Shades of Memory

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  She rolled her eyes. “Where do I start? First, fuck off. I don’t take orders from you or anyone else. Second, Ocho might decide to take Cristina out of there and we’ll need to track them fast. Third, I’m not some useless ornament for you to hang on your rearview mirror. You don’t like it, you can shove your head up your ass. Oh wait, it’s already there.”

  “You’re a liability,” Gregg declared, anger bubbling inside him.

  “How so?”

  How could she not know? Clay would implode if something happened to her. Clay would implode if anything happened to her, and she needed to accept it. He said so.

  She stared at him a long moment, then turned deliberately to look at Clay. “Why don’t you deal with this? I’m done.”

  With that, she stalked away.

  “She’s a liability?” Clay shook his head. “Brother, you’re treading on thin ice. She’s my partner, and not just in bed. She can handle herself. I don’t like her risking herself, but I’ve had to get over it. Riley’s not going to back off, any more than you or I would.”

  “I know she’s capable enough. But she ought to—” Gregg broke off. He wanted nothing more than to chain the stubborn woman to a tree until this was all over. He had plans for her, plans to take down his enemies and control Diamond City. Not that Clay needed to know that right now.

  “She ought to?”

  “Have more respect for how you feel.”

  “And I have to respect how she feels.” Clay’s look was pointed. “If I’m not going to stay out of trouble, how can I ask her to? All I can do is have her back.” His expression hardened, turning bleak and unforgiving. “I know exactly what it’s like to lose her. I’m not going to let it happen again.”

  “I don’t get it. The brother I know would lock her in a cell before he let her risk herself like this.”

  Clay’s lips flattened. A sudden breeze lifted his hair and gusted through the parking lot, swirling powdery snow into ghostly shapes. “I try something like that, I lose her. Guaranteed. My only choice is to help her, or she’ll dive into trouble without me—maybe without telling me.”

  Gregg nodded. “Got it,” he said, pretending conviction he didn’t feel. He was going to have to figure out a way to sideline Riley. Maybe not tonight, but hell was about to break loose in Diamond City. He promised himself he’d find a way to keep her off the front lines. Even if she weren’t Clay’s lover, the strength of her tracing talent made her too valuable to risk. If he was ever going to get ahold of the rest of the Kensington artifacts, he needed her alive and well. If that meant locking her up, he was willing. He doubted Clay would be too angry with him.

  She stood a short distance away, watching Tiny’s soldiers plugging the gasoline-and diesel-filled bottles with strips torn from thrift-store sheets and shirts before setting them carefully into boxes. In less than ten minutes, the cocktails were ready to go, except for dousing the wicks with the gallon bottles of cheap vodka that Tiny’s people produced from the trunks of cars and truck boxes. Gregg lifted his brows when he saw them.

  “You certainly came well stocked for a cocktail party.”

  “Not my first,” Tiny said. He eyed Gregg. “Sure would like it to be my last.”

  Gregg’s jaw tightened. He’d spent too many years trying and failing to get Diamond City in his grip. That had to change. Savannah had been his greatest competition. With her dead, he had a narrow window to grab control of the city before someone stepped up to replace her, or other Tyet organizations moved in. That meant he was going to have to wade a whole lot deeper into the cesspool of Tyet politics and violence. It also meant he was going to have to take Vernon Brussard up on his offer. Much as he hated not knowing the price tag for the bargain, he’d do it, if that’s what it took to make his city safe.

  “Next time you’ll have better than Molotovs,” he said, knowing full well that Tiny wanted an end to the fighting, not better weapons. Right now, the best Gregg could do was the latter.

  Tiny scowled, but said nothing else.

  A short time later, the incendiary bottles were divided up between the vehicles, glass clinking as they shifted together in the boxes.

  “You should get into position.” Tiny glanced at his watch. “Be ready in ten minutes. We’ll hit front and back and draw them out.”

  He scanned over his crew. Gregg figured Tiny had around forty soldiers, give or take, all armed to the teeth.

