Dualed (13 page)

When I open my eyes, the sky is already light—the dull, sinister gray of winter mornings, but still light.

I’ve slept for too long.

I sit up slowly, my legs stiff from both the cold air and having been awkwardly positioned all night. Given the amount of supplies in the cab of the truck, there wasn’t much room left for me to stretch out.

But it was safe enough, and cheap. It didn’t take a lot to convince the warehouse owner, and I knew it wasn’t the first time he’d taken money to let an active crash in one of the delivery trucks in his back lot.

Getting ready to climb out, I automatically run my hand over my jacket pocket, feeling for the shape of my gun; then the other pocket, for my blade. Pat my jeans pocket to make
sure that blade’s still there, too. When I reach for my bag, my hand hits a little taped package placed on top. It wasn’t there when I fell asleep.

I swear at Chord silently through clenched teeth, like I always do when he does this. Not so much for following me, but because he’s able to do it so easily. How
is
he doing it?

It’d be a mistake to discount Chord’s tech background. He has to be using those skills somehow, even though he didn’t exaggerate about the cells being bare bones. There’s no software that even resembles a shadowing system, as far as I can tell. If he’s really able to track me down without any other means, then it could prove to be that easy for
her
, too.

I push away the thought before it has the chance to dig in. Make cold fear become irritation again because it’s easier. Chord and his little care packages. I’m grateful for his thoughtfulness, but I hate it at the same time, knowing he’s in danger because he refuses to stay away. Wondering if he’s observing from a safe distance even now, I tear open the package.

Inside are the usual two items: cash and a fresh, fully charged cell. His timing, as always, is eerily perfect: the old cell is practically dead. It takes me only a few seconds to transfer all my data from one to the other. Once the old cell is wiped clean, I toss it into one of the outer pockets of my bag for recycling later—the new one goes securely inside. The cash I split up: half on me, half in my bag. I can’t care that it’s Chord’s. After a few weeks on the run, I’m past that now. It’ll buy me whatever I need—food, clothes—when my own money can’t.

I ask for the time, and when my watch beeps out that it’s a quarter past eight, I realize just how close I’m cutting it. The
specs of the strike I accepted last night tell me I have to go now if I’m going to find my strike where I want to find him.

Shoving the mess of my hair farther into my hood so I look somewhat passable, I climb out of the truck, reach back in for my bag, and sling the straps over my shoulders. I weave my way through the dark and intense hustle of the Grid’s morning rush, the surging bodies that have places to go, places to be.

I stop and take note of where I am, making sure I have the address right.

One block over, then one down. If I’ve got my timing right, the shop is about to open. And I’d better have it right—I’ll only have about a minute before the window I’ve allowed myself closes. That’s how long it’ll take for him to get from his car to the back door of his family’s store. I’ve read my client’s spec sheet on his Alt enough times that I can almost recite it by heart, in my sleep. Particularly the part about his Alt’s routine.

I cross the street with the lights, and over the sea of bobbing heads I see it.

Tweed’s Stationery is a storefront combined with a vintage paper press in the back that still produces specialty items, according to the tagline on the front window etched below the store name. It’s old-fashioned and charming and one of those places I could have easily spent hours in, lost in crisp textiles and clean lines and the smell of glazes and ink.

No longer possible now. Another life, another time.

I enter the alley that runs behind the block of stores and see right away how tight it’s going to be, how little room there is to move. Unauthorized, small-scale dumping grounds are pretty common throughout this part of the Grid, and the ward will sometimes go for months before finally getting around to clearing them out. This particular alley is choking with dying cars, the sides of it lined with them, a crooked, broken train of vehicles that runs the length of the whole block. Some are already starting to go orange with rust, urban sunsets in a concrete jungle.

The smell of decay is sharp in my nose as I crouch down between two cars. Positioned here, across the alley from the back lot of the stationery store, I have the best sight line to where my strike is going to be.

“Time,” I ask as I tighten the straps of my bag over my shoulders.

08:42
. Eighteen minutes left to go until he shows up, since the doors open at nine.

But then a huge tow truck is coming through, slow and rumbling. Another behind that, and then a third, a fourth.
They keep moving, only cutting their engines after they’re practically right in front of me. No way of seeing Tweed’s from here now; instead I watch, stunned, as four guys climb out of the tow trucks and noisily start hooking up the abandoned cars for removal.

I don’t know if a striker’s ever had to pull back because of something going wrong at the last moment, but I don’t want to be the first. If I can’t think around this … if my Alt were to catch me off guard somehow and I couldn’t find a way to recover—

“Time.” I scramble to my feet, scan my surroundings again, turning around once, twice. The sight lines at eye level are no longer workable, so I scan higher—the roofline of the buildings around me.

08:47
.

Thirteen minutes left and I’m getting desperate, my throat going tight, looking for anything now—when I see it.

The fire escape on the side of the four-story building diagonally across from Tweed’s back lot. Portions of it are swinging free from its attachments, whether by neglect or force I don’t know, but it’s still intact enough to spiral its way up to the roof.

I head over, cutting my way through the tight maze of creaking steel. There’s enough commotion that I slip by unnoticed. I jump onto the top of the nearest car and step onto the bottom platform of the stairs. Start climbing.

“Time,” I huff out as the ground recedes farther and farther. My throat’s still tight, too—no longer from panic but from knowing I’ve never done a strike cold like this before. Such little preparation, groundwork unlaid, perspective unknown.

08:51
.

As soon as my feet hit the roof—a flat plain of dark gray, slightly dipped in the middle and still damp from last night’s rain—I run to the edge and peer down. The distance is close to forty, possibly fifty feet, and another twenty feet on top of that to the store. Farther than I’m used to, but not enough that it should be an issue.

