Tracer, page 1
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“In a city where plastic is the new gold, Tracer blends gritty postapocalyptic action with heart-pounding romance as one woman’s lethal skills are tested against the darkest secrets of humanity’s desperate new civilization.”
—NICHOLAS SANSBURY SMITH, New York Times bestselling author of Hell Divers
“Tracer is a compelling love story, set in a ravaged future full of stunning violence, where only hope and real human emotion have a chance to save humanity.”
—KRISTIN HANNAH, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“With Tracer, Brendan Deneen brings serious game to both the thriller and dystopian genres. Even in the most terrifying darkness, Deneen kindles the fires of hope. Highly recommended.”
—JONATHAN MABERRY, New York Times bestselling author of NecroTek and Burn to Shine
“Brendan Deneen’s sleek, fast, near-future noir Tracer is a shotgun marriage of Philip K. Dick and Elmore Leonard. It makes Chinatown feel like a sappy episode of Matlock. Highly recommended!”
—JAY BONANSINGA, New York Times bestselling author of The Killer’s Game and The Walking Dead: Return to Woodbury
“The lifeblood of the world of Deneen’s Tracer is recycled waste, but this story is anything but a regurgitation. Smart characters, top-notch world-building, and ferocious action scenes combine to take us on a wild ride through a thrilling, noir-tinged, rubbish-strewn future.”
—DAVID MOODY, author of Hater and Autumn
“Tracer is an action-packed adventure that asks us to imagine rising from the trash to create a better world. Full of memorable characters and a tension-fueled plot of deceit and danger, this is a story worth reading for any fan of near-future dystopias.”
—CHRIS KLUWE, author, activist, and former NFL player
“Brendan Deneen’s Tracer…sends you on a frenetic, action-packed ride through a trash-filled, dystopic wasteland with a badass femme fatale at the wheel. Hold on!”
—A. G. RODRIGUEZ, author of Space Brooms!
“With a swiftly moving narrative, hand-to-hand combat scenes, strong postapocalyptic world-building, a look at family relationships and abuse, and a hint of romance, Tracer is a rollicking SF adventure.”
—BOOKLIST (starred review)
BOOKS BY BRENDAN DENEEN
novels
The Ninth Circle
The Chrysalis
Morbius: Blood Ties
Guardians of the Galaxy: Annihilation—Conquest
Alien: Uncivil War
Tracer
graphic novels
Scatterbrain
Flash Gordon: The Mercy Wars
Flash Gordon: Invasion of the Red Sword
Flash Gordon: The Vengeance of Ming
The Island of Misfit Toys
Green Arrow: Stranded
picture books
Night Night, Groot
First Day of Groot!
Snow Day for Groot!
Summer Adventure for Groot!
TRACER
BRENDAN DENEEN
Copyright © 2025 by Brendan Deneen
E-book published in 2025 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Sarah Riedlinger
All rights reserved. This book or any portion
thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission
of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations
in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-200-98050-5
Fiction / Science Fiction / Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
This novel is dedicated to all teachers everywhere.
But in particular—
To Angela Morganthaler, my fourth-grade teacher, for being an early supporter of my imagination. As she told us, she had cold hands and a warm heart—and truer words were never spoken.
To Bruce Murphree, my senior year AP English teacher, who was as close to a real-life John Keating as I’ve ever met, and who lit the literary fire inside me.
And to the teacher’s aide who worked in my fifth-grade classroom. When I made a continuing story out of the weekly vocabulary words (instead of just writing random sentences), you told me I was a good writer and encouraged me to keep going. I desperately wish I could remember your name. But whoever you are, wherever you are, thank you.
You better make sure you’re looking closely
Before you fall into your swoon.
—“There’s No Secrets This Year,”
Silversun Pickups
CONTENTS
I. Ph City
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
II. The Road
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
III. Apex City
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
IV. The Road
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
V. Ph City
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
VI. The Road
Chapter 31
VII. Apex City
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Author’s Note & Acknowledgments
About the Author
PART ONE
PH CITY
ONE
Tracer wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth and watched as her opponent tensed to throw another punch.
She’d been told by President Bell that this job would be an easy one: pay a little visit to Jonny Nix, a strung-out junkie hiding in a tiny apartment down in the ground-level slums—just outside of PH City, situated between the massive building and the garbage heaps that ringed it.
Nix was in debt to the president. It was Trace’s mission to track the punk down, have a little talk with him, and then extract the proverbial pound of flesh if the drug addict couldn’t—or wouldn’t—pay. But Trace hadn’t been warned about Jonny’s jacked-up younger brother, who now circled Trace, gloating, having landed a fairly impressive right cross to Tracer’s jaw. Her SIG Pro, the same gun she’d been using for a decade, lay nearby on the floor.
