2. Talon
TALON
"You've got twenty minutes until cameras are active again," I say.
Wade looks down at the address scrawled on the torn piece of paper in his hand. "Twenty minutes," he repeats, slipping it into the front of his dingy apron. "Got it. I'll have Sammy get over there and–"
"I don't give a fuck who does it," I grumble in annoyance, fingers drumming on top of the matte black gas tank. "As long as it gets done discreetly and I get paid, we won't have any problems."
"Oh-oh yeah." He chuckles nervously, passing me a wad of cash. "Dad mentioned you're not one for small talk."
By some miracle, I manage to resist the urge to break his fingers as I take the money from him.
I thumb through the bills, making sure all two hundred and seventy-five dollars are there before pocketing it.
It isn’t much, but I’ve been outsourcing to the Blackwells for years.
It's my responsibility to dispose of the bodies– the one part of the job I can't stand.
Torture, mutilate, dismember, peel off their skin like it's a flesh colored glove?
That part's easy. The hunt. The kill. That's where I thrive.
But scrubbing blood and hauling remains off afterward? Hard fucking pass.
Lucky for me, desperation knows no financial bounds, and animals don't give a shit about what kind of meat gets ground into their kibble. So to help tip the societal scales, I started supplying the Blackwells with locally sourced ingredients.
Reduce, recycle, and reuse– or some shit.
Shifting back onto the seat of my bike, I kick back the stand and twist the key. The Yamaha R1M roars to life with a menacing snarl, my boots scraping against broken asphalt as I roll on the throttle and tear out of the alleyway.
Industrial factories and dilapidated buildings slowly morph into sleek structures and glass towers the deeper I get into Northbrooke.
One of the first things The Registry did after taking control was jack up the taxes and rent prices, forcing every non-million-dollar-company to move south.
And while it's still technically part of Northbrooke, I've never heard anyone call it anything other than the Fringe.
That's where working class festers– far enough from the skyline for the wealthy to pretend it doesn't exist.
High-rises loom around me as I ease off the gas, leaning into the curve of the exit ramp to leave the parkway and head for the compound.
The breeze whips past, the smell of damp earth growing stronger as the city lights fade from sight behind me.
My hand moves to rest on my thigh as I draw in a breath.
The air has a chill to it, the early signs of Fall creeping in more and more each day.
There aren't many who live along this stretch of highway, making it one of my favorites to ride.
People ruin everything– just look at society.
I downshift as a windowless structure comes into sight.
Home sweet home. Before it was the Mercenary compound, it was supposed to be a cost-effective data center.
Then salt from the lake corroded the cooling system, and The Registry decided rebuilding closer to Northbrooke's municipal water supply would be cheaper than admitting someone fucked up.
Nothing says efficiency like a billion-dollar tomb.
Pulling into the parking garage, I throw my bike in neutral and kill the engine, maneuvering the handles as I walk it back into the stall beside my Raptor.
Dismounting, my footsteps echo through the underground structure as I re-adjust the straps of my backpack and stride towards the elevator.
A swipe of my access card, and the elevator carries me to the main– and only– floor of the compound.
No one forces mercs to live here, but in the twenty-eight years I've been alive, it's the only place that's ever felt like home.
My phone vibrates against my thigh as I pass the corridor leading to meeting rooms and other amenities. Turning down the residential hall, I slide it out of my pocket, finding a text from Wade on the screen.
Wade
No need to come in. Got somebody to cover your shift.
The corner of my mouth tips up in a smirk. Using code– smart. Maybe the kid isn't as incompetent as I thought.
I fire off a thumbs-up emoji before unlocking my apartment door. Another notification comes through before I can even step inside.
Client: The Registry
Request: Asset Recovery– Alive
Completion Payout: $2,000
It’s almost painful how hard I roll my eyes– pass.
Isn’t that why they have Enforcers?
I swipe away the request as I move inside, the quiet stillness greeting me as I shrug off my backpack and turn on the lights. After two weeks of back-to-back assignments, I want nothing more than to be left alone for the next twenty-four hours.
Well, that, and a goddamn drink.
It's not like I can't turn down assignments– that's the glory of being part of the Mercenary Syndicate and not one of The Registry's brainless foot soldiers.
Sure, I still take on their jobs, but make no mistake, I'm always the one with the upper hand.
When they solicit one of the mercenaries, especially me, it means they're desperate…
and desperation is my favorite currency.
I'm the Repo man– a monster for hire. The bastard rich pricks pay to do their dirty work– extort, kill, or reclaim.
Toeing off my boots, I empty my pockets onto the kitchen island and swipe open the music app on my phone. The Bluetooth chimes as it connects to the sound system, and the low, hypnotic beat of Ecdysis by Deftones thrums through the built-in speakers.
I reach a hand behind my head as I move toward the bathroom, fisting the collar of my shirt and tugging it off in one motion.
Metal clinks as I undo my belt, shoving my jeans and boxer-briefs down, kicking them aside.
