by OJ Lowe
Hobb’s summoner trilled, he didn’t even glance at it before pushing the button to answer it. Only one person had the number. Should someone else be dialling it, he’d be compromised heavily. He’d have to abandon his position immediately or risk discovery. That could not be allowed. Sometimes he thought that he’d personally made his own profession a prison. He had to keep going, keep on moving around lest he be discovered. And if he needed to keep going different places, he might as well keep the hits going. The credits would undoubtedly come in handy one day.
“Talk to me,” he rumbled, a little annoyed at the disturbance. Down in Graham’s Field, the stage was starting to take shape and it looked fantastic. They’d constructed it out of emberwood, he’d seen them unloading it out of oversized speeders and put it together in record-time, easily a few dozen of the travelling folk swarming over it like termites. More of them were working far behind it, throwing up the frame of the big wheel that always featured on images of the carnival. Emberwood was immensely strong, even after it was cut, it wouldn’t give under the weight of whatever might stand atop it. Hoverships sometimes used it for constructing makeshift spirit calling arenas aboard them. Cruise liners certainly did. Once it was together, a fresh group of children had gone across it with pots of what he assumed was meant to be used for treating the wood. Through his scope, he’d watched them start at one end and move across it like one large fist, covering the platform beneath their feet as they went.
“Are you in position?” He didn’t know why his contact used the voice changer. He knew full well who he was. He had him by the balls. He wasn’t getting out of what Hobb had over him. He’d tried, Hobb had had to threaten to ruin his life to prove a point to him as to how much he’d failed. His wife had left him following what Hobb had put out there. It hadn’t cost him professionally. Not yet. That could still come. Hobb hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Having someone in Unisco was too vital for him. It was the only reason he’d stayed free this long.
“Of course.” How dare the little bastard threaten him. Hobb was the professional here. His contact was good only for getting himself into messes that he’d been unable to cover up successfully. A careless man in other words.
“Good.” The contact sounded hesitant. Every time Hobb made a hit, he became even more complicit. The hole he’d wound up in became a little deeper, harder for him to extricate himself from. Hobb didn’t care. He’d keep on trying to think of ways to get out of his situation, it didn’t matter to him. The contact lacked creativity. “Just checking in. It’s a big payday after all for you. Wouldn’t want anything to go wrong.”
Hobb didn’t believe his sincerity. The way he’d resisted at first, he’d never thought they’d be anything other than a reluctant partnership, that he’d have to tug the leash every time he wanted him to come. That he now was almost pleasant in his approach to him did not sit well. He had not stayed free for all these years by ignoring the stench of rats where the vermin roamed free.
“Nothing will go wrong,” he said. “I don’t have to remind you what will happen if it does.” He’d put safeguards in place. Every time a mission was launched, he sent the client a time-sensitive message to be opened if the mission was a failure and the contents spread. Those were the insurance policies against his contact trying to kill him during the mission. Once it was complete, they’d be sent back to him and the contacts name and misdeeds would be secret for another day.
Hobb heard the contact gulp down the line. He’d made his point. “I wouldn’t worry your pretty little head. This will be a success. You won’t hear from me again for a while after this. It’s the sort of thing that I’ll want to let blow over before I appear again. Too much heat.”
“Why risk it then? Let it go.” The contact sounded almost pleading, it truly was pathetic. If Hobb hadn’t needed him, he’d have thrown him out in seconds.
“Can’t,” he said. “What’s life without a little challenge?”
“Safe? Long-lived? Free?”
He shook his head. The contact just didn’t get it. “My life is going to be none of those things from now on. Hasn’t been for a very long time now. This will end the way that it will. It’s just a question of who goes up in the flames with me when the inevitable happens.”
Silence. He’d gotten to him there.
“Think on those words. You will thank me for them one day. I assure you of that.”
He ended the contact, shook his head in disgust. You just couldn’t find good help these days. That number was supposed to be solely for emergencies. Not for him to try and ingratiate himself.
