by Lyn Forester
Then the bag gets zipped closed. He picks it up and leaves.
We watch the feed for a few minutes longer, but neither man returns. I push it into double time once more, and we wait. Tufts of stuffing roll across the floor, mingling with the sheets of paper left unclaimed.
At 1830, Nate rushes into the room, confirming his story.
I close the screen on my folding desk-port and stuff it back into my bag. The small camera goes in, too. I want to watch it again later, pull face shots of the security guard.
Nate stumbles around the desk, melted ice pack at his side as he gazes at the destruction. His shoulders slump.
“Do you know what was in the drawer?”
He jumps at the sound of my voice and twists to face me. His feet tangle in themselves, and he lurches off balance, before catching himself against the desk.
Drake moves to the other man’s side and cups his elbow to steady him. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, just a little dizzy. I hit the wall pretty hard.” He shoots a reproachful glare in my direction. “And the knee.”
“You tried to break my arms.” I stare back, face blank.
“I thought the intruders had returned.” His eyes shift to the weapon on the ground, a metal leg from the broken liquor table. “Why didn’t the guards escort you here?”
“When no one answered our knocks, we thought there might be more trouble.” Drake leans a hip against the desk, folding his arms across his chest. “We came up the fire escape.”
“Mark!” Nate yells, then clutches his head.
A guard steps into the room. Bulky in a black vest, hand near the holster at his hip. The safety latch is open, the psy-gun loose for a quick draw. He glances at me, sitting at his boss’s desk, before he focuses on Nate.
“Yes, Miss Waylin?” He stands straight in the doorway, at attention.
“Why aren’t guards at the entrance?”
“Ma’am?” His eyes flicker to Drake and me as his face turns cherry red. “I mean, sir? I don’t understand, sir.”
Nate sighs and rubs a hand across his face. “The guards that should be waiting for the Black Corp reps. Where are they?”
“I’ll check, sir.” His heels click together before he hurries from the room.
“We’ve had a recent turnover in staff.” Nate slumps against the desk. “Mr. Clark, Mr. Newland’s secretary, is training them. But some aren’t working out.”
“Could be how the unknown guard got to Newland.” I’m starting to feel bad. He might have a concussion.
“It’s possible. Mr. Clark could tell you more.” He slowly blinks, looking sleepy. When he opens his eyes again, the right pupil is larger than the left.
Definitely concussed.
“Where is Clark?” Drake walks over to shredded chairs and examines the seats. He presses on one, testing the springs. He drags it over to the desk.
“I don’t know.” Nate sinks into the chair with a grateful sigh. More padding spills from the sides, but it holds. “I haven’t been able to get him on the phone.”
“What was in the drawer?” I circle back to my earlier question.
“Important documents.” Nate slouches until he can lean his head against the chair. He blinks slowly. “Mr. Newland was working on a contract to buy one of the upper-level aphremore dens. He would have kept it locked in the desk.”
His eyelids flutter and stay closed.
“Hey, now, stay awake.” Drake shakes the other man’s shoulders until his eyes open. “You should see a doctor.”
“Someone should be on their way. I told Mark to make the call.” A giant yawn cuts him off, and his eyelids drift closed.
The same Mark in charge of putting guards at the entrance to let us in. I share a glance with Drake, and he moves toward the hall, palm-port at his ear.
“How long have you worked with Newland?” I asked the question earlier, but talking will keep him from falling asleep.
“Hmmm, forever.” His hand waves in the air as he slides a little lower in the chair. “Since the beginning.”
“The beginning of Gr8 Games?”
Drake comes back and nods. A doctor will be here soon.
“Since my parents kicked me out.” Nate mumbles into his chest. “Liam took me in.”
“That was kind of him.” Drake murmurs as he crouches next to Nate. “Tell me about growing up with Liam.”
I rise from the desk and walk to the door, trusting Drake to keep the other man from falling asleep. Down the hall, only one back faces the office. Guard Mark is missing in action.
