Reapers (37 page)

"Assholes, generally," Lucy said.

Ash laughed. "At least with us, you know where you stand. You screw up, you catch a beating and get back to work as soon as you've recovered. Distro will grin something about your next performance review, then slit your throat in your sleep and replace you with someone cheaper."

She went belowdecks and curled up on a bench. The sleep she got wasn't too good, but she was glad for what she got. As soon as they tied up in port, Ash ordered Brian to deal with the bodies, then marched straight in to Sicily.

"Drinks!" he commanded squeakily, a dim figure after the hard morning light outside. "Drinks for all. Keep them coming until I start telling you what a sad childhood I had."

He piled into a booth and demanded the rest of the party join him, including the haggard captain, whose exhausted face looked ready to puddle around his shoes. The bartender conscripted a server from one of the three people who'd been sitting around Sicily before Ash rolled in. Ash called for three rounds of tequila, which the returned soldiers consumed dutifully. Lucy decided to enjoy herself. It had been a couple years since she'd tasted pre-war tequila.

Ash rehashed the previous night with the troops and crew, laughing garrulously, standing on the padded red seat and waving his arms around like the writhing of tentacles. It wasn't yet eleven in the morning, but word got around. People filtered into the bar in ones and twos: official Kono members; hangers-on and wannabes; neighborhood locals who were happy to rub shoulders with gangsters so long as it meant a fresh beer in front of them. Some stuck to their booths, absorbing the scene from the fringes. Others walked up to Ash to make jokes about his close encounter. The way they asked—half-teasing, little bunny smiles on their mouths—you could tell they feared it was a put-on and they'd walk away as fools. But by the time Ash finished his tale, they left as believers.

Things got loud. Lucy couldn't say she was surprised when Ash climbed up on the table, knocking shot glasses to the floor, and clapped his hands for silence.

"Does everyone here know Lucy?" he said. Several faces turned her way, few of them friendly. Ash grinned. "I know, I know. She shot Duke. And with him passed a life of such class and grace the whole world is poorer for it. That is, unless you're a black man, a female anything, or a person who can't help the fact they were born with the voice of an angel."

He glared down from the table, words ringing in the air, daring them to defy him. "Duke never did anything but ride his uncle's coattails. You liked him because he was
here
, not because he deserved it. Tonight, Lucy Two held the stake while we drove it into Distro's heart. She's done more for the Kono in one month than Duke did in his sad little life.

"So ask yourself this. Do you care about the Kono? Do you believe in our destiny as the rulers of this city? Or do you care about the loss of one mean little son of a bitch?" Without looking, he stretched out his hand and flapped his fingers. Someone slapped a bottle into it. He hoisted it, sloshing liquor over those below him. "To Lucy!"

"To Lucy!" the room roared.

Electricity shot up her spine. She had never been recognized publicly before—for anything good, at least—and the thrill was so potent it scared her.

But it sure was nice to be appreciated for once. She could see herself becoming the person these people were cheering for. Joining the Kono and meaning it. The Distro were dead in the water. If she wasn't already Ash's lieutenant, she soon would be. Play her cards right, and in a couple years, she might supplant him. Or become the unseen boss all these men paid homage to.

She let herself dance with these thoughts. Anointed by Ash, she spent the next couple hours being approached by gangsters. They made good-natured jokes about her name. Asked about the aliens. Flirted. Sure, some stuck to their booths and studiously avoided eye contact, but most had changed their tune. She was in.

They drank and laughed through the afternoon. Some staggered off but were replaced by others. All of a sudden, Lucy thought it would be a great idea to bike downtown through the snow and see Tilly's building. As she rode south, skidding on hidden ice, she couldn't say
why
she needed to go see the Tower—she was more than a little drunk; she didn't even remember how she'd gotten the bike—but it thundered in her mind, imperative.

By the time she stood across the street from it, the concrete stacked nearly a quarter mile into the sky, winter's swift night had fallen on the city. She breathed in and out, fog whirling from her mouth. She'd burned off a bit of the tequila during the ride and now realized she'd have to make the same trip back through the slush and the cold. What did she think would happen—Tilly would rush outside and ask to be whisked uptown with her? A deep feeling of stupidity flash-flooded her veins.

