At the end of the hall I hit the door and shoved it open. A gust of cold wind hit me, and my foot splashed down into a puddle. My heel slipped on a patch of ice and I fell back onto the blacktop, skidding toward a metal Dumpster.
I hit the rusted metal and rolled as a thud pounded through my chest and an explosion ripped through the wall behind me.
Calliope Flax—Wilamil Court, Apartment #516
I sat up on the couch and grabbed the pint bottle off the table next to it. I took a swig of hot whiskey and blew fumes out my nose. My right hand hurt like hell, and the left one kept ticking. I cut open the knuckles on both of them when I beat down that fat piece of shit the night before. The last thing I needed was another assault charge, but the cops never came.
The reminder to check my files popped up in the dark behind my eyelids. I pulled up the text from where I’d buried it. There were three notes:
Called Buckster. He’s coming over.
I remembered that one. The other two, I didn’t.
There’s a padlocked door behind the flag. Wooden door, three locks. It was here the whole time.
Started a JZI record.
I opened my eyes and sat up. I checked the JZI buffer. It was empty.
Son of a bitch …
If I didn’t remember it and the JZI record was wiped, then someone who knew I might be recording was fucking with me.
There’s a door behind the flag.
I could see the flag from the couch—black and red with a green shield on it. I’d ripped it off the wall of a bomb-shelled office in Juba after we took out a pack of rebels inside. I used it to wrap the naked girl when I took her out of there. It hung ceiling to floor on the wall right across from the shitter. I knew for a fact there was no door behind it.
Didn’t I?
I put down the bottle, then got up off the couch and walked across the room to the wall with the flag. After a minute, I pulled up the file and made a note:
I’m taking down the flag. I’ll move it somewhere else. I’m starting a JZI record. The next time you read this it should be moved, and if there is a door behind it you’ll know.
The buzzer went off at the front and I jumped.
“Shit!”
I stood there for a minute. My hand was still out, hanging there like I was scared to look.
This is bullshit. I grabbed the edge and moved it out of the way. There was no door.
The buzzer went off again.
“Keep your pants on!” I yelled. It had to be Buckster.
I let the flag fall back into place and went to the front door. When I opened it, Leon was there, wearing a rain coat with the hood pulled back.
“Hey, Chief.”
“Hey, yourself. Bad time?”
“No.”
He looked past me and smiled.
“Looks like you’re making yourself at home.”
“Yeah.”
The place they set me up had started to grow on me. The pipes worked and the heat and water stayed on. The people there weren’t a bunch of drunks and bums. After Bullrich and the grind, it was actually not half bad.
“You gonna let an old man in?”
“Sorry,” I said, opening the door. “You want a drink or something?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He shut the door behind him, then shook off his coat and threw it on the hook.
“I gotta piss first.”
“Have at it.”
I hit the can and left the door open a crack while I took a seat. I made one last note before I shut the file down:
Buckster showed up. I’m giving him the Zombie Maker, and we’ll see if he knows anything that might help Wachalowski.
The flood gates let go and I cracked my back.
Incoming call.
Call accepted.
Cal, this is Nico. Have you seen Leon Buckster since we last met?
Yeah, the old fart’s here now. Why?
Outside, I heard the old man’s ass hit the chair.
“You on Second Chance time or your own time?” I called out.
“Mine.”
Keep him there. I’m arresting him.
Arresting him? Why?
Because this investigation just turned ugly, and his name came up. He’s officially a person of interest and I need to bring him in.
Well, don’t bust down my door and do it here. He’ll fucking know I was in on it.
Cal, don’t start. I just tracked down a dead friend and almost got blown to hell myself.
What? Where?
Rescue Mission and two other Second Chance-funded clinics were bombed tonight, Cal. Buckster’s name is connected to Rescue Mission. I’m bringing him in for questioning.
“Damn it …”
Right now you’ve got someone on the inside, I said. You grab him now and that goes out the window. Let him have his little visit, and pick him up when he goes home.
I finished up and flushed. When I came back out to the main room, I found him leaning back in my chair.
“Make yourself at home,” I said. Wachalowski was still idling on the other end of the circuit.
Look, you know I’m right, I said. Put him under watch in case he runs, but have your goons wait for him at his place so he doesn’t link it to me.
You’re not part of this investigation, Cal—
I can take care of myself, asshole. If this goes back to what happened before I shipped out, then I’m involved. I’m not some street punk for hire anymore, I—
Okay.
Really?
The team will stake out your place and follow him when he leaves. We’ll pick him up at home. Gain his trust and find out what you can, but don’t tip him off.
Roger that.
Be careful, Cal.
He’s an old man. I think I can handle him.
He might be associated with some very dangerous people. Even if he isn’t, he might be a target. Be careful.
I will. I’ve got to go.
I closed the link. In the kitchen, the sink was full of dirty dishes, but I had two clean glasses on the counter. I headed back out and used the whiskey bottle to fill the bottom of the glass I’d dripped the Zombie Maker into. I gave it to the old man and he took a swig.
“Place looks nice,” Buckster said.
“Thanks.”
“Got everything you need?”
“Everything except a damn job.”
“Anything pan out with your friend?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Well, don’t worry. We’ll find something before the month’s end. There’s plenty of things you could do.”
“I was thinking maybe Stillwell Corps.”
“Not a bad option,” he said, “but not if you want things to quiet down.”
“You got any better ideas?”
“Maybe Heinlein. We’ve got contacts there too. They might be able to use someone like you.”
“What is that, a fucking joke?”
“I don’t mean in development,” he said. “They use a lot of ex-military in the testing facilities for the next-gen stuff. Just think about it.”
It was as good an in as any, I figured. Buckster was halfway though his drink and the Zombie had to be starting to kick in.
“What is it with you and revivors?” I asked, and for just a second, his eyes flashed. He got twitchy.
“What’s that mean?”
“You send third tiers over to get wired up. You send first-tier vets to Heinlein …What, do they give you a kickback or something?”