“You,” I bark as I come up behind the man. He jumps, whipping around as his hand falls to his holster. His eyes widen when he sees me, his gaze darting to the two guards now propped against the wall across from him, still stunned.
“Yes, ma’am?” His high-pitched voice breaks at the end. He’s young, twenty at most. No wonder the assailants could sneak in.
“Go to the front door. When the doctor arrives, bring him straight here.”
“I’m not supposed to leave my post.” He looks around, frantic to find a superior to take my attention away from him.
I step close to him, looking down into his eyes. “Do you want me to shoot you?”
“No.” He squeaks as sweat breaks out across his forehead.
“Then go wait for the doctor.”
“What about my post?” His whole body quivers, but he holds his ground.
“I’ll guard the hall until you’re back.” He nods and takes a shaky step toward the stairs. I call after him, “Be back in ten minutes. Don’t make me come find you.”
He runs.
FOUR SECONDS
DRAKE
“Thank you for coming so fast,” Drake says, nearly ready to leave.
“I’m at Black Corp’s service, anytime.” The doctor returns his empty syringe to his bag and snaps it closed. He straightens and lifts the black case in his liver-spotted hand before turning toward the door.
Nate reclines in the trashed chair, a cotton ball pressed over the puncture wound on his arm. Warm relief rushes through Drake to see that the bruise on his face already appears lighter. The healing injection the doctor pumped into him added an extra hundred credits to the bill, but Nate’s recovery time will be cut in half.
Reagen hovers in the doorway to the office, fingers tapping against her leg as she waits. She has her coat on and the heavy satchel slung across her chest. She’d wanted to leave as soon as the doctor arrived but gave in when Drake insisted they stay until he knew Nate would be okay.
It would have meant a ton of paperwork on his end if the other man had suffered permanent damage from Reagen breaking his face.
He places a hand on Nate’s shoulder, takes a moment to massage the warm, sinewy muscles beneath his palm, and bends close to whisper in his ear. “Call me if you need anything.”
The other man shivers and casts a glance up through his lashes. His pupils are back to normal, though it will be another day before he wears heels again. He nods, auburn hair sliding to cover the healing bruise on his cheek. His hand lifts, red nails bright, to cover Drake’s. Hot skin sears an imprint into his flesh. Nate turns his head toward him, lips parted, and Drake breaths in the other man’s warm breath. He leans closer, drawn to the pink invitation.
“Lets go, Drake.” Reagen huffs, breaking the mood.
Shit.
He drags his attention away and straightens with regret, pulling his hand from Nate’s warmth to step back. The doctor waits at the door with Reagen, who presses against the doorframe to make room. Gaze glued to the black case in his hand, she rubs at her arms with a grimace, but she refused to let the doctor near her.
Drake glances down at Nate one more time. The other man rests with his eyes closed. He’s had a long night so far, full of shock. The adrenaline spikes would have exhausted him. Topped with the accelerated healing process and it wouldn’t surprise him if Nate barely made it home. He was glad to hear Steve was called to pick him up.<
br />
“We’ll walk you out,” Drake says to the doctor as he joins the other two at the door. He reaches out to shake hands with the elderly man. The paper-thin skin and frail bones feel delicate in his hand, but the doctor’s grip is firm and steady. “Thank you again.”
He pulls his mask back up to cover the bottom of his face, and they leave, heading down the short hall. At the end, the two guards hold their post. The younger of the two flinches as Reagen walks past. She ignores him as she turns left and heads toward the stairs.
Drake glances at the young man as he passes him. Face red and sweat shining on his brow, he stares at Reagen’s back with wide eyes.
Wonder what she did to earn that look?
He pauses and turns back and nods toward the office. “Hey, make sure he’s okay until Steve gets here.” He directs the order to the one who doesn’t shiver in terror. “Don’t let him fall asleep.”
With a last look back, he hurries to catch up with his partner.
