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All in the Family

Nicole Givens Kurtz

One

There should be rest each night, but like most things in my life, it ain’t there. An empty evening stretched before me—a waiting hungry mouth, ready to devour and swallow all my warm, gooey hope. I lacked any morsel of the yumminess The District consumed from its citizens. I’m too old and too bitter for her to swallow. She can’t savor my marrow. She’d spit it out—like meatless bones. It’s poison.

Nah. This territory ain’t got the stomach for me, Lomax Yule, Private Inspector.

“Alejandro, what’s the time?”

“It is 1812. Have a good evening,” the office’s AI said.

I gathered my satchel. My lasergun shifted in its holster as I slung the bag onto my shoulder. My fingers itched for a cigarette. I swallowed to alleviate my dry throat.

“Doctor’s orders. No more smokes,” I reminded my craving.

My office door whined, and my hand went to my gun. Outside, a tense quiet blanketed the usually busy area. Only the hum of the overhead elevated lanes provided any sound. Wautos, wind automobiles, and aerocycles’ green and red lights winked in the night sky. Something was off.

The hair raised on my neck. I walked a few steps and stopped at once.

I nearly stepped on a severely damaged human. The District doesn’t give, except on occasions like this one—a dead body, laid in a splat position outside my door’s threshold.

“Damn.”

I crouched down beside the body. He was cold to the touch, and his skull was crushed. His dark hair flowed like a river in bloody currents around his body. Blood smears decorated the area around him, but not spatter. He was dumped here. How did he get here? Public transport?

Groaning, I retreated into my office. “Alejandro, contact the Regs. I have a dead body out front.”

“Connecting.”

The small desk telemonitor whirled as it attempted connection.

“District Regulators. What’s the emergency?” a male answered.

“I need Inspector Regulator Baker. I’m reporting a level one violation.”

“Coordinates?”

“Alejandro, send coordinates.” The windows’ heavy closed curtains kept Death’s appearance at bay.

“Sent.”

The screen winked out and then flickered before I.R. Briscoe Baker’s clean-shaven face appeared. Every dark hair in place, piercing green eyes narrowed in annoyance, and a thin, dark cigarette in between his lips. A double-helix tattoo peeked out from his pink-collared shirt. It identified him as a hatchling, an engineered human crafted in a tube and grown in an artificial womb.

Thousands of hatchlings lived and thrived among the territories. The District had a concentration of them in certain sectors, but for the most part, they lived as other human beings did. Sure, that angered groups like the Human Rights League, but humanity, no matter how one received it, deserved equal rights.

“Oh, fuck. It’s you. What do you want?” Briscoe said in way of greeting.

“Look, I got a dead body on my doorstep.” I turned to the screen, giving him all my attention.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“This one ain’t in my tally column.”

Briscoe rolled his eyes. “I got my own violations to pursue, you know?”

“This falls within your purview. This doesn’t have anything to do with me. Level one violations fall to you, little brother.”

“How are we related?” Briscoe scoffed.

“Genetic signature.”

“We’re hatched.”

“All the more reason why we’re unique.” I grinned.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there shortly. Don’t touch anything.” Briscoe ended the connection with an eyeroll.

My office occupied the first floor of a small, forgotten clothing store, or in fancier times, a boutique. The original owners left a store mannequin and mauve-painted walls. No one shopped in person after the wars. Hell, the currency rich didn’t leave their homes, but us poorer folks must go out to work for a living.

I wondered which group Mr. Dead Guy fell in.

I put my lasergun in its holster, and I headed back outside in time to see the scarlet-and-blue swirling lights of The District regulators. Their sirens echoed in the distance. Suddenly, adrenaline coursed through my body. The scene snapped into sharp focus.

Had someone tried to lure me out of my office?

Before I could give it more thought, the vioTech team, the words emblazed on their cargo craft, landed along with a few wautos. Once on the ground, one-piece, navy-clad Regs poured like beetles out of the vehicles and started setting up a perimeter and cornering off the violation scene. Neighboring vendors came out to investigate all the commotion.

“Citizen, did you call in the violation?” A round-shaped regulator pushed up his helmet’s visor and marched up to me. His brow furrowed and he put his hands on his utility belt.

“Yeah, Regulator…”

“What’s your name?” He crossed his arms, ignoring me.

“Lomax Yule.”

“Is this your residence?”

I paused. Met the Reg’s beady little eyes and snorted. “No.”

“I’ve got this, Houser,” Briscoe’s annoyed tone interrupted the exciting conversation.

“He found the body,” Houser said.

“Please secure the evidence.” Briscoe gestured toward the vioTechs, draped in white suits.

“Are you sure?”

“There’s nothing more certain than death,” I said.

Houser glanced at Briscoe.

My little brother jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Houser nodded and headed in the direction.

Briscoe waited until Regulator Houser left before speaking.

“You cut your ‘locks. You look like shit.”

“You look amazing, fresh as always. I got tired of people grabbing them.” I nodded at the pink-collared shirt, black high-collared coat, and his tailored dark slacks. “Clothes could pay my rent for a year.”

“Raol’s latest gift.” Briscoe did a slow twirl, showing off his husband’s latest splurge.

“You’re only an IR so you don’t have to wear those uniforms.” I smirked at him.

“You know it.” Briscoe laughed, then sobered. “How are you, Lo?”

“I’m fine. I was headed home, but someone thought it funny to drop this off.”

I pointed down at the body.

Briscoe took out a hard case from his coat’s inner pocket. He removed one of those slender cigarettes and lit it using the igniter patch at the case’s bottom. Purple smoke bloomed around him.

I inhaled deeply.

Briscoe quirked an eyebrow. “You quit?”

“Yeah. Doctor’s orders.” I had stopped smoking two months ago, but I missed it every day.

“What time did you find him?” Briscoe put his case away and took out his handheld. He typed with one hand, his cigarette in the other. “Do you know the victim? It’s not related to one of your cases?”

I cleared my throat. “I’m between cases.”

Briscoe cast me a questioning look. “Sure.”

I looked down at the corpse. I don’t look for trouble. Why was trouble looking for me?

“There’s some blood smears on the pavement. Individual has been savagely beaten in what appears to be a focused attack.” I walked around the body, staying far back enough not to contaminate too much of the scene. “The victim fought hard before he succumbed to death. His knuckles leaked like broke aerocycle pipes. This isn’t random. It’s probably a dump. Violators don’t like traveling too far with a corpse in their craft.”

“You should’ve stayed on the force.” Briscoe grimaced and peered through the smoky haze. He crouched down and emptied the pockets. Nothing came out but a few packages of edibles and gum. “This looks like a passion run afoul. No violator looking to score currency or drugs would spend this much time on him. This was a battle. You didn’t hear anything?”

