Sloth

by Lana Pecherczyk

  “Ever heard of knocking!” Sloan stomped her sock covered foot.

  “You weren’t answering my messages.”

  “That’s because I’m seriously busy, bras.”

  “Someone has to be serious about getting you back to fighting shape.”

  Sloan looked down her body. As far as she was concerned, she was good enough. A few months ago, the call of her slothful sin had overwhelmed her. She’d spent too much time sleeping, never eating, never doing anything. When each of her siblings sensed their sin, it produced a trickle of unease. This sense became unbearable the closer they got to a deadly sinner, urging them to end the offending cause of their sick sensation. The Lazarus family preferred to help sinners redeem themselves before a crime was committed. The thing was, low level exposure to sin was also tricky. Over time, if not balanced, she could fall under the influence of her sin—either become sloth incarnate, or the opposite. Whatever that entailed.

  Sloth had a strong call.

  Her bed had a seductive voice.

  But those days were behind her. For the past few months, she’d felt like a new woman. She worked out, sort of, she ate better and she had goals. Sure, she didn’t have a six-pack like her eldest sister Liza, but she was okay with that. For her, this was good.

  “Why do I have to be buff?”

  Wyatt arched an indignant eyebrow. “Because lives depend on your strength, that’s why. Do you really want to put yourself in a position like last time, simply because you decided you’ve had enough training?”

  By “last time” he referred to when Sloan hid beneath a dead body and let their mother do all the hard assassin work. It sounded worse than it was. Yes, she had been unfit at the time, but she was also out of practise, and got a case of slothful feet.

  “So, why are you here?” she asked.

  Wyatt held out a box. “This is the last of Sara’s things I had at my place. Her old phone is in there, and some other bits and pieces I found hidden under the couch.”

  “Why are you bringing them here?”

  Wyatt shrugged. “Don’t want them, and you might be able to crack the phone. Get inside and snoop around.”

  Curiosity piqued, and Sloan looked in the box. Next to the old smart phone was a small red jeweler’s box. Sloan picked it out. “Why do you think I’ll want this?”

  Expecting the engagement ring he’d given Sara, Sloan opened the box and gasped with delight.

  It was a replica of Usagi’s and Mamo’s engagement ring in Sailor Moon—her favorite Manga. Pink heart diamond center surrounded by little clear diamonds on a platinum band.

  Wyatt laughed. “That’s why.”

  She shot him a wry, arched brow. His laughter took some getting used to. Being with Misha had done wonders for his mood. Having a baby on the way also changed him. The jury was out on whether she thought the new change was for the good. He was the last of her siblings she would ever have thought to catch the love-bug, but he did. So had Evan and Griffin. They were dropping like dominos.

  “I didn’t know Sara was into this geek stuff.” Sloan’s fingers hovered over the ring. She snapped her hand back to her side. “But it’s weird. I can’t wear anything that psycho woman touched.”

  Sara was Wyatt’s ex-fiancée from a few years back. She had also been working with the Syndicate and had tried to murder Wyatt. It took him a long time to get over the betrayal, but he’d found Misha, his lifemate, and he knocked her up. They were happy. Misha was the happiness to his wrath. She balanced him perfectly, and it showed.

  Sloan collected the box of items. “Maybe I’ll hack the phone.”

  “Are you coming down then?” Wyatt asked. “You’ve missed the past two workouts.”

  She groaned and dragged her feet to her kitchen bench, laying the small box on top. He was probably right. This was her sin talking. To prove her point, she lifted her inner wrist and inspected her Yin-Yang tattoo. Instead of being equal parts black and white, it was three-quarters black. The ink reacted to her biology, giving her a visual marker for how saturated her blood was with the sin of sloth. Too much sin, and she was in danger of blacking out and murdering any slothful sinner in proximity, even if they were redeemable, or just having a lazy day. Not enough sin in her system, and too much white showed on her tattoo. If this was the case, then the same outcome applied. She would blackout and enter a berserker sin-ending frenzy.