Down the stairs, they pass through the game room. Silent and creepy, the game tables are set up for 8-Ball tonight. But the black balls remain untouched on the green felt surfaces, cue sticks set off to the side. The lights at the bar are off, and the glowing vat of aphremore casts an undulating white light over the empty stools.
He wants to talk to Reagen about the next step for the night, but the quiet’s oppressive weight holds him back. The doctor peers around the room and hugs his white coat closer to his narrow frame, his steps hurried as if he feels uncomfortable.
When they get to the entrance, two guards in black vests wait a few feet from the door, backs to the interior. Through the semiopaque plas-glass on the door, a hazy face tries to peer inside, cheeks smashed as the person attempts to squeeze their head through a space too small for their skull. A palm presses against the plas-glass and scratches for attention.
“Will we be able to leave?” The doctor stops behind the guards and clutches his bag close to his chest. His quivering voice shatters the silence.
“How did you get inside earlier?” Drake stares as another face joins the first, and a tapping fills the room, and knocks rap against the door.
“They weren’t here when I arrived.”
“They come in waves.” The left guard turns to them. “If you wait a few minutes, they’ll give up and leave for a different den. The regulars keep circling back, even though we’ve put a sign out that we’re closed for the night.”
“You’re welcome to sit in the waiting room if you like.” The right guard offers without turning around.
“Nope.” Reagen doesn’t even glance at the curtained doorway before refusing.
“How long?” The doctor steps toward the side room.
“Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.” Left Guard walks to the curtain and pulls it aside. The doctor disappears inside, and the guard returns to his post.
Drake joins Reagen near the entrance and lowers his voice. “Where to next?”
“We should try to catch Troy at The Hut,” she murmurs, stare fixed on the faces looking in.
“Yeah, this can’t be a coincidence.” He waves a hand at the door to check if they can see inside.
“Stop provoking the wildlife.”
“This is going to affect Newland’s tithes this quarter.” He runs the numbers in his head. “The club will have to stay packed for the rest of the Spring-Cycle to make up the profit. It’s too bad this happened near the end of the season.”
“They’ll have to open tomorrow, even if Newland’s not found.” She glances back at the guards who lean toward them, eavesdropping on the conversation. “He’ll lose customers from today. Gossip will say the aphremore’s contaminated.”
“Who takes over if Newland doesn’t come in?” Drake steps to the side to include the nosy men.
“Mr. Clark, then Miss Waylin. Is she going to be okay?” The guard on the right glares at Reagen, hand close to the psy-gun on his hip. News travels fast.
Reagen lifts an eyebrow. “Nate’s tough. He’s doing fine.”
“We don’t take kindly to Miss Waylin being roughed up.”
“Isn’t Nate the one who roughs people up?” Reagen’s gaze flicks to the curtain, where they’d witnessed Nate handling Margie without effort the night before.
“Addicts,” the guard scoffs. “They’re easy to handle. But you have some kind of training. I heard you took her down in under a minute.”
“Four seconds,” Drake informs them. If he hadn’t been with her at Penned, it would have shocked him. She’d had the situation handled by the time he realized there was a fight.
The guards stare at Reagen in disbelief before their hard eyes turn to assess him. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. “Sure you didn’t help her out? I heard Miss Waylin has a concussion.”
The one on the right shifts his stance, hand now on his psy-gun as he squares off with Drake.
“Time to go,” Reagen says as she grabs the handle and shoves the door open hard enough to send the peepers on the other side sprawling. Eyes on the guards, Drake backs out of the opening after her, and she flings the door closed. The latch bounces against the frame and doesn’t catch, and the door swings back open. One peeper on the ground scurries through the gap, tangling in the guards’ legs as they try to follow.
Drake grabs Reagen’s sleeve and pulls her onto the crowded sidewalk.
