Leverage (Sunken City Capers Book 3)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  But he doesn’t know that. He can’t see, and this is his favorite toy in the whole, wide world.

  He bucks and screams.

  After a several seconds it’s like, man up already. I only have the stomach for one more cut anyway—but he doesn’t know that.

  When he finally settles down to a low moan, I put the scissors back in place on the cut. “How many cuts do you think it’ll take to get all the way across?” I ask. “Who sent you?”

  He continues to moan.

  “Well, all right then,” I say.

  He immediately starts screaming a muffled, “Wait!”

  I oblige. Sometimes I think I’m too soft. I reach back and remove some of the towel for him to speak more clearly.

  “Well?” I ask. “I’m not going to ask again.”

  “Nix,” he says, looking away and catching his breath. “Nix.”

  My mouth goes slack as my brain kicks into overdrive. I reaffix the towel in his mouth.

  Deona Nix. The Vancouver Boss. Why in the world does she want to kill us?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I’M BUZZING OUT of here, I text Puo as I hurry down the hallway, the horrible seafoam-green sweater back in place, and all the sweaty monitoring patches safely applied to Nutrition Man, all trussed up back in Puo’s room.

  You manage to fly the coop? Puo texts.

  Of course. Let me know where pick up is. BE CAREFUL. I don’t put that the Boss of Vancouver is behind all this, but I’m flabbergasted. Puo and I haven’t even pulled anything yet in the city. It wasn’t even our intent in coming here.

  And how’d they know we were even here? We weren’t home in the Seattle Isles for long, and we didn’t tell anyone we were coming to Vancouver.

  You got it, Puo texts back.

  I enter the stairwell and head down. I need to get outside. I have no idea what kind of cycle Puo’s nurses are on and when they’ll find Nutrition Man.

  The first floor hallway is a high-ceilinged, brightly lit affair with a surprising number of people moving around. The sliding glass doors to the outside are at the end of the space beyond a large circular central receiving area with several nurses milling about inside it.

  A woman in a business suit with dark, drawn-on eyebrows stands out from the rest of the nurses and doctors walking around the central receiving area. She looks right at me and smiles.

  I smile back. Shit. This has to be the consulate rep. How’s she know what I look like? Have they tied my image to the CitID? We still haven’t paid these stupid things off.

  She breaks off and walks up to me. “Are you Vikki Gilbert?”

  I nod. “Yes. You are?”

  “Anna Nowlin—” She extends her hand. “—I’m from the American Consulate—”

  I take her hand and shake it.

  “—I’m here to offer you any assistance we can.”

  “Thanks,” I say, slipping back into the victim role. I’ve done nothing wrong. “How’d you recognize me?” I ask. Do you have an image of me?

  The consulate rep smiles at me. “Well, we’re the only ones in the immediate vicinity not dressed in scrubs at the moment. So it was a reasonable shot.”

  “Right.” I smile tremulously at her. “What is it that you can do for us?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs?” she asks as if it suddenly occurred to her.

  “I never could sit still for very long,” I say. There’s a small measure of truth there. “They said I was free to roam around and go get some non-hospital food.”

  I look her over more closely for not answering my question—is she Nix’s agent? Her forehead flattens out into a shiny reflection under her dirty-blond bangs. But other than that she appears well-groomed; her clothes are well put together. I don’t see any bulges under her suit coat.

  I say, “I was headed out to get a burger. I’m starving. You can join me if you want,” I add, because that’s what an innocent victim would say.

  She gives me the same once over I gave her, and says, “I should really check on you and your companion at the same time.”

  I wish I could make my stomach rumble on command. Instead, I say, “They brought me food while I was asleep. Meatloaf.” My face says all it needs to about how I feel about meatloaf. “And it was cold when I woke up. I’ll just grab some food and meet you in Mika’s room, okay?”

  She hesitates; her body language says this is clearly against her wishes.

  I swear she’s about to agree when a low alarm starts sounding with bright, quick flashes from around the ceiling and doors.