“No. Damn it, B. This ain’t down to me.”

He shrugged. “You carry a high body count.”

“It’s a job hazard. All self-defense.”

Briscoe shook his head.

“I thought you knew me. I don’t commit violations in broad daylight.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Briscoe blew a long stream of smoke. “I do trust your gut. This was done in haste. Sloppy. Possible accidental. Passion. Rage-infused. Personal. Probably a low-functioning individual.”

“Maybe. I dunno. Look, I’m hungry and tired. Can I go now?” I pushed my hands into my pocket.

VioTechs scoured the scene for evidence. Indistinct chattering and whispering unfolded around them.

“No, hold on.” Briscoe waved over one of the technicians.

The heavyset woman walked over with a square piece of gray equipment. “Hello, IR Baker.”

“Hi. We need a DNA scan.”

I wanted to leave, but I kept my composure. My curiosity had been piqued. I didn’t recognize the victim, but his face had been beaten so badly, it obscured his identity.

The DNA didn’t lie, but what would it say?

The vioTech picked up the victim’s bloody hand. With gloved hand, she placed one of the corpse’s stiff fingers into the device’s internal scanner. A tiny prick collected the blood, analyzed it. The moments stretched on until the display coughed up a name—Santiago Theer.

“You know him?” Briscoe asked.

“No. I’m not stonewalling. I just don’t know him.”

Briscoe sighed. “Okay. Off you go.”

“Hold up. Do you know him?”

“Goodnight.” Briscoe sighed. “Houser! Escort Mr. Yule to his aerocycle.”

“I know my way. Thanks.” I headed to my parked aerocycle and threw a leg over. Baffled, I was certain of only one thing.

Someone had wanted Santiago to suffer.

Two

My brutal discovery had stolen my appetite. I flew over to The Orange Door anyway. The tiny bistro delivered tasty-fast fare with a spicy kick. Sometimes, the Ortega Squish chased away my gloom. Other times it plunged me into dark, ugly places. Not that I felt bad or sad, I didn’t. Death, no matter how many times I encountered it, left me melancholy and reflective.

I secured my cycle, crossed the street, and headed into the warm, orange glow. In the wake of the Great War, restaurants went the way of meat and cow milk. In recent years, little places like The Orange Door grew out of families who cooked for those in their neighborhood and channeled their love into a business. The place itself had an orange-painted, old-fashioned door, with a knob and everything. No robotic or automatic doors, staff, or crew. Humans only. But it included hatchlings.

“You ain’t lookin’ good, amigo.” One of the servers, Bookey Odom, waved at me. She led me to my usual corner two-person booth. “Long day?”

“You can say that. Yeah.” I slid into the orange faux-leather seat. I tapped my fingers on the scarred wooden table.

“Let me get your Squish. Be right back.” Bookey patted my hand with a wink.

The District’s worker bees filtered in to sweeten the bitterness of the long workday. They shuffled into The Orange Door sporting nice clothes and sour faces, smiles that didn’t reach hollow eyes. The foghog peeked out from the menu panel. The base sucked in cigarette smoke and pushed out clean air. The top section served as an ashtray.

I missed nicotine.

“Here you go.” Bookey placed a glass of orange liquid on the table. “Busy night. You want food?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Holler if you change your mind.”

“Will do.”

The aroma of fried tofu and sautéed vegetables hung in the air. It mingled with alcohol and collective body odor. Unlike some restaurants, The Orange Door didn’t pretend to have meat. Smart, when everyone knew that you couldn’t really get it since right after the war. My nana told stories of eating steak and other protein-based foods, but when the United States dissolved into a series of territories, and beef, chicken, and pork all began to mutate…well. I’d never tasted meat in my life. Why pretend otherwise? The Orange Door imported organic vegetables from the Southeastern Territory. The menu changed according to what they had, and I liked rotating entrees.

Just not tonight. The image of Santiago Theer—who wouldn’t eat again—floated before me, mouth ajar, blackened eyes closed, and battered face slack in eternal slumber.

“Fuck.” I drank some Squish.

Fruity but a bite of something bitter beneath. It burned going down. Good.

The murmurs rose and it snared my attention. The crowd around the bar—worker bees buzzing—stirred. The door opened and in walked a woman.

Tall, with a low-cut fade and dangling diamond earrings, she had full lips and smooth, dark skin. Her complexion was darker than mine, but only by a shade. She wore her sunglasses atop her head. Above her dark eyes were a series of tattoos—two electric connectors flickered. She looked like she enjoyed being cared for. She wore a purple trenchcoat and a white turtleneck with black slacks. Her high-heeled black boots clicked across the burnt orange tile as she made a beeline toward me, upsetting the worker bees lined at the bar.

She arrived at my table in a cloud of jasmine and roses. “You Yule?”

“You are?”

“Lexi Lemon.”

“Well, Lexi, I’m busy.”

She had a raspy voice as if she smoked as often as I wanted.

I gestured for her to leave.

She sat down in the booth and placed her gloved hands on the table. “I want to hire you to find out who killed my brother.”

“I don’t talk business on the street…”

“This is a bistro.”

“Come by my office tomorrow during regular hours.” I drank another Squish shot.

“We’ll talk now.” She removed her handheld from her coat’s inside pocket. “Remember him?”

She slid her handheld across the scarred table to me. I glanced down at the image. Mr. Dead Guy glanced up at me, smiling and hugging the woman across from me.

“Santiago Theer. He was found dead in front of your office tonight.” Lexi retrieved her device and tucked it away. “I would think you’d want to know who left him in front of your office.”

“Listen, I don’t know your brother…”

Lexi leaned forward as she poured on the sugar. Her powerful body shifted beneath the currency-chic clothes. The subtle change in body language alerted me to the coming pitch. Her voice lowered. The purposeful eye contact worked on others. Why not me?

“We can’t go to the regulators.” Lexi spoke as if I hadn’t said anything.

“We?”

“Our family. Santiago was an information broker.”

I froze for a moment. Information brokers held an expertise in hacking into secure sites, data mining, and dark-web excavations. The work required a high level of skill, but it also carried with it the threat of angering the wrong people—if you’re caught. I didn’t know how good Santiago was or who he worked for, but I couldn’t lie. I was intrigued.

Across the table, Lexi took out a thin, silver, ornate case, and removed a hand-wrapped green cigarette. She lit it against the burn patch on the bottom. She pulled the foghog closer as she continued.

“One of his clients was the Zebra.” Lexi let out a breath. “Santi was digging up information for him.”

