by Lyn Forester
Surprised, I’m too exhausted to keep the shock off my face. Drake hums with satisfaction, and I realize he laid a neat trap. I scowl at him. “Did you really have partners in your old gang?”
“Of course, only way to survive.” He glances toward the door. “Come on, I’ll help you to the bed.”
“I can’t believe I’m going to touch that thing.” I allow myself to lean against him as we shuffle out of the bathroom. “Did you really buy us matching outfits?”
“Obviously.” Laughter fills his voice. “Guess what color they are.”
“Please don’t say pink.” Suppressing a shudder, I settle onto the edge of the bed. I’ll need a double cycle in Drake’s sanitizer after this is over.
He moves to the abandoned bags next to the bathroom and digs through them, then stands with a broad smile. “Ta-da!”
“No.” I stare in horror at the pink shirt in his hands, with the logo of a woman in a short skirt and high heels stenciled onto the front. Next, he reveals the sweat pants, less alarming until he turns them around to display the back. Across the butt, written in hot pink, reads Bangin Bum.
He shakes the pants. “I thought you’d like these.”
I snort. “Yeah, I can wear them to the gym.”
“Exactly!” He tosses them over. “Can you get them on all right? Or do you need help?”
“I’m good.” I wrinkle my nose at him. The stench of garbage wafts up from his pants, ingrained into the fibers. “Get changed. I can smell you from here.”
He disappears into the bathroom with the bag of clothes, giving me privacy to wiggle into my new attire. The oversize t-shirt balloons around my body, and the pants are soft against my legs. As warmth seeps into my limbs, my eyelids droop.
I jerk upright, gaze blurry, as Drake comes back. The pink shirt clings to his muscles, the dancing girl wiggling as he moves. It should look ridiculous, but like always, he manages to be sexy instead. “I got the shirts swapped.”
“Not trading you now. It’s already got Drake smell on it.”
He crosses his arms, biceps bulging. “Drake smells fantastic.”
“Did you rinse your shoes off?” I didn’t hear water, but I might have fallen asleep while sitting up.
“Yeah.” He frowns with concern once more. “Here, drink a protein shake, and tell me your passwords before you fall asleep.”
He rummages in the second bag, then comes toward me, hand extended. I accept the white carton and choke down the vanilla-flavored paste inside. My eyelids become heavier as my stomach fills, my body shutting down to heal.
Gentle hands pull the empty container out of my slack fingers. He coaxes me back onto the bed, and as my head hits the pillow, I blink up at Drake’s blurry face hovering over mine. His mouth moves in a question. I mumble out a response, already gone.
~
The low rumble of Drake’s voice pulls me from sleep. “Yeah, she’s taking a break right now. Can I relay the message to her?”
I blink at the stained ceiling in confusion before the previous night comes flooding back. The room blurs as I bolt up, my head swiveling as I search for a clock. How long was I out? The blackout curtains offer no clues, but my internal timer says too long. Drake turns from his place at the console table, where he pulled up the chair to have a makeshift desk. The contents of my satchel fill the narrow surface, port screens glowing.
He presses my palm-port to his ear as he listens, then scowls. “Yes, Medic Carmichael, I realize I’m just a junior investigator.”
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed to stand. The matted pink carpet scrapes against my bare feet as I shuffle over to him. My limbs feel heavy, but the pain has disappeared, which only confirms my suspicions about the time of day.
As I lean against the back of Drake’s chair, he rises and gestures me into his seat. “Yes, Medic Carmichael, I realize I am not actually an investigator.”
I sink down, the wood warm through my new sweat pants, and wave a hand at Drake.
“Oh, you’re in luck. She just got back.” Without waiting for a response, Drake thrusts the palm-port into my hand and marches away to sprawl on the bed.
Wishing for something to clear out the scum in my mouth, I run my tongue over my teeth before lifting the device to my face. “Medic Carmichael, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“Your voice sounds weird. Did I wake you?” The suspicious demand holds a hint of glee.
