Then a shout. A woman’s voice, gruff from too much smoking.
“Hey! You boys knock it off!”
The boys immediately backed away, holding up their hands as if to prove their innocence.
“We’s only jokin’, Ma,” one of them said, his face a blend of surprise and guilt, like he hadn’t expected her to be there.
Quinn dashed away, shaking as she zipped up and buttoned her shorts. She approached the rough-looking woman, who eyed Quinn critically, giving her a onceover and scowling. “Put some damn clothes on, girl!” she admonished. “Or you just invitin’ trouble.”
Suddenly feeling naked and ashamed, Quinn ran off.
She knew going home was a bad idea, so she ran to the police station and told them what happened as tears streamed down her face. Two male cops listened to her, both watching her with a skeptical eye, both glancing down at her shorts and midriff top, as if the outfit had been the cause of everything.
They told her it was her word against theirs. That she was lucky “nothing happened.” That she shouldn’t be wandering that neighborhood alone.
Quinn went to Daria’s and sat outside their door until they returned home five hours later. As she sat there, she realized just how vulnerable she was. That if she didn’t learn to look after herself, she would fall victim to God only knew what. And she knew then that letting them see her cry only made her look weaker.
She would never be weak again.
That day, Quinn stood there on 14th Street, at the mouth of that narrow alleyway. She almost wished those boys were still there, still shirtless and sweaty and pissing away their lives, just so she could hurt them. But the alley was empty.
She never told anyone else about that day. Not Daria, certainly not her dad. And especially not Wyatt. Wyatt would have dragged her to Coyote and made her ID the guys, and then he would’ve done something really stupid.
Quinn turned away from the alley and kept walking.
On the next block, she spotted a woman sweeping the El Diablo dust from a liquor store while a man in a wheelchair with his leg in a cast, probably her husband, worked on repairing their AC unit. Both were covered in sweat, both moved slowly and listlessly, like people often did there. They had no need for hurry. They had nowhere to go.
Quinn knew that couple would continue selling liquor to people who probably wanted to forget where they lived, forget how fucking hot it was and that they didn’t have much. They would sell it to bored teenagers who would drink too much, leave the empty or broken bottles around a neighborhood they didn’t respect, then go do things that would ruin someone else’s life, and maybe their own, too. The couple would run that shop, work every day except Sundays for the entirety of their lives and never get ahead, make just enough to live and die in Coyote. That busted leg would cost a Midtowner with good insurance almost nothing, while it cost a Downtownie with weak but affordable insurance a lot, setting him back another year, or another decade if he had no insurance at all. Even that AC unit—the unit itself, plus running and maintaining it—cost the same for him as it did for a wealthy Uptowner.
She walked further, and just as she was about to leave Coyote, she spotted an ambulance. Paramedics carried two stretchers, their inhabitants too still. People stood around, their faces grim. As she passed, Quinn overheard snippets of conversation.
Heatstroke. No AC. Brutal summer.
Quinn kept walking. As she crossed into Westgate, it all hit her. How expensive it was to be poor. And how dangerous.
The people of Coyote—all Downtown for that matter—would always struggle. All it took was one setback—an accident that racked up medical bills that insurance wouldn’t pay, a sick or special-needs family member, a job layoff, or a missing breadwinner due to death or what have you—and you fell into a financial hole that took years to climb out of. Even if you managed to climb out, there was no guarantee another setback wouldn’t come for you.
It was her story. And Daria’s, Jones’s, and pretty much everyone else she knew.
And the dangers: crime, shootings, even death by heatstroke because air conditioning wasn’t affordable.
It was why she’d worked so hard. Not the apartment in Mayfair, the day-long AC, or the diablos with real lime. Those things were just symbols, and they symbolized power, the power to climb out of a hole and stay out of it, to never become trapped in alleyways filled with trashy boys who’d never learned what it was to be decent.
This was why she did what she did. Why she broke the law, why she risked herself, why she worked for an organization that was willing to put her in jeopardy and then cut her loose for the slightest mistake. Because it gave her a chance to have the power she’d never had, to rise above it all, to never feel powerless again.
Finally, Quinn approached an industrial-looking but decent building, pressing the button for 112.
“Yeah,” came a male voice.
“It’s Quinn.”
No answer, just the buzz of the door opening. She went in, pulling her bag through the stuffy, hot hallway and down a small flight of stairs before she arrived at 112 and knocked.
When the door opened, a man with buzzed blond hair and graying beard stubble stood there. “Hey, girl.”
“Hey, Dad.”
Chapter 31
Joe Hartley stepped aside as Quinn entered the garden-level apartment. Her father’s place was noisier and less safe due to its location, but it was also cooler than the upper floors… and Joe had big locks and an even bigger gun.
The place looked like it always did. Old worn couch that folded out into a bed, blank walls, a big TV with the baseball game on, shades permanently closed. But no signs of alcohol from what Quinn could tell, and she knew all the signs. She rolled her bag into the corner and sat down on the couch, letting the AC cool her sweat.
