6. Talon
TALON
The corner of my mouth twitches with amusement. This little stray doesn't just bark, she bites.
I'm not threatened by resistance or that she ran.
Hell, I respect it. Too many people think success or failure is born from a single moment.
Sometimes it is, but more often than not, it's the sum of many.
Every step the prey takes, every choice the hunter makes.
People remember the kill, but forget everything that made it inevitable.
Kicking a chunk of splintered wood out of my way, I cut through another alley to find a chain link fence, a sign mounted across it warning that the building is condemned.
The dumpster lid bows beneath my weight as I plant my hands and haul myself onto it.
I catch the galvanized top rail, swing over the fence, and drop down.
The scorched skin along my thigh pulls tight as I straighten to stand.
Bitch must've nicked an artery for the way it leaked like a goddamn sieve. It took two seconds to sear the nerve endings and stop the bleed– quicker than taking the time to stitch that shit up. I actually like the pain. The way it builds, the way it shifts from uncomfortable to unbearable. Then it’s numb, the only reminder it even exists when the skin around it stretches.
The smell is another story. Burning flesh has no business smelling like rancid pork fajitas.
I stride towards the back entrance, steel rattling as I try the handle.
Locked. My eyes sweep over the building as I step back, looking for any other access points.
Most of the windows are boarded up. There are a few busted ones on the second floor, but there’s no fire escapes or footholds to climb.
The roll-up doors on the docks are padlocked, but I still yank on the handles.
There's a little give, but only about an inch before the chain goes taut.
Unless she can fucking teleport, she's not inside.
The location from the transmitter isn’t exact, I know that.
But it still irks me that she's not here.
Pulling my pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, I stalk the perimeter for my prey.
Half the block is already demolished– businesses forced to sell for next to nothing and then run into the ground. Just more casualties of The Registry.
That's what really pisses me off about these totalitarian fucks. All the posturing, the bullshit morals they pretend to have but are easily bought. If you’re going to gut someone open, at least have the balls to look them in the eyes while you do it. Fucking cowards.
With a flick of my wrist, a flame rises from the Zippo, lighting the cigarette hanging from between my lips. I take a drag, the bittersweet burn of nicotine filling my lungs as the cherry glows brightly.
Smoke lingers beside me as I exhale, my eyes landing on a small maintenance shed across the lot.
Looks like an easy place to hide. I stab the cigarette out on my vest, the soles of my boots grinding against the cracked pavement as I move closer.
I’m practically salivating to see the fear erupt in her eyes as I ease the handle down and drive my shoulder into the door.
The wooden frame splinters, hinges groaning as it flies inward.
Empty. Goddamnit.
My jaw tightens as I pull out my phone to reset the satellite connection, because it’s not my fucking coordinates that aren’t right. Something crunches under my foot as I pivot around. Curiosity mingles with annoyance, creeping up my spine when I see the pieces of her Guardian Cuff in the dirt.
I stoop down, inspecting the bits of wire and cracked shell.
There's blood smears on some of the pieces, more drops darkening the ground around them.
These cuffs are reinforced. Designed to withstand impact, water, heat– anything an Asset might use to remove one.
Heat settles low in my stomach at the realization of how resourceful the little stray is with a knife.
This hunt just got even more interesting.
Worn vinyl squeaks beneath my weight as I sink into a booth at some seedy bar in the heart of the Fringe. Without the cuff, my target’s completely offline, not leaving a goddamn clue as to where she went. And if I have to do recon, I’m gonna do it with a fucking drink in hand.
Swiping open the Exchange app, I click into her profile and scan over what they have– height, age, build, eye color. But it’s not enough. I need to understand her motivations to predict her movements.
I feed her profile into HAKR and let it run.
Slade and I built HAKR a few years back. Letting us crack credentials, find hidden files and bypass basic encryption– all from our phones. The more complex stuff still requires our computers, but it’ll work for this.
A middle-aged waitress moves from one table to the next, checking on others before stopping beside me. "Something to drink, hun?"
"Whiskey, neat."
She nods, scribbling onto her notepad. "Anything else?" she asks. Her smile falters as she glances up, spotting the patch on my vest.
Her imagination is already doing all the work as I meet her gaze.
"Actually," I start, watching the way she sucks in a sharp breath as I shift forward and rest my forearms against the laminate tabletop, "Make it a double.”
"O-okay." She exhales shakily, turning on her heel and heading straight for the bar.
Too easy.
The Mercenary Syndicate has a reputation, and I enjoy exploiting the fear that comes with it. Recognition breeds panic. And no matter how hard they try not to stare, they do. Wondering whether they're the reason I’m here.
"Here you go," the waitress says as she sets down the glass and rushes off to another table.
I swirl the amber liquid around before taking a drink. The familiar burn settles low in my chest as my phone lights up with a completion notification from HAKR. Perfect timing. With a tap, my target’s profile reloads, a new folder on the screen.
Jersey Ellis, Asset 311.
Jersey.
Somehow, I hadn’t expected a name.
Seized by The Registry at fourteen, she spent a year and a half at a state-funded boarding school before being marked for Appraisal and sold at auction when she was sixteen to Commander Isaiah Martin.