The Zebra operated a violation enterprise throughout Sector 10. The Regs didn’t bother him as long as his business didn’t get out of hand. He continued to pour Ackback, Zenith, and heroin into the territory. Occasionally, an incoming, newly elected attorney general would conduct a large-scale raid. Low-level violators were arrested. The work continued without a hitch.

“I’ll pay your retainer and other munitions and supplies.” Lexi cast a visual search of my person, before pursing her lips. “Seems you could use it.”

I realized my glass was empty. “It’s tragic news, but not interested.”

I didn’t have any real leads and nothing with the Zebra would be good.

“Let me ask you a question. Why did my brother end up at your place?”

She pinned those eyes on me. “Seems to me someone wants you involved in a major violation. Well, now you are. You might as well get paid to find out why.”

I leaned back against the cushioned seat. Lexi Lemon’s open manipulation intrigued me. She had a point. One I couldn’t argue. At least, not when I’m Squished.

Bookey approached with another one and dropped it off without hardly a word. She didn’t acknowledge Lexi. Strange. The server was friendly with everyone.

“What do you want?” I drank some more. The liquid no longer burned. I could no longer feel my tongue. “I can tell you, if I find out who killed Santiago, my involvement ends once I pass the info to you. This is a case I know the Regs are investigating. You should wait for them for a result.”

Lexi tapped her cigarette on the foghog. “I feel instinctively that I can trust you.”

She had appealing eyes and currency in her bank account.

“Regs don’t like PIs meddling in their investigations.”

She straightened. “I’m certain you never let that stop you.”

I could picture Briscoe’s angry face if he found me digging into his case. But she was right.

Santiago’s death was a senseless violation.

One someone wanted me to notice.

“Why do you think the Zebra’s behind this?”

Lexi took a drag and blew it from the corner of her mouth. “Santi’s behavior had become increasingly suspicious the last two weeks.”

“Suspicious how?”

She shifted in the seat. “More secretive. Paranoid. Jumpy. There’s been some talk about currency missing from the Zebra’s accounts. The incidents were investigated, but never solved. Santiago was hired to find the culprits.”

I didn’t ask how she knew. Who would be foolish enough to steal from the Zebra?

“Did he find out who did it?” If he did, it probably got him killed.

Lexi licked her lips. “I don’t know.”

“Who are the people close to your brother?” I needed somewhere to start.

“Roderick worked with him.”

“Roderick…”

“Sweet.”

“Coordinates?”

Lexi took out her handheld. “I’ll cast them to you.”

She removed her gloves. Her nails tapped along the device surface before she swept the information to my tablet. The tiny bell sound announced its arrival.

“Let me think on it. Come by my office tomorrow.” The warm, cozy feeling made my lips slow, but she got the gist.

“Of course.” Lexi rose from the booth as graceful as a ballerina.

I watched her walk away, along with dozens of other eyes. She knew it too and she worked it.

Respect the player.

Hate the game.

My father used to say hate was a waste of time.

It could have been either the Squish or the Lemon, but I forgot Yule Rule #1.

People lie like they breathe.

Three

The next morning, as I got to the office, a sliver of sunlight shone off the dried blood, a reminder of my task. I waved the barcode on my wrist at the door to the space where I made a living. The door yawned open again before I’d taken off my coat. My lasergun appeared in my fist.

“Stop.” I pointed the red-tipped weapon at the intruder.

It was an older woman, and she gave a visceral reaction, shaking, eyebrows in her hair, eyes wide. I kept my gun trained on her.

Someone had dumped a body on my doorstep.

Can’t be too careful.

“What do you want?” My voice emptied until only cold indifference remained.

“My son,” she stammered, “died here.”

“Your son?”

She choked on tears. “Santiago.”

I lowered my gun. “Please, sit. Did Lexi send you?”

Si. He had dead eyes,” the older woman muttered, as if to herself. “Roderick killed him. I feel it in my heart.” Her watery gaze remained on the floor as she sat down in my visitor’s chair. The soft slabs of her arms shook as she added, “You gotta find who did this.”

The older woman heaved a deep breath and fell apart as she exhaled.

At this, my office door slid open once more.

Mami? Estas bien?” Lexi stalked right in and spoke directly to the woman.

Pudieras a me dicho que ibas a mandar aqui tu mama.”

Lexi shot me an annoyed look. I have that effect on many people.

“Here’s the contract.”

I slid my client tablet with the embedded contract across the desk to where the older woman sat.

“Santiago’s death has sucked the life out of us.” Lexi picked up the tablet. Her long nails clicked against the screen as she read.

“I may not find out who did it. There aren’t any guarantees in this business.”

Lexi looked over the tablet’s edge to me. “Of course.”

“How long you prepared to pay?”

“Until I’m satisfied. I don’t take you for a quitter.”

“What else did you hear?”

“Snippets of this and that. Enough to know you suffer a lapse in judgment from time to time.” Lexi lowered her eyes back to the device.

Interesting. Not a glowing recommendation, so why hire me?

She stood up, gathered her belongings, and left. Mourning families were my weakness. My palms itched. The lower locked desk drawer held my demon.

The Zenith will take you higher.

Instead, I got up and went to the section of my office where people once tried on the latest fashion. Now, the dressing room contained shelves of supplies, snacks, dishware, and coffee beans.

On the left, a coffee machine. I snagged my favorite mug and placed it beneath the spout.

“Alejandro, one coffee.”

Alejandro monitored the place but also assisted in making beverages. It connected to the web and could perform complex searches. I spent a big part of my severance from The District regulators on it. Alejandro has been invaluable.

The harsh whirl of coffee beans grinding and the hiss of water filled the closet. Soon, the hot liquid rushed into the mug.

I returned to my desk. “Alejandro, pull everything on Santiago Theer.”

Along the smartglass interface images bloomed. Various views of the deceased in varying ages popped onto my desk’s surface. A starred site linked to his business, Theer Information. The business client angle didn’t feel viable. Someone beat the living shit out of Santiago. The violator held a lot of anger. It had to be personal.

Or the Zebra sending a message.

Yeah, but why? What had Santiago discovered?

Part of me didn’t want to know. If the info caused Santiago’s death, me knowing it could put me in line for a beating too.

“Fuck it.” I sipped the hot bitterness from my mug. My eyes scanned the information on my desk. Nothing stood out, but maybe it was too early to tell.

Brokers knew a little bit about everything. So, what did Santiago know?

You never know what people are going to say until you ask.

Four

Santiago’s office sat in a nondescript four-story building on The District’s east side. Why had he kept a space in another sector? To find out who slayed him, I needed to know more about him. The cool fall afternoon unfolded as scores of people went about their lives, oblivious to the hole left by Santiago’s absence. Who cared for him besides his family? Did he have a partner? Best buddy? Robot lover?