“What kinda trouble you in now?” he said, a twinkle of humor in his eye. “It’s gotta be big if you’re crashing with your old man.”
“My landlord’s after me. I couldn’t make rent.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say I need to avoid my place for a while.”
Her dad stood there for a moment, his wizened Downtown gaze showing that he understood better than he should. “Whatever it is, at least it got you to call me back after, what, two months?”
“That’s what you get for lying. And you know how I feel about drug dealing, Dad.”
He walked over to his mini-fridge and opened the door. “Like whatever you do is any better?” He pulled out a cherry soda and held it up. Quinn nodded. He grabbed two, handing one to her before he sat down in his faded brown recliner.
“Yeah, it’s better,” she said, opening the soda can. She took a sip of the sweet beverage, knowing it was shit quality and bad for her but loving the taste just the same. It reminded her of being a kid again, when she was still young enough to be unaware of all that was wrong in the world.
“You still ain’t sharing what this job is, huh?” he said, taking a swig from his own soda.
“I can’t. It’s part of the deal.”
“Seems to me if you can’t talk about it, it should be payin’ you enough to make rent.”
Quinn gave a wry chuckle. “Tell me about it.” She heaved a big sigh. “Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, that no matter how hard you try, it doesn’t matter? That you’ll always be stuck?”
He got an amused look on his face. “Yeah. I’m familiar with that idea.”
“You always said that life’ll screw you one way or another. I used to think you were just being negative, but maybe you were right.”
Her dad scoffed. “That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. I mean, I walked through Coyote today, for the first time in ages, and it’s even worse than it was. And I was looking at that place and those people… and they’re stuck. Forever. I don’t want to be stuck down here, Dad.”
“Who said you had to be?”
“Nobody, but I am. Believe me. I’ve worked my ass off, riske
d myself, and it’s all for nothing. At least if I’d gone to university, I’d be years closer to… something.”
He shrugged, reclining his chair and putting his feet up. “It’s a grind down here, Quinn. It’s hard to get out of it. But it can be done, if you’re willing to change. Most people aren’t.” He took another swig of his soda.
Quinn stared at her father, puzzled by his answer. “What do you mean, willing to change? What does that have to do with anything? How does willingness to change matter when it only takes some taxi ramming into you and driving away to bankrupt you because you can’t afford good insurance?”
“No, that shit isn’t fair, but when has life ever been fair?” he said, his expression hardening. “It ain’t. If you got dealt shit cards, you gotta play ’em. You gotta be smarter than the rest, and willing to do shit you don’t wanna do. And you gotta change. Most people aren’t willing to.”
“Are you really blaming the people down here for their circumstances?”
“Not just them… everyone. The only difference between us and them Uptowners is they don’t need to change. They can sit on their lazy asses and avoid the grind because they got enough.”
Quinn pondered that. She’d never thought of it that way.
Had she resisted change? No. From the get-go she’d been willing to do things others weren’t. She’d joined the Protectorate, learned the skills necessary to advance, and avoided many of the traps that Downtownies fell into.
Joe squeezed his empty can and tossed it into the recycling bin in the corner, where it landed on a pile of other soda cans. “Daria still working with you?”
She shook her head, letting out another sigh. “No. She… quit.”
“That ain’t surprising.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Daria’s a good girl, but she’s a flake. Whatever you got goin’ on, my guess is she was only slowing you down.”
“That’s not fair, Dad. She’s just… she has issues.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been covering for her ‘issues’ since you were tykes.” When he saw Quinn’s angry look, he held up a hand. “I get your loyalty to her. She and her crazy mother took you in when shit got ugly around here…” He looked down for a moment. “But I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve mentioned covering for her or havin’ to talk her down from some ledge. That girl… she won’t ever change. Just like that good-for-nothing you used to hang out with.”
Quinn gave her dad the evil eye. “Wyatt wasn’t a good-for-nothing. He was just… a product of his environment.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “You’re from that same environment, and you’re still alive and doin’ pretty well for yourself, despite whatever the fuck’s going on with you.”
Quinn shook her head. There was no point in arguing about Wyatt.
“And what about you?” she said flatly. “How much have you changed?”
He hesitated at that. “I quit drinkin’, and it took all I got. That’s enough change for Joe Hartley.” He picked up the remote control and unmuted the TV. “Stay as long as you need. Cot’s in the closet.”
Quinn got up and rummaged through the small closet for the cot, unfolding it and tossing a blanket on it before stealing one of her dad’s pillows.
“I’m going to grab a burrito at Chubby’s,” she said. “Want one?”
“The usual,” he said, eyes still on the TV. “Take the cash on the counter.”
Quinn grabbed some bills, put on a hat and sunglasses, and headed around the corner to the little burrito shack that had been there for as long as she could remember. As she waited in line, she thought about everything her dad had said. She wanted to be pissed off at him, to chalk his views up to those of a middle-aged recovering drunk who’d seen his share of suffering. But yet, something about them resonated with her.
