5. Jersey #2
He jumps down, rocks and glass grinding beneath his boots as he lands with unsettling ease behind me. I take off running, barely making it two steps before heat prickles across my scalp. His fist tangles in my hair, wrenching me backward.
"Not so fast," he growls, whirling me around. Tightening his grip, he jerks my head back, ragged breaths sawing from my lungs as he forces me to look up at him. His eyes are impossibly blue, a jagged scar cutting over the left one. "And where do you think you're going, little stray?"
"None of your business," I snap, twisting in his grip.
He arches a blond brow, watching with twisted fascination as I thrash and shove against him.
"Let go, Sasquatch," I spit, clawing at the hand buried in my hair.
"Keep it up," he taunts, lips quirking with amusement. "I've got all day."
Muttering a string of curses, I drive the toe of my boot into his shin over and over, throwing all my weight into every kick. The fucker doesn't so much as flinch. My motions slow, chest heaving as a frustrated snarl rips from my throat.
"That all you got? The struggle’s my favorite part." He smirks, head dipping down. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he adds, "And my dick was just starting to get hard."
An unwelcome flush heats my cheeks, and he chuckles in response, the sound low and thick with dark satisfaction. This asshole thinks he’s won, but I’m not done yet.
My fingers close around the handle of the letter opener and I pull it from my hoodie pocket, plunging it into his thigh. It makes a slick, wet sound as I yank it free, blood dripping from the blade.
"Fuck," he grunts.
Using the split-second distraction, I jerk myself free from his grip.
A fresh rush of adrenaline floods my system as I take off running, weaving through the back streets, the duffle bag slamming against my hip with every hard slap of my boots.
My muscles start to burn as I careen around a building, skidding to a stop in front of a chain link fence.
With my hands braced against my knees, I fold forward, fighting to catch my breath. I sweep my gaze over the alley, spotting a gate next to the building. Moving closer, I see a chain and padlock, but there’s just enough slack for me to squeeze through.
Thank god, because I’m not in the mood to climb anything. And unlike that overly coordinated freak, I won’t land gracefully if I fall.
A lamppost flickers at the edge of the lot, casting a hazy yellow glow onto a small utility shed.
I move closer, using it for support as my body sags.
After a beat, my pulse begins to slow and I let out a groan as I slide to the ground.
Sweat and dirt smear across my skin as I drag a hand down my face, but I'm too exhausted to care.
Letting my eyes slip shut, I bang my head against the metal exterior.
How the hell does this keep happening to me?
A gnawing ache flares from my stomach. I dig the heel of my hand into the scar, waiting for the phantom feeling of the mercenary's bullet ripping through my skin to pass.
He wasn't supposed to shoot me that night.
They were just supposed to collect me. I'd heard the two of them arguing about it right before searing pain erupted from my gut. The other one– the one who didn’t try to kill me– came to check on me.
"Insubordinate fucking nepo baby," he'd murmured, applying pressure to the wound as I passed out on the cement.
Tonight’s Repo Man didn't even pull his gun.
Well, not on me, at least.
Insects hum, tree branches creaking as a gentle breeze filters through the property's neglected landscaping. And for a brief fragment of time, my mind stills, an arbitrary sense of comfort settling my nerves.
I'm not lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the sound of Commander Martin's footfalls on the stairs. There's no lingering dread about what mood he’s in. There's no more expectations... and I don't know if that excites me, or terrifies me.
Because the universe is clearly offended by my moment of peace, the sound of sirens wailing in the distance cuts through my thoughts. I try to figure out where they're coming from, but the sound weaves through the maze of buildings, throwing me off.
There's a flicker of relief as I remember The Registry's already outsourced my collection to the Mercenary Syndicate, so those Enforcers aren't coming for me.
And a Repo Man wouldn't give warning to his approach.
He'd watch in silence, stalking me like an apex predator until I let my guard down. Then he’d go in for the kill, and right now, I'm the perfect prey.
I need to unload this shit at a pawn shop and get a hell of a lot further away. Somewhere he can't find me.
Except...
Unease begins to prickle beneath my skin as I push to stand, the duffle bag slipping from my shoulder.
How did he find me?
I bend at the waist, reaching for the strap when a faint light pulses in my peripheral. My brows furrow, gaze snapping to my wrist and bile rising in my throat as the cracked screen of my Guardian cuff glitches.
Fuck.
My fingers scrabble at the composite casing, desperately trying to remove the godforsaken thing.
How is it even still working?
Not that it matters because it's already fucking tattled on me.
Is that why he didn't chase me harder? Why he didn't shoot?
A flush creeps across my skin. I'm such an idiot. I thought I one-upped him, thought I got away. But no, he knew I could run until my lungs collapsed and he'd still be able to find me.
Huffing in frustration, I slam my wrist against the shed over and over. The thin metal rattles violently with every blow but the cuff still refuses to break.
Goddamn it.
Unshed tears burn my eyes as I desperately clutch the letter opener and start stabbing at the matte black band.
My hand trembles as I keep digging, blade slipping and piercing my skin more than once.
I swipe the opener across the crest of my thigh, smearing mine and the Repo Man’s blood across the denim.
Jamming the tip into a split along the edge, I twist and pry until the shell finally cracks apart.
Pieces of the casing fall to the ground, exposing wires and microchips– the lifeline of their toxic control. And to think there was a time when being told I couldn't go to a concert felt unfair. Turns out, being stripped of your agency and sold makes the latter feel downright laughable.
But I'm not laughing.
Wires bite into my skin as my fingers wrap around them and rip them off. I shudder a breath as I throw them to the ground, stomping the heel of my boot onto the screen until it's beyond repair. The tightness in my throat slowly ebbs the longer I stare at the remnants.
My jaw flexes as I spit on the pieces. Track that, Sasquatch.
Having wasted more than enough energy on the tracker, I start across the lot, blood already crusting over the handful of jab marks on my wrist. It's ironic that my now naked arm offers me concealment. There's a sentiment of victory in that thought, but also a taunt of embarrassment.
Why didn't it occur to me to remove it sooner?
Even if I thought it wasn't tracing me, it was still a shackle. Broadcasting my status as property– as A311 and not a person. Not as Jersey.
The thought gives me pause. Maybe that's why the destination doesn't matter as much as creating distance; a separation from the world designed solely for people like me to fight to survive in, never to thrive.
At the edge of the property, a corner of rusted chain link fence curls away from a post in its own act of defiance.
Shoving the duffle through first, I crawl through the opening on my hands and knees, dusting off my jeans as I straighten on the other side and stand.
The dirt brushes away with ease, but the streak of deep crimson from the letter opener is encrusted on my thigh. So much for clean clothes.
My teeth sink repeatedly into a raw spot on the inside of my cheek as I take in my surroundings. To my left, I spot a cluster of lights and buildings, and I'm betting it's one of the business hubs in the Fringe. Well, I'm hoping it is, anyway.
Call it luck or cosmic pity, but as boarded up buildings give way to storefronts, a neon pawn shop sign is the first thing I see.