Steam fogs over the mirror as I crank the water to its hottest setting, and just as I round the glass shower wall, the music cuts off as another notification pings through the speakers.
I swear to god if that's Wade saying his guys botched it, I'll string him up by his entrails and crack him open like a fucking pinata.
Arthur assured me when he got sick that his son was more than capable of not only running Blackwell Pet Supply, but handling our little deal, too.
I don't like many people, but Arthur was one I could stand. His family was one of the last to get pushed out to the Fringe. Those new data centers were using chemical coolants to reduce water consumption and in their rush to build, corners got cut. Toxins seeped into the groundwater, multi-organ failure killing the guy within weeks. So, after bearing the full cost of relocating, the Blackwells had to get creative with their budgets. And that’s where I came in.
My bare feet slap against polished concrete as I charge into the kitchen and swipe up my phone from the black granite island. The screen lights up, and relief flickers through me when I see it isn't Wade, but another push of The Registry’s contract request through Exchange.
There really isn’t any rest for the wicked, is there?
The heavy build-up of some club remix starts to pulse from the speakers as I hit resume and discard my phone on the counter with a thud.
Pathetic.
Striding back towards the bathroom, I finally step under the spray, my shoulders sagging as hot water assaults my tired muscles.
With a forearm braced against the cool surface of the tiles, two weeks of sleepless nights spent doing recon, days of being confined to the shadows, and endless hours on my bike swirl the drain.
I let my eyes slip shut, water beading off my chin as my head tips forward with a contented sigh.
By the time I’ve finished, the water’s gone cold and my skin’s bright red.
Cutting the tap, I pull a towel from the rack and swipe it across my body, tossing it into the hamper before snagging my grey sweats from the hook on the door.
The waistband hangs low on my hips as I tug on the soft cotton pants and switch off the lights.
For the most part, all the units in the compound are the same– open concept living room and kitchen with industrial finishes throughout.
The bedrooms and bathrooms vary, some mercs still even living here with their families.
They think it’s safer that way, but if you ask me, it increases the risk.
I prefer to keep my distance from people anyways.
Without leverage, there’s only room for physical retaliation.
And fortunately for me, I revel in the pain.
In the living room, a bottle of whiskey sits beside the PlayStation controller on the coffee table where I left it.
My fingers curl around the neck of the half-empty bottle, flicking off the cap as I sink down into the soft leather of my recliner.
Heat blazes a trail down my throat as I bring it to my lips and take a long pull.
Fuck, it feels good to relax.
Shifting forward, I set it down and grab the controller, blue light glowing from the console as it hums to life.
The title screen loads as I recline back and open the same campaign I’ve been playing for months.
And without anyone to bother me or reasons to leave, I should be able to finish it before my next assignment.
The cinematic back story plays out before dropping me at my save point. I select my weapon and mount my horse, the character cutting across the Wild West to gather supplies for the mission.
All the real-life bullshit ceases to exist as I get sucked into the game's trance. Until another ping cuts through the speakers, that is.
For fucks sake.
With a sigh, I hit pause and rock forward, my controller skittering across the glass table.
I pluck up the whiskey and swallow another mouthful as I push to my feet.
I knew I should've put it on silent the second I got that confirmation text from Wade. I don’t bother to check who it was from before I start holding down the side button, the phone starting to power off as the notification pops again.
Client: The Registry
Request: Asset Recovery– Alive
Completion Payout: $4,500
I release my hold, and out of sheer curiosity I open the contract.
A set of hazel eyes stare back at me from the screen as it loads, 'A311: Level Three Threat' flashing in red beneath her picture. I skim over the asset’s profile, not a single thing clueing me in on how a meek little girl managed to achieve level three status.
Leaning forward, I rest on my forearms and scroll through the report.
Apparently, her guardian defaulted, so yesterday morning The Registry sent a set of enforcers to collect.
Standard process, blah, routine procedure, blah.
Then somehow, this 5'3" unassuming house pet stabs one in the neck, barely missing the carotid, and takes off running.
Instead of giving chase– the logical fucking thing– the other armed idiot fired off two shots, only managing to damage her cuff and knock it offline in the process.
They attempted to search, but without her tracker actively updating, they quickly lost her trail. Morons.
I click back to her picture and prop a hand under my chin. There's something in her eyes. At first, I mistook it for resignation, but the longer I study her, the more I think it's defiance.
Interesting...
Most of the assignments I receive involve some affluent prick going through predictable routines.
They’ll throw a weak left hook before crumpling to the floor, begging me to stop.
Some even offer to pay me, never realizing it’s the same money that put me on their doorstep in the first place.
One man’s blood money always bankrolls the next bastard's downfall.
But this one feels different. Exciting, even.
I finish off the rest of the whiskey, glass clinking as I drop the empty bottle into the recycling bin before walking towards my room. My thumb clicks accept, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. It spreads across my face as I start gathering up my gear.
Guess the day off will have to wait.
Time to hunt down some prey.