“Not at all.” The thickness clears from my voice, smoothing into the even professionalism I’ve practiced. “Are you calling about the wine bottles?”
“No, I told you those wouldn’t be ready until tonight at the earliest.” He huffs with annoyance at my poor memory, and I grit my teeth. It’s too soon after waking to deal with his grumpy attitude. I haven’t even had a GoGoNow yet. I glance at a folding desk-port screen, unsurprised to find Quarter-Light almost over.
My nostrils flare as I drag in a deep breath then push it out through my mouth. “What can I do for you, Medic Carmichael?”
“It’s about that packet you dropped off.”
I straighten as excitement pushes out any lingering sleep. “Yes?”
“I’ve finished my analysis of the Ash it contained.” A faint buzz sounds, then Carmichael’s voice becomes clipped, as it does when he switches from grumpy face to professional. “Along with the standard aphremore compound, there are trace elements of sucrose and plaszine.”
Plaszine, a fine-grained, abrasive substance used in cleaning products, would help get Ash into the bloodstream faster. When the user rubbed it into their gums, it would create small abrasions for faster absorbency. Its presence comes as a relief. It decreases the possibility that this batch of Ash can absorb topically. It needs ingestion to have any effect.
The importance of the other ingredient registers, and a fine tremor shakes my legs, urging me into motion. “Thank you, Medic Carmichael.”
“You are welcome, Investigator Thorpe. I look forward to my birthday lunch.” The line disconnects, and I don’t even care I’ll lose my precious Ball-In-Cup for now obsolete intel. Once Carmichael matches the Ash from the packet to the substance in the wine, it will tie up the case.
I spin to face Drake. “Sucrose.”
He sits up with a broad smile. “That makes sense with what I found while you were out.”
“Tell me.” My stomach rumbles, and I stand to make room for him to resume his place in front of the folding desk-ports while I rummage through the gift shop bags. Inside, I find two more protein shakes and a can of GoGoNow. Green Tea Flavored, but beggars can’t be picky, and I need the energy more than anything else right now. I grab the entire bag and move back to Drake. “You want one of these?”
Distracted, he clicks away on my keyboard. “I’ll take a protein shake if you don’t need both of them.”
I rip off a straw from the side of one and pop it through the top of the white carton, then place it next to his hand. Doing the same with the second one, I take a sip. The vanilla paste tastes even worse at room temperature. My throat works to get it down fast. I toss the empty back into the bag and crack open the energy drink. An earthy scent of dirt mixed with metallic minerals wafts up. Mouth sealed over the opening, I chug this one, too. The two beverages compliment each other in their flavors.
Vanilla dirt. Who knew?
Drake sips from his straw, nose scrunched in distaste. He sets the carton aside as he opens an image file. It’s dark and hard to see, but I recognize the image as one I took of the uniform bin from the warehouse.
He points a blunt finger at the screen. “This.”
Eyes squinting, I lean closer. A shimmer of silver sticks out from beneath a transporter uniform. The floppy, curved end attaches to a tube. “Are those sparkle tights?”
Drake rumbles in agreement. “I’d bet credits on it.”
“We need definitive proof.”
“Then let’s go get it.”
~
“Sure we shouldn
’t call in backup?” Drake asks as we stare across the street at the entrance to The Hut. At Half-Light, the line to get in is short, but that means innocent bystanders wait inside.
“Their staff was small.” I shrug my shoulders, unused to the weight of Drake’s loaner weapon in the holster between my shoulders. Nothing to do about it, though. We don’t have enough time to go up to Level 7 then come back down. Every minute we wait, the bystanders will grow in numbers. I glance up at my partner. The muscle in his jaw clenches as a quiet click of metal sounds against his teeth. “You worried?”
“I’m a little concerned.” He rolls his head, then transfers his steely gaze to me. “Sure you’re not pushing to go in now because you got pushed out a window last night?”
My eyes narrow on him. “I’m not that hard up for confrontation.”
“Just making sure before we go in.” He shakes his hands out to loosen his wrists. “That device of yours can take down their new surveillance system?”
