Tracer, page 23
“Good fucking riddance,” he murmured, and then raced after Tracer.
Entering the hallway, he saw three guards sprawled in various uncomfortable-looking positions, all unconscious with blood running from mouths or noses or both.
“Looks like they fell asleep on the job,” Brisby observed as he caught up to Trace.
“More like they fell onto my fists,” she replied, not looking back.
“Was that . . . ?” he said, mouth dropping open slightly. “Was that a joke, Trace?”
She still didn’t glance back, but he thought he heard the smile in her voice when she replied, “Maybe. Guess you’ll never know.”
He laughed quietly as they took a turn down another corridor, speeding up as they went. Whatever had happened to her since last they saw each other, Brisby suspected she was no longer the exact same person he’d known for the past few years.
They made their way deeper into the building, and Frost quickly realized that Trace had no idea where she was going. Pushing his out-of-shape lungs even harder, he caught up and then passed her.
“Follow me. There are some stairs over here. No one ever uses them, from what I’ve been able to tell. They prefer the elevator.”
He pushed through a door at the end of the hallway and hurried down the steps, not hearing Trace behind him but knowing she was there. He was impressed by her ability to stay silent—he could hear his own feet slapping the concrete stairs and worried that everyone else in the building would be able to hear it, too.
When he finally reached the bottom floor, he burst through the door just as Trace hissed behind him, “Brisby, wait!”
But it was too late. He found himself staring at the front door of the prison and the city guard who was standing next to it, a shocked look on his face and a large handgun on his hip. The man’s reaction time was impressive because, before Frost could even think of something to do, the guard had his hand on the gun and was withdrawing it. There was a blur of motion in Brisby’s peripheral vision, and then Trace slammed into the man, hard, against the floor-to-ceiling window next to the door. The glass spider-webbed as the breath exploded out of the guard’s lungs and his gun clattered to the floor.
This front vestibule was partially lit by a single overhead bulb, but it cut out when Trace grabbed the man’s shirt and slammed him into another wall, apparently hitting a light switch at the same time. There was the sound of a vicious blow, a pained grunt, a thumping sound, and then all was silent and still. Brisby blinked against the darkness but couldn’t see anything. He took a step forward, then stopped. Had no idea what had happened, who was still standing.
The light suddenly blinked back on, and Trace stared at him, her arms held out in a mock-frustrated way, like she’d been waiting for him for hours. The guard was unconscious at her feet.
“You coming or what?” she asked.
“That . . . that was definitely a joke,” he said, but she just smiled, turned the lock on the door, and headed out into the night. Brisby shook his head, made ready to follow her, then noticed something on the floor.
A moment later, he left the building, his prison, hopefully for the last time ever.
THIRTY-FIVE
Trace made her way around the prison building, heard Brisby stomping along right behind her.
Could he be any louder? she wondered, but deep down, she was overjoyed to hear him clumsily following after her. Seeing him standing there in his prison cell, somehow even skinnier with huge bags under his eyes, had filled her with emotion. She wasn’t sure how to be a friend, wanted desperately to know how, but wondered if she would ever act, or feel, like a normal person. People like Brisby Frost made her feel like maybe she had a chance.
She reached the back of the building, where she’d left Ezra, and stopped. Brisby clearly wasn’t paying attention because he crashed right into her, nearly causing her to stumble as well. “Sorry,” he mumbled. She shook her head. She’d been overjoyed, yes, but he still annoyed her at times. She helped him to his feet, and then the two stood, waiting, as the rain continued to fall on them, seeming like it would never end.
“Ezra!” Trace called out in a harsh whisper.
“Ezra . . . ?” Frost said, confused, but quickly realized she was talking about the man he’d been swapped for. He’d heard about him when he was first told that he wouldn’t be leaving Apex City and had only seen him in passing the day the actual swap had taken place. What the hell was he doing here? Brisby looked into Trace’s eyes, and her look said, Not now, so he didn’t say another word.
After a moment, Ezra stepped out of the shadows and approached them. Brisby noticed Trace physically relax at the sight of the worried-looking man.
Interesting, he thought.
“I’m Ezra,” the man said, holding out a hand. Brisby shook it.
“Nice to officially meet you,” he said, and meant it.
“You two can bond later,” Trace said, starting to move away, farther into the shadows. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”
The two men watched her go for a second.
“She’s so pushy, isn’t she?” Ezra joked.
Brisby laughed; then they both headed after Tracer. “You and I are going to get along just fine,” he said, darkness swallowing the trio as they ran.
The rain had slowed slightly by the time they reached the inner wall.
“Um . . .” Brisby said, looking around, then up at the imposing structure. “Is there a door or something?”
“No,” Trace responded, all business now. “We’re climbing. Ezra and I can help you.”
“It’s a piece of cake, Doc,” Ezra said, patting Frost on the back.
“I’m not a doctor,” Frost replied, taking off his glasses and wiping the water from them, but the other man was already moving forward, feeling the wall, finding holes that were otherwise hidden by the continued darkness of the thick clouds hovering above them.
