Chapter Two
The Fearless Leader
Edward had never run in heels before, and his skirt kept riding up. He teetered down the sidewalk, trying not to mind the stares. Tugging self-consciously at the hem of his too-small skirt. The guy he’d left passed out on the bank floor had made it look easy, but with the police swarming the streets, it wasn’t like Edward could go back and ask him how to be a Bad Bitch.
The people around him cheered as the music from the marching band reached a crescendo, and Edward stopped running. His hands were shaking again. Or maybe they’d just never stopped? The crowd was packed too close, and he imagined their breath crawling into him, wrapping around his lungs like filthy fingers. Feeling dirty and desperate, he shuddered. He didn’t belong here. He should be back home in his office, pouring over the calculations for MARCO’s next upgrade. Refining the training simulations and eradicating the remaining bugs in the system. Instead, he was shivering on the sidewalk, in the middle of the annual children’s parade, trying not to be offended when yet another mother jerked their kid out of his immediate vicinity.
To her credit, Edward was sure her aversion had nothing to do with Drag in general. Several Drag Queens were participating in this year’s parade, though they were much more put together. No. People were backing away in growing alarm because of the copious amounts of sweat staining his costume and, even more damning, the way he planted his hands on his hips, threw his head back, and groaned like a dying wildebeest.
He took a deep breath, groaned again. A beat cop spoke into the radio at his shoulder just a yard away. Yup. It was the sounds. But in his defense, sprinting a full block in stilettos was not for the faint of heart. He was limping toward the officer, eager to ditch the wig and skirt, when a thought brought him up short. The cops should have captured the ones responsible for these heists by now. They weren’t criminal masterminds, after all. Maybe they were still running free because someone wanted them to be. Not everyone in the BPD could be trusted, and there was no guarantee he’d be kept safe either from the sniper or the gang from today – especially once they found out he knew Bellum’s secret identity.
Ankles throbbing like a sore tooth, Edward continued along the boulevard. Shoving his lace front back a few inches so he could see where he was going as he strutted. It was important to look as if he did this sort of thing all the time and was not, in fact, running for his life. Thanks to the parade, as long as if kept his cool, he didn’t stand out. Were the cops at the bank by now? Many of the main roads had been shut down in preparation for the parade, so there was no telling.
Don’t be suspicious. The clack of his heels on the concrete set up a staccato beat to accompany the command. Don’t be suspicious. Don’t be suspicious.
“Hey, red!”
He froze at the unfamiliar voice and glanced up.
A taco truck was parked at the corner, and a Latino with a goatee and a topknot glared down at him from the serving window. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the young man hissed.
Edward glanced first one way and then another. He pointed to himself, and the young man sighed, muttering something beneath his breath in Spanish.
“Get in here,” he said, reaching up to unhook the posts propping up the awning. He disappeared from view, and a minute later the backdoor of the food truck swung open.
Edward hesitated, all his mother’s warnings about strangers and vans running through his mind. Something about knowing someone out there wanted him dead and being an accomplice to a bank heist had him scrambling inside, regardless. As soon as he closed the doors behind himself, the truck took off. Nothing was strapped down, and Edward clutched the prep table so hard his knuckles whitened as the young man swerved down a side street, punching the gas as soon as they drove beyond the parade route.
“Um, hey…” Edward began, uncertain. “Would you mind dropping me off h—”
The truck screeched to a halt in front of an abandoned laundromat, and Edward slipped in his heels, landing hard on his ass. Legs windmilling, he tugged his skirt back down over his ass, yelping as the doors slid open again. Two men carrying a third between them hauled themselves inside. One of the men was soaked red with blood, his head rolling as his companions lay him on the floor of the truck. The smell of salsa and baked meat was accompanied by fresh blood like copper and stale sweat. On the radio, someone was rapping in Spanish, and the driver turned the volume down. Turning in his seat, he eyed the damage and sighed. “You dicks are getting blood all over the lettuce, man. That’s, like, thirty OSHA violations right there.” He scowled. “Where’s everyone?”
One of the men, shorter than Edward by at least a foot and sporting a massive potbelly and a shock of blond hair, shook his head grimly. “Drive,” he said.
Edward went very still. The guy wasn’t in costume, but he recognized the Mayor’s voice. Dressed in a simple t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting gray sweatpants with Cheeto streaks along one leg, he was an angry gremlin with a thinning top. He glanced at Edward in his Ms. Bellum get-up in annoyance, before focusing on the task at hand. Shit. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. How the hell am I supposed to get away from these people? Luckily, it didn’t look as if any of them suspected him. Yet.
