Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1)

by David Estes

  The pale moon glow makes her legs look even longer.

  In the shadows, the Destroyer is practically shaking with excitement as he watches Michael Kelly’s assistant make her way to the waiting aut-car, her high heels clicking on the pavement. First he’ll conquer Lacey Long Legs and then he’ll find a way into her boss’s good graces.

  He remembers the series of flirty smiles Lacey gave him while he was waiting for his meeting with the Pop Con Head. A devilish grin forms on his face as he waits another second, then two.

  When she’s halfway to the aut-car, he strides confidently from hiding. “Oh. Hi, Lacey,” he says, admiring the fake surprise he pushes into his voice.

  She jumps a little, her gorgeous red lips making an “O.” But she recovers quickly when she sees who it is, that sexy smile of hers returning. She wants him—he can feel it in his bones. “Hi. Mr. Destovan, was it?” Of course she remembers his name.

  “Yes.” He smiles back widely, a charming face of innocence.

  “How was your meeting with Mr. Kelly?” she asks. She leans forward slightly, and his eyes roam straight to her cleavage. If that’s not a sign, he doesn’t know what is.

  “He busted my balls a bit,” he admits. Women like honesty.

  She laughs. “Don’t let it get to you; he’s like that with everyone.”

  “I won’t,” the Destroyer says. “Where ya headed? We could share an aut-car?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I doubt we’re going in the same direction. My place is south.” She shrugs, like it’s such a huge shame.

  Luckily, he was ready for this so he doesn’t miss a beat. “Me, too. Just because I’m a Hunter doesn’t mean I’m a billionaire. I’ve only been on the job a week.” He laughs at his own joke. “To be honest, it would help a lot to split the ride, if it’s okay with you?” He feels ridiculous asking when he already knows she’s looking for any opportunity to spend more time with him. But he plays the part well, raising an eyebrow and mimicking the type of sheepish expression he’s seen others wear.

  “Well, I could use the savings, too,” Lacey says, as if cutting costs is the only reason she accepts. As she leads the way to the car, he resists the urge to cop a feel under her absurdly short skirt, which she seems to use as a deadly lure, sashaying her hips side to side. Her talents are wasted in some silly government office, the Destroyer thinks. Oh well, my gain.

  The doors open automatically as they approach, rising straight up. She delicately climbs in one side, careful to hold her skirt against her thigh flesh to keep it from riding up. He eases in beside her, somewhat surprised that she doesn’t immediately slide over to the center to get closer to him. At the same time, he’s enjoying the little game they’re playing.

  She punches her address into a screen, and then turns to him. “How do you want to split it?” she says.

  “We’ll go half and half to your place, and then I’ll pay full from there.”

  “Really? But then you’ll pay more than half of the total fare.” How can someone make a frown look so hot? he marvels. His hand drops into the empty space between them, and he has to use every last bit of strength to keep it pinned to the leather seat.

  “It won’t be much difference,” he says. “I won’t have to go far.” In other words, he’s not planning on leaving her apartment. She acts surprised, as if she didn’t already know exactly what’s happening.

  “Great,” she says, swiping her LifeCard for half the payment. He does the same with his card, and they settle into a breathless silence as the car pulls out, jimmying into traffic, which gives way, their sensors, cameras and navigation systems automatically working together to determine the most efficient traffic patterns for everyone. A heavy blanket of sexual tension seems to cover them, making the Destroyer’s mouth water.

  They make small talk as the car drives them south, although he knows it’s all part of the game. Lacey hates her job, but it pays better than anything else she could get with her qualifications. He says she deserves better. She says thanks. Blah blah blah. He can’t wait to arrive at her place so they stop all this nonsense and really have some fun. Although he desperately wants to touch her leg with his human hand, he doesn’t want to be the one to make the first move. After all, he’s a Hunter and she’s just an assistant. If anyone should be throwing themselves around, it’s her.