“Okay,” Ezra explained, “I’m going to go first. Watch closely where my hands and feet go. Trace will stay beneath you, and she can support you if you slip. The key is to take your time.”
“We don’t have time,” Tracer snapped, looking around. “I can deal with a few guards here and there, but if the entire city figures out we’re here, this is all for nothing.”
Ezra nodded, then started clambering up. Trace turned her eyes to Brisby, saw the terror on his face.
“You can do this,” she said quietly.
“I . . . I can’t, Trace. Literally. Even if it wasn’t raining, I’m simply . . . not strong enough, and I’m terrified of heights. I suffer from severe vertigo. I will literally pass out halfway up. I’m so sorry. You two should just go without me.”
She stepped closer to him, stared at him through the falling water. “Are you kidding me? You’re the whole reason I’m here. You are my friend, Brisby. And I’m not leaving you. We’ll figure something else out.”
A slight smile played on his face, despite the circumstances.
“Are you two coming or what?” came a harsh whisper from above.
“Change of plans,” Trace replied, blinking up at Ezra. “We’re going out the back gate.”
Ezra came scrambling down, faster than seemed possible. He landed on the ground and stared up at Tracer, pushing the wet hair out of his eyes.
“The back gate. The one that’s most likely guarded by a bunch of people holding guns and hoping to shoot us.”
“Yep, that one,” Trace said, and then started moving toward it, leaving them behind again.
Ezra and Brisby stared after Tracer, both shaking their heads.
“Is she always like this?” the Apex City thief asked, looking at the other man.
“No. And that might be the most amazing thing about this whole night. Now . . . shall we get the hell out of here?”
“After you, Brisby Frost,” Ezra responded, holding out his arm as if escorting a new friend to a night out on the town.
The pyro-tech hurried after Trace, and the smile faded from Ezra’s face as he glanced behind him at the still-quiet prison building. Despite the jokes, he knew they were in serious danger. If they had climbed the wall and were heading across the in-between at that very moment, he would’ve placed their odds at escaping safely at fifty-fifty. Now, with this change of plan, the three of them heading to probably the second-heaviest guarded site in the city, that percentage was very, very different.
Ezra sprinted after them, trying to shove those thoughts out of his mind.
Trace watched the back gate from her hiding place, painfully aware that the rain had almost entirely stopped.
The end of the storm meant the possibility that the clouds would begin to thin and that moonlight might slip through, making their mission all the more difficult.
Based on what Ezra had told them during the planning phase with the Nomads, there would normally be at least a half-dozen guards positioned in and around the back gate. But now, with the diversion hopefully still happening out front, she only saw three. But unlike the trio of guards she had taken out in the prison hallway, these three looked alert and held their automatic weapons like they absolutely knew how to use them.
“Shit,” she whispered, pulling back deeper into the shadows of one of Apex City’s many buildings. Ezra had informed them that this was a store, with no lodging on the second floor, so no one would be inside.
“I’m sorry,” Brisby whispered. “You two should have gone over the wall while you still could.”
“Stop,” Trace snapped, and she saw his eyes go wide. She was still slipping into her soldier mode at times, treating people too roughly, and it was something she desperately wanted to stop doing. Get them to safety first, a part of her mind ordered. And then be nice. “Sorry,” she said to Frost despite her mind’s instructions. “But we’re getting you back to your family. End of conversation.”
Brisby nodded, and Trace turned back to the problem at hand. She was an expert markswoman, could most likely take one of them out from here using her SIG Pro, despite it not being intended as a long-range weapon. But then the other two would open up on her position, and then they’d be running for their lives. In other words, not a real plan.
“What’s the matter?” Ezra asked, sidling up to her. His warmth felt so good against her body, especially after the cold rain. The pain still radiated like a constant background noise across her entire body. She wished she could pull him into her arms, pretend none of this was happening. But it was.
“I’ve been on more missions than I can remember, and can usually figure my way out of anything,” she admitted, “but I’m not sure I can get us through that gate.”
“Maybe this will help?” Brisby said haltingly from behind them.
Looking back, Trace saw that the pyro-tech was holding up a gun—the one that the prison guard had dropped when she slammed into him.
“Why you crafty little bastard,” she said, laughing slightly.
“I guess you’re rubbing off on me a little,” he said, handing it to Tracer.
“This definitely helps,” she said. “But we still need a plan.”
“I have an idea,” Ezra said after a moment, reaching down and grabbing some mud off the ground, wiping it on his face. “Trace, give me your coat.”
“What?” she said, completely confused. “What the hell are you doing?”
Ezra ignored her and turned toward Brisby. “Put your glasses in your pocket.”
“What?” Frost asked. “Why? I’ll practically be blind.”
“Perfect.”
The two drunks came stumbling out of the shadows.
They were yelling and singing, soaking wet from the storm that was just ending. Two of the three guards—Tompkins and Faulkner—moved forward, raising their guns up as the stumbling men approached. One was dressed in typical street-rat clothes, and the other wore a long black trench coat that looked far too big for the man’s wiry body. While they’d been instructed by Captain Janus to be on the lookout, that warning had specifically been regarding Nomads—not a pair of common Apex City drunks. The kind that both Tompkins and Faulkner had handled many times before—separately and together. They both enjoyed smacking around inebriated street rats now and then. A good way to burn off a little steam after a long shift.
