Chapter 14
LEGION
The low frequency growl of my bike’s engine was the only sound other than the soft metal groan of the Williamsburg Bridge overhead. Every once in a while a heavy truck rolled across the steel spans, and the vibration traveled up through the frame, rattling my teeth and settling deep in my bones.
"Keep your eyes peeled, Legion," Hoax’s voice crackled in my earpiece, sharp and clinical. "The maps suggest they aren't using the active lines. They’re deep in the guts of the old BMT expansion. It’s a ghost station, six tracks that were never finished.
“What the hell, how did they get access to that?”
“It’s probably been abandoned for so long, the city forgot about it. It’s right on the Brooklyn/Queens border and the entrance is hidden so just keep alert.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“It’s a dead zone for radio, so if things go south, you’re on your own."
"I see the access point," I muttered, leaning into a turn.
"Don't just ride in there like a tourist. Find a blind spot. If they see a bike, they'll know someone's sniffing around."
I veered off the main road, steering the bike into a narrow, shadow-drenched nook tucked beneath the massive concrete pilings of the bridge.
The darkness here was thick, smelling of nasty river water and old exhaust. I killed the engine.
The sudden silence was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the cooling metal and the distant, muffled roar of the city above.
I kicked the stand down, grabbed my gear, and slid off the saddle. I moved the bike further back into the gloom, obscuring it behind a rusted construction barrier and a pile of discarded debris. Only then did I turn my attention to the descent.
“This is no joke.”
“What?”
“This path could kill someone.”
I stepped off the paved edge and slid down the steep, grit-covered concrete embankment. The air shifted instantly. The salty breeze of the street was stripped away, replaced by a stagnant, bone-deep chill.
"I'm at the mouth of the tunnel," I said, my voice barely a breath.
"Copy. Watch your step.”
“Dude this place looks abandoned decades ago.”
“Most likely. The interference from the bridge's reinforcement steel is a bitch. Stay sharp. The blueprints show a lower maintenance level that connects to the old service tunnels. That's where the Scorpions have set up camp."
I clicked on my tactical light, the beam cutting a narrow path through a haze of floating dust and pulverized concrete. Thick streaks of mineral deposits ran down the tiles, and the smell of sulfur and wet iron clung to the back of my throat.
"I'm at the stairs," I coughed, covering my face with the collar of my jacket.
"Copy. If you see any trip-wires or…"
The signal snapped. A burst of static hissed in my ear, then nothing. Total silence. I tapped the earpiece. “Hoax? Hoax you there?”
The line had gone dead just as he had said and I was alone in this hell hole.
“Fuck,” I cursed as I moved deeper into the tunnels, my boots clicking softly against the cracked porcelain tiles of the platform.
The architecture was meant for thousands of commuters who never came and now, it belonged to the rats that infiltrated the city.
I reached the lower level, where the ceiling dipped and the air grew thick with the scent of something foul.
A sound drifted through the tunnel and I crouched, staying very quiet. Voices.
I killed my light and when I looked around the corner, a dim, amber glow flickered in the tunnel, signaling life. I pressed my back against the cold concrete, sliding into the shadows. My heart hammered a steady rhythm against my ribs and I took a deep breath before creeping forward.
Below me, the Scorpions had turned the ghost station into their own little hideaway.
They had crates stacked like ramparts and a few mismatched sofas strewn across the grime-streaked floor.
A single industrial work lamp cast long, distorted shadows.
There were guns lying everywhere, on top of crates, makeshift tables.
Everything from semiautomatic weapons to shotguns.
Three figures stood in the center of the light.
Two men, most likely Bloody Scorpions. They didn't wear the polished leather of a club, they wore grease-stained denim and heavy boots, their faces mapped with scars and tattoos.
Between them stood a woman draped in matte black.
She looked less like a person and more like a tear in the fabric of the room.
One of the men, a slab of a human with a broken nose, grinned, his teeth yellowed.
"I couldn't have done it better myself," he barked. His voice echoed, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. "The way the blood sprayed across the wallpaper? Art. Pure fucking art."
He stepped closer to her, his eyes roaming. "The tongue though. That was a really nice touch. Really sends a message about talking too much."
The woman didn't move. Her voice was a low, freezing current that cut through the man's arrogance.
"I'm not here to chit chat," she said. "I want my money."
The second man, thinner with a twitch in his jaw, chuckled. "Okay, okay. Don't get your panties in a twist."
He reached into a leather jacket and pulled out a thick wad of bills, held together by a rubber band. He held it out, but didn't let go immediately.
"The next half comes when you complete the job."
The woman's hand shot out, snatching the money with a speed that made the man flinch.
"The job is complete," she snapped.
The slab of a man stepped into her space, his chest puffing out. He sneered, his voice dropping an octave.
"The job's complete when I tell you it's complete."
He shoved his palm hard into her chest, trying to knock her back and her reaction was instantaneous. The woman's hand clamped around his wrist and I heard a sickening pop. The man’s face contorted, his eyes bulging as she began to twist his finger backward.
"Give her the rest, you idiot," the thinner one hissed, quickly counting out another stack of bills and shoving them into her hand.