  A shudder wracked her body.

  Her computer beeped with an alert and they both looked over.

  “Holy hack,” she breathed. “The algorithm got a hit.”

  Wyatt watched over her shoulder as she investigated the new information. She’d followed the money trail from The Kremlin nightclub bank accounts and had been bounced around from dummy corporation to an offshore account. Finally, she’d found something: GPS coordinates. Typing them into the public Google Earth mapping system, she cursed at the mass of black area blocking the bird's-eye view of the land. “Double shit. It’s a black site. You think this is their base?”

  “That’s got to be the Syndicate.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Good work. Let’s go tell the others.”

  Sloan enjoyed the warm rush of endorphins from the praise. It felt good to be useful again. Good to stack up next to a family of muscle bound heroes she could never physically compete with.

  “I’ll just put some proper clothes on. Be right behind you.”

  “See you downstairs.”

  After Wyatt left, Sloan went to her closet and peered inside. For the first time in a while, pride straightened her spine. Instead of putting her robe on over her underwear and heading down in her slippers, she put on jeans and a blouse. Hell, she even brushed her slightly ratty long hair and tidied the locks into a single braid. But as she opened the door to leave, she found she couldn’t cross the threshold.

  “Come on, Sloan.” Her hand wouldn’t let go of the doorknob. “You can do it. Let go of the handle. It’s only downstairs. Not like you’re going across the street. It’s not like he’ll be there.”

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and counted to ten. When she got to eight, she let go.

  “You’ve got this.”

  Two

  The Nightingale Securities office was a furnace even after Max Johnson wrested control from Sloan’s evil clutches. With the outside temperature still in the nineties, the cooling system struggled. Sweat dripped down every dip and cranny of his body. He received no relief, despite being shirtless and using a folded sheet of paper to fan his face.

  He scanned the space of the small business he’d started. Only four worked there, but the tight-knit crew was all he wanted for the time being. It was hard to trust these days. He wouldn’t have taken anyone on, except he owed his mates, Daymo and Tom-Tom. It was Max’s fault they’d needed a job.

  The fourth person in their crew, Bailey, had found them. Don’t ask him how. The ex-CIA agent was a wonder of mystery. He’d been suspicious of her intentions at first, except the pain on her face when asked about her agency history was real. The only reason she’d let it slip about her past employment was an olive branch of trust. She needed out, and she needed a job. For that to happen, she had to build trust with Max. There was a reason the CIA were often called spooks. You weren’t meant to know who was one. He respected that. When he caught the pain in her eyes, the first time he’d asked, he didn’t push for more details. He knew that look well. Saw it in the mirror daily.

  In two months, he’d turned the washed out, run down retail space into a neat, respectable little operation. Kitchen, office and entertainment room out the front. Locker room and showers out the back. Storage room with a cot. It was all he needed.

  The sound of the door opening came just before the voice. “Phew. What cooked and died in here?”

  “Me.” Max turned to greet Bailey Haze. “Back so soon? How was the job?”

  After dumping her bag on her desk, she pulled her sweaty, curly black hair into a top knot and fanned her face with a hand.
Despite the heat, she still wore smart business attire. Bailey believed you had to dress for respect. Black tailored pants hugged her hips, and a classic white button-down shirt complimented her brown skin.

  Once, he’d made the mistake of suggesting the woman relax a little and dress down. Her response had been to purchase them all matching navy wool jackets with the Nightingale Securities emblem on the breast pocket. It made them look like a bunch of pansy-assed Prep boys rather than the rugged ex-soldiers they were. The tailored piece was itchy and as uncomfortable as hell. It was also currently hanging in his locker, waiting precariously for the day Bailey decided they should all “dress up” again.

  He shivered involuntarily.

  He’d stick to his fatigues, T-shirts and bomber jackets, thanks.