  “You’re going to want to hurry. Once Ocho figures out this is a full-scale attack, he’ll retreat into the rink and start trying to pick us off. We’ll make sure no one will get out, then bring the fight inside. You’ll want to get out before that. He’s about to find out he’s done in Calvera.”

  Tiny’s face was set with brutal determination. If Gregg had doubted the kid’s dedication to the job he’d taken to protect the neighborhood, that doubt faded. Whether Tiny could handle Ocho. . . . Gregg was a good judge of character and ability, and he’d bank on Tiny any day, even without seeing Ocho. This kid had the makings of a born leader, and failure wasn’t an option for him.

  The sky had lightened, though the low pewter clouds blocked the sun. Shadows clung like ghosts to the buildings, bushes, and trees.

  After checking their watches to mark the time, Clay and Gregg fell in beside Riley and followed Tiny’s eight assigned soldiers around the side of the school. Behind spread a broad level field five feet deep in snow. The last thaw and freeze had created a thick crust beneath a few inches of newly fallen powder.

  They clambered up on top and jogged across. Gregg wrenched one leg when his foot broke through. He stopped and yanked himself loose before overtaking the others.

  On the other side of the field ran a line of evergreen trees, the bottom branches cut up high enough to walk beneath. Beyond ran a fifteen-foot berm of snow pushed up from the snowplows. A notch had been dug in it, likely to allow children to pass through on their way to school.

  They followed Tiny’s soldiers through, coming out on an ice-packed sidewalk. Just up the street on the left was a gas station and carwash, both currently closed. Across from them was a strip mall with a beauty place, a dollar store, a butcher, and a German/Mexican delicatessen.

  A gleaming, lemon-peel sun peeked out of the clouds. The street and sidewalks were empty except for a handful of parked cars. They trotted across to the other side, then down the length of the berm on the other side to the plowed entrance. They hooked inside, weapons raised as they scanned for enemies. Nothing. Foreboding prickled down Gregg’s back. It couldn’t stay this easy for long. He flexed his fingers on the grip of his gun. His heart hurried faster, pushing adrenaline through his body.

  The parking lot angled from the back along the side of the cinder-block skating rink in an L shape. Evergreen trees rose at intervals across the lot, and bushes grew in a scraggly, overgrown belt down the long side of the building. A smaller berm of plowed parking lot snow paralleled the bushes. Whoever had cleared it had done a half-assed job of it, too. The pavement was invisible beneath a six-inch-thick layer of rutted ice and compacted snow. Gregg doubted it would melt on its own before June.

  They scuttled across the wide-open expanse, depending on the cloudy twilight to conceal them. Gregg counted cars in the rear parking area. Just under three dozen. Several junkers in the back corner humped beneath mounds of snow.

  They scrambled up over the eight-foot-high hill of snow and down the other side. No one had bothered to clear the sidewalk, and the snow had been trampled to form a lumpy walkway. Bright-colored graffiti rose three-quarters of the way up the forty-foot cinder-block walls. The eleven intruders shuffled down to the rear exit door to wait for Tiny’s diversion.

  A mess of cigarette butts, used condoms, beer cans, bottles, and candy wrappers littered the ground. Yellow ice pooled around them and halfway up the berm. The stench of ammonia from t
he piss made Gregg’s eyes water. Tiny’s contingent whispered disgust. Clay’s hand chopped through the air to shut them up. At least there weren’t any guards. Gregg was willing to bet his right hand that if any had bothered to stand watch in the night, they’d quickly gotten lazy and retreated inside for warmth and entertainment.

  He glanced at Riley, who bounced on the balls of her feet. “We still got a reason to go inside?” Blunt, maybe even harsh, but if the girl was dead, there wasn’t any point in risking their lives.

  “Yes.” She didn’t bother to look at him.

  He fought to keep himself from using their wait to grill her about Vernon, even though her memories of her father were suspect, given the traps he’d set in her brain.

