"Is that what you tell yourself? I think you miss the thrill."
She made a fist beside her hip. "How much longer would it have taken you to piece this together? If they lie to you, will you know it? Have you ever fired a gun at another person?"
"You have?"
"If you haven't, I wouldn't start now."
He pulled a red leaf from a branch and shredded it, casting the bits into the pile on the trail. "The big farm south of Lake Placid. You know it?"
"Off Bear Cub Road?"
"Kessler and Winston. Kessler's thin as a birch and Winston looks like a barrel of beer. Round black mole under his eye. Like you said, they wear black fedoras." George rubbed his mouth. "He's not my son, you know. Not biologically. But I promised to protect him as my own. What does it say about me that I have to send someone else in my place?"
"That you know the right tool for the job." Ellie touched her gun. "If I'm not back by sundown, tell the sheriff to bring the posse."
She jogged back toward the farm and got her bike and rode to town for the third time that day. The mountains hung to the north, blue-green and outlined with white snow. She cut past the cul-de-sacs on the developments on the south end of town, then turned down an up-and-down road through the pines.
A part of her screamed for more intel. You never go in blind. She was more than willing to let George believe she'd been some despot-sniping CIA ghost, but the truth of the matter was she'd worked for the DAA. Her job had been to study the situation on the ground, then recommend how others could impact it.
But there weren't a lot of people around these days. And the disappearance seemed to have caught George completely off guard. Under normal circumstances, men looking to recoup on George's debt would use the threat of harm first, and then, perhaps, take Quinn to ransom. But they would make sure George knew about it. If he didn't, he wouldn't know to get his ass in gear and pay up.
So if the men in the black hats had taken him, that meant they valued Quinn for reasons beyond leverage against George.
The road fed into a broad farm. Most of the fields were tilled under, coffee-brown dirt mulched with dry yellow stalks. Two tall silos jutted from the fields. A farmhouse watched the entrance, surrounded by metal-roofed barns and outbuildings.
She knew of this farm, but if it was being run by post-apocalyptic loan sharks, that was news to her. The world may have shrunk, but its secrets had grown.
She stopped her bike on the long driveway to the farmhouse. While she was deciding which building to try first, a tall, thin man in a black fedora emerged from the nearest of the metal-roofed structures.
"Can I help you?"
"I heard you help people in trouble," Ellie said.
"We're humanitarians like that."
"Any day now, the ground will freeze. If I don't get my seed down before then, I'll miss the winter crop."
He pushed his hat up his head. "What are you looking to get?"
"I've been doing it by hand, but I ran out of time this year. I need a tractor. With a cultipacker."
"Step inside."
He held the door for her. The building was half stable, half office: the back half was blocked out with horse stalls, most empty, while the front half had been cleared for filing cabinets and two desks furnished with antique wooden chairs that had clearly been looted from one of the old Northeastern homes. A burly man sat with his boots up on one of the desks, careless for the dirt his soles had sprinkled on its surface. He had a round black mole under one eye.
"Tractor, cultipacker," the tall man said. He glanced at Ellie. "One-time lease, or rent-to-own?"
She stood beside the chair opposite the burly man. "Terms on rent-to-own?"
The man pulled his boots off his desk and folded his arms on its surface. "Thirty percent of gross yield on your next ten harvests. Ten percent after that."
"Steep."
"Seventy percent of something is more than one hundred percent of nothing."
"What if I miss a payment?"
He sniffed and leaned back in his chair. "Don't."
"That's too vague," Ellie said. "I can't enter a deal in good faith when I don't know the exact consequences for failing to uphold it."
"We take back what's ours," said the thin man.
"And enough to make up the difference," the burly man finished.
She nodded. "How's that calculated?"
"By some pinhead in Albany."
"Is that where you're based?"
The man scratched his ear. His forearm was covered in thick black hair and he wore a plaid shirt under his overalls. "You don't have to worry about that. Anything crops up, the buck stops here."