The aerocycle glided between lanes on autopilot. Virtual Bach played in my helmet as I too went on automatic, allowing my brain to muse about the case, the few details I had and the weather.

Ahead, traffic slowed. Red brake lights lit up in quick succession. The good flow never lasted in The District’s elevated lanes. Craft congestion came with living here, both in the sky and on the ground, especially close to the territory’s nerve center, the former Capitol building.

We slowed to a stop. I caught movement in the side mirror. The sleek silver wauto flew faster than the surrounding crafts inching along the masses. The hairs on my neck went up. I gripped the handlebars and clicked off the autopilot. The wauto leapt over the crawling vehicles and into the illegal space between lanes. Horns blared in alarm from stunned pilots. The emergency system howled at the intrusion, but the vehicle came in a rush.

Until it reached me.

Once it neared, the rear flyer’s side window lowered. A flash of metal glinted in the sun.

I hit the acceleration on my cycle and launched forward, nearly rear-ending the wauto in front of me, and into the forbidden lane. Lasergun fire lit up another craft. The glass cracked and then shattered seconds later. Holes burned across the passenger’s side door. The pilot shouted but, in a flash, he lost control of his vehicle.

Seconds earlier, it would’ve been me.

More horns blared. In the distance, regulator sirens wailed.

I didn’t wait. The silver-colored wauto followed me. As I dipped beneath the hovering crafts, my pursuers did too.

Somehow, I’d managed to get someone’s attention.

Great.

I took the left exit lane and flew down to the streets. On the ground, I had a better chance of losing them. The Human Rights League’s corner operations building kept a steady flow of traffic into and out of their parking garage, and it was close. My black cycle would fit in easier than a wauto. Whoever my assailants were, they had no qualms about killing.

Me either.

I removed my gun and steered the cycle with one hand and partial autopilot through the parking lot’s open gate. The rows of wautos, aerocycles, and cargo crafts spoke to the group’s popularity. As a hatchling, using a hate group’s place to shake off some assassins spoke to how far down the rabbit hole my life had fallen. The HRL’s sole mission was getting the territory free of hatchlings by any means necessary.

I lowered my cycle behind a cargo craft and turned it off mere moments before the stalking vehicle arrived. With my lasergun in hand, I crouched down behind the neighboring craft. I shifted into survival mode as the adrenaline kicked in.

Now, I hunted them.

From what I could overhear, the crash they caused took its toll. Hot words and sharp tones escaped their parted windows. I followed them. Their wauto crawled through the first-floor parking garage searching for me. On my right arm, the embedded conduit connection to Alejandro blinked.

“Alejandro, record all within scanning distance.” The lights flickered and the tiny camera located in my eyebrow piercing illuminated. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel its warmth.

On their second round, both men fell quiet. I watched them turn toward my position again. At least two of them, judging by the distinct voices I heard. It didn’t mean there weren’t more in the vehicle, but for certain, two.

Who sent these amateurs? In my line of work, it could be anyone nursing a grudge—disgruntled partner, embittered client. Hell, who knows? Buried things have a habit of coming up. One thing I did know. It wasn’t the Zebra. If the Zebra wanted me assassinated, I’d be dead already and it wouldn’t be at lunch time on the damn E440. Nah, too flashy for the Zebra.

The vehicle slowed, and then lowered to the ground. Hot air blew debris across the lot, providing great cover for me.

One of the tinted windows on the passenger side lowered halfway. Puffs of smoke rolled out. Then a forehead, eyebrows, and eyes. I rushed the wauto, gun pointed. Once at the door, I snatched it open. A male tumbled from the wauto. His cigarette fell onto his person, and he shrieked, patting himself to try not to get burned. The pilot fumbled for a gun, but I was faster. I fired. His hands shot into the air. He froze.

“Don’t move. Talk.”

“You’re dead.” The pilot, a beefy man with spiky blond hair, a scarred face, and a nose that had been broken a lot, barked. Clearly, he didn’t know how to duck. “You’re so dead.”

I had the gun trained on the flyer. My free hand rested on the passenger’s throat. My body held the door ajar. The passenger had a more threatening attitude despite me cutting off his oxygen.

“Who sent you?”

“Death.” The passenger choked out a laugh. He had a small abrasion on his cheek and a ropey complexion.

I let him go and punched him right in the throat.

He didn’t know how to duck, either.

He clawed at his neck and gurgled as he scrambled back into the wauto.

“Who sent you?”

Nothing. I didn’t expect them to tell me. Instead, I took in their faces, scents, and info. The hum of an approaching craft sparked us into action all at once. A brief scuffle played in adrenaline-soaked slow motion. The passenger tried to shut his door. The pilot fired, nearly hitting his colleague, and missing me entirely. I shot into the wauto as I retreated to the parked vehicles for cover. The approaching vehicle stopped short; then the roar of horns and shouting erupted between both parties as the would-be killers blocked the way.

I watched them before fading into the shadows.

“Alejandro, stop recording.”

* * *

It was a filthy late afternoon. Thunder crashed overhead. My skylight exposed the lightning’s beauty. The cuts on my knuckles stung from punching the walking virus earlier. I cleaned the wound with alcohol and slapped on two pain patches. I wanted a cigarette or a Squish.

I had neither.

Instead, a few bottles of cold, Peck beer stepped in as substitute while I coasted the adrenaline withdrawal. I sat in my recliner straight up, too wired to relax, every sinew screaming as I tried to settle. I’d come home instead of going on to Santiago’s office. I wanted to make sure I didn’t have any other tails wagging behind me.

The two attackers couldn’t kill a bucket of tofu nuggets, let alone Roderick or Santiago. The Zebra didn’t send those idiots after me. Who did?

“You have an incoming connect from Briscoe Baker.” Alejandro turned on my telemonitor. It showed Briscoe’s face and the flashing word incoming in Tahoma red font.

My right hand was tight, but I managed to answer.

“Yule.”

“It’s me. The medical examiner verified your victim died from blunt force trauma to the head.”

“My victim?” I cleared my throat.

“You find it. You keep it.” Briscoe laughed.

“You find out much about him?”

“Not much. He’s an information broker. Born and raised in the sector he died in…” Briscoe paused. “Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity.”

“It killed the cat, you know.”

“Cats got nine lives.”

“You’re on what? Number eight?” Briscoe chuckled. “If you are working this, I expect to be kept abreast of your progress. I don’t want you stepping all over my investigation.”

“You said it was my victim.” I smiled.

“You heard me.”

“Sure.”

