“Does PS and the rest of the gang know how fucked they are if they’re caught in cahoots with you?”
Ah. Well, bollocks to it. My smirk remains intact, not fracturing even slightly.
“I don’t personally see why it’s any of their business.”
“You don’t?” Gav snickers, his feet swaying back and forth. He’s far too casual for my comfort. “And you think I’m the fascist.”
“You see, that’s the problem with people like you, Gavin,” I flatline back at him, crossing my arms and cocking my hips ever so slightly. “You love to point out all the things in others that you hate about yourselves. It’s hypocrisy, plain and simple.”
“So, what then. We’re at an impasse?”
My shoulders lift and fall with a grace my opponent could never even notice, let alone fully appreciate.
“It would appear we are.”
“Look,” he says, leaning forward on his knees. “How about this. You got my word that I won’t say a bloody thing to anyone ’til after Pyronamix. After that, once you lot’ve left town, it’s tough shit. If anyone asks me if I seen anything—”
“I know, I know. You have to save your own skin. I’m acutely aware of the dog-eat-cat hierarchy of our society.”
“Someone like you would be.” Gav throws a glance over his shoulder, as if paranoid someone may be listening in. I don’t exactly blame him; we could be thrown in jail under suspicion of terrorism for the content of this conversation alone.
“But I ain’t gonna lie to cover your arse, mate,” he says at a lower volume. “Even if you are one of PS’s lads.”
“It’s high treason to lie to the fuzz, the best way to avoid it is to not be asked any questions,” is my oversimplified answer. My arms remain folded, my demeanor abrupt. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Gavin? Or are you here just to get a look at the goods? Because we’re in town another two or three nights, and I tell you. I’m the sexy kind of agent.”
Gav scowls. “Thanks, but no thanks.” he says quickly, and the shudder is more than audible in each and every syllable he speaks. “You’re not really my type.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, I’m everybody’s type,” I go on, like a dog with a bone. Or a dog with a cat, to use an aforementioned and far less perverse metaphor. “They’re all starting to learn I like the bed at the back of the bus, and I assure you, I’m a very good cuddle-buddy.”
Gav shudders visibly this time, the entire scaffold creaking as he gets his feet underneath him. “All right, that’s enough—” he protests, but even as he does, I’m not getting the same joy from watching him writhe.
It is there, somewhere. Buried beneath the layers of stress, panic, and anxiety.
But then again, who could blame me?
Only one who didn’t understand the full weight of the secret I’m carrying, and what it would mean to everyone around me were it to be revealed. By anyone.
17 Penny's Old Flame
I remember now why I hate Old London.
While our new capital city Britannica has retained a very modern, technical, futuristic style of living, Old London—the site of royalty and parliament ere to 2022—has been allowed to lapse into the past.
Broken chunks of tarmac make it impossible to tell the heritage, cobblestone roads from the twenty-first century ones underfoot. Rain saturates everything it can touch, cloaking it in a sheen of damp and leaving it dripping wet. I take a moment to be grateful I saved my favorite boots for the mission in less than two days’ time, and I won’t be up late drying them tonight.
Duncan and I separate long before the rendezvous point. We don’t want to risk being seen together. The smoother this goes, the better, even if there is only a thirteen per cent chance it’s not a trap.
For all I know, there’s a Branch 9 agent behind every rubbish bin, a sniper atop each rickety, redbrick building. Every street adds three or four new scents into the mix, from smog to sewage, even several different types of meat stews simmering away in the upstairs flats. Next to the copper with an assault rifle, watching me through the kitchen window he’s commandeered. For all I know.
It’s worth it, to meet this potential new contact. Anyone who goes to such extreme lengths to share the deep, internal workings of the Sovereignty deserves our highest level of respect.
Whoever this ‘Irene’ woman is, I cannot wait to shake her firmly by the hand.
Unless this all turns out to be a big, fat, New Sovereign Yard police department sting operation, of course. Then any and all previously agreed upon hand-shaking arrangements would be entirely negated.