“Hospital-” The cry drew everyone’s attention. His voice was familiar too. The Professor. His shirt and neck were wet with blood, and he was pale as he did what he could to stem the flow. The bullet had struck so close to his neck that Edward feared the shooter might have nicked an artery. This was his fault. The knowledge swallowed him whole where he huddled in the dank, dark interior of the truck. The rap had been replaced by a woman’s soft, crooning ballad, and Edward’s eyes stung with the urge to cry.
His breathing grew haggard.
“No hospital,” the Mayor ordered. “You’ll get stitched up in the back of the bowling alley like the rest of us.” He turned on his companion. “What the hell was that, Diesel?” the Mayor hissed.
The third man, Diesel, ignored him. “Newbie, hold this,” he said, waving Edward over.
Edward hesitated before scooching closer, ducking his head so his wig hid most of his features. There was no time to let his anxiety get the better of him. Having a task to focus on helped.
Diesel pressed Edward’s hands against a folded plaid shirt they were using to stem the bleeding. Then he got to his feet and claimed the passenger seat while the Mayor continued his rant.
“So much for being the fucking lookout,” the guy snarled. “Don’t you have 20/20 vision or some shit? How’d you miss a fucking sniper?”
Diesel shook his head, too busy cleaning his hands and arms with a towel he’d swiped from the prep counter. “Don’t start with me.”
The Mayor shook his head in disgust. “Leave it to you to fuck up every chance you get.” Scrambling forward, he clutched the back of Diesel’s seat for balance as the food truck bounced and swayed. “Dusty should have ditched your ass years ago.”
Silence filled the cramped space, and beneath Edward’s red wig, sweat gathered.
“That’s not how the Legion works, dude,” the driver said. “At least not since Bobby took over. Even I know that.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing, Nico,” Diesel replied with an edge of warning in his voice.
Nico shrugged, his expression pensive in the rearview mirror. “Look, I love Dusty as much as the next guy. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t heard rumors.”
“What rumors?” the Mayor asked.
“People think Dusty’s weak. Soft. Hell, we know better, but from the outside looking in…” Nico shrugged. “Me and my abuela would have gone hungry if not for the Legion. And I’m not even a member. Around here, you guys are like Robin Hood and his merry men or some shit.” When no one spoke, he shifted. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I think you’re good, Diesel. I’m sure Dusty will understand.”
Diesel scowled.
“You been watching those Hallmark movies again? What did I tell you about that shit?”
“Jesus Christ, Nico!”
“Nico, you dumb little shit!”
“Shut the fuck up, Nico!”
“Fine,” Nico roared above the heckling. “Christ, I take it back. You’re all pieces of dog shit. My bad. I guess we have nothing to worry about then.”
Worry? About what?
The answer came quickly enough.
Weakness in Briarcliff meant there was a target on your back, and a weak gang was a dead one. Dusty, being known for his kindness, was a failing he wouldn’t live long enough to regret unless he was particularly ruthless behind closed doors. An inkling of an idea took root, but before Edward had the chance to explore it, the truck careened to a stop outside of a run-down bowling alley. The neon sign on top of the building was turned off, and the parking lot was empty. The angry gremlin – formally The Mayor - threw open the truck doors. Still squabbling, he and Diesel dragged their bleeding friend out of the truck and through the doors without a backward glance. Nico wasted no time, pulling away in a cloud of white smoke before they even cleared the entryway.
Still dazed, Edward grabbed another towel from the prep area and took the seat Diesel had just vacated. It brought him closer to Nico, but he wasn’t as nervous around him now. Regardless, it was better than trying not to slide around in his heels and failing. “So, we heading back to the bar?” He said, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Bubbles said we should meet up there before we all split up.”
“Bubbles?” Nico laughed. “Don’t let Joey catch you calling him that.” He scowled. “Speaking of Bubbles, why the fuck you still in disguise for, bruh? You walk into initiation looking like that, and Dusty’s gonna be pissed.”
Dusty. Who the hell was this person? The other men had spoken of him with reverence, so Edward imagined some hardened gang member who enjoyed murder and mayhem. He shook his head. It didn’t matter how bad Dusty was. The enemy of his enemy was his friend, and anyone was better than the hitman on his tail and the monster who’d hired him. If Dusty had an altruistic streak, maybe he’d be willing to aim some goodwill Edward’s way.
“I don’t have anything else to wear,” he answered, when it was clear Nico was waiting for some sort of response. Was he convincing enough? Did he sound like a badass who would rob a bank and beat up a robot? He cleared his throat and tried again. “Besides, I look good in red.”