  After getting back home and taking care of immediate business, Gregg had run Brussard’s name through a number of channels and discovered that Vernon Brussard was a ghost. He didn’t pay taxes, he had no social security card, no passport, no driver’s license, no birth certificate, no work record, no arrest record, no credit record, nothing. As far as government bureaucracy was concerned, the man simply did not exist.

  That in itself was confusing. Most people who disappeared reinvented themselves with forged documents, stolen birth records, and so on. They established their new identity with careful precision, making it nearly impossible to penetrate. Some people developed multiple aliases that would survive deep background checks.

  Not Brussard. That worried Gregg. The man wasn’t stupid, so he hadn’t overlooked creating a new persona. The fact that he felt he had no need to establish one meant he was confident it didn’t matter. He’d never have to answer for it. That took a lot of power and a lot of connections.

  And that meant Brussard’s threat had teeth. Big teeth.

  The sounds of revved engines and shouting broke the morning’s serene silence. From the front of the building, Gregg heard gunshots and a small explosion followed by cheers and breaking glass. A line of vehicles wheeled into the back parking lot. Tiny’s crew lobbed cocktails from windows and the backs of trucks. Crash after crash. Smoke and flames billowed up. More shouts sounded, and then gunshots rang out.

  “Time to go,” Gregg said, but Clay was already at the door. He pressed his back flat against the wall, holding his gun ready in his right hand as he reached for the handle with his left. He depressed the thumb button and gave a little tug. To Gregg’s surprise, the door opened a crack.

  “Stupid fucks,” he muttered.

  “Arrogance,” Riley said from behind their scruffy companions. They held their weapons high and ready, demonstrating more training than Gregg had expected. “Who’d dare attack the big bad Ocho in his own house?”

  Clay pulled the door wider and slid between it and the jamb. He scanned the interior, then jerked his head at his companions. Tiny’s crew flowed inside with Riley and Gregg bringing up the rear.

  Inside was a cave of colored lights. Strings of them stretched above like a massive spiderweb, with more dangling down the walls. They were the only light in the cavernous space.

  The rescuers had entered near the back of what had been the sunken skating surface. A half wall curved around the rink at the far end, and beyond was the former snack bar, which now served as a kitchen.

  The wall ended a quarter of the way around the rink. A faded orange carpet-covered platform surrounded the rest of it, six inches above the skating floor. The entire skate surface was littered with clusters of odd bits of furniture, rugs, cushions, and televisions. A squatters’ haven. The place stank of unwashed bodies, sex, pot, and popcorn and fried chicken from the kitchen.

  Clay turned to Tiny’s eight-man crew. “You’ll take point. Up this side”—he gestured to the left wall—“then sweep across to clear the floor. Incapacitate everyone. Don’t leave anybody able to bite your asses.”

  Tense nods. They trotted up the side of the rink. Each carried at least a handgun, a couple had AR-15s. All of them had knives for quick, quiet work. Gregg exchanged a look with Clay and then glanced at Riley. Did she understand Clay’s orders? Did she know that this was about to turn into a bloodbath?

  He couldn’t tell. Her face was a taut mask. She practically vibrated with impatience.

  The line of Tiny’s soldiers began their silent purge of the people who had not been drawn outside by Tiny’s antics. They wended through furniture and fast-food boxes and towers of stacked beer cans. A discordant mix of TV channels and video game sounds coupled with the muffled pops and bursts from outside gave them an eerie soundtrack. Gregg kept one eye on them and one eye on Riley. Her expression never changed as the soldiers stopped to silence Ocho’s dregs. Drugged out of their skulls, probably. Or passed-out drunk. One shouted, and Tiny’s soldier leaped on top of him. Silence.

  Riley’s mouth tightened, but no other reaction. Good. Maybe she was figuring out what war really meant. Maybe she was ready to do what was necessary to clean up the city and stop the bloodshed.

  “Where is she?” Clay whispered.

  Riley pointed toward a wall of doors on the opposite side of the rink. In between were glassless picture windows covered in plywood. Some of the doors were open. They hustled across the rink behind Tiny’s string of soldiers.