The workers down below are still at work, slowly loading the tow trucks.

And a Verve hatch, black and dusty, weaves its way down the alley. By the time it drives past me and pulls into Tweed’s back lot, I’ve already pulled my gun free and have it aimed.

Plate number
C4D9P7X7
. A match.

The person climbing out of the car looks the same as the picture of my client. He seems older than eighteen, broken sleep still etched in lines on his face, his wispy brown hair nearly as thin as his frame. Black pants, gray shirt, navy bomber jacket.

His gun is cradled in a holster that hangs too loosely around his hips. It swings as he turns in my direction, and knocks back against his body as he starts walking toward the trunk of the car. His head is exposed and vulnerable.

When the sharp, cold lick of wind comes, freeing long strands of hair from beneath my hood so they whip the side of my face and slap against my lips, I don’t think anything of it.

My bullet is a roar. It blisters through the air like a rocket burning through fuel. It thrums a minute vibrato as it shears along the outside of his head. He screams, stumbling to his knees with a hand pressed to the wound, his other already feeling for his gun.

I should have remembered the distance between him and me, farther than I’m used to. How a bullet riding along such lengths of space can be set adrift by a breeze. How a bullet riding along such lengths is still very much subject to gravity.

But I didn’t remember. I missed. Only by a couple of inches, maybe even one, but it’s enough to fall short of the mark.

My gut’s twisted into knots as I shoot again, and again. Finally he lies still.

For a long moment, everything’s perfectly silent, and I can almost pretend the strike hasn’t taken place yet. That there’s still the chance to plan better, aim better, be better.

The yells of the workers down below bring me back, and I tuck my gun into my pocket and climb down the fire escape. No matter how botched a job, it must be completed. Death must be confirmed.

Walking across the alley, I feel the eyes of the workers on me. I hear the words
striker
and
assignment
and
cheater
even as they go back to hooking up steel skeletons. From around the corner come the loud honks of thick traffic, the clatter of heeled boots on pavement. The day goes on. Life continues.

I move close to the body, avoiding his blood as much as I can as I check for a pulse. When I feel nothing, I pry open one eyelid. His pupil is clean, his assignment number gone.

A text to my client with instructions for the rest of my payment only takes seconds. As does reminding him to contact ward clearing.

As I turn away, I can feel the heat coming off the still-cooling engine of his car. I can’t help but hold my fingers to
the warmth. It’s bliss against the chill in the air … the chill inside me.

Go, get moving
.

The sight of Chord across the alley startles me into nearly tripping over my own feet.

He’s watching me walk away. The tired backdrop of the old building behind him, dulled with layers of industrial exhaust and smog, only makes him more vivid. I don’t know how long he’s been there … or how much he’s seen.

The idea of him seeing me work makes me uncomfortable, uneasy—a sensation way too close to guilt. I don’t like how it feels, like a greasy weight that wants to cling, and I shake it off resentfully. I have to stop caring what he thinks about my being a striker. Stop caring about him altogether.

I hunch into my jacket as I walk and refuse to look at him. I’m about to pass him, and when it becomes obvious that I’m planning on ignoring him, Chord moves close enough to block my path.

“Stay away from me, Chord,” I say to him. I move around him, out toward the street.

He follows. “You know I can’t.” He pauses. “Can we talk for five minutes?”

“No, I don’t think—”

He grabs my arm, surprisingly gentle despite his insistence. “Good, I’m glad you’re thinking for once. Talk to me, but not here. Clearing is going to be here soon.”

So he saw me kill, then. The knowledge that he can’t possibly see me as he used to, that I’ve fallen to new, unspeakable depths, twists in my chest.

We’re lost in the crowd already, caught in the flow as we walk up the block. I look around, wary, wondering if we’re as anonymous as I hope we are.

Thinking fast, needing to put distance between us, I say stiffly, “Luc’s dead. He won’t know if you stay away.”

Chord sighs, slips his hand down so it’s closer to my own. “Give it up, West. I’ve heard that way too many times to let it bother me anymore.”

I try again. “I’m serious. You need to quit following me. What if you get sloppy and slip and get
her
on me?”

Chord shakes his head. “Even if she sees me, so what? She has no reason to wonder who I am.” He looks down at me, pulls me closer, his hand tensing. “I saw her,” he says. “This morning, early.”

My stomach clenches. Pure ice inside me. “How do you know it wasn’t me you saw?” I ask. My voice sounds faint, even to my ears, barely audible over the other conversations floating around us.

“I can tell.” It’s all he says.

“We’re exactly the same.” I shake his hand off. He’s too close again. I wrap my arms around myself. “Or similar enough that you could make that mistake.”

“Her eyes …” He grins, the smile a poor imitation of his real one. “Believe it or not, they’re even colder than yours. Even with the way you’re looking at me now.”

I scowl. “Thanks. I think.”

“She’s practically on top of you, West. You need to get out of the Grid. You shouldn’t be in Jethro at all—not until you figure out how you’re going to hunt her down.”

We’re passing a lingerie shop, and I grab the opportunity and duck inside. I know Chord’s going to follow me—he’s too stubborn not to—but I’m hoping he’ll feel too awkward to want to stay long. I’m hoping he’ll cut our five minutes short all by himself.

“So, is that what you wanted to tell me?” I lean over to examine a rack of filmy black bras. I can see our reflections in the long mirror that lines the room. I can almost believe we’re just another couple hanging out. “Was there something else?”

Chord keeps his eyes fixed on me. To my frustration, there’s no sign of embarrassment on his face. Or he’s too good at hiding it. “You just found out your Alt is right here in the Grid. I thought it seemed pretty important.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know.” I hold the sheer material up to my chest. “If there’s nothing else you need to tell me—”