20. Chasing Answers

20 – Chasing Answers

Hector was relieved to find the station milling with people waiting for the next train into the city center. He didn’t see any PKs, but he could hear drones up above, so he kept his head down and lingered close to other people. If they were bothered, they didn’t show it; most folks were more concerned with staying warm than personal space, which worked in Hector’s favor as the crowd grew and they all pressed together when the train approached.

Once he’d boarded, he pushed his way to the back of the car where a map of major streets and train intersections highlighted the stops. He wasn’t sure exactly what neighborhood Lemon’s apartment and the Velvet Strip were in, but he recognized some street names and drew his finger along the train line until he saw a major station—the big exchange where he and Lemon had boarded. With the stop number in mind, he sank into the corner, head down, and waited.

His body ached, and the cut on his hand stung, but overall, he counted himself lucky for getting away from the PKs so cleanly. He had no idea what they wanted Paul Chevelier for, but it had to be something serious to send that many PKs to collect him.

Did it? You don’t have a damn idea. His inner voice was right, he supposed; maybe the PKs in that district were just bored and they all showed up on the same call for something to do.

He opened his hand, looking at the torn flap of skin. Nothing some nanites won’t fix. Would the blood he’d left behind be a problem? Only if they had Paul’s DNA on file. Only if you go around giving up your DNA for sampling. Only if the PKs are thorough and scrape it off those roof tiles. Only if the storm doesn’t wash it away. He sighed, recognized there wasn’t much he could do about it at that point, and let it go. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have Paul’s DNA on file, and by the time anyone ever got around to sampling Hector’s DNA, he’d have a new ID in the system.

The thought resulted in a reflexive pat of his coat pockets; the boxes were still there, still intact. The ride was only a handful of minutes, and when his stop was called out, Hector shuffled off the train, scarf pulled high, head down. A quick glance at the platform showed him twenty or so people huddled together waiting to get on this train or another. A PK lingered at the far end of the platform, but he was facing away, looking down over the railing to the street below. Hector hurried to the stairs and limped down.

He didn’t have to exaggerate his limp any more; his ligaments had continued to inflame from the strain he’d put them through, and he could feel the rawness of his aura pathways. Each step lit a little electrical fire in his knee, and he winced as he held onto the icy railing, working his way down one flight after another. When he reached street level, he turned to the left and, sticking to the crowds as much as he could, worked his way toward the Velvet Strip.

He could only remember walking around a handful of corners, so he looked for familiar sights; the murals stuck in his brain better than the generic street names. When he saw the angel with the bloody sword, he knew he was close, and the next corner revealed the big flashing strip club sign. Hector limped his way to the door.

The wind had grown colder, and it drove into his face, spattering him in the eyes with fat, icy drops of rain. There was no queue at the door; the fact that it was midday and storming outside probably meant the club would be quiet. When Hector looked up from his hood into the bouncer’s face, the thug wrinkled his nose and said, “Get lost.”

Hector didn’t recognize the man, so he unwound his scarf, letting it drape over his shoulders, and then pulled his hood back. “I’m Hector. I work for Grando.”

“You’re Hector?” He tilted his head and made a pssh sound, like he’d sprung a leak. “Thought you were supposed to be tough.” The bouncer wasn’t exactly big, but he looked solid—well-muscled—and he had a chrome plate on his forehead with a pronounced ridge designed for, literally, butting heads.

“Just move the fuck out of my way.” Hector straightened as he spoke and let the man get a good look at his eyes. He flinched back.

The bouncer nodded to the door, but to save face, he muttered, “Got a mouth on you, huh?”

Hector yanked the door open and swallowed his pain, walking through without a limp. As he’d guessed, the club was dead. Two men sat at the closest bar, leaning over their drinks—waking zombies tranquilizing away the day. He strode through the club, noting the quiet glares from glowing eyes in one of the corner booths—a couple more of Grando’s goons, watching him closely. At the storeroom door, he found Jam slouched, staring into space while his lips worked on a smokeless chem-stick.

Hector reached for the doorknob, but Jam’s hand stretched out, brushing his fingers aside before they could find purchase. “Boss’s busy.”

“He’s about to get busier.”

Jam clicked his tongue, looking down his sharp nose at Hector. “You don’t look good. Go sit down. I’ll tell the boss you’re waiting.”

Hector shook his head.

“Don’t make me get rough with you. Boss told me to lay off.”

“I’m opening this door.” Hector reached for the knob again. This time, when Jam’s fingers flicked out, quick as an adder’s strike, Hector caught his wrist and yanked him off balance, sending him stumbling past the door. While Jam recovered, grabbing the doorjamb to keep from falling, Hector gripped the knob, twisted, and pushed the door open.

“I told you I was busy, dammit!” Grando growled.

Before Hector could respond, he had to lean back, narrowly avoiding a right hook from Jam. Rather than engage further, he stepped forward, out of his reach, and into the storeroom. “I need to talk to you,” he said, even as Jam’s long, surprisingly strong fingers gripped his shoulder.

Grando was at his desk, and one of the girls from the club was standing before him, straightening her skirt. His face was red with fury—or maybe exertion—as he gave the girl a shove. “Go on. Get out of here.”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author’s consent. Report any sightings.

Jam was tugging on Hector, trying to pull him back through the door, but Hector was good at lowering his center of gravity and he resisted, ignoring the protestations of his poor, overused tendons and muscles. “Get out,” the goon hissed, slapping another hand on Hector’s shoulders.

“Let him go, Jam, you damn idiot!” Grando growled. Meanwhile, the girl hurried past Hector, her face a mask of conflicting emotions: relief, embarrassment, and maybe some annoyance. Hector’s already low opinion of Grando took a nosedive.

When Jam’s fingers loosened their hold, he stepped further into the storeroom. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, you said that.” Grando yanked open a desk drawer and took out a fat, half-burned cigar. While he put it between his lips, he gestured to the chair before his desk. “Go on, sit down.”

Hector moved closer, but he didn’t sit. He turned and regarded Jam’s glowering red eyes, watching him from the doorway. “Shut it,” he said.

The goon didn’t respond.

After a moment, during which Grando sparked his finger alight and sucked a bright red cherry to life on the cigar, the crime boss growled, “Shut the damn door, Jam.”

Jam continued to stare at Hector, but he pulled the door closed. Hector sat in the chair, unable to mask the tremble in his arms as he lowered himself. “Where did you get this skin?”

“Why’s that matter all of a sudden? What’s wrong with you? You know, I was in the middle of something important in here, dammit.”

Hector stared at him flatly. “Answer the question.”

“I bought it from a broker. He’s got connections all over the planet—specializes in hard-to-get items, if you know what I mean.” Grando drew another drag of smoke from his cigar and blew it out through his nostrils.

“I need to know more about this skin. His name was Paul Chevalier.”

Grando put his cigar in an ashtray, leaving it there to smolder as he leaned forward, peering at Hector. “Move that damn hair aside. Can’t see your eyes.”

Growling, Hector brushed his hair back; he’d been about to do it anyway.

“The hell happened to you? Looks like you’ve been through something.”

“PKs.”

“What?” Grando leaped to his feet, throwing his chair back. “And you came here?”