  “What’s that?” I ask, knowing the answer: they must’ve found the nutritionist without his shirt on and bleeding, sweaty balls hanging out and a gun strapped to his back.

  “Missing patient,” the consulate rep says indirectly at me. She’s studying the walls around the hospital, confused.

  “What?” I ask.

  “They usually broadcast the patient information to all the holoscreens,” she explains. “The patient’s picture should be all over the place. It isn’t.”

  Looks like Puo’s feeling better. He must be in their system with his tablet.

  Hi, Puo! I resist the urge to look at the nearest visible camera and smile at him.

  “Let’s go check on your friend,” the rep says.

  “I’m ... I’m still hungry,” I say with the proper amount of growing dread that food is going to be denied to me.

  The rep shakes her head. “Nobody leaves—”

  “What part of the hospital is locked down?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” the rep gestures at the blank screens. “But it looks like all of it.” She points toward the front doors.

  The alarm suddenly cuts off. Nice work, Puo!

  I look at her, hope filling my face.

  “We should go check on your companion, make sure everything’s okay,” she says.

  “I just came from there, he’s sleeping.”

  She stops and stares at me.

  I stare right back. I’m hungry damn it! “Do you have any legal authority to stop me?” I turn nasty.

  Her red lipsticked lips press together in a thin line.

  Thought so. “I’ll meet you in Mika’s room.” I turn around and leave.

  * * *

  Fuck, it’s cold in Vancouver at nine o’clock at night in December! I huddle my arms in front of me and scrunch down as much as I can after stepping outside of the hospital. Damn.

  The cold nighttime air cuts right through this useless sweater. Horrible fashion and lets cold air right through. No wonder its owner was just fine giving it away.

  The tan loafers are not much protection either against the near-freezing sidewalk as I shuffle away. I text Puo, Outside and *cold.* Pickup ASAP.

  I need a coat, and a bra, and some boots, and a bra, and a winter hat, and some gloves, and a bra, and a scarf, and long underwear, and—

  Roger, Puo responds, interrupting my internal list for warm clothes. On way.

  I’m not even to the end of the hospital block when I see bright flashing lights again inside the hospital through the windows. Heh. They must’ve figured out that, no, the alarm really should be going off. Now the American Consulate rep couldn’t follow me if she wanted to. Go, Puo!

  Not that I was ever going to go back and meet her, mind you. But now I wonder if she’s learned Puo’s missing yet. Can she even get to his room with the alarm going off?

  A medium- to high-end dark-blue sedan hovercar drops down to the street level from above. It parks ahead of me after an intersection. I hurry forward, eager to get out of the cold.

  Almost there, Puo texts.

  My stomach grows cold in alarm that has nothing to do with the frigid night. I pivot down the side street without missing a step and cross the street diagonally to keep the dark-blue hovercar in my view.

  A man gets out of the hovercar, completely normal-looking except for the way his eyes immediately latch onto me. He knows me. It’s in the way he’s trying not t
o stare at me, while still moving in my direction. There aren’t a lot of people out here, and I’m not wearing a coat—it’s natural for us to take notice of each other.

  I cross the street and use the corner building, a Vietnamese restaurant, to break the line of sight to completely-normal-looking-suspicious guy. Then I start running.

  Deona Nix isn’t fucking around. A bomb. Accidental medication poisoning. And now this. She’s moved from trying to make us look like collateral damage, to an accident, to—

  Then it hits me. She has to know who I am. She knows I’m the daughter of the Atlanta Boss. It’s a secret I hold close to the chest with other people. But it’s the only reason that makes sense for all the trouble and not putting two bullet holes directly through our heads.

  I peek back as I turn down an alley. Completely-normal-looking-suspicious guy sees me, but keeps walking by, breaking the line of sight again.

  Shit. Is he on a comm-link? Herding me? Tracking me?

  Puo texts me, We’re here. Why are you in an alley?

  I call him directly, unable to text as I’m now unabashedly running, looking for an escape.

  “Hey,” Puo says.

  “Are you tracking me? Or do you have eyes on me?” I rush to ask.

