16. Talon
TALON
The sensor beside the balcony doors flashes orange as the security system enters into diagnostic mode, HAKR confirming that it’s offline but looping for the monitoring service. I slip my phone back into my pocket before pulling a black balaclava down over my face.
The door handle offers no resistance when I test it. Fucking morons. Just because it’s on the second floor doesn't mean it’s safe to leave unlocked. But hey, just makes my job easier.
I ease the door shut behind me, stepping into the guest wing of the sprawling manor. I’ll never understand the appeal of having a house so obnoxiously huge that entire rooms aren’t used or even fucking furnished.
What’s the point?
Such a waste of– well, everything– just to be able to brag about their excess.
From the footage and blueprints I reviewed, the office should be at the start of this hallway, just off the stairs.
The house is completely silent, Maxwell and Lucille Nelson off at a charity gala to pad their public image as he prepares to run for The Registry’s open Treasurer position.
After tonight’s assignment, it’ll be a wasted effort.
According to the encrypted job request I accepted, Maxwell caused a wreck three years ago and used his power and connections to make it disappear.
His drunk ass crossed the center line, forcing a young single mother from The Fringe off the road as she was coming home from a late shift.
He didn’t even stop– just left her stranded in the embankment.
By morning, when the accident was discovered, all traffic footage in the area had been wiped.
The medical report noted her blood alcohol levels were off the charts, no matter how much she claimed she didn't drink, leading to a ruling that she lost control due to intoxication.
She probably would’ve been better off dying in the accident.
She lost her job, medical bills consumed her savings until she couldn't afford her apartment, and she hasn’t had a permanent address since.
The father of her child is now fighting for custody, and she doesn’t have the resources to put up much of a battle.
Maxwell Nelson’s reckless disregard for humanity ruined her life, and I’m here to find any physical or digital trail that can tip the scales and keep him from gaining even more power to exploit.
I enter the office to find an oversized mahogany desk across from a fireplace, flanked with leather wingback chairs. On the smooth surface of the desk sits a lone laptop, a wireless charging pad, and a formally posed family photo.
To avoid disrupting too many things, I start with the computer, connecting my phone and letting HAKR comb over the local files and cloud servers.
The client account for this assignment had some bogus name attached to it, with a carefully routed and untraceable payment. Even though it seemed a little suspicious, I didn’t hesitate in taking it. If they stiff me on the payment, I’ll survive– this assignment hit too close to home to pass up.
The man whose DNA I unfortunately share was once in the midst of launching his own political career. I don’t know what became of it, and I don't really give a shit.
Why would I care?
Why would I want to put a face or a name to the man who loathed the very fact I existed?
The man wanted nothing to do with me, yet somehow made my mother resent me for being the living proof of what he’d done. He funded and fed her addiction until it left her corpse rotting in one room while my terrified five-year-old self was locked in the closet for fucking days.
Knowing who he is wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.
And as much fun as it would be to disassemble him bone by bone until he fit inside a box with more pieces than cheap furniture, I’d rather let him remain the fucked up motivation that drives me to filet a thousand more despicable pieces of shit just like him.
I'll spend an eternity in hell with the bastard one day, and there, I'll make the devil look away in horror with what I do to him.
You reap what you sow, after all. Little did he know that fucking the eighteen-year-old intern behind his wife’s back would create a monster that could shatter his pious image before I could even tie my shoes.
The laptop pings as the recovery program finishes dredging through the deleted sectors of his hard drive. A folder resurfaces on the screen, buried three directories deep and surprisingly password protected.
Smart.
Not smart enough to stop me, but a cute attempt.
I launch a script, a cavalcade of letters and numbers flooding the command window as it tears through every possible combination. It takes all of six seconds to crack it.
“Fucking moron,” I mutter as the folder opens.
Inside is a meticulously organized digital confession– messages arranging private meetings, wire transfers routed through shell accounts, and copies of the footage that mysteriously disappeared before it could be entered into evidence– it’s all here, practically fucking gift-wrapped for me.
My cursor hovers over a zoomed-in and sharpened still of the person behind the wheel staring directly at the camera.
Plot twist– it’s not him.
My gaze shifts from the screen to the framed photograph beside the laptop. The vapid smile is gone, but there’s no mistaking that face.
Turns out he wasn’t just covering his own ass, he was covering hers.
“Oh, Lucille,” I admonish, as I start scrubbing my trail. “You blitzed out, bitch.”
Having a cunt doesn’t make someone any less capable of being one.
I send the zip file off to the client, backtracking and cleaning up my physical presence as much as the digital one before slipping out into the night.
I crack the throttle as my front tire hits the parking garage ramp.
The exhaust pops in quick succession, every sound ricocheting through the concrete structure.
At the bottom, I smash my boot down to lock up the rear brake, my other heel scraping the cement as the back tire whips sideways and wrenches the R1M neatly into the stall beside my truck.
Speed. Control. A quick jolt of adrenaline to dull the hunger gnawing inside me.
For now.
That’s what seeing the little stray was supposed to do, but the taste I got of her didn’t curb the curiosity. It only made it worse, refusing to let me move the fuck on. I spent the night out at my cabin, hoping the change in scenery might smother the rest of my curiosity.
It didn't.
So, I took an assignment. Then another. But not even the high that used to come with those did it for me.
Instead, there's a crawling pressure behind my ribs that tightens whenever I think about Miller putting his hands on her. As much as I enjoyed splitting him open with a bottle, I’d rather split her open with my cock.
Fucking nepo bastard. If his dad hadn’t pulled strings to get him a job he didn’t deserve, it would’ve saved me so much hassle. At least he won’t be fucking shit up and touching Jersey– or other Assets– ever again.
The sense of entitlement that comes with social status and bloodlines is fucking ridiculous.
None of that makes you better, smarter, faster, or invincible.
If anything, it paints a larger target on your back.
Going around boasting about your net worth, the valuables you own, and your connections only creates an itemized list of what someone else can steal.
Half the blood in my veins is from an elitist fuck, and it’s fucking worthless. On paper, it might make a difference to other pompous jackasses, but that’s only because they’ve been programmed to believe it actually makes them superior.
Knocking down the kick stand, I kill the engine and swing my leg over the bike. My boots thud against the concrete with each annoyed step as I stalk toward the elevator.
I need a fucking drink.
I heave a sigh as I crack open my wallet to pull out my access card, that restless fucking itch burrowing deeper beneath my skin, sinking into my bones where I can’t fucking reach it.
No more.
I swipe my access card to call the elevator, then pull out my phone to delete the goddamn shortcut to Jersey’s video feed. Cutting off my access should finally put an end to this shit.
But before I reach the settings, her feed is already loading.
I’m a fucking liar.