Ashes of the Fall (26 page)

I land feet first in a soft,
pillowy cushion of blue fabric as debris showers down from above. A pair of strong hands grabs me from the landing pad just as a chunk of steel hurtles down and lands in the middle. The air-filled pad hisses and deflates.

“Run,” Kid says.

We tear up the street, sprinting west as fast as we can. Behind us, the landscape rumbles, but the chain of destruction isn’t coming our way. The skyscraper dominos fall east, towards the mega screen and the plaza.

A safe distance away—and out of the blast radius—I turn around to watch and catch my breath. Building after building careens against one another, smashing forward, shaking the earth. I try to imagine the chaos in the plaza.

“Could’ve told me the plan,” I say.

“You never would’ve agreed,” he says with a collected cool. “Hell, Blackstone’s guys never would’ve agreed, either.” He points up the street, as the chain grows closer to the center square. “But I just carved a path right through the city.”

He sprints towards the destruction, leaving me to either stay behind or play catch up. Without an alternative, I follow him into the heart of the crumbling city as the ground shakes with each successive collapse. I look up just in time to watch a massive skyscraper bisect the plaza and head straight through the mega screen. Its white glow displaying my picture and current location is immediately snuffed out, plunging the area into relative darkness.

The chain of dominos stops at the plaza, the final skyscraper lodging itself at about the hundredth floor of one of its brethren. It hangs over the middle of the square, debris falling off like boulders down a mountain.

I presume that, no matter what the Circle mandates in the future, it will be difficult to get people to watch broadcasts here. I maintain a wide berth from the now largely empty plaza, catching glimpses of it through side streets as I struggle to keep up with Kid.

Hopefully Matt’s coordinates aren’t buried. Either way, we’re gonna have to wait it out until things stabilize—relatively speaking. Heading in there in an hour, you’d still need a couple horseshoes lodged firmly up your ass to dodge the falling steel.

Kid cuts around the alley corner, wasting no time. He’s headed straight there, even as entire windows and furniture plummet through the broken windows of the sideways skyscraper, peppering the vagrant city below.

I speed up to follow him, but when I round the corner, I’m greeted not by Kid, but by a group of jackal-eyed thugs. They wield crowbars and baseball bats, their backs arched in aggression. One guy looks up from a wristwatch—a portable GPS unit, I realize—and grins toothlessly.

“You split the million credits, fellas,” he says. “But the job’s all mine.”

In the dim light, he looks familiar as he approaches. Stubble dots his face and his mostly bare head. It’s the eyes that set me off.

“Agent Bogden,” I say.

“Not anymore,” he responds through gritted teeth. “After you got through fucking us.” Ten yards separate me from the group, and the gap is closing quickly.

“Kid!” I call, hoping for backup. But he’s already out of earshot, my yell drowned out by the destruction in the background. Hearing much beyond where Bodgen is would be a challenge.

With the stubble, he looks like a maniacal hobo—not the clean-shaven agent of death that he was before. But rage gleams in his eyes, and I can tell he’ll enjoy picking me limb from limb. Tanner no doubt made an example of the two Special Committee Agents.

A small lump forms in my throat as I think about Agent Sten and his family. But they made their beds, throwing in with Tanner. Everyone knew the Chancellor’s favor was fair weather.

I stand tall and assess my attackers, backing up as they slowly fan out and close in. There are five, including Bogden. He’s got quite the diverse group here—a woman with a cross dangling from her neck, a man with a phoenix tattoo across his chest. Another guy speaks in Spanish beneath his breath, the last in French—must’ve managed to slip through the Frozen Wastes in the north before everything spiraled into permafrost up there. We got everyone covered, all bases.

Everyone would be so proud that I finally united the factions.

Only problem is, it’s against myself.

French screams, apparently unable to contain his excitement any more. He has a rusted kitchen knife in his hand, still formidable despite its twisted blade. But there’s still at least twenty feet for him to cover, and I manage to clear the .38 from my waistband and shoot him in the chest before he can do much damage.

He crumbles to the ground, the hollow point killing him on impact.

“You think you can kill us all, Stokes,” Bogden says with a low growl, patting his baseball bat against his palm. The group has stopped, allowing me to back up. “How good a shot you think you are?”

“Ask your friend.”

Bogden smiles, then nods to the Lionhearted supporter. In a quick, practiced motion, she reaches into shirt pocket. I raise up and fire, missing. She hurls a knife and the sharp, thin blade lodges itself in my thigh.

I scream in pain and limp backwards, towards the shell of a ruined clothing store. Mannequins covered in soot and grime still stand in the broken window, staring blankly out at the scene. I tumble over the display, gritting my teeth, as another knife comes spinning my way.

It lodges itself next to my head, in a unisex mannequin’s chest.

With seven bullets left and four targets, I gotta get somewhere I can hunker down. But then it’ll just be a waiting game. Bogden can send bodies at me for as long as necessary, then split the proceeds amongst his cronies. The system works because, it occurs to me, he doesn’t want money.

He wants power. Most of these people probably don’t even want to work for the Circle, but he craves it, gets off on it. He’ll let everyone else lead a life of relatively luxury. He doesn’t want security, or freedom, but pure control.

I kind of respect him for that. I scramble behind an empty pants rack in the center of the floor. Peeking out from behind the hangers, I watch as the four spread out and enter the store. The Ashes of the Fall member plays with a lighter. I can’t quite see what he’s doing. Smoking?

