Dedication
This is for my mother and father, my first teachers of perseverance
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Content Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Content Warning
Corporate Gunslinger is a story about the training and career of a professional gunfighter. As such, it is permeated with depictions of gun violence, including graphic descriptions of gunshot wounds and character death. It also portrays abduction and suicidal ideation.
Chapter 1
In front of her, a door that leads to the dueling field. Behind her, an exit. Between them, Kira Clark weighs the prospect of killing and the possibility of dying against the certainty of a life in servitude. The changing room clock gives her eleven minutes and forty-two seconds to make her decision.
She could take the exit and forfeit the match. Walking away before a duel starts is a highly informal way for a professional gunfighter to resign, but she wouldn’t be the first. It would feel pretty good for about a month, maybe two, but then her money would run out, her creditors would foreclose, and she would become their property—theirs to do with as they pleased, for the rest of her life.
The only real way out is forward, through the scanner and onto the dueling field to face Niles LeBlanc. Make that Niles fucking LeBlanc: professional gunfighter, high-caliber asshole, and poor, dead Chloe’s contemptible ex-boyfriend. Kira brings her cold focus to bear on all the reasons he deserves to end the match with a bullet in his heart.
Right on schedule, fear breaks her chilly concentration, arriving as an awareness of her body’s vulnerability so acute that it sparks a deep ache in her chest. She wraps her torso in a self-hug and breathes, timing her inhalation by count and forcing the exhale to last twice as long. True to the promise of her first acting instructor, her muscles relax, her heart rate slows, and her mind goes blank. The terror flows through her, past her, around her . . . and then it is gone.
The anxiety used to spook her, feeding a fear that she was too weak for the job. Twenty-nine gunfights after her first match, it’s simply part of her changing room routine, like pulling on the dueling tunic with the TKC Insurance logo stitched on each shoulder, slipping her feet into the glove-soft boots, or attaching her ID chip to the box holding her personal effects.
She unwinds her arms and focuses on how Niles will see her, closing her eyes to shut out the changing room’s office-bland decor and bought-by-the-pound corporate artwork. She will enter the field as a deadly apparition, wearing the company colors of forest green and slate gray, her blonde hair clipped into the helmet-like shape of the gunfighter’s cut, and her eyes like two chips of stamped steel. She drives every hint of softness or compassion from her face, tightens her abdominal muscles, and straightens her spine.
Then the words, spoken only for herself: “I am death. I am terror. I am blood.”
She gives herself over to Death’s Angel, her role for the duration of the duel. Playing her longest-running and most popular character, she will step onto her greatest stage to give her largest audience a life or death performance.
She speaks the final words of her personal incantation: “Show time.”
Chapter 2
Although it was only 9:00 a.m., Kira’s first day as a gunfighter trainee already featured a payment glitch that nearly made the hotel manager call the cops and a hassle getting onto TKC property when somebody hung a Society for the Prevention of Dueling flag from the main gate and chained themselves to the entrance. Now, on top of all that, she faced a broken elevator in her new home. Was this the shape of things to come, or was it getting all the bad luck out of the way at once?
Standing in the stairwell, Kira sighed. The company tried to dress up the Logan P. Jameson Building by referring to it as “educational accommodations,” but it was clearly a dorm. No denying going back to a dorm was a step down, though the steps up posed the most immediate problem—dragging her baggage up the three flights of concrete stairs flanked by thick-painted steel railings. She adjusted her backpack, took a new grip on her suitcase handle, and resumed her slog to the fourth floor.
Though having the elevator fail on moving day was a bad sign, the building probably wasn’t that much worse than some places she’d lived while trying to balance food, rent, and loan payments against a small and uncertain stream of income. Once they got the elevator working again, it would probably be better than either the third-floor walkup she’d lived in during her first months in New York or the basement place with the iffy plumbing. Best of all, she’d have a year . . . as long as she didn’t quit or flunk out. A year meant twenty-six loan payments. More financial stability than she’d had since leaving college. But first, climb the stairs with suitcase in tow.
Like all dorms on moving-in day, good-natured insults and bursts of profanity filled the air, accompanied by the underlying smell of mustiness, industrial-strength cleaners, and sweat. On the landing just before her door, the voices from her target floor became clearer—loud, boisterous, and uniformly male.
Shit.
The floor map from the trainee information packet on her handset showed her room at the opposite end of the hallway. To get to it, she’d have to pass through a mass of just-moved-in guys somewhere between the ages of nineteen and thirty. Walking in alone, a twenty-six-year-old blonde would get the kind of attention dogs would give a steak if it tried to stroll through a kennel.
Should she make it a confrontation? Establish herself as a person who wasn’t going to be messed with, even for something as random as a catcall? Risky until she got the lay of the land. But appearing vulnerable might be risky, too. Better to make the first encounter neutral.