“Great. I’ve gotta go. I need to call Raol about being late for dinner. Some crazy person shot another flyer on the E440 parkway this afternoon.” Briscoe threw his hands up.

“Someone died?” I had hoped the flyer survived his injuries.

“One person in critical condition. A bunch of angry flyers.” Briscoe peered into the camera. “Witnesses did say they saw a black aerocycle doing some reckless flying in the forbidden space.”

“You don’t say.”

“You do seem a bit on edge. What’s happened to your face? Lo, what did you do?”

“Nothing…I’m working, just like you.”

Briscoe frowned. “Not like me.”

Those three words could cut ice.

“I see you’re emotionally distraught right now.”

Briscoe wiped his face. “You’re always the clever one, but Lo, I’m tired. For once, I want to know the damage before my captain. You’re the oldest. You’re supposed to take care of us.”

“And here, I thought Raol assumed those duties…”

Briscoe sighed. “Goddess, you’re a walking virus.”

“I’m just not good with regulators.”

“You ain’t wrong.” Briscoe snapped before ending the connection.

I drank more beer to blot out the nicotine craving crawling around my head.

My relationship with Briscoe was bittersweet. Where he exceled, working for The District, I had crashed. A hitch occurred in my life. A few years ago, I worked undercover for the drug unit. The assignment extended from a couple of months and rolled into a couple of years. My superiors monitored the situation closely, but not enough to stop me from developing a full-blown Zenith addiction. After being let go by the Regs, I spent a year destroying myself.

I stewed in the knowledge I didn’t save myself.

Briscoe rescued me. He and Raol paid for my AI rehab and put up the currency for my PI license and coursework. I sued the District Regulators for negligence and all parties agreed on a settlement, no wrongdoing admitted on their part. I used some of it to secure my PI office, and the rest my townhouse. It was worth it so I can keep pretending I’m a good person.

Grief is strange.

Five

The next morning, I flew over to Santiago’s office. This time I took a street-level route. The journey went well, and I arrived at the place without incident. I put my helmet onto the back of my cycle where it attached and locked. The area had withered in the wake of the Great War. Wilted buildings with peeling paint, boarded-up windows, and overgrown landscaping leaned into each other as if for comfort. Broken bottles littered the walkway up to the building’s front door. A few late-model wautos sat in the lot beneath the watery sun. Everything glistened from last evening’s rain.

I shrugged further into my coat and turned up my collar to keep the icy breeze from my neck. My lasergun remained nested in its holster where I could reach it without unbuttoning my coat. I’d stopped buttoning my coat when I was twelve.

One thing the violators didn’t count on when killing Santiago was how much he’d be missed. I entered the building and noted the absence of a lobby receptionist. Not even a robotic one. A directory listed the offices and the layout. There in black and white, Theer Information, suite 215. I removed my gun and called down the elevator.

Yeah, I could’ve taken the stairs up a flight.

But, I drank too much last night.

“What floor?” the car asked in a somewhat muffled voice.

“Second.”

I switched to breathing through my mouth. I fought the urge to dry heave at the odor of piss, vomit, and stale sex. I stumbled out of the car, fighting for cleaner air. The second-floor hallway showed three doors to the right of the elevator and three to the left. The numbering system made no sense, but I didn’t linger on it. Old buildings like this one had been renovated so many times, there probably used to be fifteen suites here. They’d been gobbled and combined into six.

Before I reached the suite, I smelled a different and more alarming odor.

The door gaped open, and buzzing flies broke the tense quiet. I covered my nose with the crook of my arm and crept into the tight, gloomy space. The hallway light provided some illumination. Monitors, routers, servers, and virtual keyboards littered every available surface. I couldn’t tell if someone had tossed the place, or this was how Santiago kept it.

A dim light shone in the back. And it was unnaturally hot.

The pungent odor grew more intense the closer I got to the desk. On the floor, brown boots and pants jutted out from a pile of blankets on one end and a head poked from the other. Flies danced around the human burrito. Little white maggots wiggled beneath their older siblings in the crevices where his eyes used to be.

Strange. Closed windows. Flies didn’t hang out in the chilly, fall weather. Did someone bring them to help move the decomposition? Like cranking up the heat and wrapping him in blankets? It would’ve been worse if the door had been closed.

“Alejandro, identify the person. Facial.”

I took out my tablet and directed it to the dissolving head.

Facial recognition was hit or miss.

“This is Roderick Sweet.” Alejandro’s green scanner beam dimmed.

“Certainty?”

“Ninety-six percent.”

I walked around the desk and snagged one of the laptops. I exited the office in time to hear the elevator ding. Beside Santiago’s office, an exit door had a knob and was labeled stairs. I pushed open the stairwell door and held my breath as voices filled the corridor. I peered through the parted door.

Black-clad, one-piece-uniformed Regulators approached suite 215 with caution. Some of them knocked on the other doors. No doubt doing the same background checks as me. Soon, like me, they were going to find a dead body.

I didn’t want to be here when they did.

I closed the door and took the steps down to the first floor.

By the time I reached the lobby, more regulators had arrived and started sealing off the area. With the laptop tucked beneath my coat, I walked out the side door. Once I reached my aerocycle, I secured my ill-gotten gains in its cargo compartment, put my helmet on and left.

* * *

I was back at my own office, Santiago’s computer hooked up to Alejandro, when he announced:

“Briscoe Baker wants to connect.”

“Ignore.” I reviewed the data on Roderick spread out on my desk.

Roderick Sweet was an information broker. He and Santiago collaborated and competed on various jobs, according to Santiago’s visual journals. Their volatile friendship appeared loving from Santiago’s viewpoint; they’d been pals since they were kids. As with all close family and friends, they had a few squabbles and petty jealousy, but nothing worth killing over.

“Any info on Santiago’s latest jobs or clients? Search terms Zebra, bank, theft, currency.”

Roderick’s death pointed to someone else, despite Santiago’s mom’s feelings.

“Alejandro, pause query. Pull all public surveillance video for Santiago’s office. Include any neighboring footage for the last thirty-six hours.”

In moments, video prompts appeared. I hunkered down in my chair with coffee and pressed play. The analog footage didn’t convert well. The grainy feed produced a viewpoint of the corner shop beside the office. I watched people come and go from the store. They served pu-pu takeaway. Popular from the look of it.

One video blurred into the other. It wasn’t a compelling piece of evidence. I lost count of how many mugs of coffee I drank, but by hour twenty-seven I saw Roderick get out of a weathered wauto. I couldn’t read the identification plate. He was alive at twenty-two hundred hours. Tuesday. I found Santiago’s body at 1806 on Wednesday. Judging by the state of the corpse, Roderick died before Santiago, but that couldn’t be right. Was Roderick the true victim and his amigo collateral damage? Could Roderick’s death have been a mistake?