Ellie nodded more, as if mulling this over. The room was chilly and smelled like manure and dusty fur. "Do you have a contract?"
"Too good for a handshake?"
"If the consequences for nonpayment are 'Don't ask,' I prefer to be very clear about what does and doesn't satisfy payment."
The burly man drummed the desk, then gestured at the thin man, who slid open a cabinet with a metal rumble, paged through the documents inside, and handed Ellie three stapled pages. The letterhead was handwritten calligraphy. Including an Albany address. She wanted to laugh.
"I'll take these home and look them over." She stood, chair scraping. "Thank you for your time."
The man at the desk leaned on his forearms. "Thought you were in a hurry."
"I am. So excuse the brusqueness of my goodbye."
She exited. The thin man watched her from the doorway, face shaded by his hat. She biked back home. Her legs were sore; her body was used to hardships, but she'd put a lot of miles on herself that day.
George and Dee had been keeping watch on the grounds. They converged on her on the path through the field.
"They give you any trouble?" George said.
"I don't think they recognized me." Ellie got off the bike, sniffling against the runny nose she'd picked up riding through the cold air. "I think they might have him."
"What? Where?"
"Albany."
George turned to the torn-up field of yellow straw and brown dirt. "They haven't said a word to me. Why would they take my son?"
"Doesn't matter," she said.
"It matters like hell! What if their intention is to work him to death?"
"I don't like to assume motive unless I don't have any other leads. If you're chasing a motive, you tend to discard any facts that don't fit it." She watched the clouds march across the sky. "Maybe this is nothing. But I'm going to Albany to rule it out."
"I'll start packing," Dee said. "What will we need?"
"We?"
"He's my fiancé. I'm going with you."
Ellie stared at her. Dee wasn't her flesh and blood—like George and Quinn and so many other survivors, theirs was a makeshift family, bound by circumstance rather than birth—but Ellie knew the look on Dee's face. If a stranger had walked in on them, no one would have ever guessed they were anything but mother and daughter.
11
After that day by the ditch when Lucy had almost stuck Tilly with the knife, they became fast friends. Lucy taught her to throw the knife and a baseball without looking like she might fall down. Tilly taught her which jeans to buy from the Goodwill that wouldn't get her laughed at by the other girls. Lucy'd never had a real friend before and, with the benefit of hindsight, she knew she hadn't always treated Tilly right, but despite all Lucy's flaws, the same quality that led Tilly to befriend her kept Tilly coming back, too.
Middle school was even worse for Lucy. In the classroom and at home. It got to the point where she wished everyone in the world would up and die—a wish that soon came true, incredibly enough—but through it all, Tilly was there for her, though she didn't always acknowledge Lucy when the other girls were around to see. But when they walked home together, or Tilly found her down at the ditch, that's when Tilly put her arm around Lucy and told her how much fun they'd have when they were grown up.
Or th
e day Lucy had been behind the gym with Jordan Brewster. Lucy hadn't intended for much to come of it. Maybe let him grab a feel above her shirt. Nothing any heavier than that. Lucy's sister Sara was just three years older and was about to have a baby girl. Lucy would swallow a whole bottle of her mother's pain pills before she'd get knocked up.
Anyway, it was fifteen minutes to the end of lunch, they wouldn't have time for more. They lay in the grass behind the gym. Jordan smiled at Lucy like he was the slyest dog on the farm. He leaned in and kissed her. He smelled like Axe body spray and shampoo. His breath was minty, like he'd been expecting this, and his tongue moved in and out of her mouth. Within moments, his hand was on her chest.
"Enjoy it," she said. "That's as far as it goes."
He pulled back and gave her that canine smile. "Don't put limits on yourself, Lucy."
They kissed some more. It felt good and she was getting kind of hot. He tried to go under her shirt, and to reach between her legs, but she grabbed his wrist and he backed off. Then more kissing for a while. Lucy could see herself doing this again.
"Jordan?" Tilly stood over them, mouth agape. "What the hell?"
