4. Talon
TALON
"Heading back out?" Slade asks, adjusting the strap of his rucksack on his shoulder as I walk past him into the parking garage.
I shrug. "When you're actually good at your job, you get contract bids," I say, my metallic grey Raptor glowing to life when I hit the unlock button on the key fob. "Not just the pity ones Chief Pierce assigns you."
"Fuck off," he chuckles, slamming the tailgate of his Jeep Wrangler shut and striding closer. "Some of us just have a more specialized offering."
"I wouldn't classify being able to fist a bitch with one hand while decrypting a mobster's phone with the other as much of a specialty." I yank open the driver door, tossing my duffle onto the passenger seat and turning to face him.
"I wasn't just decrypting it," he scoffs. "I was bypassing military-grade encryption at gunpoint, asshole. And it still takes more skill than blowing out an eyeball from eight hundred meters away."
"Nine hundred," I correct, climbing into the cab and switching on the ignition. "And that's all I need for these pricks to keep bankrolling my cabin project."
"The same cabin you never have time for because you're a workaholic?" Slade snorts, pulling his phone from his pocket and studying the screen. "Looks like Sergei needs my basic-ass skills," he mutters, typing out a reply.
He glances up, a rogue smile spreading across his face as he tips his chin, "Want to make it interesting?"
I raise a brow. “What you got in mind?”
"Last one done with their assignment buys the drinks at Eleventh House?" he suggests.
"You're on." I throw it in drive, tires squealing against the pavement as I stomp on the gas.
He flips me off as I tear past him and peel out of the garage.
Slade isn’t my only friend, but the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother. Hell, I’d claim him and his dad, Chief Pierce, as blood over the narcissist who brought me into the world.
I was never one of her priorities. Wasn’t even an afterthought. I was an inconvenience that she kept shoving behind locked doors.
Chief Pierce didn’t ask what I could do for him. Didn’t question whether I was worth saving. He just threw me in his truck, took me back to the compound, and gave me a life.
Turning towards the city, the highway disappears into the night as my headlights cut through the darkness. My phone connects to the truck, sending a heavy bass beat pulsing steadily through the speakers. The rhythm builds, distorted vocals layering in, and my focus sharpens into something primal.
I switch over to the GPS, a light blue circle encompassing a shitty neighborhood in the Fringe that I tracked A311 to earlier. My tech abilities may not encompass attracting infamous Russian crime families like Slade's, but I can hack and code better than most.
Better than anyone at The Registry.
When that Lieutenant shot at A311, he hit the primary transponder in her cuff, killing its direct feed to The Registry.
Those lazy idiots never even bothered to check if the GPS receiver was still functional, but I did.
It's been pulling satellite coordinates and using the nearest cell towers to relay her position, mapping out the little stray's trail across Northbrooke.
It won't report an exact location anymore, but all the towers downtown made it goddamn child's play to hone in on a quarter-mile radius.
The tracker has been pinging from the same area for the last six hours.
A little house pet like her isn't used to covering twelve miles on foot through the slums and overgrown lots, so she's likely exhausted, if not injured.
Probably both. So unless my coordinates are wrong– which they fucking aren't– she's stopped moving.
Splitting off from the highway, I follow along a stretch of cracked blacktop into the outskirts of the Fringe.
East of here, where I was with Wade, that's the closest you'll get to a suburb; blue-collar workers and struggling businesses going on about their days to the best of their ability. The West side though, it’s seedy as fuck.
The Registry's Enforcers even steer clear of this place.
Once upon a time, they'd planned to build another data center out here.
Came through, bought up property, forced people from their homes, and got as far as starting demolition.
When they realized the infrastructure was not only old, but couldn't support the demands of the center, they did what they do best– fuck it all up.
Instead of upgrading the systems, they just increased the outputs to force it all through the existing systems and– fucking shocker– it failed.
They backed out, relocated, and started over again, leaving this place a shell of what it once was.
Squatters moved in, gangs made it their headquarters, and the few average folks that were left learned to survive amongst the riffraff.
After a few Enforcers came back with missing limbs, The Registry stopped patrolling altogether.
Over the years, more people that were hard up migrated here too, claiming what they could and trying to start over.
Technically, The Registry still owns most of the properties, but once they realized that leaving the lights on was keeping the low lives out of the city, it became a tax write-off.
The coordinates take me to an ominous-looking area with just a few working streetlights, the boarded-up houses and buildings left to rot in the shadows.
Deciding it'll be easier to hunt her on foot, I ease off to the side of the road and kill the engine.
Reaching for my duffle, I drag open the zipper and pull out my handgun.
The familiar weight of the Glock settles into my palm as I rack the slide and holster it at my hip.
The contract said to bring her in alive, but it didn't say I couldn't subdue her with a little bit of lead.
Giving the GPS a refresh, I slide out of my truck and pocket the keys. Lucky for me, the signal still shows her in the same area, so she must be holing up here– unless she's already fucking dead.
That’d ruin all my fun.
Broken glass crunches beneath my boots as I continue down the street with my head on a constant swivel. Raiders and strung-out douchebags don't scare me, but I'm not in the mood to waste time with their bullshit, especially now that Slade upped the ante.