“Alejandro, load the video surveillance from the Theer Information office building.”

“Negative.”

“I figured.” I slumped back in my seat. The place had mostly analog tech and information brokers required privacy. Roderick left the restaurant and headed toward the office. The café across from the building had grainy over-pixelated video but I could make out Roderick’s tall, lean form. The video played till the regulators arrived.

I finished the other videos with a stiff neck and blurry eyes.

“Your blood glucose level is dropping,” Alejandro said.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Ordering your usual lunch.”

I got up and retrieved some chips from the pantry.

As I munched, I pondered what I’d found.

Not much.

“Alejandro, what’s the progress on the laptop?”

“Fifteen percent progress. There are numerous security protocols.”

“Fuck.”

“Repeat.”

“Never mind. Show me Santiago’s currency transactions.”

“District Bank has blocked all access.”

“Cull info on his currency comments or statements, jpegs, social media, everything.”

My stomach growled in complaint against the chips.

I leaned against the desk’s smartglass, and scanned the videos, image stills, emails, instant messages arranged in neat, tiled columns across its surface. I didn’t think the Zebra killed Santiago or Roderick. Too messy.

“Alejandro, download and play security footage from outside my office on Wednesday, start at 1700. Slow speed to half.”

The images slowed as it bloomed across the desktop. A dark-colored, two-door wauto edged into the screen. A door swept open, and Santiago’s cup spilled onto the pavement. A person emerged from the vehicle, and they hauled the body a few paces before abandoning him to his fate. Inside the craft, a red cigarette glow pinpointed a flyer, not an autopilot. The delivery person wore a

facial recognition–blocking mask that hid identity and scanning by presenting an oversized, but vaguely human face.

“Damn.”

I flopped back into my chair and rubbed my face. The bottom drawer called to me. It offered peace and release—all I had to do was inject the Zenith and then I would be sent to new heights.

A thud brought me out of my musings.

“Your takeaway curry has arrived.”

I’d forgotten Alejandro had ordered it. My stomach hadn’t. I retrieved my lunch and sat down at the desk to devour the spicy cauliflower and potato mixture.

What did Santiago do in the twenty-four hours before he died?

The video files came from a few places beyond the Chinese place, but none from the building itself. Which was why Alejandro couldn’t find any surveillance from the actual place.

Then it hit me.

I never appeared in the surveillance video. The side door was a blind spot.

One Roderick’s violator knew too.

“Give me everything you have so far.”

Alejandro passed on the files from Santiago’s laptop. I discovered images of him with another male who had the same facial features. A brother, Joao Angelo. The mother’s name was Angelica Lopez. Lexi’s name was actually Lexi Lemon. Those all checked out in public domains and what Santiago had on his computer.

None of Santiago’s public files indicated he had any issues with the Zebra or with anyone else. But some of his audio recordings were in code, in layers of languages as if he suspected someone of listening in. His telemonitor dump revealed a flurry of connections between Santiago and a blocked IP.

“Alejandro, trace the identity of IP 56.71.81.3.”

The AI would cross-reference all public files and activity with that IP. It worked faster than I did.

“The IP belongs to Lexi Lemon.”

Deflated, I ate my curry.

* * *

Later in the evening, I left Alejandro to work. I’d given it a lot of tasks and it required time to complete them. The Orange Door pumped music into its tight space. Near the bar, several suits danced and gyrated en masse to the upbeat tones. Bookey seated me in my usual booth and planted the Squish in front of me.

“You eatin’ tonight?”

Si. Plorizo burrito.” I already had the glass of Squish in my fist.

Plant-based chorizo, flavored with seasoning, lettuce, and salsa. I preferred liquid meals, but my body couldn’t live on Squish alone.

I drank another swallow, feeling the burn plow through and then contributing to the numbing glow. Bookey dropped off the steaming deliciousness and a second Squish without a word before disappearing back into the kitchen.

It was too hot to eat right away. It must’ve come straight from the grill.

As the second Squish neared its empty status when Bookey appeared with glass number three and brother number one.

Briscoe stood like a specter, dressed in all black, his peacoat collar popped and his black paisley scarf tied artfully around his neck. He slipped into the seat across from me.

“Those orange drinks haven’t put you in a stupor, I hope.”

Bookey put her dark eyes on him. “You eatin’?”

Briscoe smiled. “I’ll have black tea syth.”

“Gah. How do you drink that?” I asked.

“Says you whose Squish is literally all synthetic flavor, color, and alcohol.” Briscoe took out a thin cigarette. He lit it and inhaled. “You wanted my attention. You got it. Mind you, I’m missing Raol’s wheat spaghetti Bolognese with walnuts.”

Bookey drifted away. “Eat before it gets cold,” she scolded over her shoulder.

“Yeah, Mom!” I forked off a bite and ate the deliciousness.

“Mom would never let you eat that.” Briscoe wrinkled his nose. “Ever.”

“No. Hatchlings must have proper nutrition.” I snorted. “Tell me about the body over in sector ten.”

Now, I wanted spaghetti Bolognese.

“Don’t tell me. You’re on the case too? I’m not gonna ask who hired you. You wouldn’t tell me anyway.” Briscoe paused as Bookey placed a teacup of hot water and a bright pink tablet in front of him.

Briscoe dropped his tea tablet into his cup and stirred. “Uniform was sent to follow up on Santiago’s office when they found Roderick Sweet’s not-so-sweet-smelling corpse.”

“How long had he been dead? Cause of death?”

Briscoe waved his hands in a slowdown motion.

I laughed. “Alright. Sip your tea.”

Briscoe sipped his drink. I could almost hear his mind working, gears grinding against the evidence he had.

“The body’s state of decay makes time of death difficult, but the ME puts it as Wednesday evening early Thursday morning. There were living maggots, blood, and an attempt to screw with the decomposition, to speed it up. There’s no close-contact wounds. Someone shot him from just inside the doorway.”

“Roderick and Santiago were both information brokers.” I had a few threads but not enough for a quilt.

“We did find him in Santiago’s office.”

“Why the maggots? No matter how quickly he decomposed, you can’t hide a lasergun blast to the skull.”

“I didn’t tell you how he died,” Briscoe said.

“Nothing’s secret online.” I forked another piece of burrito into my mouth.

“The vioTechs uncovered more disturbing evidence.” He held his teacup near his lips. “Several of the devices had images of women—missing women. Another team’s working on the trafficked end, but the suspected violator pool now resembles the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Did Roderick have bruises on his knuckles?”

Briscoe grew still.

“Yes, he had defensive wounds, but the lasergun blast ended his life.”