Easy, my ass.
Ignoring the pain, Trace crouched slightly and then shot out her own fist, catching Jonny’s brother under the chin with a perfectly placed uppercut—just like she’d been trained to do—causing spit and at least one tooth to go flying. He took a step back, then shook off the punch and beckoned for Trace to try again, grinning like some sadistic clown. He hadn’t said a single word since he’d come charging out of the shadows a minute earlier.
“Kick the shit out of her, Jevon!” Jonny screamed from the corner, cracking his knuckles and giggling with drug-enhanced excitement.
The brother—Jevon apparently—took a swing, but Trace dodged it easily, stepping back to watch his movements. Her uppercut had rattled him. He was slow now, his already dim eyes looking even more deadened. President Bell had spent a lot of credits over the years hiring PH City’s most dangerous men and women to train her, and Trace had learned that sometimes it was better just to watch before pressing an attack. It wasn’t as flashy, but it was how you won. Just like Mackie had taught her.
Jevon telegraphed his next punch, a sloppy haymaker, but watching his movements paid off and she sidestepped this attack, too, and then lashed out, catching Jevon in the ribs with devastating violence. She heard something crack inside his body and Jevon sucked in what sounded like a very painful breath. All the fight went out of his face—all the color, too. He looked into Trace’s eyes, surprised, and then collapsed without a word to the grimy wooden floor.
Internal bleeding, Trace guessed. She’d been there. Not fun.
In the corner, Jonny stopped giggling and stared at his brother with dull, bloodshot eyes, his chin trembling now. He slid down the wall and landed unceremoniously on his ass.
Trace took a step to the left and retrieved her gun from the ground and then quickly surveyed the sparse apartment. A bed. A small table and two chairs. A tiny kitchen area with what looked like weeks of dirty dishes piled up. There was nothing here worth anything, nothing that could be bartered for credits. She shook her head and grimaced, trying to ignore the dull ache in her jaw.
When the president had tasked her with this job, she’d practically laughed. Another routine track-and-collect gig? Didn’t Bell have anything better for her XN—her executive enforcer?
But Trace wasn’t amused anymore.
She walked over to Jonny, slowly crouched down, smiled, and placed the SIG Pro against one of hi
The junkie whimpered and held up his hands in one last desperate attempt to save his own skin.
“Please . . .”
“Give me what you owe the president or I’m going to start blowing pieces off you, one by one . . . starting with your kneecaps.” She spoke calmly as Jevon moaned on the floor behind her, underscoring the threat.
A tear spilled down Jonny’s face. “Please . . .” he repeated. “Look around . . . I got nothing. I swear.”
Trace cocked the gun.
“That’s too bad.”
“Wait, wait! Un-under the bed. There’s a suitcase. It’s all I got.”
Trace’s smile widened. She stood up, put the SIG Pro into the holster on her belt, and made her way across the room, kicking Jevon in his broken rib—or ribs—for good measure on the way. She knelt and peered under the bed.
Sure enough, there was a crappy old cloth suitcase under there, sporting a faded red-and-blue plaid design. She pulled it out cautiously, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her nose and cheek. As she stared at it, wondering absently if the Nix brothers were sophisticated enough to booby-trap the case, she sensed movement—turning in time to see Jonny lunge forward with a knife. Trace brought her arm up, fast, but not fast enough. The blade was old, but it was still sharp enough to shred her trench coat and slice into her right arm. Trace bit back a scream at the intense pain and grabbed Jonny by the throat with one hand, the junkie’s wrist with the other. She squeezed with both hands, causing Jonny to choke and the knife to fall to the floor. She brought her face close to his.
“Bad. Move.”
She headbutted the man, breaking his nose, and then let go. Jonny crumpled to the ground next to his brother.
Trace stared at them for a second, vaguely intrigued by the weird symmetry, and then turned her attention back to the suitcase. She squatted, unlatched and opened it slowly, and then sat back on her heels and let out an impressed breath. Jackpot.
Inside, there were some ancient stained containers—President Bell said they were used to hold “fast” food, which sounded disgusting, whatever it was—dozens of plastic spoons and forks, a ball of wadded-up plastic bags covered in what looked like dry mud, some crushed two-liter bottles with the tiniest hints of long-gone labels, and an old pink computer, probably some kid’s toy from back before the Flu. Back in the days when people used actual computers.
