Roman stifled a curse. The second bouncer — a shorter man, but packed with no less muscle than the first — looked over the scene. “Is there a problem here?” His hand moved to the club hanging from his belt. The door slammed shut behind him.
“Aye,” the first bouncer said. “These folks—”
Roman didn’t wait for him to finish. He jabbed the second bouncer in the throat — cutting off his cry of alarm before it could come — while also kicking him in the groin. Ruby finished the job by stepping behind the bouncer, twisting her leg in front of his, and using it to send him tumbling to the ground. His head hit the pavement and he was out cold.
Roman turned towards the first bouncer, who by now was also on the ground, unconscious, blood flowing from a broken nose. Caleb stood over him, his expression as nonchalant as ever. As if he hadn’t just knocked out a grown man with a single punch.
Sparks folded his arms, pouting. “You guys didn’t leave anyone for me.”
“Maybe next time,” Caleb muttered as he and Roman dragged the two men away. They left them behind a pile of rusted metal beams.
Ruby entered the bar first. Before following, Roman turned to Caleb and Sparks. “Wait out here,” he ordered. “Make sure no one else comes in. If anyone leaves, check them for tattoos. Come inside if you hear the signal.”
Sparks scratched his jaw in mock thoughtfulness. “The signal… The signal… Is that when you scream like a little bitch?”
“Just come if you hear a gunshot.”
“Whatever you say, old man.”
Roman scowled. He hated it when the kid called him that. He was only twenty-eight; he still had at least another five years before cancer would claim his life, just like it claimed anyone in Legacy who managed to survive long enough. Which, to be fair, wasn’t many. And Roman probably wasn’t going to be one of them.
He followed Ruby inside.
Lady Luck was anarchy. Men and women clustered around the gambling tables, shouting, smoking, and most of all, drinking. A bar ran along the wall to their left, where a handful of young woman served. A band played in the far corner, the jangle of acoustic guitars barely audible over the racket of the punters.
This place would have been beautiful, once. There was little evidence of that now, but the signs were still there; faint marks on the walls where paintings had hung; boarded up archways leading to elevators that no longer worked; two balconies overlooked the hall from above, now empty and looking decidedly unstable. Yes, this would have once been the entrance hall to a wealthy establishment. No longer.
Roman lead Ruby through the hall, weaving around the tables. No one paid him any attention, although more than a couple men looked away from their cards long enough to get a good look at Ruby. Roman gave each of them a glare that sent their gazes back to their tables.
The stench of smoke caught in his throat. Rado-weed. Its barbed red leaves gave off a disgusting, bitter tang when burnt, but that never discouraged anyone from smoking it.
Roman chose a vacant table in the corner of the hall and sat with his back to the wall. Ruby sat beside him. He looked over the crowd, examining each face, searching for—
“Evening, Boss.” Tan seemingly appeared from nowhere to sit across from Roman. He pulled a wallet from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table. Roman recognized it as his own. “You’re losing your touch — I swiped this within fifteen seconds of you walking in.”
Roman slipped the wallet back into his pocket, this time making sure it was secure. “It’s good to see you too, Tan.”
To say Tan was a distinctive figure would have been an understatement. Slim, dark-skinned, with an afro of frizzy hair. He wore a white singlet, brown leather jacket, and a pair of slack jeans that barely clung to his waistline. His grin was so wide it threatened to tear the sides of his face. “I’ve missed your scowl,” he said brightly. “It really brings out the anger in your eyes.”
“Where’s the target?” Ruby asked.
“Straight to business, love? Don’t even want to comment on how much you missed me and my well-defined arse?”
Ruby responded with a glare. Tan shuffled his chair so that he was out of her reach. “Two o’clock, three tables down, burgundy jacket,” he said, giving the barest of gestures with his head.
Without turning, Roman sought him out. Burrstone. Their target. He couldn’t be more than eighteen — old by Adrenalite standards. He was bald, with a protruding chin and crooked nose. A tattered scarf hung around his neck.
“You sure it’s him?” Roman asked.
“Ain’t no question about it, Boss. The folks here know him as Baldie, but I’m sure as hell it’s him. He appeared here at the right time, and the description fits. He’s renting a room upstairs, and as far as anyone knows he ain’t left the building since he arrived.”
“I don’t know how he stands the place,” Roman said.
“It’s not too bad. As long you ignore the company, the rooms, and the food.”
A serving girl appeared with a smile so fake it practically frowned. “Anything I can get for you charming folk?”
“Three beers,” Roman said.
Tan waited for the girl to be out of earshot, then said, “You’re in for a treat. The beer here is something else.”
“As in, something that’s not beer?”
“More like horse piss.”
Ruby rolled her eyes. “This is all very fascinating, but if I could draw your attention to slightly less trivial matters.”
“Right you are, love,” Tan said. “You look naked without your bow, and as pleasant as that image is to me, I get the feeling you’ll murder someone if you don’t get it back soon.”
“I have the feeling I would like to murder someone once I get it.”
“I hope that someone would be our target, rather than a poor helpless teammate?”
“Keep hoping.”
“Ah. Well, if you must know, take the stairs over there. Second floor, fifth door on your left, behind the bookshelf.”
Ruby’s eyes flicked to the stairs. Her impatience to get her bow back was obvious.
“It wasn’t easy to get it in here,” Tan continued, “took more than a few risks. I reckon I deserve some kind of reward. A kiss perhaps?”
“As I said, keep hoping.”
“I shall.” Tan grinned. “Anyway, you’ll want to get up to that balcony for a vantage point. It’s pretty much always empty, except when the manager is around. Hoover’s a bit of a dimwit, believe me.”
The serving girl returned with their drinks. Roman choked on his first sip, the liquid clung to his throat as if protesting being swallowed.
“Fuckballs! Tan, you weren’t joking about this stuff.”
“I never joke about alcohol.”
“It tastes like—”
“Like the oil used to grease the gates of hell?”
“Something like that.” Roman took another sip. It wasn’t any better the second time.
Roman thought it said a lot about humanity that their thirst for alcohol had survived an apocalypse. Production of everything had halted immediately after the Days of Fire, but the granaries were the first to restart, quickly followed by the breweries. Roman couldn’t blame the early survivors. Seeing your world destroyed would give anyone a strong thirst. Hell, a hundred years on and we’re still drinking away our regrets.
He pushed his glass away. His regrets weren’t going away anytime soon. “There’s no point delaying the inevitable,” he said. “Tan, have you got your prey picked out?”
“Aye, Boss. See the big guy at the bar, with the ponytail? He looks suitably stupid and aggressive.”
Roman raised an eyebrow. “He’s twice your size.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about me. It’s his pretty haircut that’s in danger. But, if he does get lucky, I trust you to avenge me. And to say something sentimental at my grave.”