Treachery (The Terra Trials Book 1)

by Dan Thomas

  Chopsticks looked up slowly. “I don’t think so. It specifically says once you’ve been entered there’s no way to opt-out.”

  “But that’s not fair!” Sam was close to shouting.

  Pez put his drink down. “You don’t think Jag—”

  “No,” Sam snapped. “He would never.”

  Max’s phone sounded again.

  All eyes turned to Max as he read the message.

  “It’s from Striker,” Max croaked. “He said, ‘Adapt or Die, suckers. We’ll see you in there, and we know how this will end, you fossilized pieces of crap.’”

  Pez slammed his hand down on the table. “I’m going to kill him. And I don’t mean in-game, I’m going to track him down and throttle him.”

  “You think the Ravagers did this?” Sienna asked, concern in her voice.

  “It must have been,” Max said. “I don’t know if Chopsticks told you, but they had access to a hack. I don’t know how, but they must have used it to enter us. Striker said he’d get the last laugh, and this must be it.”

  “I don’t know what he means by knowing how this will end,” Pez snarled. “But we’ve kicked their asses once, I’m looking forward to doing it all over again.”

  Jag

  Jag paused as a hovercar whizzed by, before jogging across the busy street, the air, heavy in fumes, caught the back of his already dry throat. He slowed to a walk as his feet hit the pavement, shouldering through a group of giggling people before cutting down a narrow alley, casting a long shadow between the slick walls of the buildings.

  Keeping his head down, he strode between the dumpsters and air conditioning units, following the alley as it turned a sharp left, and opened wider.

  Burning neon purple cast a hazy light over the grime-covered street from above a metal door.

  Jag kept his eyes on a drably dressed figure who leaned against the wall next to it. The harsh light cast a shadow over the stocky figure’s face, but Jag could feel the suspicion with which he was being watched as he approached.

  Jag stopped as the figure stepped in front of the door.

  “Hey, boss. There’s an entrance—”

  Jag held up a large coin, the center gold inlaid with delicate silver. A Solar.

  The bouncer’s hooded eyes moved slowly from the Solar Token to Jag and then back before he reached out and took the coin. With a nod, he stepped back, tapped a code into the door, and pulled it open.

  “Thanks,” Jag brushed past and into the dimly lit corridor within. He passed another two guards who watched him intently as he passed before he came to another door, which opened automatically as he approached.

  As soon as the door was open, Jag could smell the smoke in the air and the must from old furnishings—dark-colored wood marked and marred, covered in faded leather. Most were filled with customers.

  Jag scanned his eyes across the room, looking over the crowd of colored hair and brightly streaked clothes mixed in between dark leather pants and eyeliner, all talking quietly, with the occasional laugh or exclamation heard over the background of a warbling saxophone from the band playing on a cleared area toward a corner of the room.

  No one spared even a glance toward the doorway.

  Taking a last look back down the dark corridor behind him, Jag moved into the club, his long coat trailing behind him as he weaved in between the tables and booths, heading for the bar at the far side.

  The long stretch of battered wood was half-filled with various people sitting on stools, nursing drinks, all so wrapped up in their own thoughts that Jag wasn’t sure if they even noticed he was there as he took a seat, leaning onto the bar surface.

  He caught the eye of a young man in a shabby suit, who was leaning on a drink fridge, polishing a glass which he placed down. He tucked the cloth into his pocket as he walked over.

  “What’ll it be?” He spoke with a hoarse voice.

  Jag looked past him to the rows of labeled liquors.

  “He’ll take a Stinger,” a soft voice from Jag’s right said.

  He swiveled in the stool to look into bright green eyes and a pretty face framed by auburn hair.

  “He could do with a pick me up.” She raised an eyebrow.

  Jag turned back to the bartender, who glanced between them with a humorous expression before reaching under the bar for a glass and turning to the bottles of drinks.

  Jag smiled wryly as he watched the bartender begin pouring measures of colored liquids. “I didn’t think I looked that out of place.”

  “Hm,” the leather of her jacket creaked as she spun the stool around, leaning back onto the bar. “I didn’t say you did...rough day?”

  Jag snorted. “Something like that.” He straightened up as the bartender placed the drink on the bar. Jag nodded his head and grabbed the drink, taking a swig before placing it back down, putting one hand on his lap, slipping it into his coat pocket.

  The woman tilted her head.

  Jag met her gaze and shrugged. “I’m being chased by some very dangerous people. Only fifteen minutes ago, someone tried to kill me on the street.”

  She laughed lightly, leaning her head on her hand. “And so, you decided to stop by for a drink while on the run?”

  “When you’ve been doing something for long enough, you can get pretty good at it.” Jag took another sip of the sickly drink, feeling his heart rate beginning to increase from the various stimulants mixed into the cocktail.

  “It hasn’t made you any less paranoid,” she gestured with a nod. “Seems you’re pointing a gun at me.”

  Jag chuckled, keeping hold of the pistol in his coat. “I’ve heard that you can’t be too careful these days.”

  She smiled, picked up her drink, and swirled the dark liquid around in the glass. “Sound advice from the man himself.”

  Jag frowned, watching the woman’s nonchalant expression.

  “It’s surprising how word gets around.” She sighed, “No matter how discreet you are, someone always hears about it. Especially when you’re running around with one of the most valuable objects in this world, and perhaps even the real world, Jag.”

  Jag took a measured breath, turning away from his drink and tightening his grip on the pistol. “I guess it wouldn’t be very discreet if I just blasted you in front of all these people.”

  The woman laughed and shook her head before tipping up her drink and finishing it. “No, it wouldn’t be—but at least you seem aware of how important you are right now.”

  “I know who you are,” Jag watched her reaction.

  “Oh?” The woman slowly turned from her drink to meet his gaze.

  “You’re from the Syndicate. And if I had to guess, I’d say you’re Scarlet,” Jag glanced at her red dress. “Not exactly subtle.”

  “All right, Jag,” Scarlet said levelly. “We both know what the deal is here, so I’ll cut to it. We want in.”

  Jag scoffed, letting go of his pistol, and grabbing his drink, gulping back the half-filled glass. “I don’t know what you were hoping I’d say, but it’s not for sale. This isn’t some business deal.”

  Scarlet waved him off. “Do you think I would’ve risked ‘running into you’ to try and barter? No, we want to help.”

  Jag narrowed his eyes. “And why do I find that hard to believe?”

  “Because you’ve been doing this on your own for so long now. But we want things to go back to normal. Our whole organization relies on stability.”

  “Really? I always heard you were running a glorified black market.”

  Scarlet shook her head. “Rumors from jealous people.”

  Jag chewed the inside of his cheek. “All right. I don’t need to tell you that this has been one hell of a time. What do you have in mind?”

  Scarlet smiled. “Why don’t you buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.”

 

 

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