Then, as if her thoughts had caused it to manifest, a woman walked out the revolving door of the Empire State Building. She was bundled in a scarf and thick coat, but Lucy knew Tilly's walking-across-coals step anywhere.

And though it was perfectly dark, the girl wore a pair of dark sunglasses big enough to cover her whole eye sockets.

Lucy had seen her make that fashion statement before. Right before the plague, while she was still living in the Lomans' garage, Tilly had started going around with a boy named Jude. Jude was a drinker, and when he indulged, he became a beater. Between her makeup and sunglasses, Tilly hid it from her mom and dad, who were so busy bitching at each other about their separation they wouldn't have looked up had Godzilla stomped across their living room, but Lucy noticed.

Lucy stood in the shadows of a recessed doorway and watched Tilly glance up and down the street. Just as Lucy decided to cross over, hooves clocked. Nerve rode up to Tilly, horse steaming. Without a word from either one of them, Nerve got down to help Tilly climb up. The pair trotted away.

Once the hooves faded, Lucy got on her bike, twice as sober as five minutes before. She made one stop at a Staples along the way, then continued to the toasty Village coffee shop. Inside, the cowboy gave her the evil eye, but she ignored him and headed straight for Reese.

"I'm surprised they don't charge you rent," she said.

He sat at a booth with a couple friends who made no bones about looking her up and down. "Can I help you with something?"

"Come on outside."

He looked ready to protest, then raised his eyebrows at his friends and scooted from the booth.

Out on the dark street, Lucy passed him a sealed envelope. "Can you deliver this to Chelsea Pier? Guy named Kerry. Big old bald dude."

"I've seen him. What's in it for me?"

Lucy reached for her bag, but drunk as she was, she hadn't brought anything but herself. She grimaced at the blank pavement. "I'm sorry about the movie. I was a dick to you when you were just trying to help me out."

"I don't want an apology. I want something I can
use
."

"I don't have anything, man. I'm trying to do someone a good turn. Will you please get this to Kerry?"

"Never thought I'd see you beg." Reese sniffed against the cold. "What's it say?"

"Nothing they'll enjoy hearing about," Lucy sighed. "You'll want to lie low for a while."

"A deal like that? How could I say no?"

She kissed him on the cheek. "Don't get any ideas. But you're a good dude."

She hopped on her bike. He was still standing on the sidewalk watching her go when she turned the corner and was swallowed once more by the canyon of skyscrapers.

Back at Sicily, she climbed the steps to her floor and flung herself into bed. When she finally woke, light sliced through the blinds. It was several minutes before she remembered what she'd done. She regretted it, but she knew that was the hangover talking.

She headed downstairs for some chow. The bartender greeted her by name. Ash wasn't around. Sleeping it off, no doubt. Either that or reporting to his superiors about the game-changing success of his mission. She hung around, picking at her eggs and sipping brown liquid the bartender swore was coffee, then went back to her room to clean up. She was freezing her tits off in the shower when she heard the first screams.

Lucy ran from the stall without turning off the faucet. She stood at the window, water dripping from her hair. Below, fire bloomed from Sicily, whoomping like a sheet flung over a bed. In the middle of the street, a member of Distro security reared back and hurled another flaming cocktail at the bar's face.

24

A second shot crashed through the room. The bullet smacked into the top of the temple, spitting flecks of stone onto the smooth floor. Ellie bolted for cover behind its wall, the sheriff right behind her.

"Dee!" she yelled.

Three shots blasted past Hobson, shattering panes of the slanted wall behind him. He pulled in tight against the temple and stuck his rifle around the corner.

"Mom?" Dee called from up top.

"Come down the back side," Ellie said, running to the structure's rear. "He won't have a shot."

Hobson's rifle discharged. From the entrance through the Egyptian wing, the shooter fired back. Dee's shoes dangled off the lip of the roof. She squirmed her lower half off the edge, keeping low, then dropped to the ground in a deep crouch.

"It's a trap?"