~
The line at The Hut hugs the building and creates a human barrier all the way to the next shop over before it mingles with the slightly smaller line of Penned. The customers turned away from Gr8 Games have flooded both of the competitors’ businesses.
Drake shoves through the couple waiting at the entrance and stops in front of the bouncer. The same man from the night before, twitchy and bulked up on enhancers. He squints at Drake’s face for a moment, then waves them inside. His voice sounds like gravel as he rumbles, “Welcome back, Mr. Esten.”
Reagen hugs his heels on the way in, not that the bouncer would stop her. Inside, the lottery counter is packed three rows deep as the tired-looking staff tries to move the crowd through faster than usual.
William Chattle’s replacement at the cash register doesn’t wear the cake makeup and sparkles very well. He looks like the bouncer outside, painted up to reduce his intimidation factor. Management must still be trying to replace the previous cashier after he was murdered last night.
Tonight, they don’t wait for the shop to clear, but push right up to the front.
“No cutting. Move to the back.” The cashier barks out the order with arms crossed over his massive chest. Veins bulge in his forearms, and his biceps stretch the lace sleeves of his blouse.
“We’re here to see Troy.” Drake pulls his card from his breast pocket and sets it on the countertop.
“Mr. Troy doesn’t take walk-ins.” He stands firm, gaze forward as he refuses to acknowledge the card. “Now buy something or get out.”
“This is Black Corp business. Call your boss, now.”
The man’s eyes flicker down to the card, sparkles raining from his lashes. “Boss isn’t in.”
“Is that so.” Drake picks up his card, and slides it back into his pocket. When he glances at Reagen, she lifts a brow; guess he has the lead here. He turns to the crowded room. The sign over the lottery counter has begun its countdown to the winning number. He looks at Reagen. “I think this shop is due for inspection.”
“It’s exceeding legal capacity right now.” She keeps her voice raised, making sure the employees can hear her.
He glances to the upper corner of the back wall, where dust still rims the hole where a new camera hides. “We’ll have to shut the club down for the night.”
“Section 5, Article 15, is very clear on this matter.” Reagen nods, face straight.
Drake glances back at the cashier. “Sure your boss isn’t in?”
“I’m just telling you what I know.” He shifts his feet, gaze darting to the camera.
“That’s too bad.�
�� He turns to Reagen, and humor lights her eyes.
She faces the room, hands on hips, as she takes a deep breath and shouts, “Everybody out! This business’s Black Corporation-sanctioned sales are suspended! Anyone purchasing aphremore or aphremore paraphernalia will be fined!”
Customers freeze, candy wrappers clutched in fists, as they stare at her in confusion. Drake pushes through the paralyzed crowd and hops the lottery counter.
The Black Corporation seal of patronage hangs on the back wall. He nudges the employee out of the way and reaches for the plaque.
“What’s going on here?” The shout echoes out of the hallway that leads to the aphremore den. A moment later, a large man fills the opening. Unlike the front room employees, this one has a psy-gun strapped to his hip, his coat pushed aside to leave the holster exposed. His narrowed gaze sweeps the shop, pauses on Reagen still at the cash register, then settles on Drake. He turns to face him fully, grip on the pommel of his psy-gun. “What do you think you’re doing behind the counter?”
“Your club violates Black Corp regulations for aphremore distribution.” Drake lifts the plaque down.
“This isn’t a place for citizen interference, son.” The man unclips the safety latch on his holster. “You need to leave before you get hurt.”
In the silence, he hears the distinctive sound of Reagen disconnecting the magnetic clip on her own holster. In his periphery, he sees Reagen level her psy-gun on the cashier.
The customers stampede for the door, candy thrown to the floor in their hurry to find safety.
He waits for the commotion to subside and, once the room has emptied, states, “My name is Mr. Esten. I am head of imports at Black Corporation, and I will permanently shut this den down if you do not produce Troy in the next two minutes.”
“You got proof of that? You’re a little young to be that high in the organization.” The hand on his weapon doesn’t drop.