“Roderick could have a part in Santiago’s violation. Can you check the DNA to see if there’s a blood transfer? I suspect Santiago and Roderick got into a fight and Roderick killed him.”

Briscoe lowered his teacup. “Someone killed Roderick. I can double-check to make sure with the medical examiner. We did find an old gun.”

“Registered to who?”

“A Joao Angelo.”

“Brother of the victim.”

Briscoe quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“A possible feud between siblings?” Briscoe signaled for a refill. “You?”

“Nah, I’m good.” I nursed the tall glass. “How does Roderick fit in? We’ve got Joao’s weapon and two dead mates.”

“Drugs, currency, jealousy, take your pick.” Briscoe sighed at his empty teacup.

“Santiago got a file?”

Bookey arrived with another steaming cup of water, a tea tablet, and wordlessly collected the other dishes. “You good?”

“Yeah, Bookey. I’m good.”

Briscoe stirred his bright, pink liquid until she left.

“This wasn’t a random act of violence. Santiago was targeted. Roderick was ambushed. Both had drug violations long enough to cause carpal tunnel from scrolling.”

“Supplying?”

“Using, supplying, you name it,” Briscoe said. “We’re not ruling out a possible connection.”

“Huh.” A little niggle in my brain wouldn’t sit still. “Why are these two men dead?”

Briscoe sat back in his seat and drained the cup. “Early days. You know?”

“The deaths are connected. We know Santiago died first and roughly twelve hours before someone dumped him at my door.”

Briscoe inclined his head. “He was lured elsewhere, quite possibly his office, ambushed, beaten and killed.”

“The third party kills Roderick Sweet…” I added.

“No witnesses. Classic.”

“The rest we know.”

“Do we?” Briscoe scoffed.

I drank more Squish. “Well, I do.”

“That’s absolutely frightening.”

“It’s a theory.”

“I’ll be inclined to agree once I check on the DNA,” Briscoe said. “I’ll leave you with this. Santiago was flat broke.”

“No currency.”

“Nope. He was sitting in red.” Briscoe slid out of the booth and adjusted his sweater. He threw his coat over his arm. “Gotta go.”

“Ciao.” I watched him hurry from the bistro, no doubt he and Raol had opera.

Although the gun belonged to Joao, he wasn’t the only one in the frame. Lexi didn’t beat Santiago to death. I needed to unravel a cold-blooded conspiracy.

One that left two people dead.

Six

Joao Angelo’s residence was in the Adams Morgan Sector 12, a rectangular space in a cluster of former storage units. I presented myself on a crisp Friday afternoon. A blue-painted robot, an egg-shaped floating figure, drifted over to me.

“How can I assist?” Hybrid of a face, it had a display screen where closed-captioning scrolled across in Spanish.

“I’m here to see Joao Angelo.”

“Please wait.”

“Identity?”

“Lomax Yule.”

“Please wait.” The service bot’s screen rolled to static.

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t wait and started toward the two elevators. The bot zipped around in front of me.

“Please wait.”

I had no other plans. What I did have were questions, ones I wanted Joao to answer.

“Proceed to the fourth floor, unit 403.” The robot drifted away to a charging pad beside the double doors. Its illuminated features darkened.

One of the elevators opened. I entered, but the doors shut so fast, I nearly caught my coat on it. It didn’t have any buttons or listed floors. In minutes the car arrived at its destination.

“Floor four.”

I got out. The service robot must contain a link to the elevators. How did the residents control their comings and goings? An app?

The hallway bore muraled art, a colorful display of figures and flowers, bubble letters and beauty. I pressed a button on a door labeled 403. It opened onto a foyer overflowing with lush, green plants and rich orange walls. One whole wall held wooden floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with paper books. I wiped drool from my chin.

“Ah, hola, Mr. Yule.” Joao came out of a tiny, U-shaped kitchenette. “I’m cooking, but come on in.”

Joao resembled Santiago but healthier.

“Thank you for meeting me.”

“Mama said they hired you to find Santi’s violator.” Joao wiped his hands on a towel.

“I won’t waste your time. Tell me about Santiago.”

Joao gestured to a living space where four chairs circled around a round coffee table. “Please, sit.”

I sat in a plush, blue chair.

Joao spread his hands wide as he lowered himself into the matching Queen Anne chair. “He liked to get high.”

“Violent?”

“Sometimes. He liked to use his fists, got rowdy if pushed.” Joao shrugged. “Most of the time he was flatline.”

“Roderick Sweet was found dead in Santiago’s office. The Regulators found your gun at the site. It’s the violation weapon.”

Joao froze. “I reported it stolen a year ago.”

Note to self to verify with Briscoe. “When did you notice it was missing?”

Joao rubbed his hands on his pants. “Thanksgiving. I went to clean it and it was gone.”

“Who was there? Santiago?”

“No. He missed it. Lexi, my sister, my mom, Roderick—he came with Lexi—and Dad.” Joao scratched his head. His face lit up. “I remember now. Lexi said she needed it for protection. She didn’t feel safe. I mean, the Zebra kept her protected with guards, so I didn’t understand why she wanted it. I told her no. I didn’t want to be involved in her mess and she had no experience with a weapon.”

“You think she stole it?” I did.

Joao hesitated. “I dunno.”

“Your sister works for the Zebra?” I swallowed the urge to shout. How did I miss that?

Joao waved it off. “Yeah. It’s all above board. She’s his accountant.”

“Right. Do you know anyone who would kill your brother?” I switched gears.

“Roderick.”

No hesitation. Confidently. Joao believed it. His mom had mentioned Roderick too.

“Why him?”

Joao said, “Santi owed Roderick currency. Plus, he envied my brother. My brother worked whirlwinds around him, even when Santi was high. Roderick was dull enough to drive anyone crazy, so he often lost clients to Santi. They argued. Gotta be him.”

I agreed.

“Thank you for your candor.” I stood up.

Joao escorted me to the door. “Santi was my little brother. I—I didn’t protect him, but I can help capture who hurt him.”

Once the door shut behind me, I heard a sob. Joao broke down.

It was a sobering moment.

Seven

Friday evening unfolded before me.

I had questions for Lexi Lemon. I snatched on my helmet and jetted off into the elevated lanes. I had let her cool, collected beauty lure me in. Now, I needed concrete evidence to break her down and send her straight to the cradle.

You gotta see people face to face to get a read. I entered the coordinates for Lexi Lemon’s home.

Like movie mansions, the huge house held sin and darkness. I got off my aerocycle, hiked up the winding paved pathway, which led to an electronic gate. I pressed the visitor button. She didn’t have the kind of place you just flew up to. It consumed several lots and boasted multiple glass windows, faux wood, and greenery.