Ellie pointed across the dry moat to the exit deeper into the Met. "Cover that door. Shoot anything that moves." She rolled around the other corner. The sheriff was glued to the temple's side, eye trained on his scope. "How many?"

"One that I saw," the man murmured. "He's pulled back. I think my last shot was too close for comfort."

She glanced out the bank of windows, which were broad enough for any of them to squeeze through, and her skin prickled. Branches shivered across the black grass. "I think someone's outside. Only thing saving us is the darkness. We've got to move."

The sheriff swore. "How's Dee's aim?"

"Unpolished."

He didn't take his eye from his scope. "Post her on the corner to cover the shooter. You make a break for the other door. If you make it, you can return the favor."

Ellie laughed wryly, keeping both eyes on the park beyond the windows for the glint of metal. "Try not to let him get a shot off. You don't want me bleeding all over that fine suit of yours."

Hobson smiled faintly. "It wouldn't be the first time I've scrubbed blood from a suit."

To her surprise, she found she trusted him. She went around back to Dee, who sat with her rifle braced across her raised knee, watching the other door. Ellie explained their next move.

"You're just going to
run
?" Dee said.

Ellie gazed at the empty moat. She could run along its bottom, hidden from view, but climbing out would leave her exposed and essentially motionless for several seconds. "Unless you know how to fly."

"Well, don't get shot!"

"Don't
let
me get shot."

Dee gave her a look of twisted fright that Ellie read as clearly as the placard on the tomb:
how could you ask this of me?
Ellie dropped down beside her, keeping one eye on the dark mouth of the passage to the heart of the museum. "I was scared to be your mom, you know. I was so afraid I'd screw it up. But after the job Chip did with you, I had nothing to worry about. There's no one I'd rather have covering me."

Dee blinked, then edged forward to the stone corner and swung her gun around the other side, taking aim at the doorway they'd used to enter the chamber. There hadn't been another shot since the sheriff's last exchange. She returned to him.

"At the count of ten," she said.

He nodded. Ellie unshouldered her rifle and clicked off the safety. Counting in her head, she moved beside Dee. "Three. Two.
One
."

She sprinted onto the open platform. The bridge was set back toward the door they'd come in through and she locked her eyes on the dark tunnel. At the steps down to the bridge, she stumbled, arm thrown in front of her. A rifle boomed behind her, followed by a second. She caught her balance and sprinted headlong into the second tunnel feeding from the temple chambers.

Heart hammering, she jogged past glass cases, the light fading as she got further from the windows overlooking the temple. At the T-intersection ahead, with no sign or sound of strangers, she turned around and returned to the tunnel mouth.

"Clear!" she shouted. She installed herself at the corner, took a look at the windows, and sighted down her rifle at the first doorway across the room.

Back at the temple, Dee held up three fingers, counting down. When her index finger fell, she broke cover, eyes so wide they looked painted on. Her run was the longest four seconds of Ellie's life.

Dee fell in beside her at the wall, smelling like the ammonia-laced sweat of sheer panic.

"Come up here and cover the windows," Ellie said.

"Right," Dee said vaguely. Ellie stood and Dee crouched beneath her to help watch the dark tunnel to the Egyptian wing.

Hobson signaled, counted down, and ran. He was older and he ran with a shuffling, low-kneed style that felt like it took forever to cross the room. Then he was beside them, too, breathing hard, his bowler lost at some point during the run.

"I have never resented one hundred feet of space more thoroughly than I do now," he whispered breathily.

"It's pitch black ahead," Ellie said.

"If our assailant has doubled back, or has an accomplice outside, a light will paint a target on our chests." Hobson risked a look around the corner.

A bullet crackled past his ear and whined off the far wall. Ellie opened fire on the light that had flared from the other tunnel. Glass shattered.

"I'll light the lantern," Hobson said. He rattled it from his pack. Within seconds, he had the oiled wick aflame. He hurried down the tunnel past cases of curved swords and lacquered armor. Ellie sent Dee first, then waited for the pair to reach the T-intersection before racing to catch up.

"Which way?" the sheriff said.

"Right," Ellie said. Not that she had any idea how to get to the entrance or the nearest emergency exit. But left would run them back toward the Egyptian wing.