She pulled a set of bright-orange over-the-ear headphones from her backpack and set the noise cancellation to maximum. With the phones in place, she brought up some dance music on the handset. Unless somebody delivered his taunt with an air horn, she wouldn’t hear it.
Time to run the gauntlet. She hardened her face, squared her shoulders, and opened the fire door.
A loose scattering of young men, furniture awaiting placement, and bags of trash lined the hallway. A couple shirtless guys lounging against the right wall watched her pass, as did a guy in an Iowa Cubs T-shirt wrestling an armchair through a doorway, but if they said anything, the pounding rhythm drowned it out.
Noise cancellation really might be the best invention of the twenty-first century.
She squeezed past a dresser left sitting sideways and maneuvered her luggage through the same narrow passage. A few more feet across the industrial-gray loop carpeting, and she’d be home free. She tapped her handset, and a green light flashed on the d
oor. Her key token worked. A quick turn of the handle, a pull on her suitcase, and she was inside.
She pivoted and found herself facing a black-haired teenage guy in a powder-blue T-shirt, staring at her with big brown eyes. What the hell was this? She pulled the headphones off, and although she kept one hand on the door handle, her voice conceded nothing. “Who are you?”
He startled. Was he surprised at her tone or surprised she’d spoken at all?
“I-I’m, ah—”
He looked like a kid and she’d taken him by surprise. The T-shirt and jeans were both badly worn and out of fashion, as were the shoes. Nothing suggested he was used to getting his way. She could probably do a good enough teacher-voice to send him packing, and then slam the door shut behind him.
A voice sounded from the bathroom. “That’s my baby brother, Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo looked at his feet.
The voice’s owner emerged. A few years younger than Kira, she was built like a rugby player, with a body so short and squat she seemed almost square. “I’m Chloe Rossi.”
“I’m Kira Clark. I guess we’re roommates.”
Chloe dressed much like Lorenzo—clothes either purchased at a thrift store or about to go there.
She nodded toward her brother. “Lorenzo came along to help carry, and with . . .” She waved to indicate the hallway Kira had just passed through. “. . . you know.”
Kira took her hand off the door handle and stepped farther into the room. “Pleased to meet you both.”
A few awkward seconds ensued, in which Lorenzo managed to say “Hi,” but mostly stared at Kira as if she’d just emerged from the ocean naked on a half shell. Chloe eyed him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.
If this was going to move forward, it was apparently on Kira to do something. “Look, Chloe and I have an early start tomorrow. Mind if I unpack?”
Chloe turned to her brother. “Thanks for the help, but she’s right. We’ve got an early day coming.”
Lorenzo accepted his dismissal, but he stopped at the door to address Chloe. “You’ll be at the house Sunday? After Mass?”
Chloe frowned. “If I can. It’s my only day off.”
“Mom and Dad expect you. Especially now.”
After a few seconds of nonverbal standoff with his sister, Lorenzo turned to Kira. “You can come, too. Mom makes great spaghetti.”
A vision washed across Kira’s mind: a big table full of good food, surrounded by people talking and laughing, with the smell of cooked meat and spices in the air—basil, thyme, and oregano. In the middle of it all, a place for her. Like Professor Fowler’s parties for students who couldn’t go home for Christmas, or when the Carlyle family had the whole cast over for dinner at the end of a play’s run. She shook it off. Lorenzo was just a smitten teenager looking for an excuse to stare at her some more. All she needed was a polite deflection. But still . . .
“Thanks. I’m still figuring out my schedule.”
Lorenzo responded with a small bob of his head before leaving.
Chloe looked after him for a moment, scratched a russet curl that had somehow survived her hairdo’s transition into the gunfighter’s cut, and turned her attention to Kira. “Sorry about that. He’s a good kid, but he’s a kid.”
Kira responded with a noncommittal shrug. “No problem.”
“I took the left side, but I’m not unpacked yet.” Chloe pointed to a suitcase and a couple of boxes on the far side of the room. “Do you care?”
Kira dropped her backpack. “Right’s fine. I can’t see much difference.”
The room’s mirror-perfect split represented another step back to college-like living, along with the desk, chair, dresser, and single bed on either end of their quarters, all made from the same cheap, heavy wood. The durable gray carpet, extended from the hallway, confirmed the impression of space that had seen a lot of hard use and expected to see a lot more.
Kira unzipped her backpack and unloaded her portable terminal, Empire State Building paperweight, data pad, and a stylus onto the desk. The rest of the unpacking went easily enough; there were some advantages to selling almost everything for moving money.
The big gray bag sitting on the bed turned out to be full of uniforms in shrink-wrap. Kira tugged at it.
Elbow-deep in a moving box, Chloe announced, “They said to try them all on, to make sure they fit. Do the boots, too.”
Kira dragged the bag into the bathroom. It opened with a pop and released the smell of freshly extruded synthetic fibers and an illustrated guide explaining how everything should fit and what to check.