I locate the kebab shop Irene’s message depicted with little difficulty. She claimed it to be an Anomaly-friendly establishment, which Oliver was able to verify via his own channels.
Pausing at the door, I resist the urge to glance across the car parking lot toward the dumpster I know Duncan is hiding behind. I wonder temporarily if he’s already had to take out any coppers or Branch 9 agents, if one could have even already been occupying his spot by the time he got there.
It’s impossible not to worry about one’s comrades when on a mission. Especially if we don’t want to risk setting up electronic or radio communications between party members. All one can do is trust in each other’s abilities, in each other capabilities.
I think back to what Oliver said about trust, about what it means.
Duncan for one, I know, will always be worth the pain.
I take a deep breath and pull the glass door toward me. Instantly, I’m hit with the stench of the place, a solid wall of noise and greasy heat that’s as inviting as it is overwhelming.
“Welcome, welcome!” is the over-rehearsed call from deep within the shop, where a couple different hunks of meat are sizzling shamelessly behind a bar counter.
I allow myself half a second to survey my surroundings, noting every exit, object, and patron that could possibly pose a threat to me. Or aid me in some form, should the need arise.
Two men in filthy aprons are working up a sweat behind the counter, while a third writes quickly but comfortably on a notepad, a wired phone (the likes of which I haven’t seen in years!) clenched between his shoulder and his ear. A mother and two young children are minding their own, eating quietly in a booth at the very back. Several customers who don’t appear to be together are huddled by a BitID cashpoint system, takeaway receipts clasped in-hand. Sans the kitchen, the door I walked through appears to be the only way in or out of the small unit.
It’s a lot to absorb in such a short amount of time. But my gut guides me toward the counter, and I take a seat at one of the stools.
And then, I wait.
You’ll know me when you see me, was Irene’s cryptic message to Oliver when asked what identifying characteristics to look for. Tall, blonde, and beautiful. I’ll strike a chord, sugar. Trust me on that.
Waiting for a chord to be struck within oneself is an interesting task, I must confess. It leaves you rather on edge.
One of the cooks meets my eyes, and I smile and wave him off, a signal to take his time. I flip over the laminated menu, though it mostly repeats the same information scrawled on the chalkboards above the greasy array of grills and fryers.
Do I even want to eat? Not particularly. And even if I did, I doubt they take hard cash as payment here. Even Anomaly-friendly establishments in the big city require payment via BitID.
And some of us have chosen not to live that lifestyle anymore, as highly treasonous as that may be.
The door opens, jingling the bell above it. My eyes dart to the side. It’s a man, though. Tall, lean, bearded, and wrapped in layer upon layer of outerwear to protect against the cold.
November in London, I muse, glancing down at my own gloved hands. It’s a bitter old time.
Just to make things awkward, the newcomer drops his own hat and gloves on the counter next to me and perches on the seat beside my own.
“Sorry, love, I’m actually waiting for a mate of mine to meet m
e here.”
For a moment—because I’m female, and most anybody the world perceives as female will understand this—I’m simultaneously frightened and frustrated that I’m going to spend the next fifteen minutes trying to shake this wanker.
Then, it all starts to sharpen rapidly into focus.
“Oh, Kapitän,” the stranger utters, at a level that is strictly set to keep his words between the two of us. “I’m disappointed in you. I honestly thought I had left quite the impression on you the last time we spent time together.”
… oh, you have got to be pulling my leg.
Fuck shaking Irene by the hand. I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to shake her by the throat.
“Izzey?” I hiss, my voice sharp like the crack of a whip. “Izzey!? Good—fucking—grief.”
Of all people, why does it have to be the smug, sexy, suave European? I can’t imagine they’re worth the calories, they’re far too dangerous.
“I commend you on the pronoun change, the lads’ll be super happy for you,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth without looking at him. My eyes are on the cook who just hung up the phone. “Do you go by Irene now, or are you still using Izzey?”
