. Noah would probably understand and possibly even support her actions against Shawn the Thug, but she didn’t want to destroy the moment, or offer info that would only generate more questions, like how she was able to defend herself…
“Who won that battle?” he’d replied.
She raised an eyebrow. “Who do you think?”
He liked that answer. After that, it had been nothing but hours of her body tangled with his. Yet, when it was over, when they were both spent, she knew right away that she needed to leave. As much as she loved pancakes, she couldn’t stay. For a lot of reasons. And Noah didn’t argue.
He’d gotten what he wanted—she had too—and there was no reason for her to linger and pretend their outing was anything other than what it was.
Besides, a man like Noah could do better than her. She knew that, and she wasn’t going to delude herself about it. And this way, she would have the tiny satisfaction of winning their bet.
Noah had insisted on paying for a taxi rather than letting her take the subway. It seemed like too much, especially when she was willing to spring for a ride home from the station. But maybe the cost of a taxi was worth not having to make pancakes for her or try to politely get her out of his place.
When the taxi arrived at he
r building, Quinn thanked the driver and tried to tip him.
He shook his head. “Already taken care of.”
Back in her hot and stuffy apartment, Quinn undressed and stowed her weapons in her safe, hidden beneath a loosened tile under her bed. And she went to sleep, feeling content.
The next morning, Quinn awakened to her phone ringing.
Yolanda.
“Hey, Yolanda,” Quinn said sleepily.
“I have a couple of questions about the Stilwell job.” That was Yolanda, never wasting time with pleasantries such as “hi” or “good morning.”
“Okay…” Quinn said, growing a little nervous.
“You didn’t extract your usual amount of data. That tells me you got interrupted or had to make a quick getaway for some reason.”
Protectorate ops managers often wanted details about a job, in case they could offer help or feedback, or glean information that could be useful later. But Quinn knew what Yolanda really wanted. She wanted to know if something had gone wrong, proving that Daria should have been there and that her absence jeopardized the job. That wasn’t good.
“I pulled as much data as felt safe, given the circumstances. And you got what you needed for the client, right?”
“That’s not the point, Quinn. Why didn’t you collect more data?”
“Because the train was busy and crowded, and I think someone recognized the target. I needed to make an exit.”
“Which means you needed Daria there.”
“I didn’t. That’s plenty of data, Yolanda—”
“Are her injuries healed?”
“Yes, she’s fine now. We’re ready to roll.”
There was a moment of silence on the phone. “I know you’re loyal to Daria. But I have my doubts about her and whether she’s capable of partnering a Tier One agent. She’s flaky and unpredictable.”
Quinn’s face grew hot with anger. “She’s unpredictable in some ways, but she’s not a flake. She’s been by my side since the beginning and she’s been amazing.”
Mindjacker Page 3
