Chapter 91

“There’s no reason for you to be here, Jim.”

“Yeah, there is.”

Over the centuries, a gift had sharpened within me: the ability to compartmentalize so many things. Cinder, Erville, Mandy, and the others sat snug in my brain, but now off to one side.

Chest tight, I looked up from a bank of video monitors lining the wall of a large van. In their glow, several black-clad figures huddled over control panels. One of them was giving me the look of a guy who hated to have his boss so close.

“It’s dangerous,” he said.

I laughed. “Don’t even. I’m retired, not gonna—”

“Breach Two is inside,” came from a hunched technician.

My focus flicked to the screens. Five silhouettes resolved from a bright flash. Weapons snapping to cover angles, they moved with deadly precision along a narrow corridor.

“Drone’s out ahead. Says it’s clear.”

“Check again,” I growled, remembering Lisandra’s words.

“Roger.”

An image zoomed, then swiveled. On the first screen, the figures faded into a gathering gloom.

“Move camera six,” ordered the man whose attention had left me.

“Yes, sir.”

“Drone’s ... Uh, I’m not—”

The sudden blackness on the remote feed said it all. My ribs clamped even tighter, and I spun from the glowing wall. “Going in.”

Before any of them could block me, I was through the door. My boots slammed onto the asphalt, and a quick dash past several startled faces took me into the structure.

Once a warehouse, it’d been split into a number of venues; most were abandoned and shuttered. Staleness amid a skin-tickling dank filled the air. My goal loomed ahead. Beyond black-streaked steel doors, now hanging askew, stretched a dance club of appreciable size.

In that space, lit only by cracks in dark-painted windows high on one wall, the smells were sharper. Booze of all kinds, marijuana, a lingering mélange of colognes and perfumes, plus sweat and ... My brain lit as if spotlights blazed across synapses trained by who knew how many fights.

Rapid, heavy thuds marked my footsteps speeding toward the rear of the room.

A bright flash from ahead made me stagger.

The ground rumbled underfoot, and I was tossed sideways into a counter. With practiced ease, muscles reacted, allowing me to roll along its front and continue dashing forward.

“Fuck!” came from my earpiece.

“Status?” I asked, speeding into a billowing cloud of dust.

“Uh, Jim. Two down. One bad. Drone’s glitched or ... It’s just not—”

“Tell them to halt. I’m on my way.”

No fervent retort appeared, and I charged deeper into the smoke. An acrid stench burned my nostrils. Once through a door flung from its hinges, warmth that shouldn’t be present heated what little skin the black tactical kit left exposed.

While my gloved hand found the well-worn grip of the large-frame assault revolver on my hip, I made no move to draw. Too crowded, and visibility sucked. The visor glued to my face kept flicking through vision options; none were great.

A quick stomp to crush flickering flames on a piece of wood, and I crouched near the cluster of figures. Two black-suits lay on the ground. Amid a shimmering puddle of blood, one had no arms and was unmoving. The other moaned while clasping a thigh that bubbled with crimson. Hushed voices into mikes sent reports. A soft whir brought my focus to a new drone as it arrived.

“Follow,” I muttered before gliding through the still-humans.

What transpired next could best be described as 3D chess with things that go boom or send flames. The replacement drone lasted about fifteen minutes. We’d just entered a tunnel. The map said it offered access to the famous, or infamous, warren beneath Los Angeles, and the hair on my neck prickled.