Jordan scrabbled back. At some point he had unzipped his pants and his penis stuck from his fly, fleshy and thumblike. He went as red as coals and tucked himself back in, struggling to zip up.
"What are you doing here?" he said.
"What are you doing with Lucy?" Tilly said. "Did you have your thing out?"
"Shut up!"
The bell rang from the other side of the building. Jordan glared at Lucy, then turned and ran. Lucy got up and brushed the grass off her seat.
"What were you thinking?" Tilly said. "With Jordan?"
"What's the matter with Jordan?"
Tilly grabbed her arm. "We're late."
They headed back to class. Right then, Lucy was mad, but when she thought about it that night, she'd been glad Tilly had pulled Jordan away. Because when she'd seen his thing, she hadn't been upset by it. Maybe she would have just touched it a little, but maybe she would have ended up like her sister. Pregnant. No husband. Life every bit as done and gone as their mother always told Lucy she'd wind up.
A few days after, Lucy found Tilly in front of her locker. Tilly was struggling to wedge a textbook into a wrinkled mess of papers.
"Don't you listen to the rumors," Lucy said.
Tilly jerked her chin toward Lucy. "What rumors?"
"The ones Jordan spread. About you two having sex in his older brother's car."
Tilly's face went red. She shoved her book into her locker with all her weight. "That never happened. Bring it up a second time and I'll never talk to you again."
Lucy knew it hadn't happened and she didn't know what Tilly was on about, but Tilly was her only friend, and she'd saved Lucy from what might have been something terrible. She didn't mention it again. Neither did Tilly. Because true friends knew when to back off and give a girl her space.
These acts of loyalty and protection, among other reasons, were why Lucy had come to the city to repay her debts—and now stood in the round upper floor of a former restaurant with a strangled body at her feet.
Nerve folded his arms and considered the silent skyscrapers. "This is the hardest the Kono have ever pushed us. I want you to push back."
Lucy looked up from Zoe's body. "How hard?"
"Hard enough to convince them it's a bad idea to keep this up."
"What about the Feds?"
"They don't have the strength to get in the middle. Don't let the collateral damage spill to the civilians and they'll turn a blind eye."
"Gotcha." Zoe's dead eyes stared up at her. She stretched her foot and nudged the lady's head to the side. "What kind of a name is 'Kono,' anyway? They Hawaiian?"
Nerve spun from the window. It was the first time she'd seen him anything but calm. "They think they're gangsters. I imagine it's short for Cosa Nostra."
"For real? You'd think they'd take the opportunity to start with a clean slate. What kind of resources I got at my disposal?"
"Distro's a meritocracy. The better your results, the more you'll be given to work with."
"Is that another way of saying I'm by my lonesome?"
"Bootstraps, Lucy. Pull yourself up."
"You got it, boss."
She knew the score. Nerve wasn't treating her any different from when he'd used her to get to the mole. If she threw a wrench in the Konos' gears, great. If she died in the street, the crows could throw a feast. She was expendable. Replaceable. A cog in the machine.
"It's wonderful to be wanted," she said, "but I didn't show up here out of the kindness of my heart. A friend of mine is working for y'all. I'd like to see her."
"What makes you think she works for us?" Nerve said.
"Word on the street."
"Do you find the street to be a reliable source of information?"
"That depends on how much it fears you." Lucy brushed imaginary dust from her shoulder. "Look, you all think you're some end-times Walmart, right? A proud member of the Fortune 1? Then let's talk salary. Benefits."
Nerve smiled the way you would at a snake that's slithered out of a cage you thought you'd locked. "Make your proposal."
"First off, I want a place to stay. Feds got me in this place with no heat and I got to walk up a whole mess of stairs. It's awful."
"We have room and board for anyone who's worth it."
"Second, I want to see my friend. Tilly Loman."
Nerve folded his arms and tapped his fingers on his elbow. "I oversee this pier. I can't make promises about the rest of the organization."
Lucy snorted. "Is she a secret agent or something? You afraid to ask your boss?"