  Twenty minutes later the car pulls to the curb. Thank God, he thinks. The conversation was hitting all new lows as the topic for the last ten minutes was the weather. The row house is two stories tall, but so thin he could practically stretch his arms across the whole of it. His first thought is: Are we even going to fit? The thought makes him laugh slightly. There’s a light on in the upstairs window—probably the kind that comes on as soon as it gets dark, so potential intruders think you’re home.

  As the door opens and she begins to step out, he says, “Walk you to your door?”

  She looks back, smiles, and says, “That’s really not necessary. It might not look it, but this area’s pretty safe.”

  Hard to get—he likes it. Putting on his best impression of a gentleman, he says, “Ma’am, I’d feel much better if I did.”

  “I appreciate it, and you’re so sweet, but my boyfriend probably won’t think too kindly of a random guy bringing me home, even if you’re only a teenager.”

  Boyfriend? Only a teenager? She can’t be more than twenty-one herself, but for the first time since he laid eyes on her, a shred of doubt pierces his mojo. It only lasts a second though, replaced by the heat of anger. Has she been playing him for a fool this whole time?

  She steps out and the door starts to close. He watches her tantalizing skirt mock him with each step toward her door.

  The aut-car door is half-closed when the scanner reads her eyes and her front door opens from bottom to top.

  The machine half of his body firing like pistons, he dives across the seat and out the door just before it closes. She doesn’t even look back as she enters her pathetic little house, where her pathetic little boyfriend is likely waiting.

  He sprints for her front door, which is already reversing, top to bottom. Gracefully, quietly, he slides inside. The door grinds closed behind him.

  Still not realizing he’s there, she says, “Lamp on.” A soft orange light emanates from a swan-shaped lamp and she shrugs off her purse, sets it on a table, and shouts, “Barry, I’m home!”

  Ugh. Maybe he underestimated her stupidity even more than he thought. Barry? Really? Heavy footsteps sound on a thin set of stairs leading to the second floor.

  A large man the size of a professional hoverball player descends with a smile. He notices the Destroyer immediately and the smile fades. “Who the hell are you?” he says.

  Lacey turns and her face morphs into one of disgust. It’s the ugliest he’s ever seen her look. Suddenly, conquering her is the furthest thing from his mind. He has no interest in the length of her legs—which are beginning to look deathly pale and far too bony—or the ample size of her breasts—which are clearly being helped by one of those newfangled bras that add a size or two, if they’re even real, that is.

  Instead, he only wants to break her the way she tried to break him with her flirtatious comments and smiles, which she never planned to act on. “Mr. Destovan?” she says. “Did you need to make another appointment with Mr. Kelly?” As if their only relationship is professional, he thinks disgustedly.

  “Your girlfriend is a filthy little flirt,” the Destroyer says to Barry. “You should keep her on a tighter leash.”

  “Look, kid, I don’t know who you are or what your game is, but you’d better get the HELL out of our place, or I’m calling the Crows.”

  “I don’t think so,” he says.

  “Mr. Destovan, if I gave you the wrong impression, I’m sorry, but please leave.” Lacey’s voice is higher than before, the stress of the situation taking a toll.

  “You did it on purpose,” the Destroyer says. “Crossing and uncrossing your legs so I could g
et a better view...”

  “It’s a nervous habit of mine,” Lacey explains.

  “The smiles…”

  “I was trying to be nice—it’s part of my job.”

  “Sharing a ride…”

  “I was trying to save fifty bucks.”

  “You led me on,” the Destroyer says. “And now it’s time to pay up.”

  “We’re not giving you any money,” the moron boyfriend says, as if the Hunter has any need for more money.

  The Destroyer takes a step forward, feeling the familiar rush of energy as his metal parts react seamlessly with his human ones. Different parts of the same perfect machine.

  “Listen, kid—” Barry raises a thick finger.

  “I’m not a kid!” The Destroyer is on him in an instant, his metal fist colliding with Barry’s forearms as he raises them to protect his head. He howls as his bones shatter and he crashes backwards into the wall. Lacey screams and begins scrabbling for her bag, likely trying to use her holo-screen to call for help. Another punch and Barry is unconscious, or maybe dead.