The woman released the man's wrist. He stumbled back, clutching his hand, his face flushed with a mixture of pain and rage.
“Touch me again and I’ll break it,” she stated while counting the money.
"We need that agent killed," the thin one said, his voice urgent now. "The feds are squeezing our supply lines in Queens. We want them to feel true fear."
The woman looked at the money, then back at them. Her expression remained a mask of indifference.
"I don't fuck with the feds," she said. "It's too dangerous. You'll have the entirety of NYC after you. That's a heat I don't carry."
"Exactly," the big one spat, recovering his ego. "The Prez wants it to rain hell on those bitches for taking our territory. We want a war. We want those cunts to know that the Scorpions don't bow to anyone."
The woman let out a short, dry laugh. It sounded like sandpaper on stone.
"I don't give a shit if your dick shrunk because some girls came and kicked you in the balls," she said. "I don't fuck with the feds."
The thin man stepped forward, his eyes wide. "We'll double the payment."
The woman paused.
"Triple it," the big one added, his voice desperate.
She opened her mouth to respond, her lips parting to negotiate and that was when it happened.
A fat, grey rat scurried across the concrete, its claws clicking. It ran straight over the toe of my boot. I jumped, a reflexive jerk of my leg, and my boot scraped loudly against a piece of fallen debris.
The rat let out a piercing squeal and the silence that followed was absolute. Three pairs of eyes snapped toward the shadows where I stood.
"Fuck," I cursed under my breath.
I knew I was made. I wasn't one to run, but three against one, in a confined space, with no backup was not something I was up to.
I had left my colors at the apartment to stay incognito, but that didn't make me invisible.
It just meant they didn't know who to blame for the blood they were about to spill.
"We got a fucking stalker!" the big one roared.
I didn't wait for the invitation. I pivoted and bolted back into the tunnel, my boots pounding the concrete.
"Get him!"
I heard the heavy thud of boots behind me, but one set of footsteps was different. Lighter. Faster. The woman was coming.
“Don’t fuckin’ lose him!”
I rounded a corner, sliding through a narrow gap between two rusted support beams. I felt a presence behind me and spun, throwing a heavy right hook. The woman ducked, the air whistling over her head. She countered with a lightning-fast strike to my solar plexus.
The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. I staggered, my vision blurring for a second. I grabbed her shoulder, swinging her toward the wall to pin her. I didn't strike her hard. I didn't believe in hurting women. I tried to grapple her, to neutralize her without breaking her.
She responded by driving a knee into my thigh and slamming her palm into my chin. My head snapped back, a metallic taste filling my mouth.
"You're soft," she hissed.
She stepped back and reached into the small of her back. In one fluid motion, she drew a combat knife, the blade matte black to avoid reflecting light.
I lunged, grabbing her wrist just as she swung. We locked together, a frantic struggle of muscle and breath. I twisted her arm, trying to force the knife away, but she was a coil of tempered steel. She slammed her forehead into my nose.
A crack echoed in the tunnel. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, coating my lips.
Behind us, the Scorpions were closing in. The sound of gunfire erupted, the muzzle flashes illuminating the tunnel in strobe-like bursts. Bullets chewed into the concrete around us, sending shards of stone flying like shrapnel.
"Kill the little rat!" the big one screamed.
I shoved the woman away and dove behind a rusted electrical box. A bullet pinged off the metal, the vibration rattling my teeth. I reached for my weapon, but the woman was already there.
She didn't come at me head-on. She slid through the shadows, and in seconds I felt a sudden, searing heat in my side.
She had side-swiped me. The knife had found the gap in my jacket, sinking deep into my flank. I gasped, the sensation a deep invading burn. She didn't pull the blade out immediately; she twisted it, grinding the steel against my ribs.
I roared, slamming my elbow into her temple. She staggered, the knife sliding out of my flesh with a wet, sucking sound.
I scrambled to my feet, clutching my side.
Blood leaked through my fingers, warm and viscous.
I turned to run, my breath coming in ragged, wet gulps, when another burst of gunfire erupted behind me.
I felt a sudden, concussive blow to the side of my head.
A bullet had grazed my temple, tearing through skin and muscle.
The world tilted. The amber lights of the station began to spin, blurring into long, golden streaks.
I stumbled, my legs turning to lead and I hit the concrete hard, the impact jarring my spine. I slid a few feet, leaving a dark smear on the floor.
The shouting was distant now, muffled as if I were underwater. I could hear the heavy boots of the Scorpions approaching, their voices triumphant, hungry.
"Got him," someone yelled.
I winced, the pain in my side blooming into a white-hot roar. I felt the coldness of the floor seeping into my skin. With trembling fingers, I reached into my pocket and fumbled for my phone. I needed to call Hoax, he was the only one who could help me.
My vision flickered. The edges of the world were turning black, the shadows of the tunnel reaching out to pull me under.
The phone rang once. Twice. Then, the line clicked open.
"Legion? I've got you back. What's your status?"
Hoax's voice sounded a million miles away. I tried to speak, but my throat was full of copper. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
The darkness rushed in, heavy and absolute, and then it overtook me.