I staggered to the window and pressed my palms into either side of the frame, peering down at the parking lot below. Police cars surrounded the building, and a number of blockades were in place to stem the flow of traffic. Visitors and staff members alike were being thoroughly searched before they were permitted to enter the hospital.
“This can’t all be for me?” I asked without turning around.
“Every last one of them,” Todd replied with a small nod. “You were moved a couple times already in between surgeries; first Mississauga, then Oakville. We’re now in Burlington – a city around forty miles west of Toronto.”
“Do Peyton and Gavin know I’m here?”
“I called them as soon as I heard,” he said. “I sent a bird out for them – they should be here within the hour.”
***
I was still staring out the window when she arrived. From five stories up I spotted a slender girl dressed in black, her pink locks billowing in the frozen wind.
Detective Dziobak went downstairs and ushered her past security with a wave of his badge, leading her towards a pair of sliding doors. Her brother – my best friend Gavin – was nowhere to be seen.
When Peyton walked into my room I rushed towards her, throwing my arms open. The greeting I received was a lightning-fast slap that nearly threw me off-balance when her palm connected with my cheekbone.
Todd walked through the doorway behind her, just in time to catch the show. “Well, that’s my cue,” he said bluntly. “Mox, nice seeing you again. I’ll be in touch about the thing, if anything...”He trailed off momentarily, fumbling for the door handle. “Miss Lockridge, it was a pleasure.” And with a quick nod he slammed it shut behind him.
I massaged my aching face with one hand and threw the other to my side. “You can’t slap someone who just came out of surgery! And wow, have you been working out?”
“Asshole!” Peyton screamed. “If you wanted to break up you could have been a man and told me to my face. I think I deserve at least that much.”
My words lodged in the back of my throat. “Break up? I don’t want to...I didn’t break—”
“Three months!” She shouted, waving an accusing finger in my face. “You said you needed to blow off some steam, so I figure, ‘Okay, well that’s just Matty being Matty’. Maybe a night at the bar and a few days huddled in your man cave reading comics – then everything would be back to normal. But you disappeared!”
“You know me,” I implored. “I’d never leave you.”
Her eyes widened. “You packed your stuff and left town...in a jet. I think that’s the textbook definition of ‘leaving’.”
“I’ve been going through some...” I trailed off and tilted my head back, eyes fixed on the fluorescent bulbs overhead. I didn’t know how to explain my state of mind without coming off as a victim – or worse, a mentally unstable whiner who lacked any basic coping skills. “It’s my head. My thoughts, my dreams...Arena Mode did things to me that I can’t explain. I didn’t want to burden anyone, so I left until I could sort it out on my own.”
“I know you’re new to this whole relationship thing,” she said quietly. Her voice lowered in volume, but I could see the anger bubbling behind her eyes. “So maybe I should have bought you a manual, or signed you up for a seminar or something. But this,” she said sharply, waving her hand back and forth between us several times, “this is what it’s all about. Talking and stuff – like normal humans tend to do.”
I never excelled at communicating with other humans, which I guess was part of the problem. It was why I spent so much time alone in a windowless room engrossed in graphic novels. And it was why I did most of my socializing online, where I could get things off my chest using no more than a few lines of text and an Emoji. Keeping in constant contact with someone was outside of my comfort zone, and I didn’t realize how big a part of this whole dating thing that actually was.
Although, in my defense, Peyton knew all of this well before we started dating, so I’m not sure what she was complaining about. I’d been the same since the moment we met.
“So where have you been this entire time?” she asked with a tone that suggested an accusation.
“Maui,” I replied swiftly.
“Bullshit. You hate the sun. And water. And basically everything that has to do with being outside.”
“I was!” I scanned the room for my belongings, frantically searching for my jeans. “When I find my wallet you can check my passport.”
“So you were in Maui...for three months?” She folded her arms tightly across her chest and arched her eyebrows, scanning my face intently. “Alone? You didn’t go anywhere with anyone else?”
This was that awkward moment in a lie when a half-truth comes into question. I was technically being honest: yes, I was in Maui – and yes, I was alone. At least ‘alone’ in the sense that I wasn’t hooking up with another girl. But there were a few layovers on my itinerary during the flight home, and I was doing things that I simply couldn’t share with Peyton. At least not yet. “Look, I did go a couple of other places, but that’s not important right now. There’s something I need to tell you.”
She pressed her lips into a tight line, narrowing her eyes in frustration. “At this point nothing will surprise me.”
“I think we should move in together.”
Her jaw fell slack. “Okay...I’m surprised.”
“And I already have our new place picked out.” When I was able to locate my personal belongings (which were folded neatly into the bottom drawer of my nightstand – the last place I bothered to look) I dug my phone from the pocket of my jeans. With a voice command I expanded a small floating holo-screen, displaying a three-hundred and sixty degree, rotating picture my new home: ‘Fortress 23’. Located across a remote mountain range in Northern Alberta, the dome-like structure was built directly into the leeward side. Multiple levels, hoverpads and a military-grade hangar spread across more than a hundred acres. It was the most impressive structure I’d ever seen: a futuristic castle roughly the size of The Vatican – and it was all mine.