She unpacked the first tunic, shook out the wrinkles, and did the same for a pair of pants. They used the same design and materials as professional gunfighter’s uniforms, but the two-tone beige color scheme marked the wearer as a trainee. The reflection in the full-length mirror made it obvious the uniform’s color didn’t do her hair or her complexion any favors, but it fit. With the drawstring pulled, the pants hugged her hips just tightly enough to feel secure but didn’t restrict motion. The tunic sleeves ended where her wrist joined her hand, exactly as the directions said they should. Her name, in block letters over her left breast, was spelled correctly. The company logo was indeed printed on both shoulders, though there was no escaping the fact it looked like a midair collision between the letters TKC and a Cubist rendering of a seagull. It didn’t express “security, stability, and competence” to her, but she wasn’t the target audience. She didn’t have any assets to insure.
The soft leather boots fit like socks and smelled like hunting and work. Their tan color complemented the uniform, and when she stood, the pants ended just above the foot and fell high enough in back that her heel couldn’t get caught in them.
The bathroom lighting and gray wall made her image in the mirror look like a publicity still. Which is what it was, really. For the next year, she would play Kira Clark, gunfighter trainee. Like her three months as Juliet, nearly six months as Ophelia, or her five glorious, well-paid weeks as the Higgins Sky-Yacht Services Girl—before Higgins and most of the corporate treasury departed for a non-extradition country.
Kira worked through all seven uniforms and two pairs of boots, focusing on the look and feel of the clothes while trying to ignore their purpose.
A lot could happen in the next year. Legislation restricting debt slavery could pass. Lawsuits overturning punitive charges in her contract could move forward. A decent job could turn up. And, if none of that happened, she had twelve months to think about what to do next. Ideally, an option that didn’t involve shooting at anybody, getting shot herself, or adding repayment of her signing bonus to her already monstrous pile of debts. Potentially, those were some hard choices. But for now, all she had to do was play the part.
God knows she’d spent enough time and money learning to do that.
She pulled the seventh tunic over her head, shook it into place, struck a pose, and checked the mirror. How should a gunfighter look? Or more to the point, how should she look, as a gunfighter? Not angry. An angry young blonde wouldn’t be taken seriously, especially because she was only 5'4". Something else, then. Efficient. Competent. Cold. Like Beatrice the Assassin in Bellamy Beach. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and adjusted her expression. A relaxed, alert, and utterly unsympathetic face stared back from the mirror—a lioness sizing up a herd of gazelles.
A paid killer.
That’s what Rob had called her that last night in New York, right before he put a gob of spit between her feet and stalked off down the street. He’d been drunk, not to mention mad because she’d abandoned his play just three weeks into the run, but he wasn’t wrong. On the other hand, it was pretty damn easy to be critical when nobody was trying to foreclose on your life.
Time to try the look out on an audience. Kira returned to the main room. “What do you think?” She took the same pose she’d taken in front of the mirror and spoke in her character’s voice: low, cool, and flat, with an undertone su
ggesting she didn’t really need the opinion she was soliciting, but chose to be polite.
Chloe, seated at her desk, looked up and blanched. “Holy shi— Pardon my French. You look good.”
Kira laughed. No need to stay in character now that she’d seen the effect. “Thanks.” She patted the pants. “These things are ridiculously comfortable.”
“Yeah, they’re taking good care of us. I mean . . .” Chloe spread her arms wide, taking in the space around her. “Take a look at this room! I heard the food’s good, too.”
Kira forced a smile. Where had Chloe lived that made a glorified dorm room seem upscale?
Kira changed back into her street clothes and hung the uniforms on the front rod of the closet.
Chloe talked while unpacking another box. “So, the class list says you’re from New York?”
“No, I grew up in Iowa. Ames. My parents worked for Iowa State.” Kira rolled her suitcase under the uniforms and shoved it to the back. “I went to New York to be an actress.”
“Well, that sounds cool.”
Kira let her shoulders fall along with her face. “It didn’t turn out the way it does on vid.”
Chloe placed a statuette of Mary into what looked like a small shrine on an open shelf. The space already held a cross with a rosary draped on it and what looked like an icon of a saint Kira didn’t recognize. Did gunfighters have a patron? They certainly needed one.
Her unpacking done, Kira pulled her chair from the desk and sat. “What about you? Where are you from?”
“Des Moines. South side. Born and raised.” Chloe folded a box flat and stacked it on top of the others. “They say sometimes they have to send gunfighters out of town, and the Guild makes them get fancy places for us. You know, those hotels where it’s more than one room.”
“Suites?” That was a sudden move from the topic of where Chloe was from.
“Yeah.” Chloe’s face brightened. “Suites. You think it’s true? You think they really put us up in suites?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that much about being a gunfighter. I’m more worried about getting through training.” With the big cut after the sixth week looming ahead, staying focused on graduation was a plausible reason not to talk about what they were training to do.
Corporate Gunslinger Page 1