It was a solid haul. Maybe it wouldn’t pay off Jonny’s debt completely, but it was still probably worth a few hundred credits, once Trace went through the bullshit negotiating ritual with PH City’s pyro-techs.
She shut the suitcase, latched it, then wrapped her fingers around the thin metal handle and stood up. Both of the Nix brothers were writhing in pain on the ground, moaning, odd mirror images of each other. Trace wondered how many years apart they were and if their parents were still alive. If they ever even knew their parents.
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, thought about how she’d been born and abandoned in the garbage heaps twenty-seven years earlier, thought about the couple who had raised her. A flash of sadness threatened to encroach, but then she remembered her training and shoved that feeling away.
No empathy.
Trace opened her eyes and spat blood onto the dirty floor.
“Nice doing business with you, boys,” she said, and then walked out into the night.
TWO
nineteen years earlier
I made my way through the piles of garbage that rose above me on either side, following a path that most people would never be able to see.
I knew my parents were going to be upset.
It was past my curfew, and everyone knew Puente Hills got exponentially more dangerous after the sun fell behind the mountains of refuse—but I figured when they saw what I had in my pack, they would forgive me. Maybe even celebrate a little bit.
I moved the strap from one shoulder to another, fighting a smile as I moved quickly along the faint, jagged line beneath me. I was able to traverse that path with my eyes closed—literally—and few people were ever out this late, so I laughed silently through my nose at all the things I knew my parents were going to say when I got back to the makeshift house they’d built at the base of a particularly solid hill of garbage.
“You could have been robbed,” my dad would say.
“You could have been killed,” my mom would add.
I laughed out loud at that point, imagining their high-pitched voices when they got upset. They weren’t my real parents, but I knew they loved me like they were, appreciated how good I was at finding plastic. Like the impressive, heavy load I was carrying.
I’d gotten wind of the cache while eavesdropping on some older kids. They didn’t like me, constantly warned me away, found my eagerness annoying, but they were slow and sloppy and dumb—and it was a simple matter to follow them and listen in on everything they said, whenever I wanted. Usually, it was a pointless exercise, with the teenagers swapping gossip about the other Dwellers or fighting over scraps of plastic.
I suddenly stopped moving when I heard something behind me, then crouched down in the darkness and blended in with my surroundings. I always wore dark clothing, purposefully kept my face dirty, and my pack was black as well. I knew it was almost impossible to see me after dusk when I made myself small like this. Even before this, I’d watched as expert garbage trackers walked right past me, completely oblivious to my presence even though they were only inches from where I was hidden. I had trained myself to shift into the nearest pile of garbage as silently as possible.
But then a voice rang out, a voice I recognized.
“There’s the rat! Hoping we don’t see her. But a cornered rat is always easy to find.”
It was Jasper. The de facto leader of the older kids—a nasty stain of a human, someone who delighted in torturing smaller kids and animals alike. When he could get his hands on them. But I’d always managed to steer clear of his dirty, grasping fingers. Had prided myself on it. I thought I was too smart, too fast. And as I stood up straight, knowing there was no way he and his smaller cronies could catch me once I took off, I allowed a smile to cross my face, hoping he would be able to see it in the haze of the growing evening.
“Why don’t you come a little closer and see how hard this rat bites, Jasper?” I called out, knowing my threat was idle. He was twice my size and could practically snap me in half if he managed to catch up to me. Which is why I assured myself that would never happen.
“You stole that plastic from us!” he screamed, ignoring my comment. I could see him literally shaking with rage. But I didn’t feel guilty—it had never been his in the first place, and I knew that the unwritten law of Puente Hills was that the person who delivered the plastic to the brokers in PH City was the one who kept the credits. What happened up until that moment was irrelevant.
“Believe what you need to,” I responded, turning and tensing to run. I was excited to get home and settle down. These idiots had no idea where I lived, and I aimed to keep it that way. “But this plastic is mine.”
I started to move when a foot suddenly shot out from the shadows and caused me to tumble violently to the ground. I lost my grip on the sack, which fell forward as well and broke open. The numerous pieces of plastic, worth as much as a full week’s normal haul, spilled out across the faint path.
I cursed under my breath and quickly got to my feet, ready to run again. I figured I might be able to grab a piece or two, but my larger plans had been thwarted. I’d gotten cocky, hadn’t expected one of Jasper’s friends to be hiding ahead of me.
As I began moving forward again, strong arms wrapped around my body and threw me back down to the ground. By the time I regained my bearings and looked up, I saw Jasper already standing above me, his crew circling around, cutting me off from any hope of escape.