The fortress was part and parcel in a lawsuit I’d won in the aftermath of Arena Mode. Cameron Frost – the tournament’s founder and mastermind – had entered as a participant, concealed inside of a giant mechanical exoskeleton of his own design. The fact that he failed to reveal his identity before entering the game wasn’t technically against the rules. What was against the rules (and the law) was the way he manipulated the tournament in his favor as it progressed, allowing him a number of unfair advantages.
In 2041, sporting events functioned more or less as they always had, though the stakes were continually raised to keep up with the times. Brain damage, dismemberment, death – these things were incidental in the pursuit of a championship trophy. Within the confines of Arena Mode, you were permitted to disable your opponent by any means necessary; but get caught cheating while you’re doing it? That’s something the American people simply won’t stand for.
Without a will or a family to fight for his estate, it was awarded to me as the last man standing. He’d been responsible for the death of several people during the course of the games, and had put another in a coma. The rest of the participants had died in combat, so by default I was the only one able to wage a legal battle. His companies, stock holdings, and as it turns out his real estate were all being transferred into my name, and the total value was staggering. The ten billion dollar prize I was awarded for actually winning the Arena Mode tournament was pocket change by comparison. Although the lawsuit was resolved relatively quickly, it was taking several months to transfer all the assets. Primarily because Frost had kept so many secrets buried in so many different places, it was taking a while for my lawyers to dig them all up.
I had just discovered that Fortress 23 was now part of my continually-expanding real estate portfolio, and I hadn’t had the opportunity to inspect it in person. Although in light of my current situation, the timing couldn’t have been bette
r. With the Red Army pursuing me, it was the perfect location to lay low until the movement died out. Far removed from any major cities, the fortress would be nearly impossible to locate, let alone travel to across hundreds of kilometers of rocky terrain. And if anyone from the Red Army was able to find me, there was no way they were getting in; based on the initial specs I’d reviewed, the fortress was reinforced, top to bottom, with iridium plating – it would take a nuclear blast just to cause a dent.
I explained the impressive list of amenities to Peyton as the floor plans slid by. “It has everything,” I said excitedly, swiping over to a photograph of the massive dome, “including an ecosystem generator that can replicate any climate. Even during the coldest months of winter we can swim in a tropical oasis. And the best part is that there are enough resources to sustain us for decades. I’ll be protected from the Red Army, and we never have to leave.”
She shook her head from side to side, eyes reflecting a deep sadness. I’d seen Peyton upset before; I’d seen her drained, defeated and demoralized – I’d been at her side during her worst days. But this was something different. It was as if she was in mourning. “What makes you think I’d want to live there?” she asked.
I stared at her for a moment, puzzled by her question. This was the most logical plan I could imagine, and I’ve pored over every possible scenario. “You don’t get it: you’d never have to work again. We’d have everything we need at our fingertips; safety, security, all the money we need. It’s perfect.”
She glared back at me. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“I don’t—”
“This is your man cave all over again,” she interrupted. “That dusty concrete cube you’d hibernate in when you lived in The Fringe. This is just bigger and has nicer bathrooms.”
“But it’s safe,” I assured her.
Peyton brushed the long pink strands from her face and sighed deeply, sagging against the wall. “So is a prison cell, Matt. You don’t want to live in this dome to be ‘safe’ from the Red Army. You want to hide. You want to bury your head in the sand and pretend that life isn’t going on around you. I thought – or I hoped, at least – that after Arena Mode you’d learned something.”
“People hate me,” I shouted, much louder than I’d intended. “I could get killed at any moment. How can you not get that?”
“There are a lot of unpopular people. People who make hard decisions that affect millions, and they don’t go into hiding. They go out and live their lives.”
“And they’re taking a huge risk,” I replied.
She took a few steps across my small recovery room and placed a warm hand on either side of my face. Her voice softened and her eyes drew me in. “You lived. For the first time in your life you stood up, made a tough decision and fought for something. Arena Mode should have been your wake-up call: live life to the fullest, because it can end when you least expect it. And here you are, ready to throw in the towel.”
I pulled her hands off my face and squeezed them gently. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.”
“I don’t think you get it. The more you retreat into your shell – do nothing, say nothing – it’s just going to upset people even more. You’re a public figure now. Running makes it look like you have something to hide.”
I raked my fingers through my hair and exhaled loudly. “I don’t want to be a public figure. I never asked for this.”
“And I never asked to be this cute and insightful,” Peyton replied with a tiny smile. “We all have our crosses to bear.”
I returned the smile, but it quickly faded from my lips. What she was proposing didn’t make sense – for any of us. “Look, Fortress 23 is my only option at this point. Maybe, once this Sergei Taktarov thing has died down, in a year or two, I can come back to New York. Then we can start fresh.”
“That’s kind of the thing about life,” she replied with an exasperated sigh. “It doesn’t die down. Ever. Stuff continues to happen outside your little bubble whether you like it or not.”
