Page 5 of Reclaimed

High-rises loom around me as I ease off the gas, leaning into the curve of the exit ramp to leave the parkway and head for the compound. The breeze whips past, the smell of damp earth growing stronger as the city lights fade from sight behind me. My hand moves to rest on my thigh as I draw in a breath. The air has a chill to it, the early signs of Fall creeping in more and more each day. There aren't many who live along this stretch of highway, making it one of my favorites to ride. People ruin everything– just look at society.

I downshift as a windowless structure comes into sight. Home sweet home. Before it was the Mercenary compound, it was supposed to be a cost-effective data center. Then salt from the lake corroded the cooling system, and The Registry decided rebuilding closer to Northbrooke's municipal water supply would be cheaper than admitting someone fucked up.

Nothing says efficiency like a billion-dollar tomb.

Pulling into the parking garage, I throw my bike in neutral and kill the engine, maneuvering the handles as I walk it back into the stall beside my Raptor. Dismounting, my footsteps echo through the underground structure as I re-adjust the straps of my backpack and stride towards the elevator. A swipe of my access card, and the elevator carries me to the main– and only– floor of the compound.

No one forces mercs to live here, but in the twenty-eight years I've been alive, it's the only place that's ever felt like home.

My phone vibrates against my thigh as I pass the corridor leading to meeting rooms and other amenities. Turning down the residential hall, I slide it out of my pocket, finding a text from Wade on the screen.

Wade

No need to come in. Got somebody to cover your shift.

The corner of my mouth tips up in a smirk. Using code– smart. Maybe the kid isn't as incompetent as I thought.

I fire off a thumbs-up emoji before unlocking my apartment door. Another notification comes through before I can even step inside.

Client: The Registry

Request: Asset Recovery– Alive

Completion Payout: $2,000

It’s almost painful how hard I roll my eyes– pass.

Isn’t that why they have Enforcers?

I swipe away the request as I move inside, the quiet stillness greeting me as I shrug off my backpack and turn on the lights. After two weeks of back-to-back assignments, I want nothing more than to be left alone for the next twenty-four hours.

Well, that, and a goddamn drink.

It's not like I can't turn down assignments– that's the glory of being part of the Mercenary Syndicate and not one of The Registry's brainless foot soldiers. Sure, I still take on their jobs, but make no mistake, I'm always the one with the upper hand. When they solicit one of the mercenaries, especially me, it means they're desperate… and desperation is my favorite currency.

I'm the Repo man– a monster for hire. The bastard rich pricks pay to do their dirty work– extort, kill, or reclaim.

Toeing off my boots, I empty my pockets onto the kitchen island and swipe open the music app on my phone. The Bluetooth chimes as it connects to the sound system, and the low, hypnotic beat of Ecdysis by Deftones thrums through the built-in speakers.

I reach a hand behind my head as I move toward the bathroom, fisting the collar of my shirt and tugging it off in one motion. Metal clinks as I undo my belt, shoving my jeans and boxer-briefs down, kicking them aside. Steam fogs over the mirror as I crank the water to its hottest setting, and just as I round the glass shower wall, the music cuts off as another notification pings through the speakers.

I swear to god if that's Wade saying his guys botched it, I'll string him up by his entrails and crack him open like a fucking piñata.

Arthur assured me when he got sick that his son was more than capable of not only running Blackwell Pet Supply, but handling our little deal, too. I don't like many people, but Arthur was one I could stand. His family was one of the last to get pushed out to the Fringe. Those new data centers were using chemical coolants to reduce water consumption and in their rush to build, corners got cut. Toxins seeped into the groundwater, multi-organ failure killing the guy within weeks. So, after bearing the full cost of relocating, the Blackwells had to get creative with their budgets. And that’s where I came in.

My bare feet slap against polished concrete as I charge into the kitchen and swipe up my phone from the black granite island. The screen lights up, and relief flickers through me when I see it isn't Wade, but another push of The Registry’s contract request through Exchange.

There really isn’t any rest for the wicked, is there?

The heavy build-up of some club remix starts to pulse from the speakers as I hit resume and discard my phone on the counter with a thud.

Pathetic.

Striding back towards the bathroom, I finally step under the spray, my shoulders sagging as hot water assaults my tired muscles. With a forearm braced against the cool surface of the tiles, two weeks of sleepless nights spent doing recon, days of being confined to the shadows, and endless hours on my bike swirl the drain. I let my eyes slip shut, water beading off my chin as my head tips forward with a contented sigh.

By the time I’ve finished, the water’s gone cold and my skin’s bright red. Cutting the tap, I pull a towel from the rack and swipe it across my body, tossing it into the hamper before snagging my grey sweats from the hook on the door. The waistband hangs low on my hips as I tug on the soft cotton pants and switch off the lights.

For the most part, all the units in the compound are the same– open concept living room and kitchen with industrial finishes throughout. The bedrooms and bathrooms vary, some mercs still even living here with their families. They think it’s safer that way, but if you ask me, it increases the risk. I prefer to keep my distance from people anyways. Without leverage, there’s only room for physical retaliation. And fortunately for me, I revel in the pain.