Nico shot him a look from the corner of his eye, then nodded. “They’re going to eat you alive,” he mused. Jerking the wheel to one side, the young man pulled up to a derelict Dollar General. “Grab a new outfit and be back here in five. The parade’s going to end soon, and we need to get off the roads before the cops mobilize.”
Edward nodded, tripping over himself in his haste to escape the truck. He teetered into the Dollar General, nodding to the sour-faced teenager manning the register. Hurrying over to the clothing section, he grabbed a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. On impulse, he snatched a sheet of temporary tattoos from the children’s aisle on his way back to the register, only to double back and grab the rest of the display just to be safe. The “new recruit” from the bank had been covered in tattoos beneath his disguise. Edward needed to look the part if he had any hope of getting through this. As the kid at the register rang up his items, he considered running for it.
Two things stopped him.
MARCO was the world’s first AI-powered security system. Capable of assessing risks with the same discernment as its human counterparts, it revolutionized the industry. Or it would, as soon as it was cleared for distribution. The main issue was AI had no moral compass. When met with resistance, it often chose to ignore human directives if those directives meant failing its objective.
The most recent case involved a simulation of a carjacking. MARCO was integrated into the power grid of an average city. Through security cameras and traffic cams already in place, it was able to track the carjackers as they eluded police. The problem was, rather than following the suspects and gathering intel, MARCO manipulated red lights and, in the end, caused a massive collision. A calculated decision prioritizing the capture of its target over any potential loss of human life. When Edward adjusted the faulty code, MARCO went into preservation mode. Giving the impression that the issue was fixed, even when it wasn’t. Running the exercise again with different commands and safety parameters just resulted in disaster.
Edward shared his concerns with his business partner, Andrew, only to be dismissed.
“Look, Eddy, we’ve got to give our investors something. You’ve been holding onto this tech for five years, and the shareholders are starting to get antsy. The phone assistant thing is cute, don’t get me wrong, but MARCO is the future.”
And so it was. He held out for a while, citing bugs and glitches and distracting the board members with other projects he was developing. But at some point, Andrew began negotiations with the military about MARCO and drones, and the next thing Edward knew, he was being threatened with a conservatorship—a loss of everything, including his free will.
Andrew had no idea how MARCO worked, but someone with enough skill could reverse-engineer his own version of the technology based on Edward’s code. It’s why he was against the beta testing. But Andrew insisted, and the more trouble Edward caused, the more credibility he would lose and the more likely the conservatorship became. Still, he refused to go down without a fight. Last week, he went before the board and gave them an ultimatum. Either they voted in favor of firing Andrew—at which point they could divvy up his shares in the company amongst themselves—or Edward would disband the corporation.
This was around the same time someone cut the brakes on his car.
It was the first assassination attempt, but not the last. This morning marked the fifth time he’d almost died in the last week. It started off small: peanuts slipped into his food, even though his staff knew he was allergic. A car veering too close during his morning run. At first, he thought he was going insane. Living in seclusion all those years could do that to a man. When he got a call demanding money, he knew the danger was all too real. At first, he was relieved. Sometimes he got a little lost in his own head. His eyes and ears liked to play tricks on him, and it was hard to tell reality from dreams, dreams from memories. Even now, it was difficult to believe any of this was happening. He was moving through a thick fog, one he couldn’t quite pull himself free from. Drowning.
He was drowning.
“That’ll be $52.78,” the cashier said, the impatience in her voice an anchor.
“One sec,” Edward squatted a bit, reaching down the front of his skirt where he’d managed to stash some of the cash from the bank. It was damp, either from sweat or the sprinkler system at the bank, he didn’t know. His smile was stiff as he slid a 100 dollar bill across the counter. “There you go.”
The kid stared down at the soggy paper in disbelief.
“Keep the change,” Edward said over his shoulder as he left.
Hurrying back out to the food truck, Edward couldn’t help but wonder if whoever was blackmailing him was in it for the money, or if it was just a ruse to get him in the bank as it was about to get robbed. Did the Powerpuff Girls work for Andrew?
No. They hadn’t been there for Edward, and they’d lost a few of their own in the crossfire. Still, whoever it was had known what they were planning beforehand and would have used the heist as a cover for Edward’s murder if he hadn’t gotten the hell out of there. At the very least, there was a mole among their ranks. A piece of information he was sure their boss would find useful.
Dusty.
He wasn’t looking forward to meeting him, but something told Edward this Dusty person might just be his port in the storm. Assuming the guy didn’t kill him first.