Page 17 of Reclaimed

He doesn't respond at first, eyes roaming over me before he points to my chest and asks, "that real gold?"

"Huh?" My nose scrunches as I look down. "This?" I ask, touching the locket. "Yeah, it's real."

"Listen, doll, I'll do a buck twenty five," he drawls, swiping a hand over his chin. "And I know a guy who'll give ya a heck of a deal for the necklace. He, uh, might even be the kinda guy that could help with what ya really need."

My eyes narrow. "What's the catch?"

Lifting his hands in mock surrender, he lets out a laugh. "No catch, you just happened to catch ole Sal here in a generous mood."

Before I can overthink it, I shove aside my cynicism and stick out my hand. "Deal."

6

TALON

Irefresh the GPS, the coordinates still showing A311 near the old distribution center that sits between the East and West sides of the Fringe. When I accepted this job, I figured it'd be eventful. What I didn't expect was for her to be a little feral.

The corner of my mouth twitches with amusement. This little stray doesn't just bark, she bites.

I'm not threatened by resistance or that she ran. Hell, I respect it. Too many people think success or failure is born from a single moment. Sometimes it is, but more often than not, it's the sum of many. Every step the prey takes, every choice the hunter makes. People remember the kill, but forget everything that made it inevitable.

Kicking a chunk of splintered wood out of my way, I cut through another alley to find a chain link fence, a sign mounted across it warning that the building is condemned.

The dumpster lid bows beneath my weight as I plant my hands and haul myself onto it. I catch the galvanized top rail, swing over the fence, and drop down. The scorched skin along my thigh pulls tight as I straighten to stand. Bitch must've nicked an artery for the way it leaked like a goddamn sieve. It took two seconds to sear the nerve endings and stop the bleed– quicker than taking the time to stitch that shit up. I actually like the pain. The way it builds, the way it shifts from uncomfortable to unbearable. Then it’s numb, the only reminder it even exists when the skin around it stretches. The smell is another story. Burning flesh has no business smelling like rancid pork fajitas.

I stride towards the back entrance, steel rattling as I try the handle. Locked. My eyes sweep over the building as I step back, looking for any other access points. Most of the windows are boarded up. There are a few busted ones on the second floor, but there’s no fire escapes or footholds to climb. The roll-up doors on the docks are padlocked, but I still yank on the handles. There's a little give, but only about an inch before the chain goes taut. Unless she can fucking teleport, she's not inside.

The location from the transmitter isn’t exact, I know that. But it still irks me that she's not here. Pulling my pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, I stalk the perimeter for my prey. Half the block is already demolished– businesses forced to sell for next to nothing and then run into the ground. Just more casualties of The Registry.

That's what really pisses me off about these totalitarian fucks. All the posturing, the bullshit morals they pretend to have but are easily bought. If you’re going to gut someone open, at least have the balls to look them in the eyes while you do it. Fucking cowards.

With a flick of my wrist, a flame rises from the Zippo, lighting the cigarette hanging from between my lips. I take a drag, the bittersweet burn of nicotine filling my lungs as the cherry glows brightly.

Smoke lingers beside me as I exhale, my eyes landing on a small maintenance shed across the lot. Looks like an easy place to hide. I stab the cigarette out on my vest, the soles of my boots grinding against the cracked pavement as I move closer. I’m practically salivating to see the fear erupt in her eyes as I ease the handle down and drive my shoulder into the door. The wooden frame splinters, hinges groaning as it flies inward.

Empty. Goddamnit.

My jaw tightens as I pull out my phone to reset the satellite connection, because it’s not my fucking coordinates that aren’t right. Something crunches under my foot as I pivot around. Curiosity mingles with annoyance, creeping up my spine when I see the pieces of her Guardian Cuff in the dirt.

I stoop down, inspecting the bits of wire and cracked shell. There's blood smears on some of the pieces, more drops darkening the ground around them. These cuffs are reinforced. Designed to withstand impact, water, heat– anything an Asset might use to remove one. Heat settles low in my stomach at the realization of how resourceful the little stray is with a knife.

This hunt just got even more interesting.

Worn vinyl squeaks beneath my weight as I sink into a booth at some seedy bar in the heart of the Fringe. Without the cuff, my target’s completely offline, not leaving a goddamn clue as to where she went. And if I have to do recon, I’m gonna do it with a fucking drink in hand.

Swiping open the Exchange app, I click into her profile and scan over what they have– height, age, build, eye color. But it’s not enough. I need to understand her motivations to predict her movements.

I feed her profile into HAKR and let it run.

Slade and I built HAKR a few years back. Letting us crack credentials, find hidden files and bypass basic encryption– all from our phones. The more complex stuff still requires our computers, but it’ll work for this.

A middle-aged waitress moves from one table to the next, checking on others before stopping beside me. "Something to drink, hun?"

"Whiskey, neat."

She nods, scribbling onto her notepad. "Anything else?" she asks. Her smile falters as she glances up, spotting the patch on my vest.

Her imagination is already doing all the work as I meet her gaze.