  Admittedly, right then, he felt like a half-naked oaf next to her slick style, but she barely spared a second glance at his lack of shirt. Already her head was shaking as she thought back to the question Max had asked.

  She peeked inside her handbag, searching for something. Found a compact mirror and took it out before landing her chocolate eyes on him. “Would have been a lot easier if it weren’t for the damned clowns needing an escort. Remind me again why we took that job?”

  Because they needed the money. He retrieved her firearm and went to the weapons cage on the wall. “You’d rather go back to the CIA?”

  The tendons in her jaw flexed. “What crawled up your butt?”

  He sighed, unlocked the cage and put her gun inside before locking it back up. He flicked his gaze back to his desk and the screen where he’d caught the CCTV video footage mixed up earlier. It must have been Sloan messing with him. She thought he had no clue about her meddling in his life, but he knew her style. He wouldn’t be surprised if the intolerable heat in this office was her doing. Sarcasm dripped from his tone. “Maybe you’d rather join the Lazarus Babysitters Club.”

  She jerked back, eyes widening. “You sassing me now? Because a gig like this is what you get when you’re dishonorably discharged. Wasn’t me who made you come here.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You know I have my reasons. Now, you got any more lip for me, or can I leave for the day? There’s a Cosmo with my name on it waiting for me.”

  “Boys will be back soon. You don’t want to wait?”

  “No. Any other jobs?”

  “Nah, mate, I’m good. You can go. Thanks for your work.”

  The look she gave him said “Damn, straight I can go” but the actual words out of her mouth were, “All right then. See you tomorrow, sunshine.”

  “Prop the door open on your way out, will you?”

  After she left, he sat down at his sweaty desk chair and opened the Lazarus family dossier he’d created for the team. As far as the Nightingale crew knew, the Lazarus family were rich, spoiled brats and their women in need of protection. Even though Daymo and Tom-Tom had served with three of the Lazarus brood: Parker, Wyatt and Tony in the Australian Army, neither Daymo nor Tom-Tom knew about the Deadly Seven. Neither did Bailey. They didn’t need to know. The only reason Max knew was because Sloan let her secret slip before… well, before his life went to shit.

  The Lazarus secret was what brought Max across oceans to Cardinal City. He was done with the military and their brand of by-the-book justice. He wanted a brand of justice a little more effective, especially after Gale.

  Unable to stop himself, his gaze tracked to the large service photograph on the wall under the Nightingale Securities sign. Four of them dressed in army fatigues, desert behind them, dirt in their faces, squinting at the sun. Smiling. Max, Tom-Tom, Daymo and Gale. Only three were left. None were smiling now.

  Half his life—that’s how long Max had spent with those men. It was more with Gale.

  As if conjured by his thoughts, the sound of two men conversing filtered in from the back door. Max looked over in time to see them come in. Daymo, the big bearded man, and Tom-Tom—the smaller, tattooed man with a shaved head—shouldered through the door, still armed and wearing their Nightingale Securities black ball hat and uniform: black fatigues and a black T-shirt with a logo.

  “Man, if it were any hotter out there—” Tom-Tom started, paused and looked to them all for effect. Picking up the cue, all three of them finished with: “I’d be roasting.”

  They all shared a moment of silence, reflecting on their absent friend who would say that exact phrase every morning they’d wake up sweltering in the Middle Eastern desert. Max’s eyes drifted to the service picture on the wall again.

  “Boss?” Daymo took off his hat and dumped it on his desk. He scratched his red-tinged beard and then scrubbed his dark hair.

  Tom-Tom unclipped his firearm from his holster and plonked it on his desk. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Max replied. “Waiting for you two slow pokes to get your shit together.” He gave a pointed look to where Tom-Tom had laid his gun. “That needs to be in the cage. You too, Daymo. Put your things where they belong.”

  Not one, but both men, rolled their eyes at Max.

  Daymo grumbled, “Yes, mum.” But he did it with a smile.

  Max ignored them. He was used to it. He was the boss and had a responsibility to make sure these fuckers kept safe. The last thing he needed was an accidental firearm discharge... or worse.