  “Tracking,” Puo says.

  “Ditch all electronics,” I say. “Now. They’re trailing me on foot. It must be how.”

  “No,” Puo objects in a knee-jerk reaction. “They shouldn’t be able to, I’ve made a lot of mods to prevent—”

  “So they just happened to find me at exactly the right time from exactly where I left the hospital?”

  “Could be a posted sentry,” Puo suggests.

  Damn. “Do you have any company up there?” I ask.

  “No,” Puo says.

  My gut says ditch the tablet. I’ve learned in this line of work that when in doubt, always go with your gut instinct. “Can’t take the chance, ditch all electronics,” I order.

  “Gah!” Puo swears. “Hit my self-destruct app before ditching,” he says petulantly. He also wisely doesn’t ask who is trailing me. If they’re following our signals then they might be monitoring communications as well.

  “Pick me up at the end of the circle,” I say.

  “Got it.” Puo clicks off.

  A circle has no end. You just end up right back at the beginning. Which, in this case, is the hospital. The only touchstone I have around here, anyway.

  I bring up Puo’s self-destruct app; the picture is of a cute bunny with hearts over it—that’s Puo for you. I activate it while running, and glance back. No one yet. I toss it into a nearby garbage dumpster.

  Propped open on the other side of the dumpster is a back-alley door with no outside door handle that I duck through, closing it behind me. It’s the Vietnamese restaurant, which should’ve been obvious with the smell of fish sauce from the dumpster.

  The kitchen is wonderfully hot after being outside. I’d say stifling, but that doesn’t capture how great it feels. Three cooks are wearing white chef uniforms, with sweat-drenched blue bandannas tied around their foreheads. They’re working the wok, chopping, and plating.

  I move through the kitchen quickly. One looks up at me about to start yelling.

  “It’s all delicious!” I yell over the noise. “I wanted to pass along my compliments!” I smile warmly at him, and drop my arms from clutching the crappy sweater to my bra-less chest.

  He stops with his mouth open, flicking his gaze to the server door, clearly wondering where I came from. Eventually he gives slight bows and repeatedly says, “Thank you, thank you.”

  The other chefs give quick head bows to me as well.

  “I’m going to go back now,” I say. “Thank you for your wonderful food.”

  They all give more head bobs, and I head out into the dining room.

  The room is dark, a mix of red and white lights. Vietnamese decorations dot the walls. Several zigzagging room dividers of white fabric are painted in Vietnamese style around the room. The place is half full.

  I hurry toward the front. Through the front window I see that the dark-blue sedan is still there. I stop at the maitre-d’, a Vietnamese teenager with smoky eyes that don’t fade quite right. “Table for one please.”

  Puo and Winn will have to wait. I can’t get out of here until that sedan is gone.

  “Follow me,” the maitre-d’ says.

  She walks toward the table nearest to the front door. “Could I please have a more private table?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course,” she says smoothly and changes course in the restaurant.

  She leads me farther back to a table that’s closed off from both the front door and the server door. Perfect.

  “Thank you,” I say, and sit down to eat. Turns out, I am pretty hungry.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ALMOST AN HOUR and some marvelously hot food later, I quickly close the door to the backseat of an older model sedan hovercar behind me with a solid thunk out front of the hospital.

  “Where have you been?” Puo asks me from the passenger seat.

  Winn pulls the hovercar into the air, merging into a skylane.

  “Eating,” I say, “while hiding in plain sight.”

  “What’d you have?” Puo asks wistfully.

  “A large, hot bowl of pho,” I say and smile. The hot beef soup was amazing, a simple, clean flavor profile. It’s remarkable what a hot meal on a cold day can do for your outlook on life—even when people are trying to kill you.

  Puo smacks his lips. “Mmmm ... a vermicelli bowl sounds pretty tasty right now, or maybe pan-fried noodles.”

  “Not sure that’s approved by your personal doctor here,” I say.

  Winn turns toward me slightly in the back seat and raises an eyebrow.