The mission would come soon, and he’d be gone straight after the trigger had been pulled. A city like this would always find something leaving for somewhere else, he’d be aboard the first one he could find and out of here. Maybe this would even be the last one. He wouldn’t tell the contact if it was. He liked the idea of making him sweat the rest of his pathetic life, waiting for contact that would never come again. Fuelling his paranoia, now that was a pleasurable thought.
He’d made himself a Willie’s fruit coffee, sat down at the table as she finished getting dressed in the other room. He liked the stuff, drank a cup of it every day wherever he could find a Willie’s diner. And they were everywhere these days, Willie O’Rourke had really pushed the hells out of his franchise. The fruit coffee was outstanding, they even sold packets of it to make at home. He’d added the hot water to the powder, caught the odours of berries. A lot of people drank it for hangovers, he’d always found it worked just as well for fatigue. He’d put the powder in the mug for a second if Sharon wanted one, if not then he’d have it later. He’d asked but either she’d ignored him or hadn’t heard him.
Back home. Domestic. Could he see this life for himself? Honestly, he didn’t know. Did he want it? Right now, it didn’t feel like it’d be so bad. For the rest of his life though… Nobody ever knew how long they had. He’d been lucky so far to make it to this point. That luck wouldn’t last forever, it’d run out sooner rather than later and then Sharon would be crying at his funeral, tears shed for the life they could have had. He didn’t want to see the love turn to hate in her eyes, but he didn’t want to see them lined with tears either.
The rest of his life, if he settled down here with her here and maybe went for the city champion position if it became available, maybe also do some non-combat activities for Unisco, he couldn’t dispute it’d be longer. Even if you couldn’t account for everything. There were always events you couldn’t foresee but his odds of living to his fifties and past that would increase rather than grow shorter.
The other question he had to ask himself, was whether she was worth it or not and he’d found himself amazed he didn’t even have to think about it. They’d been together for nearly two years now. They’d lived together when their jobs didn’t drive them apart for long periods of time. Another reason to question where he belonged with Unisco. They’d send him everywhere and anywhere if he needed to go. All he wanted was to remain here right now. She was worth it.
He heard her approach, leaned back in his seat to savour the view as she walked in. “You want a drink or…”
“Sorry,” she said, going a little red. She looked fantastic, she’d kept the shirt but twinned it with a pair of dark blue slacks that ended just about mid-calf. Professional but playful. He gave her a thumbs-up of appreciation, took a drink of his fruit coffee with the other. She smiled, knew what it was about. He’d done it before. Anytime he wanted to convey his appreciation without embarrassing either of them with sentiments, he’d give the thumbs up. “Got to go shortly. Can’t be late. It looks really bad.”
“I get that,” he said. “It’s one thing offering to do charity work, yeah? Looks terrible if you don’t show up early for it.”
Sharon shrugged her shoulders. “Hey, I’m happy to do it. Give something back for the community.” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail as she spoke, bobbing her head about as she did. “Tutoring the next gen
eration of spirit callers is a noble thing. I wish more of us thought about the future.”
Nick snorted, took a drag of his fruit coffee. “Most of us have trouble thinking about anything beyond than the past. That’s when we were always at our best, lest we forget that time does a funny thing to the memory.” He put his mug down, leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms above his head, working his weary muscles. “It makes it all fuzzy. We remember the things we’d like to forget, we never remember things we want to.”
“You’ve become philosophical.”
“Saw it on the back of a beermat. That’s where I get most of my philosophy from. It’s usually sound advice I find.”
She smirked at him, moved over to him. Here she towered over him, even if he sat up straight, he’d only be level with her chin. “I don’t think we should dwell on the future or the past too much. Just enjoy the present.” She slid down into his lap, arms around his neck, he leaned down and nuzzled his lips against hers.
“You taste of berries,” she said, indicating her eyes towards his drink. “It’s not unpleasant. It’s definitely different.”
“I’m all about doing things differently from now on,” Nick said. He meant it as well. There’d been times when he’d skirted around the truth where Sharon and Unisco were concerned. They were two very different parts of his world. He walked in them both, never fully immersed in one or the other. A man divided against himself cannot ever be wholly at peace. Another beermat had told him that. He should start collecting them. Put them all together. Make a fortune that way as some sort of guru. “Sharon…”
“Yeah?”