“Yeah.” I fiddle with the rectangular black box in my hand. The camera disruptor took some time to program, nothing like the sophisticated device we found melted on top of Pink Skirt. When I have more time, I’m going to upgrade this particular gadget. “It’s dirty, but functional. Penned will go down, too. It’s good the retailer on their other side hasn’t opened yet.”
“How close do we need to be?”
“Front door.” I shift the device to beneath my arm and pull out flash tape. I pass the roll to Drake. “Know what to do with this?”
“Not my first take down.” He slides the roll over his hand, pushing it until it fits snug on his forearm, dispenser side toward his body. With a frown, he readjusts it so the open end faces higher, then shakes his arm to make sure it stays in place. “Ready.”
I pull two clear plastic masks from my satchel. Drake takes one and loops it over his head to dangle from his neck. I follow suit, then secure my satchel against my side by fastening the straps around my leg. Bouncing on my toes, I check that the bag stays in place. It would have been better to leave it behind, but I don’t trust the alley, and returning to the Pink Skirt might not be an option.
When it stays put, I nod at Drake. “Ready.”
As the streetlights slowly brighten toward Day-Light, we stride across the street. Fifteen easy steps. My foot hits the curb on the other side, and I press the button on top of the black rectangular box. The lights at street level flicker for a heartbeat but stay on.
In front of The Hut, the bouncer frowns at the lamppost, not even aware as Drake lifts his psy-gun and shoots. The bouncer’s heavy body vibrates the ground as he hits, a meaty thud of sprawled limbs. His head, twisted toward us, shows wide-open eyes, surprised and alert in his paralysis.
The customers in line stare in confusion, unsure if they should flee or stay to gawk. Feet shuffle among a quiet rise of whispers. I pocket the camera disrupter to free my hands. Grabbing the bouncer by his collar and belt, I heave him up against The Hut’s outer wall, out of trample range. The man at the front of the line backs away, eyes wide as he shoves against the person behind him.
My eyes narrow as I straighten. “Shop’s closed. Go somewhere else for today.”
He lets out a quiet squeak, the comb over on top of his head bouncing as he spins around to scurry away. A man and woman, a couple patrons back, follow him, down toward the flickering green sign of Gr8 Games. Looks like someone opened the club up, despite their missing owner.
Drake moves into position next to the front door, hand on the lever to open it. I step to the side, unholstering my weapon. The weight’s off, the grip too thick in my hand. I check the lights on the side to verify I set it to maximum stun. The orange dot gives me a rush of reassurance.
Drake yanks the door open. The second the gap is wide enough, I swing through, psy-gun raised. Between the shoulders of two customers, the cashier glances up in surprise. Gentle squeeze on the trigger, and his body hits the ground.
Unlike the preternatural quiet outside, in here the customers scream. I hug the wall as they flee toward the exit, focus on the hall that leads further into the club. On the outside, Drake holds the door open to make their exodus faster. Even with his assistance, shoulders smash together as people shove through the narrow opening, spilling out onto the street to be trampled by those who follow.
A sweet-sugar scent fills the room as candy falls to the ground, crushed to pieces against the hard floor. White powder hazes the air. I take a moment to pull my mask up over my nose and mouth before I have to breathe any of the tooth-achingly sweet particles into my lungs.
The commotion draws a guard from the back hall, most likely the gatekeeper to the inner den. A short woman jostles my elbow as I fire, and the shot goes wide. Calm, I aim again and take him down before he can identify the threat.
The stampede quiets as the last of the customers make it to freedom. A moment later, a shift in the air alerts me to Drake’s presence. The pressure in the room changes as the door shuts, then there is the quiet skree of flash tape dispensing. A moment later, there’s a bright flare of light, and a pop sounds as the lock melts in the door. No one will come at us from this entrance.