  Adrenaline and training guiding his every move, the Destroyer aims a kick at Lacey’s hands, which are grabbing for her device. She shrieks and drops the holo-screen, and he feels the slightest pang of sadness that this night isn’t going the way he planned. But then he remembers how this slut treated him like another one of her playthings, and the feeling disappears.

  He grabs her by the neck with his human hand and slings her to the floor next to her so-called boyfriend. She tries to scream again, but he compresses her windpipe with his fingers and it comes out as a strangled gasp.

  The soft lines of her slender neck distract him for a moment, but he shakes it off quickly. “Watch,” he says. As if she has a choice. Her eyes are bugging out as he turns her to look at Barry, releasing his grip just enough to give her a life-maintaining suck of air.

  He punches Barry in the face with his cyborg fist. She tries to struggle, to kick at him, but he presses his heavy body on top of hers, exactly the way he’d planned to do, albeit under very different circumstances.

  But in some ways, he prefers it this way. Sex, after all, is just sex. This is power, control…growth.

  He hits Barry again, and again, and again, until his face is a purple/black/red mushroom of mangled destruction. It’s not that different than the way Domino probably looked in the aftermath of the bomb blast that made him who he is today. The only difference is that he walked away from it stronger. Barry, on the other hand, won’t be walking ever again.

  Taking a quick break from Barry, he moves his metal hand to Lacey’s neck, sliding his human fingers down to her chest. He squeezes hard and feels a flutter of excitement as tears drip from her eyes. He could have her now, if he wanted.

  Instead he tightens his grip on her neck and watches her die.

  ~~~

  “Where’s Lacey?” Corr asks, entering Michael Kelly’s office.

  “So far, she’s a no-show,” Michael says, not looking up from his holo-screen.

  “Pity.”

  “Don’t be such a perv.”

  Without being invited, Corrigan Mars takes a seat. “When does Domino Destovan’s task force begin their mission?” he asks.

  “I didn’t select Destovan as the leader,” Michael says.

  “What? The interview was supposed to be a formality.” Corr tries to turn the screen so he can see what’s got his boss’s attention.

  “Maybe for you,” Michael says, grabbing the screen and holding it firmly. “But not for me. Destovan is a psychopath. He should be locked up.”

  “Locked up?” Corr says incredulously. “He took down an entire UnBee Shack on his own yesterday. He’s a superstar.”

  “Not with his past,” Michael says. “His sister was the last Slip. He was brought up in a state military academy due to his impressive physical and mental test scores.”

  “You make it sound like all those are bad things.”

  “When a psychopath is smart and strong, it’s a very bad thing.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree on Mr. Destovan. I think you’re making a big mistake.”

  “He doesn’t know how to take orders. He’s a liability.”

  “Once you might have said the same thing about me.”

  “Good point. You’re fired, too.”

  “What? If this is your idea of a joke…”

  “No joke,” Michael says. “Pack up your things and get the hell out of the building. I’ve alerted the security bots so there won’t be any problems.” The door opens and two huge security bots march in, taking position on either side of the frame.

  Corr shakes his head, his lips tight with anger. For a second Michael thinks he might jump across the desk and try to bite him. “This isn’t the end of this,” Corr says. He spits, aiming for Michael’s face, but hitting his dark shirt instead.

  “Knowing you, I wouldn’t expect it to be,” Michael says calmly, waving a hand at the door. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  Corrigan Mars pounds a fist into the wall before exiting, and Michael considers ordering one of the security bots to pound a fist into his head, but he lets the moment pass. Keeping a cool head is one of the only reasons he’s survived as Head of Pop Con for so long.

  The door closes, and he turns back to the screen, where Harrison’s projected face smiles back at him. Bright blue eyes, a confident smile bordering on cocky, tousled blond hair. A pinprick of regret jabs him in the heart. As a protector, he’s done all right so far. But as a father, he’s been dismal. He knows one of the only reasons Harrison’s become such an arrogant temperamental teen is because of his absence growing up. He takes full responsibility for his son’s shortcomings. If he was a better father, he’d make his bent relationship with his son a priority.

  Instead, he swipes the photo away and focuses on his bigger problem; namely, the Slip investigation. At least he’s back in control of it. With Corr and his attack dog, the slightly scary Destovan kid, out of the picture, he can steer the task force in whatever direction he wants. In other words, the wrong direction.

  “Camera one-oh-two,” he says. His holo-screen shows him an image of Corr’s office, which is already in shambles. Apparently Corr didn’t take his dismissal too well. His holo-screen is on the floor, a diagonal crack running from corner to corner; the chair is overturned, one of its legs bent at an unnatural angle; all the photos and plaques from his desk are overturned.

  “Camera forty-nine,” he says. The view switches to the elevator. Corr stands empty handed, a security bot on either side, holding him by the elbows. Evidently he only went back to his office to trash it, leaving all his personal possessions behind.

  In some ways he envies him, being able to walk away from this life. God knows Michael wants to, and he almost did nine years ago during the last Slip investigation. He’d kept the task force chasing their tails for as long as he could, until the public opinion against him had turned toxic. Another few weeks and he’d likely have been fired. But he couldn’t let that happen, not when his other son might need him some day, so he finally let them catch the little girl and her father. On his order they’d killed them.

  Are all the deaths worth it to save his son’s life? As a father and an imperfect human, he knows he’d kill anyone so his son could live. Even still, from his position as Head of Pop Con, he’s done everything in his power to minimize the termination of UnBees during his watch. And yet it’s still never enough. He’s not in denial—he knows his soul will be stained red for all of eternity.

  Projected from his screen, the lifter doors open and Corr steps out. “Camera one,” Michael says. For hopefully the last time, Michael Kelly watches his old friend step from the Pop Con building, the security bots only releasing him when he shakes them off. An aut-car waits for him at the curb.

  Michael’s about to move on to the next crisis, when Corr turns back and looks directly at the camera. Directly at him.

  And he smile
s.