“I…” What? What are you going to say to her? he chided himself. Are you going to tell her the truth about what you’ve been up to all these years? No, I didn’t think so. You’re not going to do something that ballsy. Because you’re scared, aren’t you? If you do it, you think you’ll lose her and you’ll probably be right. One day, the truth will out. She’ll find out who you are and…
“Are you okay?” she asked suddenly, a look of bemusement on her face. “You look a little, what’s the word? Perhaps a little conflicted.”
She had this in her. Sometimes he thought she knew he was being evasive. That she knew he wasn’t telling her the whole truth about everything. He didn’t know how. He was always careful not to let anything about his external appearance betray his thoughts. He could hide his emotions facially, he’d won a huge number of credits over the years at Ruin with that very face. He knew how to read body language, he could acceptably describe his own. Her perceptive skills unnerved him sometimes. If he wasn’t telling her everything, then very likely neither was she telling him everything about her life either.
He could live with that. Some people deserved their secrets.
“I just wanted to say,” he said. “I think you’re right. The past is gone. The future is never going to be what we think it’s going to be. The present is the only thing we have. We should treasure it the way we treasure each other?”
“You treasure me?” She said it lightly but there was real surprise behind the words. “That’s nice to hear. I mean it.” She nodded as she spoke, still a little bemused judging by the look on her face which nicely straddled the line between thunderstruck and aghast.
He had that effect on women sometimes, he thought as he linked his fingers with hers and smiled. Already an idea was starting to form up in his head, something that bore very serious consideration going forward.
The night had come.
Hobb had thought that it never would, he’d slept uneasily through the day, a mere matter of feet from his rifle. Now he was refreshed and ready. A sniper’s lot in life involved waiting, sometimes taking hours and hours to crawl into the best possible position. Stillness, inertia, perennial calmness, all were traits just as vital as being able to take a rifle, peer through the scope and pull the trigger to satisfying effect. He’d taught that as much as he could, made sure that those he put through their paces had the right temperament.
His time as a teacher felt too long ago. As roles went, he’d never truly taken to it the way he had to becoming a fugitive, but he’d felt then that if the future generations were going to be taught then they should be taught in a manner to give them the best possible chance to succeed. He’d always enjoyed the respites from the classroom which had allowed him to get back in the field. He always enjoyed the watching of the targets from a distance, seeing them go about their business without being aware that they were under observation. What they did in their own homes when they thought nobody was watching was always an experience. After the mission, he’d sit at home and recall some of the things he’d seen and laugh himself stupid at the memories. They had been some of the rare moments of joy he hadn’t denied to himself.
Even they were lost to him now. As alive as being on the run had made him feel, it had left him hard inside. He couldn’t afford to be anything less than his best. If he faltered, even for a minute, it could be the difference between freedom and death, or even worse, imprisonment. The situation had been thrust upon him, it was his duty to make the best of what could charitably be called a bad situation.
Sometimes in the moments when his hard façade threatened to break down, he considered surrendering to the director, finding Terrence Arnholt and throwing himself on his mercy. It was an option, albeit one that sounded even stupider in his head every time he thought on it for longer than a few seconds. If he showed up at Arnholt’s house, he’d probably be shot on sight, and he wouldn’t really blame him either. He’d have done the same, had the rolls been reversed.
It was okay to think about what could have been and what might be. What mattered was the present. And tonight, someone had to die. His Femble rifle hadn’t moved since he’d set it up. It waited for him.
One shot, and the world would change. The promise he’d been given by the client. Just one shot.
It was all he needed.
The sleep had done him wonders, he felt healthy and strong, somewhat human again for now. It was good to be back in his own bed, even if technically he hadn’t really slept in it before today. Small distinctions. They were usually the most fun to ignore and to get caught up in. And there really was no feeling like breaking in a bed for the first time. Even if he’d rather that it had been with her. Still some things couldn’t be changed. There’d be plenty of time for that later. A lot of time. Assuming he didn’t get killed tonight.