  “Your job,” I say to Winn, “is to keep Puo alive until we sort all this out. It will be the repayment for that chip in your hand that let’s you pretend to be a—”

  Puo cuts me off as I start to turn nasty, “Yes. I like this plan. The first actionable item in keeping me alive is getting some food into me.” Puo looks expectantly at Winn.

  Winn says, “Uh, sure. But I don’t have any cash.”

  “Since when has that stopped us?” Puo asks.

  Our payment info was nuked in the self-destruct apps.

  “Hey,” Winn asks me, “how did you get out of the restaurant bill?” His crystal blue eyes peek at me over his shoulder.

  I cross my arms in front of me. One: screw him. Two: he wouldn’t appreciate the skill involved in a dine-and-dash. Most think it’s easy. And to some extent it is. But when two or more goons are lingering in the area trying to kill you, it takes a lot more finesse to draw out the meal the proper amount of time without raising suspicions than nonprofessionals realize.

  But I can’t keep silent for long. I ask Winn, “Are you sure you want to know? It’d ruin your suburban innocence. And we can’t have that.”

  Winn’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

  “Issaaa ...” Puo starts in a placating tone.

  What the fuck is that? I damn near go off on Puo for siding with Winn. Puo knows what happened. How that affected me. Us.

  But I hold off the tirade since Puo just had a coronary spasm, and he’s likely only trying to keep the peace because he doesn’t like fighting, and he probably really is hungry.

  Winn turns into another skylane; the lights of the city of Vancouver pass by below us. We need supplies. New clothes for damn sure, and new pocket tablets. “Nice choice of hovercar,” I snark. “Fancy.”

  “Well, you know,” Puo says. “You don’t want to stand out too much. And seeing as we didn’t have to steal it, that was a big plus.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s Winn’s,” Puo says.

  Winn blushes while continuing to stare forward, watching traffic.

  “We got to dump the car,” I say. The fake nutritionist knew me. Knew about my father. They might know about Winn, and we can’t ta
ke that chance.

  “Ah, c’mon, Isa,” Puo says. “The car ain’t that bad. Everyone knows the straight life doesn’t pay as well—”

  “It’s not that,” I snap. “Deona Nix is behind the bomb and the attempted hits on us at the hospital. She knows who we are, and that might include Winn.” To Winn, I ask in a perfectly level tone with no spike of emotion in my gut, “Is that a digi-scrambler you’re wearing?”

  “Yeah,” Winn says neutrally.

  Prick. When the bastard left, he left the digi-scrambler behind that I gave him to hurt me. And now he has a new one? Why? Who gave it to him?

  “Deona Nix?” Puo asks, whipping around in his seat to stare at me and ignoring the digi-scrambler implication.

  “Yeah,” I say. “And why the fuck are you defending Winn? You two kiss and make up while I was busy beating the shit out of the assassin sent after you?”

  Puo’s eyes widen. “Assassin?”

  “Yeah, Puo!” I can’t contain myself anymore; I’m starting to seethe. “I got the prick to talk. There’s only one reason to make it look like an accident.”

  Puo pales, clearly following my line of thought. “We got to dump the car.”

  “No shit,” I say. “Why don’t you and your new b-f-f up there figure out where.”

  “Isa—” Winn starts.

  “You stay out of this!” I yell at Winn. To Puo I snap, “What the fuck, Puo! All you two needed was an hour alone together to make everything all better. Become friends again?”

  Puo doesn’t answer, but stays twisted in his seat. His lips press together. His eyes stare off into the distance where the empty back seat is next to me.

  “He left us,” I say. “Both of us. We were a team and that meant nothing to him.”

  The silence in the car grows a gravitational unit heavier.

  I continue not looking at Winn and say quietly, “I’d kick him in the balls and steal the cash he owes us if I could. But we need him right now. You need him right now.”

  Puo flicks his gaze to me at the mention of the cash Winn owes us, but he blessedly keeps his mouth shut. We’ve never discussed that. We came to Vancouver precisely so I could confront Winn, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And now that it’s happened, all I feel is a hot rage simmering below the surface trying to claw its way out.