  He cleared his throat.

  When both soldiers returned from the weapon’s cage, they strode over to Max’s desk.

  “You coming out for a drink tonight?” Tom-Tom asked.

  Daymo jerked his chin toward the front door. “We found a place about a half a click from here. Serves the best barbecue chicken and actual beer. None of this sissy shit they drink here.”

  Max half-smiled. “You go. I want to stick around in case—”

  “Yeah-yeah,” Tom-Tom said. “In case you’ve forgotten to dot the i or cross the t.”

  Daymo glanced at the service picture on the wall. “You know he wouldn’t want you sitting here brooding over things.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” Max snapped.

  “Then why haven’t you called his parents back?”

  The energy left Max’s body, and he slumped. “I’ll do it soon.”

  “Whatevs, boss.” Tom-Tom fished out a business card from his wallet and dropped in on Max’s desk. “That’s where we’ll be if you change your mind.”

  Ten minutes later, the temperature still hadn’t dropped, and Max was starting to regret his decision to stay, but he’d given his crew the night off. It didn’t mean he would have it. Security jobs came in at all sorts of times.

  To prove his point, the shrill sound of his desk phone echoed in the empty room. He picked up the handset. “Johnson.”

  “You’re needed.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Your pride always did make me want to puke.”

  “What’s up, Parks? I mean, besides your puke.”

  A low masculine chuckle. “How soon can you get over. We’ve had a break.”

  Max checked his watch as if he had somewhere to be. “I could head over now.”

  “Good. See you soon.”

  Bounding out of his chair, he went to the locker room and found himself a fresh shirt to put on. He considered having a shower, but decided against it. Parker usually let him use their state-of-the-art gym, and with nothing left to do at the office, he needed to keep busy.

  If he stopped, his demons would come out to play.

  Five minutes later, Max found himself outside the private elevator door in the Lazarus House lobby across the road. With his position in the company, he had full security clearance to the multi-story building. After Sloan’s latest onslaught of pranks, he half expected his biometric scan to be denied.

  When the elevator doors opened, the car was empty, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The scanner read his face and thumbprint to activate the artificial intelligent interface. She was a new security upgrade in the building since they’
d discovered Wyatt’s ex-fiancée had worked for the enemy.

  “Welcome back, Maxi-Pad,” came the feminine computerized voice over the intercom. “What level would you like to go?”

  He closed his eyes, trying his patience. “Basement.”

  “Stand clear. Doors closing.”

  Bloody hell. Maxi-Pad? When was she going to let up? Probably never. The two of them used to spend hours planning pranks on anyone they’d perceived had done them wrong. From her brothers, to Gale, to the gamer who’d once decided to drop into their game after tracking them on a live stream only to one-shot them. Bad form. Point was, when Sloan set her mind to do something, she followed through. That’s why he was surprised with how she’d ended things between them. Not even a goodbye.

  The elevator slowed, then stopped. As the doors opened, the voice came over the speaker again. “You have arrived at the basement level. Have a nice day, Maxi-Pad.”

  First the heat today, then the name. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think this was Sloan’s version of foreplay. But he did know better, and she hated his guts. This was animosity.

  Hoisting his duffel bag over his shoulder, he stepped into the secret underground headquarters of the Deadly Seven. The first time he’d seen the place, he’d been blown away. Years ago, when Sloan had told him what she did in her spare time, he’d never imagined the magnitude of the operation. Well funded, well planned, and well run. Grateful for the opportunity to help in any capacity, he didn’t even care if that meant being a glorified babysitter for their public identities. At least he was being useful and not waiting for red tape to clear before making a difference, however small. By protecting the identity of the real heroes, he could save lives that counted.

  Raised voices came from the operations room, getting louder as he approached. He passed the med room, weapon’s room, gym, and a few other closed doors before arriving at the big open space that consisted of the communications room and conjoined workshop.