The Registry's own Treasurer defaulted?
With a quick swipe of my thumb, I open a text and fire off a message to Slade.
Me
Can you tap into the Enforcement Directives?
Slade
I'm offended you even asked.
Smartass.
It’s not that they're hard to access, they’re just classified. And outside of HAKR's parameters.
Me
In?
Slade
Almost. Was finishing off my assignment for Sergei.
And if I'm doing this, it means you're still out. I win.
Me
Asset Defaults for the last 48. Isaiah Martin.
Slade
You could start with, 'Congrats Slade, I shouldn't have doubted your brilliant skills.'
Me
Feel better?
Slade
A little.
Looks like it came down at 2:47 this morning. Charged with two counts of sedition, two counts embezzlement, and one count treason. Resisted forfeiture. Executed by Stewart and Dillons at 6:16 a.m.
Me
Send me a copy?
Slade
Already done.
Reaching for my glass, I take a long pull of whiskey and swap back to her profile.
She grew up in the Fringe. Both parents are out of the picture. Father's deceased– killed by an Enforcer after not paying back a relief loan. Mother– status unknown, rights terminated at birth.
I wonder if that makes it easier. Just never knowing them, not being able to feel the resentment. See the way it grows stronger with every bump of Coke…
I force the thought back into its unmarked grave before it gets a chance to breathe.
Jersey’s initial appraisal rating was high. No recorded incidents until after becoming an Asset, the most recent one added today. There's some academic transcripts, immunizations proving the bitch doesn't have rabies, and the last page is a Disposition of Remains order.
"If expiration is reached while not under Guardianship, viable organs to be transferred to Medical Management and all remaining tissue designated for incineration."
My hand hovers above my glass.
Not even twelve hours ago, I was peeling every inch of skin from a man and eating a bowl of cereal as I waited to see who won– Hypothermia or blood loss. Surprisingly, it's hypothermia. It's always hypothermia. And every time I find it just as fascinating.
Then I handed what was left of that bastard off to be turned into kibble.
Morality’s a fickle bitch.
I swallow the rest of my whiskey, closing out of her file and leaning back in the booth. My fingers idly drum against my thigh as I determine my next move. A311 didn't come here, trying to return home or hide. She knew there was nothing– no one– here for her. This was never her destination.
The Registry has controlled her life for the last seven years. That’s more than enough time to break someone's spirit. Reduce her into a submissive warm hole.
But she isn't.
My hand drifts to where she stabbed me, thumb grazing over the frayed material of my pants and the scabbed skin.
Would she do it again?
Eager to find out, I reach down and adjust my thickening cock. Grabbing my wallet, I toss a few bills on the table and stand just as my prey walks straight into my sights.
Jersey takes a hesitant step forward, brows pinching together as she scans the room.
Her chin dips with recognition as she seemingly finds what she's looking for.
One hand reaches up, clutching something around her neck as she crosses the room.
The hem of her oversized hoodie catches on the silver handle of the knife tucked into her back pocket as she leans against the bar.
An older man turns to face her, slinging the towel he'd been drying glasses with over his shoulder before tipping his head toward the end of the bar.
She scurries that way and he strides to meet her, his arms folding across his chest as they exchange words.
He points to the door, gesturing as if he's giving her directions.
Looks like the little stray is getting ready to run again.
Her back’s still turned to me, so I seize the moment and rise to my feet. Tugging up the hood of my sweatshirt, I make my way to the door and slip outside unnoticed.
The air’s crisp, the clouds hanging low with the promise of rain.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I lean back against the bricks with one foot propped up, hood slung low to conceal my face.
Pieces of muffled conversations drift over from a group of people clustered across the street, but I couldn't give two shits what they're talking about.
My only focus is her. The chase. The sweet satisfaction of capturing my prey.
Primal urges coil beneath my skin each time the door swings open, my fingers twitching with anticipation.
My head snaps toward the sound of metal banging against the building, a few drunks tripping over each other as they stumble out the door. The little stray trails behind them, her boots scuffing against the concrete as she darts around the group and hurries away down the block.
Let the hunt begin.
The tip of my tongue traces across my teeth as I linger in the shadows, letting her gain some distance before I pursue. Her steps are quick and eager, and I shorten my own long strides when I follow, preserving the distance between us so as to not give up my position.
She cuts across a wooded lot, and a flicker of movement catches in my peripheral. Seems like I’m not the only predator out tonight. She hops over a metal barricade, veers to the left and disappears out of sight– someone else just a few steps behind.
My molars gnash together. I don’t share.
A metallic crash erupts as I clear the corner, trash spilling from an overturned can as she grapples with a hooded figure on the brick beside it.
She writhes beneath him, one hand shoving at his face as the other slams into his ribs.
Leaving herself unguarded, he takes the opening, landing two shots to her stomach.
She grunts, flailing her legs and kneeing him in the nuts.
They trade a few more half-assed punches before she manages to clip his jaw.
Bored of watching, I draw my gun and fire off a round. She lets out a guttural scream as blood splatters and his body goes limp on top of her.
“You’re fine,” I murmur, holstering my gun and taking a step closer. “But your technique fucking sucks.”