Drake steps up to my side, psy-gun fixed on the hallway entrance. Silent, I move forward, slide over the counter, and put a foot down on the prone cashier. His body compresses beneath my sneaker as I step down on the other side. Glitter tights cover his legs, shooting rainbow sparkles across the floor. A brief glance at his face confirms he’s the same man appointed as cashier after William Chattle’s murder. He hasn’t gotten any better at applying the cake makeup since the last time we saw him. From the white of his face, his eyes track me as I step off him onto solid floor.
Cautious, I move toward the other downed man, a human guard in the same glitter tights. Not one I recognize from our previous visits, but we didn’t go all the way into the den last time. The employee roster showed four guards, one aphremore tender, Troy’s personal guard, and Troy himself. A skeletal crew, even for a den as small as The Hut.
I crouch next to the hall to quickly peek around the corner. All clear. So understaffed that only one security guard heard the commotion. I grab the man’s sparkle-clad ankle and drag him to lie next to his co-worker.
Back to the hall, I double-check it’s still clear before crossing the opening to cover the opposite side. Drake hops the counter, further down so he doesn’t tread on the prone bodies, and takes up his place across from me.
Together, we swing into the hallway, backs pressed to the walls. We bypass the door that leads upstairs, venturing further in, toward the room of bright lights and ringing bells. Cheers pour out of the propped-open double doors.
Inside, pinball machines clack and sing. A machine with fake disc-bikes allows customers to race, while hip-hop music pours out of a dance machine. Retro Earth-based games that dispense plastic coins to be traded in at the aphremore bar for a puff on the glass stems guarded by the madam behind the counter.
High on the drug, these customers won’t be intimidated the way the ones in the front room were. Aphremore gives the user heightened senses, the feeling of what being a pureblood halion might experience. It makes them overestimate their abilities. Sometimes they become violent, sure their drug-enhanced strength will overcome any obstacle.
Better to avoid riling the crowd if it can be avoided.
I point to the guard I spot on the far side of the room, near the bar. Three accounted for so far. Drake’s eyes shift as he searches the room, then points to the right. I lean in far enough to spot Troy’s personal guard. His black suit stands out against the bright wall, painted a psychedelic swirl of neon orange and lime green.
We back away and close the doors in unison. In an instant, the hall becomes quieter, the ruckus shut inside. Drake holsters his psy-gun and pulls strips of flash tape out to cover the seam where the two doors connect. The skree sounds loud in the hall, and I turn to watch the stairway door as Drake pulls the silver backing of the tape off.
Flash. Pop.
Smoke fills the hall as the doors fuse together. Drake can send in a cleanup crew later to release the customers trapped inside. Back down the hall, I take up position next to the stairway door.
Drake glances at me, and I crouch low, psy-gun at chest height and set at an angle to hit the height where the stairs switchback. He yanks the door open. I swing in, drop flat in the next heartbeat. A sizzle hits the ground behind me as I roll back behind cover. Drake, higher up, leans in and fires off a shot before pulling back.
A heavy thump sounds, followed by two more meaty impacts before the stairwell falls silent. Hesitant, I peek around the corner to see the fourth guard’s body stuck halfway down. Body sideways, his head wedges against one side of the stairwell while his knee sticks him against the other. Four guards down; Troy’s personal guard accounted for.
Time to find the boss.
FLASHING THE FLASH TAPE
DRAKE
Drake goes up the stairs first, taking a large step to pass over the guy stuck halfway up. At the place where the stairs switch back to create a blind spot, he hugs close to the wall and ventures a peek. It remains empty, and he signals Reagen to follow.
His partner takes a minute to unwedge the fallen guard and drag him clear of the stairwell before she joins him. She ducks around the corner, silent as she moves to the top of the stairs. After a moment, she waves a hand for him to follow.
Upstairs, the quiet hall feels uninhabited, the air heavy with lack of movement. Three doors line the left wall, shut tight. But the manager’s office at the end stands open, the empty office visible from where they stand.
Together, they move to the first door. Reagen takes up position next to it, psy-gun ready. Drake shoves the door open. A storage closet, stuffed to the ceiling with cardboard boxes.