“Hey!” Tompkins shouted. “What the fuck are you doing? You know you’re not supposed to be anywhere near the gates this late at night!”
“Officer Faulkner! Officer Tompkins!” one of them shouted, slurring, spreading his arms as if greeting long-lost friends. “I was just helping Johnny here get home, and I guess we took a wrong turn. These streets are a goddamn maze, am I right?”
“Back. Up,” Faulkner barked, pointing his semiautomatic right at the speaker’s midsection.
“How do you know our names?” Tompkins asked, tilting his head slightly. There was something very familiar about this street rat. His hair was sticking in every direction, and his face was caked with mud. But the eyes . . . there was something about the eyes. Tompkins knew him from somewhere.
“Everyone knows you two!” the man said, staggering forward, nearly running directly into Faulkner’s gun. The guard took a step back, moved the barrel up, and pointed it right in the drunk’s face.
“I will blow your brains all over the ground if you don’t step back. Right now!”
The other man, the one with the trench coat, grabbed his friend, pulled him back. There was very obvious terror in his eyes.
“Come on . . . man. Maybe we should just go.”
That guy doesn’t sound even vaguely drunk, Tompkins thought, his mind racing, nerves on edge because of the assault by the Nomads. He glanced back at the first man, who was still talking, making some kind of dumb joke, and it suddenly clicked into place.
Ezra fucking Jenkins. The guy who had just been traded to that other city across the desert. Tompkins hadn’t been part of the detail that had handled the transfer, but he’d had a particularly nasty incident with this street rat, and some of his criminal friends, a few years earlier.
Tompkins opened his mouth to scream a warning to Faulkner when a loud popping sound punctured the darkness and blood exploded out of his left leg, followed by a crippling blast of pain. Screaming, he fell to the ground, losing his grip on the semiautomatic and grabbing at his shattered thigh.
Blinking into the distance, he saw a woman in a black T-shirt approaching, a gun in each of her hands, a look of cold determination on her face. Tompkins was losing consciousness, wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real, but she looked like some kind of avenging angel in his dimming vision, like a spirit that had descended upon the world and judged them unworthy.
THIRTY-SIX
Trace fired both guns, eyes vacillating between the two people who were standing between her and the exit.
Despite people yelling and rain falling again, all sound fell away. She found herself reverting to that other version of herself, a version she now hated, but it was the Tracer needed in the moment.
She shot the remaining two guards at the same time, and they collapsed with pained grunts to the ground in a spray of crimson. She wasn’t sure if she’d killed them or not, hoped on some level that she hadn’t—and on another level that she had. She watched them, ready to fire again. Two of the three were unconscious, bleeding but breathing, but the third was awake, staring up at her with terror in his eyes.
“Puh . . . please . . .” he said, holding up a bloody hand. “I have a kid.”
Trace pointed the SIG Pro directly at his face while gesturing toward Brisby with the other gun. “So does he. But you were still going to keep him locked up here, away from her, for the rest of his life.”
“I had nothing to do with that!” he screamed, tears running down his face.
The fact that he knew exactly what she was talking about made Trace believe otherwise. She took a deep breath, knew that time was short and they couldn’t have this guy alerting others. She was about to act when she felt someone’s hand wrapping around her forearm. The one holding the SIG Pro. She glanced over. Ezra. In her state of mind, she barely recognized him, and hated herself for it.
“Trace,” he said quietly. “Don’t kill him.”
Wresting her hand free, she brought the gun down and slammed it across the guard’s face, knocking him unconscious instantly. Which was exactly what she had planned to do.
“I wasn’t going to,” she snarled at him, angry at his assumption but angrier about how many people she had killed in her life, and how many more she might have to kill before they got the fuck out of Apex City.
As if in response to her thoughts, bullets sounded and the ground exploded around them. She shoved Ezra forward with her shoulder, her bad one—pain erupting along her arm—then raced forward and shoved Brisby, too.
“Go!” she screamed. “I’ll cover you and catch up!”
The two men didn’t need to be told twice. Ezra grabbed the nearly blind Brisby by the arm, and they bolted toward the gate without looking back as incoming fire continued to blister the ground all around them. As Trace turned and began firing at the shadowy figures that were rapidly approaching, a bullet nicked her cheek, and she swore, rolling along the ground and then coming up firing both weapons with one knee planted in the mud beneath her.
The rain was growing heavy again, which worked to her advantage. She was wearing all black while her attackers had those stupid white stripes on their shoulders, which practically glowed in the dark.
Fucking Janus. She had no doubt in her mind that he’d been the one to add that ridiculous touch to their uniforms.
She tried to make out the exact number of attackers in the misty gloom and calculated there were at least four.
Three, she thought as she tagged one in the midsection, and the man collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She could feel the blood running down her face but ignored it. It was the least of her problems. She needed cover.
