10. Talon
TALON
Slade sits behind a multitude of screens as I hand him a bottle of Angler's Ale and drop into one of the lounge chairs in his office. Taking a long, satisfying pull of my own beer, I watch his fingers fly across the keyboard.
After dropping Jersey's unconscious ass off at the Vanguard, the residual high I had from hunting her wouldn't let me sleep. I made some progress on my game campaign I'd abandoned earlier, but something about the whole assignment kept scraping at the back of my skull.
There were no public details about Commander Martin's default or death– just a vague announcement that a new Treasurer has yet to be appointed.
Something about the whole thing feels off.
The Registry loves making a public spectacle of consequences, but there are clearly pieces of this story they don't want told. The whole thing stinks of corruption. Eventually, I switched off my game, pulled out my laptop, and put my irritation to work trying to get into Jersey’s Registry file.
I managed to get past the first few weak-as-shit firewalls before giving up and crashing.
Apparently, giving into the intrusive thoughts after being up for twenty-eight hours straight was the tipping point to finally knock me out.
The script I wrote hit a phase of multi-layer encryption that I couldn't crack.
Clearly, they outsourced that job to someone with actual brain cells, so I texted Slade.
He was out on assignment, but his cocky ass was eager to fuck around with it, calling me as soon as he pulled into the garage.
"Lazy fucking coding," Slade mutters, shaking his head before taking a swig of his beer. "Using the same encryption key twice is just pathetic."
I huff out a laugh and sink back against the leather, propping one boot up to rest on my other knee.
The same hungry focus I get during a good hunt is spread across Slade’s face as he mocks every flaw he continues to uncover, but I'm only half listening, my attention shifting to the blood crusted around one of the silver eyelets on my boot.
Being so close to breaking into The Registry's files but not actually managing it annoyed the piss out of me.
I don't give a shit about having to ask Slade– I'm arrogant, not ignorant– but when I latch onto something, I get this itch.
At first, it crawls beneath my skin. Then it festers, and unless I find something else to focus that energy on, I get reckless.
So, I took an assignment. If I'm going to be reckless, might as well make it worthwhile.
It was a standard hit– the client was angling for a political spot, and some rich cuck was threatening to blackmail him.
It's painfully ironic watching how these entitled pricks strut around with a false sense of power inflating their egos.
In the end, their eyes look the same as anyone else's when I snuff out the lights and they’re nothing more than scraps of tissue on my boots.
I don't know why it matters if the rest of the world finds out how corrupt or fucked up any of them really are when their government does deplorable shit daily. Call it unprocessed trauma, deep-seated resentment, or just pure fucking joy, but watching his paranoia add zeros to his offer, then blowing some jackass’ skull apart and using every piece of his technology as target practice was cathartic as fuck.
"Fuck yeah!" Slade shouts as his palms slap against his desk in triumph. Unplugging my phone, he whips around and holds it out to me with a smug grin carved into his face. "Got you fully integrated with permanent ghost access that will feed you live updates."
The Registry's app is still open on my screen when I swipe my phone from his grip, and I immediately navigate to her file.
"Thanks Slade, I owe you more than just covering one night’s tab," he supplies for me, draining the rest of his beer and pushing to stand.
"Thanks," I deadpan as I glance up and cut him a glare. "I'll pay for whatever feral whore you can convince to be worn like a wrist watch, too."
"And that, ladies and gentleman, is a real fucking friend," he chuckles, slapping a hand against my shoulder before pointing to the empty bottle beside me. "Want another?"
"Yeah," I murmur absentmindedly, swiping a hand over my chin as he heads for the kitchen. My focus quickly shifts back to my phone as I click into Jersey’s profile.
Jesus.
The network facilitation shows there's 52GB of new files available.
There's a link to every evaluation, as well as medical and disciplinary reports dating all the way back to the day they labeled her A311.
Guardianship Deeds, Property Insurance Policies…
even a link to Commander Martin's Auction Affiliate profile.
That includes breakdowns of his financials, applications, employment records and–
I frown at my screen.
Tax Exemptions and Rebates for Asset Ownership?
This place is so goddamn twisted it's not even funny.
I've been inside files of bastards with some of the highest clearances in Northbrooke, but never into anyone's Affiliate profile.
I just know that if I start digging now, every reprehensible thing I learn about will only shove me closer to the edge until torturing a corpse doesn't do shit for my endorphins.