“Oh please, Kapitän. We all know everybody is male on the Net until proven otherwise. You are the ones who assigned a gender to the alias.”
“You got me. I’m an awful feminist. Now I’ll need to resign my post in shame, never to command a brigade of Anomalies again.” I drop a hand down at my side, fully aware of the way Izzey’s eyes trail it down.
Part of me dares him to grab it. Part of me almost wants a fight, despite knowing it could blow our cover before the weekend.
“Relax, love,” I say cooly. “I’m just letting backup know things are cushty so he don’t come storming in here to rip your face off.”
“The angry, fiery one?”
I shake my head as a pair of ice waters in scratched plastic tumblers are placed in front of us. “Dee. The big Scottish one.”
“Oh, ja. I’ve heard good things about him.”
“Did you know it was my brigade you were in contact with?”
Izzey sips his water without looking at me. His eyes are on the tiny television set, mounted in the corner of the shop. “I have my ways of contacting those I need to get ahold of.”
“That’s not really a yes or no, though?” I press, without masking any of my annoyance. “In fact, it’s not even an answer to my question at all, is it?”
The beautiful man chuckles, a warm leathery sound. It evokes synesthetic visions of a belt slithering over bare skin, hot from its vicinity to an open flame. Every muscle in my body grows taut with effort not to shudder.
“You’re still so impatient. You English need to learn to take life at a more calm, centered pace.”
I roll my eyes, but the cook returns, and I’m forced to bury my response for later.
“Whatever you want, it’s on me,” says Izzey. “Make your boy wait outside while I feed you a hot meal. I’m presuming you’re all set for a busy weekend.”
I scowl at him, and for what it’s worth, he behaves himself while we order. “I’d appreciate you not playing fast and loose with my freedom for the sake of a double entendre or two,” I mutter to him once we’re alone again.
“So,” I continue, adjusting in my seat. I may as well get comfortable if we’re here for the long haul. “What’s a town like you doing in a big girl like this?”
“As I told you when I first met you, Kapitän, I’m in the business of personal security.” I can’t help but notice the ice in his water has already melted; a fascinating phenomenon I often witness around Alfie. “That is my line of work.”
“Anyone fun or famous?” I ask, playfully not-playing with my straw as I study his face closely. “I don’t recall if you’re the snooty, upper-crusty sort of mercenary, or your more roguish, devil-may-care personality type.”
Izzey doesn’t quite sneer over his beverage at me. “Would it shock you to learn my client’s identity is classified information?” he asks. His eyes remain on the telly even as our server brings us each a mug of tea.
“Ta,” I thank him, wrapping my hands eagerly around the heat of the brew. I don’t care what it tastes like; that’s not why I ordered it. Even in the shop’s warmth and with Alfie’s leather jacket on, my fingers feel frostbitten.
Glancing at Izzey, I notice I’m not the only one. He’s practically melting into his grip on the mug, inhaling the scent of it as the steam wafts up into his face.
“What’s on the box that’s so interesting?”
“Mm?”
“What’s got you so fixated on the telly?” I rephrase myself, gazing at him with the same intensity he’s showing the tube. “I know a lot of blokes who’d be proper happy to spend a Thursday evening out with a bird like me.”
Izzey’s answer is slightly strained. “Pyronamix.”
“Ah.”
“KING News coverage,” he continues, his voice lowering again. “They’re playing that promotional trailer on repeat everywhere I go.”
“All right, can you narrow it down to whether your client was one of the poor sods who had to pretend to be proper edgy for that video shoot?” I ask, drumming my fingers impatiently on the countertop.
“Ja.” Izzey remains attentive to the state propaganda being mandatorily broadcast in the corner of the restaurant. “I can.”
“Well? Are they?”