I knew Peyton was emotional. She was clearly still furious that I’d been out of reach for so long, but she wasn’t listening to reason. I needed someone else to help convince her that Northern Alberta was the best course of action. “When Gavin gets here let’s all have a talk. Maybe we can come up with a plan, all right?”
“Gavin isn’t coming,” Peyton said, not much louder than a whisper. “He’s back in The Fringe cleaning up what’s left of Excelsior.”
“What’s left?” I asked.
She swallowed hard and stepped away from me. “A mob burnt it down two weeks ago. Molotov cocktails, right through the front window. The police thought it was because they figured you were inside. You were at Excelsior, on camera before Arena Mode, so...” She turned her head, blinking a pair of tears from her eyes. “The whole thing is a write-off.”
Excelsior Retro Comics was much more than just a store to Gavin; it was the culmination of his life’s work. His entire personal and professional comic book collection had been reduced to ash, and it was all because I’d retreated into hiding, unwilling to step forward. “I have money now,” I said reassuringly. “I can replace everything. That’s not a problem.”
Peyton shook her head. “Not everything can be fixed by signing a check.”
“I can...it’s all right – I can help,” I stammered. “Look, when things cool down I’ll help him rebuild.”
“If you really wanted to help you would have been there for Gavin, and for me. Months ago. The way we were there for you when you needed us most.” She took a moment to zip up her fitted black coat and pull on a pair of thermal gloves. “You seem to have your mind made up, so there’s nothing left for us to talk about. Enjoy living in your bubble. There are people back in New York who need me, and I want to be there for them.”
Peyton abruptly turned towards the exit and I lunged forward, hoping to stop her. A razor-sharp pain sliced across my abdomen when I made the sudden movement, stopping me in my tracks. “Wait,” I said through gritted teeth, reaching towards her, “I want to be there for you guys – I do. You can count on me.”
Peyton paused for a moment, just an arm’s reach from the door. She lingered in a moment of hesitation before reaching for the knob. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “But right now, I don’t even trust you.”
Chapter Three
“I should have stayed in Sudan,” Valentina grumbled. “Shit was always blowing up, but at least it was warm.” She pulled her jacket tight around her waist, burying her chin into her collar.
Turning my back to the wind, I yanked my wool toque down over my ears with both hands. It was an exceedingly unpleasant October afternoon, even for Ontario; a light morning snowfall turned to freezing rain, punishing every square inch of our exposed skin like tiny needles. The hospital’s rooftop hoverpad was open to the elements, with nowhere to seek shelter from the icy shards.
My jet arrived a moment later and touched down silently, and the entrance ramp lowered to invite us aboard. The new G12 with vertical take-off and landing capabilities was the most expensive aircraft available, and also the fastest; with a top speed that exceeded Mach 2, I could travel halfway across Canada in just over an hour. It was the first toy I’d purchased with my fortune, and the only luxury item I’d really had a chance to enjoy.
Valentina and I removed our jackets as soon as the door sealed shut behind us. My pilot, Kirk McBride (who referred to himself as ‘Mac’ most of the time – or, depending on whom he was introducing himself to, ‘Big Mac’) greeted us with a beaming grin. “Mister Moxon, Miss Garcia, nice to have you aboard. Can I offer either of you a beverage this afternoon?”
“Kiss my ass,” Valentina hissed. She shoved him aside and stomped to the back of the plane, disappearing into one of the private rooms.
“What’s up with red?” Mac asked innocently – or, more accurately, in a tone that was designed to feign innocence. “She seems even more pissed off than
usual. Did someone drop a house on her sister?”
“She hasn’t slept in three days. Cut her some slack.”
Mac smiled again – a crooked, mischievous grin that usually meant he was about to suggest a detour. With two day’s worth of beard stubble and a thicket of dark rumpled hair, he perpetually had a dazed look to him, like he’d just rolled out of bed after a night of binge drinking. He was more than just the life of the party – Mac was the party. Well into his forties and two decades removed from college, he still celebrated each day as if he lived in a raucous frat house. His abundance of energy baffled me; at twenty-nine years of age I was perpetually exhausted, but Mac had a seemingly bottomless gas tank, fueled by nothing more than alcohol and debauchery.
“No,” I said emphatically.
“I didn’t say anything,” he protested, holding his hand up in surrender.
I pressed my fingertips into my eyelids and let my head sag forward. “Just say it,” I insisted. “I know you have something in mind.”
“Okay, so have you ever been to Montreal?”
I shook my head. “I just had surgery,” I grumbled. “We’re not going to a strip club.”
“How did you know I was going to suggest a...anyway, this isn’t just any strip club – it’s the strip club. In Montreal they play by an entirely different set of rules. You know how when you’re in a club in the States they have that pesky ‘no touching’ rule?”
I winced and took a seat, reclining into one of the lounge’s white leather chairs. “No, Mac. I did not know that.”
“Well,” Mac explained, his hands more animated than usual, “in Quebec it’s practically the opposite. You can touch the strippers anywhere – they almost insist on it. And lap dances only cost—”
Assault or Attrition Page 3