“There’s no Circle to go back to,” I yell from my vantage point. “You’ll get nothing, Bogden.” In the back of my mind, I wonder where the hell Kid went. For how brilliant and enamored he is with himself, this wasn’t a smart play. Not that I need him to babysit my ass—but two against a horde makes for better odds.

A flaming bottle crashes to the floor nearby, fire immediately spreading out along the floor. Ethanol fumes rocket into my nose, and I’m forced to retreat further into the store. A smoky film rises into the air as the blaze devours empty store displays and wooden shelves.

“It’s only a matter of time, Stokes,” Bogden calls from somewhere towards the front. “You’ll die of smoke inhalation, or the flames will get you. We can wait.”

“Unless someone else edges in on your score,” I say, goading him on. “Everyone’s tracking me.”

“Not many have a personal HoloBand locator, though,” Bogden says with a primal growl. “They’re only given to Circle members.”

I put two and two together. Only he’s crazy enough to kill a Circle soldier down here, steal his gear in order to catch me. I admire the dedication, but admit that it’s wholly unnerving to be in the presence of a psychopath.

The smoke thickens, obscuring the view of my four assailants. I glance around the back third of the store, then at the ceiling. It’s pockmarked with holes and missing large chunks. With nowhere else to go, I tear towards the stairs, just managing to slip past the flames.

I won’t be taking that route back down. As I go up, I start walking softly, to avoid alerting the attack squad to my position. My thigh burns, the knife still sticking out from my pant leg. I plunge my head into the arm of my jacket and then rip the blade out, stifling my cries of pain.

Another weapon is another weapon. I look down, a small trickle of blood running down my pants. It didn’t hit an artery. Guess I’m lucky, for now.

With a limping gait, I walk towards the second floor window, carefully choosing each step to avoid suddenly plummeting through a hole. Fiery shadows dance through the gaps, and I can hear Bogden talking to his team in low whispers. Some of them respond with more animated exclamations, clearly annoyed about his plan taking so long.

“Could be hours before he burns,” the big guy from the AoF argues. “Someone will swoop in our score by then.”

“Patience,” Bogden says. “It won’t take that long.”

“Ain’t no time for patience,” Ashes of the Fall says.

But they stay put, having made their bed.

I spot a large hole in the floor near the second floor window. Getting down on my belly, I worm my way through the dust, gun ready. I reach the edge of the hole and peek over. The flames don’t touch the front, near the mannequin display where I crawled in. Bogden and his crew ensure their little patch stays fire free by feeding the flames at the back of the store with all the debris from the front. The angle isn’t right for a clean shot.

I watch as the knife throwing woman picks up one of the dirty mannequins and hauls it past, out of view. There’s a thud as she throws it, then a pop as the plastic expands in the heat. She walks slowly back into view, pausing to say something I can’t hear.

I steady the pistol against the floor, lining up her head before a quick squeeze of the trigger drops her instantly. She crashes into one of the remaining unburned racks and lies still. Immediately I hear panicked voices from below.

“He’s upstairs, you morons,” Bogden says. “Keep away from the holes in the ceiling.”

I maintain my position, but this particular gambit has been exhausted. None of them will peek out and play easy target. Smoke begins to filter up through the hole, denser and more ominous. Glancing over my shoulder, I find that the stairs are filled with a thick gray haze.

I push myself up and push further towards the window. Half of the pane is still intact. Using the .38’s butt, I smash it out into the street below. Amidst the crackling, I can hear Bogden and the survivors on the move.

They run out of the shop at different angles. I take aim and hit the Ashes of the Fall in the leg. He stumbles behind an old newspaper box, where I can’t get a good shot.

Five bullets left for three people. Getting tight.

The flames have reached the second floor, and I can feel the structure start to give way and collapse as its structural integrity disintegrates. It won’t be long before the floor collapses and I hurtle to the ground. I scan the empty street for any sign of Bogden. But he’s disappeared from sight, no doubt lurking in the shadows, hoping that he can wait me out.

I need to get down. Examining the hole nearby, I find it’s too dense with smoke to slip through. Besides, the drywall is too old and brittle to reliably hold my weight. Another option is necessary—and I settle on the window before me as the sole remaining choice.

I scrape out the rest of the glass around the bottom of the floor-to-ceiling window frame. Ashes of the Fall scurries away from the box with a heavy limp, trying to keep his body compact. I don’t shoot. Bullets are too precious to waste.

Crouching down, I test the edge of the frame. It’s still rough and sharp. Using the throwing knife, I cut the sleeves off my jacket, inviting a bitter cold to whip against my skin. It’s somewhat offset by the heat of the encroaching flame.

Not a good spot to be caught in.

I wrap my palms in the fabric, then I take a deep breath. After a final scan of the street, I tuck the .38 in my waistband and swing myself over the frame. The remaining shards of glass that I couldn’t get immediately rip into my skin. My hands go wet.

I lower myself over as steadily as I can, searching the concrete for a landing spot. My feet dangle about three yards off the ground, which seems like nothing when I think in terms of the numbers, but feels like forever when I look down.

I let go.

When I collide with the surface, I scream. The knife wound ignites a searing pain that courses up through my body. A grim memory floats to the surface, of Adriana jumping off the roof, her own leg being ruined upon the fall.

When I look down, though, I find that my own leg isn’t mangled or destroyed. A bloody patch is seeping through the fabric of my pants. And my scream has brought my attackers out of the woodwork.