"Tell me where you heard the name Merlin. Maybe I'll kill you quickly instead of dragging this out."
I winced, spitting out a broken molar in a stream of blood. "Sounds like an attractive choice, but … think I'll pass."
The elbow jabbed harder, nearly crushing my larynx. "Look at you, Mike. You're a ghost haunting a world that no longer has any use for you. You don't even know who the hell you are anymore."
I struggled helplessly, using the act to pull the target disk from my pocket and slap it on his back. Sagging in his grip, I gave him my best mocking smirk. "That's where you're wrong, Ace. I'm the Troubleshooter. And I can take whatever you dish out, so go ahead and do your worst."
He stared at me for a moment, eyes quivering with insane rage. Finally, his teeth clamped together in a rictus snarl as he released me.
"Suit yourself."
He slammed a boot into my abdomen with the force of a close-range shotgun blast. The plexiglass shattered, and I tumbled backward in a shower of glittering shards. As I fell, I yanked the ripcord on the over-the-shoulder harness, releasing the smart grenades. They popped from their holdings and sailed toward Kilgore, lights winking and humming as the charges timed down. I saw his shocked expression for a split second before he vanished from my line of sight as I plummeted down the side of the Spire, bathed in neon light and pouring rain, flogger fluttering around me like broken wings.
The explosion on the rooftop sent a seismic shockwave that I felt even while falling, destroying the entire top of the Spire in a mushrooming blast of flame, smoke, and smoldering rubble. Fragments sailed past me, propelled by the volatile force, embers trailing fire that hissed in the rain. I plunged in the middle of the burning debris, a descent that took forever and no time at alclass="underline" arms outstretched, eyes closed, the taste of tears on my tongue, memories of Maxine on my mind.
It was a good way to die.
Chapter 15: Trubble-Free
A month passed since Mick died. The time flew by, but sometimes I still can't believe it. New Haven survived, but Mick didn't. It seems almost unfair. In a lot of ways, Mick was New Haven. It doesn't feel right for things to just go on without him. I'm using this journal as a way to sort things out. Examine my feelings — all that therapeutic crap. After going through the mourning process, I finally feel like talking about him, even if it's just words no one else will read.
It feels like just yesterday when I watched in horror as the top of the Spire exploded, casting fiery fragments all over the Haven like a meteor shower. I barely escaped without injury, running for my life while burning pieces rained down around me. All I could think about was that Mick was in that building when it blew up. I remembered all the times he'd joke about his injuries and tell me he'd get better. But when I looked up and saw the booming cloud of flame and debris, I knew he wouldn't be coming back. Maybe he preferred to go out like that. As I stared at the destruction with tears streaming down my face, I heard his sarcastic voice in my head.
At least I went out with a bang, Natasha. What more can a man like me ask for?
Shortly after, the ground shuddered and rumbled, bucking like an earthquake struck. I didn't know it at the time, but it was the Haven's emergency motors taking the entire city out of the depths to the surface. Out of options, the Council's hands were finally forced. The waters receded, and the Haven rose out of seclusion into an entirely different world.
After that, it was day after day of rapid changes. The shock of surfacing, seeing the real world for what seemed like the first time. The opening of the Haven, the storm of armed troops, and the subsequent takeover by the Southern Alliance. The Council was disbanded, all official departments were in a transition state, and the city swamped with soldiers, bureaucrats, and nonstop tourists.
I drive the streets a lot these days, looking at the city with fresh eyes. Or maybe the Haven is revealed for the first time with the façade of shielding and underwater asylum no longer masking the place. The sunlight that streams through the avenues and between buildings is real, golden, and brilliant. How could we have ever accepted artificial illumination as the real thing? The sky is a blue I can't remember seeing before, streaked with wispy white clouds trailing along at an unhurried pace.
There isn't a single drop of rain to worry about.
That might be the strangest part. It always rained in New Haven, part of the water recycling process and pressure release from underwater habitation. With the Haven above water, the constant downpours have stopped. There isn't even any in the forecast for weeks.
As I rolled through the Flats district last week, I thought about Mick. He might have loved what happened to his city. He might have hated it. I don't really know because I didn't know Mick like I thought I did. He was a chameleon, a magician, a shapeshifter: swapping personalities and becoming whatever suited the task at hand. He was a killer, a gentleman, a crime boss, a sly trickster, a tender soul. He was the man that put his life on the line to save mine more than once.
I miss him terribly.
Pulling into the parking lot of the Gaiden made me smile. Like everything in lower New Haven, it had been completely submerged during the flooding. But since most structures were made of polyurethane materials, the water damage wasn't too bad. Two weeks after the Haven surfaced and was subsequently annexed by the Southern Territories, the Gaiden was back in business. And business boomed.
I decided to visit during the day because trying to see Fats the Jazz Man at night was impossible because of the crowds. The Haven was swamped with newcomers, a nonstop stream of tourists who signed up on a waiting list for their chance to visit the famous lost city. The City that Care Forgot, a region that vanished in the Cataclysm, identified by its culture of celebration and excess. Back then, it was known by an entirely different name.
New Orleans.
I stepped out the wheeler, looking at the gleaming androids change the sign on the nightclub. The name Gaiden was gone, replaced by something in tune with the newfound culture and appropriate to the owner: Big Easy's.
Fats the Jazz Man was busy directing the renovation of the joint when I entered. Cheerful with the workers, he slapped backs, laughed uproariously, and gave directions in his booming, gravelly voice. Catching my gaze, he waved me over.
"Ms. Luzzatti. Ain't you a sight for sore eyes."
I embraced him with a smile. "Come on, Fats. You know me well enough to call me Natasha."
"That I do, Natasha. That I do. Come on to the back. I got something to give you."
His office was a comfortable room of wood and leather that smelled like spicy cigar smoke and fresh coffee. I sat in one of the plush armchairs. "I like what you've done with the place, Fats."
His smile was wide as he took a seat behind the polished mahogany desk. "Thanks. I've been looking up New Orleans' history since the news broke, and I wanted to reflect that with the update." His eyes drifted to the picture on his desk. "The place needed a change anyway. You know — with him no longer with us."