“I hate these social media influencers,” Izzey gripes, and while it appears to be out of left field, I have a feeling it’s related to the posed inquiry. “What are the even selling here—what is the product?” He snorts. “The lifestyle? Is the lifestyle the product? Or the belief that the lifestyle can actually be obtained by somebody like you or me? Somebody ‘other’?”
“Somebody not born into money or fame?” I offer in addition to his thoughts. “Or somebody shunned by society?”
“Somebody who has the feeling that something is missing in their life, and that this could be a way to fill the void.” Izzey sighs and places his cup of water back on the table.
“Does it bother you at all, Kapitän, that some of these kids are being manipulated via human psychology into selling off everything they own, all of their assets? Maxing out their Bit credit? Just to buy tickets to an event they’re convinced they can’t afford miss, no matter the cost?”
My fingers slow to a halt, relaxing against the tile countertop.
“It bothers me more that they’re being lured into—well, fuck knows what,” I say darkly, lowering my own voice considerably. “I fear for a world where we’re so easily coerced via so little substance.”
“I want that on a T-shirt,” Izzey chuckles, sliding his hand over to cover my own. It remains in place for a second or two before he draws it away, and when he does, there’s a scrap of paper between my fingers.
“The location,” he utters in a dangerously delicate undertone, “of a certain B-O-O-K I know you’ll be on the look out for. You won’t have to wander far, I promise you that.”
My hand snaps closed around the tip-off.
“And you’re absolutely bloody positive this intel is solid?” I ask, a bite to my tone. “I wouldn’t want to open a subterranean vault and find a SWAT team waiting for me.”
“Have I given you any reason to doubt my intentions this far?” Izzey asks, and I have to admit, he has a point. “Are you absolutely bloody positive you can actually get in and get out with it this time? From what the rumor mill tells me, you had a bit of trouble with it last year.”
I scoff. “Oi, you do you.”
“I want to prepare you for Saturday, Kapitän.”
“I like to be prepared,” is my cocksure response. “Prepare me.”
“The venue that is being built,” Izzey says quietly. “My team and I got to walk the property as part of an assigned security detail briefing this afternoon.”
“That sounds fascinating.”
Izzey chuckles. “Mm, yo
u jest, but it’s true. It was riveting. In fact, I learned a great deal of things, such as the venue will not be fit to host any form of musical performance whatsoever the night of the party.”
All I can do is blink at him.
“Not fit to host any form of—but the entire event is being billed as a musical extravaganza? An entire festival in a single night.”
What the good old days were like, according to my dad, I think with a sense of raw nostalgia. Things were so much easier when I had his arms to fall back into.
“Mm-hmm, they’re doing a glorious job of presenting it as such, aren’t they?” Izzey muses grimly. “Whatever they are planning, I have a horrendous feeling this will be one of those nights I have to actually work for my paycheck.”
“Life can be such a cunt at times, can’t it?” I grin at him. He returns it with no sense of hostility.
Our food arrives in front of us and, as the smell hits my nostrils, my stomach grumbles loudly in appreciation. I wasn’t even aware how hungry I was.
To my surprise, Izzey’s order is in a takeaway bag.
“I’m sorry, are you seriously going to eat and run on me?”
“No. I’m going to run, then eat. In the comfort of my own living room, in front of that pretty idiot on KING who likes to scream at the audience until we believe him.” Izzey’s already sliding off his stool, tugging his gloves back onto his hands one finger at a time. “Let your boys know I’ll be contacting them once more with some last minute info. Once. And if you rookies get caught, you’ve never heard of any of my aliases.”
“Hey, same goes for you,” I shoot right back. “Don’t be giving them my name when they’re torturing you in The Vault.”
“Never been within fifty yards of that place,” says Izzey, shuddering no doubt in response to the name of the purpose-built Anomaly prison. “No intention of changing that any time soon.”
“Be safe, Izzey,” I say earnestly. He returns my genuine kindness with some of his own, and the smile he offers is one that legitimately warms my to my core.
Blaze of Glory Page 11