Grumbling in annoyance, I swipe my thumb across the screen, returning to the main page of her file. The corner of my mouth twitches in sync with my dick as her picture stares back at me in defiance.
Should've torn into that cunt while I had her lips turning blue.
Fuck, I need to bury myself in some bitch’s throat.
Or maybe more sleep.
Hell, probably both.
I tap in and out of links until I find her latest files.
The property surrender form I signed is mixed in with her visual medical inspection, shift transfers, and staff notes.
There are sections left blank and flagged for review due to incidents or attitude, breakdowns of her blood panels, and finally, her preliminary appraisal.
"Here," Slade says, passing me a beer as he returns to his computer, keys clicking beneath his fingers.
"Do you want to keep drinking this overhyped shit, or go run up my tab at Eleventh House later?" I ask, swallowing a mouthful.
"It's not overhyped," Slade scoffs. "It's artisanal."
My eyes flick towards his desk and I cock a brow.
"And my dad buys it by the truckload, so it's also free." Slade raises his bottle in a half-assed toast. "Cheers."
"You're fucking ridiculous."
"Nah, but I've got to monitor one of Sergei's betting terminals for a scammer. He wants them delivered in pieces to his place in Turks and Caicos by morning."
I narrow my eyes. "To do what with?"
"Dunno," he shrugs. "And as long as he keeps paying my retainer, I don't give a shit."
"Missed opportunity." I shake my head, rolling the neck of the bottle between my fingers. "Could keep him alive and feed him to the sharks piece by piece."
Slade snorts. "Not everyone is as big of a connoisseur of carnage as your deranged ass."
"Compliment me all you want," I point the beer bottle at him, "but your hand’s not coming near my ass."
"Bruh, you wish I was willing," he chuckles, still muttering as he swivels back to face his computer. "These hands should be insured for the raw talent they possess in and out of the bedroom."
I roll my eyes and resume reading the report.
Each part of Jersey’s body is broken down with ratings or referrals.
There are notes for different avenues of consideration for placement, further mental reviews scheduled, and a suggestion for a clandestine bidding class due to a prominent disfiguration of the abdomen.
Curiosity has me scrolling towards the pictures.
I expect to find a close-up of some gnarly scar, but instead, the media icon is a full-body shot of her stripped bare in a sterile medical suite.
My first instinct is to find that photo and zoom in on those perky little tits she was hiding beneath her hoodie, but when the album loads in full screen, I see a fresh bruise staining the entire right side of her creamy torso.
I didn’t put that one there.
The muscle in my jaw flexes as I pan up to her throat, pleasantly surprised to see the outline of my fingers still imprinted on her skin.
I swipe through the rest of the photos, finally coming upon one at the end labeled 'disfigurement' with a red arrow pointing to a small puckered scar near her belly button.
These are some pretty fucked standards when the majority of their market is shaped like bags of wet saltines.
"Would you fuck her?" I ask, flipping my screen towards Slade.
He leans forward to swipe through the images. "It'd be better if she could manage some more facial expressions," he murmurs, adjusting his glasses and leaning back in his chair. "But she's got a good body. Why?"
"They lowered her value for a scar she's had on her stomach since she became an Asset seven years ago."
I flip the screen back around and zoom in on her face, wanting one last taste of that defiant look she wears so well. But in these photos, her eyes are dull. Irritation slithers beneath my skin as I close out of the app and check the time.
It's only nine, but I'm too tired to think straight. The nap I took before Slade returned wasn’t nearly long enough.
"I'm headed out," I grumble, pocketing my phone as I push to my feet, swallowing the rest of my beer in one long gulp.
"This early?" he scoffs, folding his arms over his chest.
"Still catching up from last week, and I've got to sign for the cabin's off-grid security power cell first thing."
Slade rolls his eyes. "It’ll be outdated by the time you finish that place."
I raise my middle finger in his direction, boots scuffing against the black polished concrete as I head for the door.
"What's the deal with her anyways?" Slade asks.
And even though I know he's clocked the hesitation I feel in my step, it'll be a cold day in hell before I acknowledge it.
"Later," I mutter.
"Rest up kid,” Slade calls as I reach the door. “When I'm back, we're going to Eleventh House."
I just grunt in response, stepping out into the hall.
I head for my apartment, my mind still churning over all the documents I haven't even opened yet. I don't have any real reason to sort through Jersey or her dead Guardian's file anymore, but as today's assignment proved, people can hold more than just their own secrets.