A robot greeted me at the door. It looked exactly like the one at Joao’s apartment, except painted white. I shoved it aside and marched into the expansive foyer. The robot butler zoomed around and made a sharp right.

I followed him to a living room where I saw Lexi seated on a sofa, legs crossed, glass in hand, and a quizzical expression on her face.

“Well, this is unexpected. What can I do for you?” She took a drink but kept those dark eyes on me.

“The charade is over, Lexi.” I wasn’t in the mood for small talk and pleasantries.

“You must have a slew of questions.” She stood up and placed her glass down. She gestured to the second sofa. The two pieces of furniture faced each other across the expanse of a lush, white furry rug. “Please, sit down.”

I hesitated. The robot butler grabbed my arm with one of its mechanical ones and guided me to the couch. It pinched my forearm, and I snatched my arm free.

I sat. My lasergun shifted in its holster.

Lexi sat back down and clasped her hands in front of her.

“Why?”

She smiled. “Zenith devastated him. He lost jobs. He blackmailed the wrong people. He went to the cradle for a ton of violators. Each session killed my mother. During his withdraws, he went crazy. He hurt my mom, destroyed property. He needed to disappear.”

“You didn’t beat Santiago to death.”

Her eyebrow rose into her bangs. “No.”

The talkative Lexi clammed up.

And they say there’s no honor among thieves.

Maybe not among thieves, but perhaps killers.

“You convinced Roderick to kill him. Same difference.”

“Oh, but it isn’t.” Lexi shrugged and looked away.

“Was the relationship more personal or platonic?”

“Does it matter?”

I glared. “He’s dead. You did do that one.”

“Roderick was always overly invested in our relationship. I mean, he can’t just buy me a purse and call it love.” She smirked and shook her head. “Virus.”

“He’d do anything for you, even kill his best friend.” It wasn’t hard to see how Roderick became fixated on her. Powerful. Intelligent. Beautiful.

“Santi was a lurking time bomb.” She picked up her glass and drank.

“He was your brother.”

Lexi pursed her lips. “I did everything to save him.”

“Some people don’t want help or believe they need saving.”

She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. “I believed God would stop it if it wasn’t supposed to happen. He didn’t. So, it must’ve been meant to be.”

“Do you hear yourself?” I frowned.

“Of course.”

“You hated him.”

Lexi said, “Hate is immature. I eliminated a pest.”

“Your brother. A person. Not some radioactive cockroach.”

“There’s a difference?” She didn’t flinch, smirk, or indicate any hint of humor. “Santi’s bruised ego caused this. If only he’d gotten clean and not pissed off my boss.”

“The Zebra?”

She didn’t acknowledge it, but she wiped her face. A flash of real anger and aggression turned her soft face to stone.

“All the markers he had scattered all over the damn territory. My boss expected me to pay them. Me? No, I needed to put an end to it.”

Motive. Opportunity. How the hell was I going to prove this to Briscoe? In my haste, I didn’t engage Alejandro to record.

“Why me?”

She flashed her electric smile. “I looked for an easy victim and there you were, huddled in a drunken stupor at The Orange Door. Investigating seedy little cyber affairs and robot fetishes. You were perfect. The irony…an addict investigating another addict.”

My eyes burned and blurred to the point where I saw three Lexis sitting on the sofa.

“Why are you telling me this?” I didn’t feel good, and I pulled out my gun. “What did you do to me?”

Her openness could only mean one thing—she meant to kill me.

She looked at the big, barreled weapon and grinned, large and wide. Lots of teeth.

“Put it away before you burn your leg off.”

The room tilted and I realized I was tipping over. Dizziness. Lexi’s laughter sounded like it was funneled through a can. My heart pounded in my chest—too fast for normal.

I stumbled as I got to my wobbly feet. I took a step toward her as cold sweat broke out across my body.

“What’d you do to me?”

“You love cigarettes. Right? Nicotine?”

I wheezed and collapsed to my knees. “The fuck?”

“Nicotine comes in concentrated liquid forms too.” She squatted down beside me, those dark eyes monitoring every inch, reaction, agonizing grimace.

Nausea rumbled through me. I rolled toward her, now in a fetal position at her feet.

“Don’t get it on my rug. It cost more than your life.” She kicked me in the face.

Her beautiful black boots hurt like a bitch! I tasted blood.

Just then I wasn’t good at ducking.

It’s hard to do that when the damn room won’t stop spinning.

An old adage came true. Be careful what you ask for.

I managed to push myself up on my knees. “No one’s gonna come carry my body out for you.”

Lexi sat back down. “I’m gonna get the robot to do it. I should’ve done that with Santi. Roderick’s simple ass flew around with a dead body for forty-five minutes before we decided to drop it off at your place.”

My belly heaved, sending me back to the floor.

“It’s simple. An addict broke into my home and I shot him.” Lexi produced a pug, a short-barreled compact lasergun.

Weak, covered in vomit, dizzy, and a heart threatening to explode, I managed to get up on my knees again.

Despite this, I never let go of my gun.

“No, Lexi.”

“No?” She sounded like she’d never heard the word before.

Then she spied the lasergun as I brought it up from my side.

I fired.

She did too.

My vision wavered. I fought back against the growing dark; through heavy eyelids I watched her fall—or maybe I fell.

Joao said she wasn’t good with a gun.

“Alejandro, contact the regs. There’s a dead body at my current coordinates.”

“Your vital signs…”

“I know! Just. Get. Them.”

I blacked out.

* * *

“Goddess, you’re a pain in the ass.”

I awoke to a pounding headache, an upset stomach, and an acidic taste in my mouth.

And my little brother standing beside me. I could tell from the gentle wavering I was laid out on a floating gurney. The EMTs worked on my body, inserting IVs and cutting my clothing to get at more of my skin.

Hola,” I croaked.

“Only you would get nicotine poisoning.”

“I”—I swallowed to ease my aching throat—“didn’t smoke.”

“Oh, I know.” Briscoe’s eyebrows were in his perfectly coifed hair. “You were right. Blood on Roderick’s knuckles matched Santiago. Roderick’s DNA was found under Santiago’s fingernails. There’s more but let’s wait until you’re out of the woods.”

I smiled. “His mami was right. Momma’s always right.”

Briscoe shot me an annoyed look. “Give him more gas.”

I laughed so hard tears streamed down my face.

Briscoe gave me a small smile and squeezed my shoulder.

“We gotta get him to hospital.” The EMT guided me into the back of the craft.

To my surprise, Briscoe climbed into the back too. “I’m coming along.”

I closed my eyes as the gas took effect.

It didn’t stop me from smiling.


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