He wasn’t going to get killed tonight, he reminded himself. His role was non-combatant. He’d be nowhere near the action. Hopefully. The painful reality was that if they were cornered, a shooter didn’t care if you were meant to fight them or not. They’d ask that question later, assuming they even cared enough to listen to their conscience. From what he’d seen of Lucas Hobb in Carling’s file, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that any shred of conscience he possessed had died a long time ago. Honestly, he didn’t like to give up on other human beings. But rogue Unisco agents were a danger to the community at large of whatever kingdom they found themselves in. They were highly trained, they had nothing to lose and that made them deadly when cornered. Hobb had been running for a long time. There was nothing to say he was going to want to stop tonight.
When he’d bought the house, having signed the contracts and gone about furnishing it, there’d been one room he’d initially not been able to find a use for. He’d considered it for a while, eventually turned it into an office-slash-trophy room. He wasn’t too bothered about the trophies. He knew what he’d done, it was a matter for public record saying what he’d won, when and how he’d done it. He didn’t need the physical reminder for it. It made good cover though.
It was that room he found himself in now, having punched the code into the keypad. It was the only room in the house with such a lock, he’d made sure of it. The trophies were good cover, even if he said so himself. There was a decent amount of gold and silver in them, he wanted to make sure they were safe. Sharon had never been i
n here to his knowledge. For as long as he was with Unisco, nor would she. He kept some items in here that would be hard to explain away. A pair of blasters for one thing. Home security would only go so far to explain why he kept them in a locked room far away from any sort of easy access. They were both unmarked weapons, souvenirs from Unisco missions that had never been required to be handed back to the requisitions office. Neither of them had ever been fired in anger, only on the shooting range.
There were other gadgets in there as well, things that had been sent out for testing in the field and he’d needed to fill reports in before keeping them. Noorland had once come up with a belt that cunningly contained a hundred feet of what he’d dubbed smart-line, rappel cable intended to carry the weight of a large-sized man, complete with grappling hook hidden in the buckle. He’d already dressed for the night, smart casual in navy with a white shirt underneath. He hadn’t fastened all the buttons yet. He’d put the belt on, fastening it through the loops on his trousers and securing it tight. Never knew when it might be needed. Mallinson had ordered him to surrender all Unisco technology in his possession, the belt hadn’t been with him at the time of the interview, so he couldn’t have done so. A slim technicality but one that he was willing to wager heavily upon. The Inquisitor liked his technicalities.
There were a dozen spare earpieces used for communication on missions, ranging from combat ones that spread across almost the entire side of the face to surveillance ones that were solely worn in the ear and intended to be unnoticeable. He picked the smallest, studied it between thumb and finger for a long moment, checking for any sign of damage. It was less than a quarter the size of his thumbnail. Carling had given him his frequency earlier. That was the only one he’d connect to. The man’s paranoia was outstanding.
He looked across the rest of the collection of items he’d managed to accrue over the years, most were either useless to the circumstances of the mission or useless full stop. He didn’t need a cane that contained three feet of sword. That would bring about more questions than its usefulness warranted. He considered a few of the credit-grenades, flash, smoke, gas, pulse and explosive. Noorland had been proud of those when he’d announced them, less proud when a momentary lapse in judgement had resulted in an agent spending them. As far as he knew, nobody had ever been able to work out why that restaurant had blown up. If Unisco had anything to do with it, they wouldn’t either. The circumstances of him needing them were slim. And yet, they were small enough to pass away as pocket change. Concealable. Unremarkable. If things went wrong, they might be a handy ace to have in his pack. They were easy to separate from each other, flash was a dark yellow with an FL engraved deep on it for the ten-credit piece, smoke an ink-black with SM for the one-credit piece, gas a dull green with a G cut into the surface for the fifty-credit piece, pulse a blue and white colour with an EMP legible in the surface to mark it as a hundred-credit piece while explosive was plain white and unmarked given it was probably the most instantly deadly. The white credit was always denoted as being worth five hundred and was appropriately the largest in size. He tried not to think about how much explosive could fit in there as he pocketed the five credit pieces, careful to make sure they were separate from the rest of them he’d already put aside for the night’s spending.
