On the approach to the warehouse, Malory spotted an armored personnel carrier and a lifted truck with ZenTech’s logo where the autopilot intended to park, and wrestled manual control. She had to resist the urge to jump out as it coasted to a stop a hundred yards away in the gap between two street lights. Malory peeled off the bodysuit to avoid making noise while she walked and double-checked the Lantern was loaded. Her hands were shaking with excitement, and she released the valve on what she’d been holding back for years; anger, thick and throaty, an all-encompassing desire for revenge, and a jealousy she was sure came from the implant coursed through her extremities and settled in the pit of her stomach. She gripped the pistol tight, knuckles white and stiff, and slipped into the shadows. She crouched down, toes first with each step to keep quiet, the loose bullets clinking softly in her pockets. She was a little disappointed when she found no one keeping watch. She’d always wanted to try choking someone out the way they did in action dramas. Instead, she slipped through the door, careful not to let the hinges creak, and relied on the implant to see in the low light. She moved to a pallet of concrete bags and searched the space for targets.
Lording over the carnage were two guys in full black tactical gear just like the hit squad that came for Mal and her friends at the aquarium—they were the babysitters, protecting the collectors. She knew there were others, and that they’d flock the moment she made a move, so she waited. Observed. Listened to their banter. The guys were bored, and searched through the selection of goods to see if there was anything they wanted to swipe. One of them spent far too long near the less-than-tasteful memory chips, and coughed in embarrassment when the other approached. Instead of taking the opportunity to rib the guy, he placed a knowing hand on his shoulder and continued on. Malory didn’t have it in her to wonder about their lives, who they were, or what had led them there; they were enemies, and they would be dealt with. She crept from behind the concrete to another pallet holding lumber harvested without a permit to get them square in her sights. Once she lit the fireworks, there’d be no rest until the explosions stopped. She didn’t have a full grasp on the situation, but she raised the Lantern anyway and aimed at the back of the closest, felt her implant kick in with an aim-assist, and hesitated when they spoke.
“I really wanted to be there for the interrogation,” the porn lover said. He tore himself away from the memory chips and headed for his colleague.
“It is what it is,” the other said. He readjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder and reached out for a snow globe. When he shook it, little holographic lights lit up over the hypertrain bridge. “Bad luck to get caught near Bagley, though. Banks is a fucking psycho. Has he given you the whole torture spiel yet?”
“Yeah,” he said. He shivered dramatically, his body armor clinking in the large space. “Guy gives me the creeps. It’s like it gives him physical pleasure.”
“Have to be a weird bastard to be on such good terms with The Stranger,” the other said. The snow globe flickered out.
The ghost shimmered to life in the space between Malory and the two goons, her hands clasped in solemn prayer, as if delivering their last rights. Banks. The sick fuck who shoved needles under her nails, who left an oak tree in scars on her back. He was still at Bagley Market; Mal had never forgotten him, and damn sure never forgiven. She refocused her aim, followed the reticle displayed by the implant and squeezed the trigger. The projectile shattered into the armor plating on the porn lover’s scapula and sent him stumbling forward. The other dropped the snow globe as he made for his rifle, and caught the next round just under the chin. He fell to his knees in the wreckage of the children’s toy gasping for air that never came. Malory shed her cover and approached. She stopped at the man sprawled on his belly first and sent him to the afterlife. When she turned to the second, she found he’d choked on his own blood and slumped over. She put another round in him anyway. The ghost gave her a standing ovation, but Mal ignored her. She snatched a rifle and took up a position behind boxes of clothes overlooking the hallway and waited for the response to come.
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At the first sign of movement, she let loose, sending a full clip into two men that rushed out. Before they were on the ground, Mal ducked from the return fire, and a surge of panic coursed through her as the slugs punched right through the denim knock-offs. The ghost skipped to a stop in front of her, a wild smile plastered on its face, too wide to be human. Malory discarded the rifle, ejected the magazine from her pistol, and jammed in loose rounds from her pocket—her hands shook, and she dropped a few. She really needed some spare mags. When it was back at capacity, she slammed it home and fed a round into the chamber. She was at a loss, then: she didn’t know how many enemies were left or their positioning, and peeking over was a quick end. She was so far out of her depth, but had never felt better. Her judgement was overwritten by rage, by glee that belonged to the implant, to the ghost. Any shred of rationality she could find was consumed, so she fired blindly through her own cover, hoping to catch them unaware. No such luck came. Instead, their return fire ripped a hole in her right hand and made her scream obscenities.
What a mediocre showing. You could do with some training.
“Fuck off!” Mal yelled. She couldn’t move her fingers, and the gore of her palm made her want to vomit. The world narrowed to a slit and her heart hammered in her ears. It was shock, she knew, but there was nothing to stop it. This was a mistake. A miscalculation, but she’d done it anyway—gave in to the emotions, ones that weren’t hers. “Help me, or get the fuck out of my head!”
7 O’clock, crouched behind an I-beam.
Mal snapped to that direction, angled down, and fired three times. She heard the body drop, and another voice called out from the left. She turned, fired again, and life snuffed out. She stood and ran back to the pallet of lumber, hoping it would hold out a bit better. She tore fabric from her shirt and stifled a groan as she pulled the scraps tight around her ruined hand. While she wrapped it, she was sharp enough to listen for footsteps—there were four more in a semicircle, and they were closing in. There weren’t any tricks left to play. There was just her, the ghost, and a will to live that superseded all else.
On the left, closing in a bit faster. Faster. FASTER.
Mal aimed in that direction, the crosshair displayed on her implant bobbing in time with her heart. She was exhausted, and her lungs struggled from the exertion. She blasted the first guy in the chest as he rounded the corner, and launched herself past him to hit the guy following behind. Two more. Her hand had bled through the makeshift bandaging. She pulled one of the bodies on top of her and waited for them to come. In their brief moment of confusion, she shot them in the shins and then their faces when they keeled over. She shoved the body off and laid there gasping; she wasn’t done, but she needed a moment. The ghost bent down until their faces almost touched, its mouth opened like it was trying to suck out her soul. Mal smacked at her with the bloodied hand, and the ghost phased out of sight. The antics were getting old. She sighed, sat up, and tore off more of her shirt to rewrap her hand. It was going to bleed until she got back to the Doc, but that was fine. It could wait. She struggled to her feet, grabbed a grenade from the rigging on one of the bodies, and headed down the hall to find the cleaners; there would be no survivors.
They were huddled in one of the back offices waiting for the all-clear, and they never doubted it would come up until the grenade bounced freely between them. There was a moment where realization dawned on their faces—a moment of knowing there were no more corporate Christmas parties or child-support payments or microwaved TV-dinners after a long shift. Just that moment, a brief scramble, and then the explosion. Malory didn’t bother looking into the room afterward. Everything was quiet. She wiped her face on her sleeve, and didn’t go back to cleaning. Instead, she reloaded her pistol, which was much more challenging down a hand, and searched for a guard whose body size was most similar to hers. When she found one, she stripped the gear. The armor hadn’t helped them much, but it was better than nothing. Three grenades, a rifle, several extra mags, a long knife designed for stabbing, a few thick plates over her vitals, and she was ready. She marched out of the warehouse, past their empty vehicles, the engines still idling, and climbed into the body van between the street lights. She keyed in Bagley Market and let the autopilot take her thinking of all the ways Banks was about to die.