He nudged the dead woman with his toe. "Speak with more respect or you'll share her grave."
"Sorry, I ain't used to having a job."
Lucy smiled some but didn't try to bat her lashes or anything that gross. She got the idea Nerve was the type who could see right through a person. There was something hidden to him. He wasn't a large man; he didn't do much yelling; he hadn't gotten excited even when Kerry was choking the woman to death. Even his threats were businesslike, impersonal. There was a sniper's watchful patience to him. Like he knew he had all day to take his shot. And most likely, you'd never see it coming.
"Get used to it," he said. "I'll see about your friend."
"Last, I want a salary. Something I can sock away for my golden years."
"Management gets salary." He gestured toward the piers. "Workforce gets food and shelter."
"You gave me three days to uncover your mole. I didn't know a damn thing about you or your people, but I did it. How much you bet I can get done in three months? Three years? You got to pay for talent, son."
"That's the last time I remind you about respect."
Lucy shuffled her feet. "Sorry, boss."
"Your thinking, though? That's correct. Talent is scarce. If you want to keep it, you have to pay for it. Since you're new, we'll start incentive-based." He beckoned to Kerry, who had taken up position against the wall to the left. "Tea. Half ounce."
"No shit?" Lucy said.
Kerry opened the second drawer of a metal file cabinet and brought her a thick baggie of dried brown curls. Lucy frowned at it and sniffed.
"Oh," she said. "Tea."
"It's lightweight, doesn't go bad, and everyone wants it," Nerve said. "If you prefer ammunition, leave an order with our gunsmith."
She bounced the baggie in her hand. "Know what, tea's not so bad. You know if this stuff grows down south?"
"It prefers warm, stable weather," he stated rotely. "Which makes the South a candidate, but one hurricane could destroy everything."
"Right," she said slowly, surprised he'd known that offhand. "So what's next on my agenda?"
He turned to gaze out the window. "You're new in town. That's an asset. Did the raiders get a look at you when you spotted them before the strike?"
"Nope. They would have planted m
e in that courtyard."
"I need to know whether this raid was a one-time move or if it's the start of a new campaign."
"And how do you intend to do that?"
"By stealing a page from their playbook: I'll plant a mole."
"I got no problem pretending," Lucy said. "Just so long as I don't go so deep I can't see my friend."
"The Kono work out of a bar uptown. Where they can peel off disaffected Central Park farmers from the Feds. Head up there, hear what you can hear, and see if you can't ingratiate yourself with the natives."
"I'll start tomorrow." She nodded at Zoe's body. "Been a long day."
Nerve didn't argue. While Kerry hauled the body into a side room, Nerve brought her downstairs to speak to the woman who oversaw the pier's records. He informed the woman that Lucy was to be housed in the Bracket Building and fed conventional dailies. The woman nodded, taking notes. Nerve departed. The woman summoned a young man from the enjoining office and informed Lucy he would see her to her new lodging.
"Wow, the Bracket Building," the young man said as he led her across the street into the tangle of towers. "You must be special, huh?"
"Why's that?" Lucy said.
He turned and grinned against the hard autumn light. "Electricity!"
"You don't say. Know where it comes from?"
"Nope. It is budgeted, however. But don't run your TV and your blow dryer at the same time and you ought to be fine."
The tower was a glass and steel structure a few blocks from the piers. The boy jangled a key into Lucy's palm and accompanied her through the airy lobby to the stairwell. Inside it, yellow lights buzzed steadily, echoing from the concrete walls. Her room was on the third floor.
Nice place. Not much bigger than her Fed apartment across the island, but the windows let in lots of light and most of the overheads worked too, including those in the bathroom. Best of all, it was warm—she had a thermostat.
"Just don't push it above 64," the kid warned. "Whoever runs this place is worse than my old man ever was."
He let her know to come by the pier office if she needed anything, then left, the door clicking hollowly behind him. Lucy went to the balcony, which was hardly deep enough to stand on, and looked down on the vacant street.
Reapers (Breakers, Book 4) Page 13