Her dad could never understand about Wyatt. Like Daria, Wyatt had looked after her when no one else would. He was the one who’d taught her to fight, who’d taught her to survive… who’d taught her about love. But Wyatt was an untamed beast, unpredictable and rule-breaking. It was what she’d loved about him, and hated, and it was how he wound up with a bullet in his head.
Her throat tightened up. Wyatt had needed to change his ways, and had opportunity to when the EDPD recruited him. But he’d blown that opportunity and continued living the same way as the rest of the guys she’d grown up around. And it killed him.
“Can I help you?”
Quinn came out of her reverie, blinking tears back. A dark-skinned woman at the order window waited for her. “Two chicken burritos, please. One smothered.”
As she stood aside and waited for her order, Quinn shifted her thoughts to Daria. Daria was her best friend. Growing up, Daria had been there when she’d needed her. Yet, Daria could be unreliable. If she’d merely checked her proximity detector like any decent tech, she would’ve known that it wasn’t functioning properly and postponed the Clive McCloskey job until the detector got repaired or replaced. That mistake had cost them dearly—financially and professionally—and could have killed them. Even if the device had tested fine but still malfunctioned, Daria’s lack of initiative in learning to defend herself meant Quinn had to fight for both of them, ultimately costing them the data.
The truth was, no Tier One agent would consider taking on a tech who lacked at least some self-defense skills. And any other agent would’ve found a new tech after theirs had lapsed on checking their proximity detector, and then reported the lapse to their ops manager.
Suddenly, Quinn recalled Yolanda’s words. You’ve spent more time covering for a partner who isn’t Tier One material than you have showing me what you’re capable of.
She had covered for Daria, when someone less attached to her wouldn’t have. She’d also pushed for Daria to enter and remain in their choice of occupation because she’d wanted to help Daria as much as herself. She never saw that Daria lacked the necessary traits to truly succeed in their field, that Daria was never cut out for the work. And by refusing to see those truths, Quinn had harmed her chances of getting the thing she wanted most.
She too had been unwilling to change.
Her phone rang. Yolanda. Quinn silenced it. She would deal with Yolanda later.
When Quinn’s order was called, she took her bag of burritos and headed back to her dad’s place. Just as she entered the building’s alcove and headed down the stairs, her phone beeped. She had a message. It was from Jones.
We need to talk.
Chapter 32
After dropping her dad’s burrito off, Quinn headed to Mercy Park. It was dark out now, and the air hot and stifling. She braced herself for bad news. Those four words again—we need to talk—now coming from the one person she didn’t need bad news from.
Jones had probably taken a job with another jacker. After their nightmare of a job and her meltdown the other night, she could hardly blame him.
Hell, for all she knew, she didn’t even have a damned job anymore. Maybe that’s why Yolanda was calling. What happened that night at Voila wasn’t their fault and no data was lost, but it was yet another failure after a string of them. And thanks to Linden, or even Noah, a sketch of her face or even her name had probably made its way through police channels and therefore to the Protectorate.
Jones sat on the swing again, swaying back and forth, his tattooed arms and shoulders glistening with sweat. He looked angry. Not thug angry, but agitated. She straddled the swing next to him and faced him, leaning up against the thick metal chain, still warm from the sun beating on it all day. She took out her burrito and began eating, not wanting bad news on an empty stomach.
“Whatever you have to say, Jones,” she said, her mouth full, “just say it.”
He gave her a sidelong look. “You’re right. This shit’s a fucking grind.”
Quinn stopped chewing for a moment.
“We risk our asses out there,” he went on. “Risk our lives, risk gettin’ thrown in the clink for God knows ho
w long, just so they can punish us for one fucken mistake. Just to make us work twice as hard for nothin’ on a job like this, with these two Midtown fucks tryin’ to beat the system for reasons no one will tell us. It ain’t right.”
She said nothing, sensing that Jones wasn’t done.
He sighed. “But this job with the Protectorate… it’s all I got. My old man died when I was a kid, and with my brother’s disability and not bein’ able to care for himself…” he shrugged, “it did us in. I need to get ahead of it. Not for me, but for them.”
“I know,” she said quietly, her hope sinking further, knowing what was coming next.
He looked at her. “We don’t know each other that well and we don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of shit, but givin’ up don’t seem like you.”
Quinn blinked a couple of times. “It’s not me.”
“It’s not me either.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m sayin’ we should give it one last go.”
“You do?” she said, not even trying to hide her happiness.
He nodded.
Quinn put away her burrito. “Look. I’m sorry I fell apart the other night. It was just… too much. It’s like the fucking Protectorate knows how bad I want this, how bad I need it, how bad we need it, and they’re fucking with us. Maybe they aren’t, but it feels like they are. I can’t make rent thanks to what happened with my old partner. I’m staying at my dad’s, despite the fact that he’s dealing, because my landlord’s after me and I’m not going to sit around waiting for the cops to come after me—”
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