  ~~~

  Harrison wonders how long it will be before the school calls his father. It’s possible they’ve already called him. An absence by a model student like him would certainly raise all sorts of alarm bells. He wishes he could see his father’s face. Maybe this will finally get his attention.

  Although the last time he was here, nearly a decade earlier, he was only a child, he knows the building. Beige stone block walls full of graffiti that no cleaner has ever managed to fully scrub away; thick bars over the shatterproof windows; a tall wrought-iron fence around the whole complex. He’s looked at projections of it a hundred times from his holo-screen, wondering which barred window was his mother’s.

  He steps aside as a dog-walker bot passes steering a dozen dogs by their leashes. The dogs strain and pull and crisscross and bark, but, incredibly, the eight-armed bot manages to keep them all untangled and moving forward.

  “Good morning,” the bot says, and Harrison can tell it’s trying to scan his eyes. He turns away and doesn’t respond. Bots are notorious for snitching, and if the bot matches his eye signature with the school absences database, he’ll be busted before he even has a chance to think about visiting his mom, much less break her out.

  The bot continues on and Harrison does the same, running his hand along the thin iron bars of the fence. Each vertical bar is connected by two horizontal bars, one high and one low, coming to a sharp point at the top. Climbing it would be next to impossible. Fortunately, he has a different plan.

  There are four security bots at the gate, two inside and two outside. Harrison stops and says, “Visitor for Janice Kelly.”

  “Name,” one of the bots drones, as if he’s already the millionth visitor of the day.

  “Harrison Kelly.”

  “Please hold for verification.” Red light shoots from the bot’s visor, and Harrison does his best not to blink. Will the security bot scan the school absences database and find a match? He holds his breath and waits.

  After a moment, the bot says, “Harrison Kelly, son of Janice Kelly. You are on the visitor list with a maximum visit length of one hour. Failure to comply will result in physical removal from the premises.”