  A shirtless man sprawled on a pullout couch bed. Though one of Tiny’s eight soldiers had clubbed him in the head with a gun butt, he remained alive. A woman sprawled beside him, her mouth open, her breathing harsh between her lips. She bore no wounds.

  A lot of people didn’t have the stomach for killing women, even drugged hags involved in kidnapping little girls. Gregg was one of them, but he could get past his squeamishness and do what was necessary. He lifted his gun, then lowered it again and reached for his knife.

  “No,” Riley said. “Leave them.”

  Gregg shook his head. “It’s too risky.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. Infuriating. “We won’t be here very long and if they were going to wake up or stir themselves to do anything, they would have already.”

  He was shaking his head before she finished. “No.”

  “Then we’ll tie them up.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “And we have time to stand here and have this argument? Because I’m willing to stay here until you accept reason.”

  Gregg didn’t need her permission, and he damned well wasn’t going to let her boss him around. With a quick twist of his wrist, he drew his knife, stabbing them in quick succession, first the man and then the woman. He cleaned his knife on a dingy sheet and resheathed it.

  Riley made a frustrated sound. “Asshole.”

  “True enough, but I’m alive and I mean to stay that way,” he said. “You can thank me later.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Look at it this way. Some of Tiny’s crew will live because these two died.”

  “What were they going to do? They were unconscious.”

  “Unconscious people wake up. They weren’t innocent people, Riley. They were thugs. If I didn’t kill them, Tiny would have. Me doing it guarantees they won’t wake up and surprise us from behind.”

  Before Riley could argue, Clay intervened. “Enough. It’s done. Get moving.”

  They reached the other side of the rink without encountering any other bodies, alive or dead. They joined Tiny’s soldiers as they stepped up on the carpet-covered floor between the skating floor and the line of rooms.

  “What now?” one of the men asked. He was in his early twenties, with a black five o’clock shadow. He cradled his AR-15, barrel tilted to the floor, his gaze ricocheting around the room as he looked for trouble.

  “You four split up and take the front and back doors. Keep Ocho’s people from coming back in as long as possible. We’ll find the girl,” Clay said. “Hopefully the ones you didn’t put down in here don’t wake up and bite you in
the ass.”

  Five O’Clock Shadow glared at his companions, apparently unaware that they’d left live threats behind. Several of them looked away shamefacedly.

  “Grace, Aldonado, Ruiz, Kim—take the back. The rest of you—with me.” The two groups split away.

  “Which door?” Clay asked Riley, not wasting time.

  “Up here,” she said, already leading the way. Ragged and threadbare holes pocked the thin carpet covering the platform. The soles of Gregg’s shoes stuck in places. He didn’t even want to think about what he was stepping in as he brought up the rear. Riley arrowed to the first door nearest the front of the rink, pausing outside to glance at her two companions.

  Clay pushed Riley behind him and took up a position on one side of the door. Gregg stepped to the other side, his gun held high. He nodded. Clay twisted the knob and thrust the door open. It bounced off the interior wall. The stench of smoke, sex, greasy food, and sweat rolled out in a choking cloud. Gregg launched himself through the doorway, scanning back and forth, his gun raised and swiveling with him.

  Against the right wall sat two lamps on a plastic set of drawers. Their bulbs were red and cast a lurid light over the rest of the room. The walls had been painted black and then graffitied. A target had been painted on the plywood panel covering the window. A half dozen knives sprouted from the splintered wood. On the opposite wall was a king-sized water bed sitting high on a pedestal. Mirrors had been glued to the ceiling above.

  The head of the bed was piled with pillows, and the bookcase headboard was filled with overflowing ashtrays, water pipes, syringes, rubber tubing, and a cache of weapons. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

  Clay pushed in beside him, blocking Riley’s entry. “Where is she?”

  Gregg moved farther in to look down the side of the bed and froze “Here,” he said, finding himself staring down the barrel of a black snub-nosed .38 revolver.