In my peripheral, light leaks from between a row of boards haphazardly covering a broken window.
I pause, watching as a few young guys linger near the entrance of a rundown structure, the cherry of a cigarette glowing brightly as they lean back against the bricks.
At the same time, a middle-aged man holds open the door for a couple of kids.
Evidently, that shithole is one of the livable apartment buildings.
The perfect spot for a stray Asset.
I can't decide if she's smart for running to the west side or just goddamn dumb. No one out here has the means to help her. And even if they did, they wouldn’t.
Everyone is here for their own self-preservation.
But if she knew that, and just slipped in and kept to herself, they'd disregard her completely.
"Who are you?" one of the guys scoffs, flicking his cigarette at me as he pushes off the wall. In a pathetic attempt at intimidation, he saunters forward and steps in front of me. “I said–” he stops, eyes widening as he catches sight of the syndicate patch on my tactical vest.
That's what I thought, dipshit.
He doesn’t try to finish his sentence. Doesn’t even make a sound when I shoulder-check him, knocking him off balance as I pass.
One look at the insignia on my chest was all it took for the wannabe tough guy to back down like a little bitch. The mercs skull and dagger emblem warns most to keep their distance– pretty sure the only one who'd get a colder shoulder is the grim reaper himself.
A single fluorescent bulb buzzes overhead as I enter the building, damn near tripping over a scruffy-looking man passed out on the ground with a brown paper bag clutched to his chest. The low murmur of voices drifts down from the second floor as I move towards the stairs, reaching for the banister.
The sight of a bloody handprint smeared on the dingy white rail gives me pause.
There’s no telling where it came from, but my gut tells me I’m on the right path.
And my instincts have never failed me before.
Each step lands with a dull thud against the concrete stairs as I take them two at a time, following the sporadic trail of blood drops.
The pungent stench of stale cigars and cheap weed hits me as I round a corner at the end of the hall, tendrils of smoke curling around me as I come to a stop in front of two men on a tattered sofa sharing a blunt.
An entire minute passes before they even register my presence.
"Whoa bro," one startles, choking on his inhale as he holds the blunt out to his buddy. "Where'd you come from?"
"Oh, shit," the other says, barking a laugh. "How's a guy your size move so quietly?"
"Dude, did my ears stop working?" the first asks, slapping the back of his hand against the other's chest.
"MICAH!" his friend twists his head and yells.
"Why’ya yelling?" he responds, and they both start laughing.
Good fucking god.
Slipping my phone from my pocket, I open A311's profile and click on the picture. Her impassive stare fills my screen, dark brown hair framing her face in waves.
"Seen her?" I ask, annoyance tightening my jaw as I hold my phone out towards the dynamic dipshits.
Micah squints at the screen as he leans forward. "She's hot," he drawls, bloodshot eyes lazily flitting up to mine. "What's it worth to you?"
In one smooth motion, I draw the Glock from my hip and press the barrel firmly between his brows. "Less than the lead I'm about to bury in your fucking skull."
Whether he’s faded to oblivion or just plain stupid, the guy barely even reacts to the threat, a smug grin curving his lips as he glances up at me. "C'mon man. Help me, help you," he says with a laugh. "That tight little body looked yummy, I'd gladly pay five–"
I don't have time for this.
A twitch of my trigger finger, and brain matter splatters against the wall behind him, the gunshot echoing off the concrete as his corpse slouches to the side.
"OH FUCK MAN!" the other guy shouts, clutching a hand to his chest.
"Your turn," I deadpan, swinging the blood-splattered Glock in his direction.
The unmistakable smell of piss floods my nostrils.
I glance down, rolling my eyes as a dark spot spreads across the front of his jeans.
"Th-there," he stammers, pointing down the hall.
"Tw-ent-ty s-sev-ven, I th-think." His mouth hinges open and shut with every word like a broken puppet, eyes wide with terror.
I drink in his fear like oxygen, a smile coming to my lips as I holster my gun and pivot on a heel.
My pulse kicks up, the thrill of violence mingling with adrenaline as a twisted smirk spreads across my face.
As much as I like the hunt, the struggle is the real moment of pure fucking bliss– when they realize they're caught and give everything they have at a last chance.
I bask in the thrill of it, soak up that terror until they wear themselves out.
Then I go in for the kill.
Something dark and primal unfurls beneath my ribs as anticipation spikes. I hope A311 puts up a fight.
"Knock, knock," I drawl, twisting open the door for apartment 27 and kicking a busted lamp out of the way as I step inside. "Repo Man."
My eyes sweep over the place in a quick assessment. There’s light spilling from a room to my right, so I stalk down the hall, half expecting to find her cowering in a corner when I turn into the bedroom.
She’s not.
It’s fucking empty.
Well… almost.
A torn piece of bandana lies discarded on the mattress. My eyes narrow as I pick it up and roll it between my fingers, crimson staining my skin in the process. It's still fresh, so she can't be far.
I turn to leave, barely making it two steps before a loud clatter echoes behind me. I whip around, crossing the room in three strides and ripping back the curtains.
A rusted metal ladder sways beneath the open window, a set of hazel eyes peering back at me from the bottom rung.
Found you, little stray.