When the soldiers of the New Gods throw around threats of blood and hellfire, always take them seriously.
Will Connor paused by the entryway of Ikeda Izakaya. It was a hole in the wall, just like all the other mom-and-pop stores in this alley. A takeaway window looked into the perpetually busy kitchen. Delicious scents wafted into his nose. Grilled meats, sweet sauces, frying oil, barbequed vegetables, fragrant rice, cheap alcohol, everything that made Ikeda’s one of the most popular tiny bars in a city renowned for its love of food and drink.
The shouting was not part of the experience.
“Get the fuck out of here, shadow bitches! This is our turf!”
“It’s ours! You ain’t even got the balls to fight for it, libbies!”
Will shook his head. Too much testosterone, too little restraint, and way too much alcohol. Throw in the power of the New Gods and you get a recipe for hell in a small space.
Ikeda-san, ageless and wizened in his grease-coated apron, poked his head out the window.
“Connor-san! Thank God you’re here!” Ikeda cried.
“Sounds ugly in there,” Will said.
“It’s getting worse!”
Underscoring Ikeda’s point, someone yelled, “SON OF A BITCH!”
Someone else replied with an even spicier epithet. Over the shouting, a downbeat pop song played over the speakers, all the louder for its incongruity.
“How many of them are there?” Will asked.
Ikeda glanced over his shoulder, then dropped his voice to a whisper.
“Eight of them. Four from the Liberated, four from the Court of Shadows. They drove out most of the customers.”
Grunting, Will nodded. In that moment, he glanced to his sides, his hands on his hips.
The alleys of the Church District were infamously cramped. Especially here. Will could stretch out his arms and touch the walls with his fingertips. Lanterns hung from the eaves of the two-story buildings that defined the street, chasing away the night with dim illumination. Signboards and bikes cluttered the cobblestone path. The alley was a fatal funnel. But here and now, it was deserted. There wasn’t anyone waiting to take him out.
Not yet, anyway.
“Keep your head down,” Will said. “I’m going in.”
Ikeda-san ducked. Will braced himself with a breath, and stepped in.
The smells of sake and savory barbecue engulfed him like a fog. Aged wooden furniture gleamed in the soft yellow light. The tables by the door had been abandoned, bottles and mugs of liquor left half-empty, remnants of finger foods still sitting on their plates, the chairs pulled out in a disorderly mess. A man in a gray suit sat at the bar, downing a glass of clear spirits, utterly indifferent to the world around him.
The back of the yakitoriya was on the brink of bedlam.
Two groups sat at opposing tables, divided by a narrow aisle. The ones on the left wore cheap black suits and slicked-back hair, the uniform of the Court of Shadows. The other group favored more eclectic fashions, street clothing dyed in eye-popping colors. One and all, they possessed an ethereal, even androgynous, beauty, and despite the forest of empty bottles at their table, their voices were clear, their movements graceful.
Both parties traded insults and curses, punctuating their remarks with raised fists and single-finger salutes. A Shadow banged the table with an open palm and hurled a challenge, but his voice was lost to the ever-growing storm of noise. His Liberated counterpart met the gesture with aristocratic disdain, and replied with a cutting remark. The Shadows shot to their feet as one. The Liberated rose to meet them.
At this rate, it was only a matter of time before someone on one side or the other manifested their powers. Then the whole damn neighborhood would blow up, never mind the store.
But.
The most dangerous among them was the man still seated at the bar. Anyone who wasn’t deaf or blind would have beat feet long ago. Maybe he felt he was untouchable. And for all Will knew, maybe he really was.
“HEY!” Will boomed.
His voice reverberated in the tiny space, blasting down the arguments. He projected his presence, filling the room with the essence of cop, the quintessence of killer. Through the lenses of his eyeshields, Will stared them all down with his war face, his lips yearning to break into a blood-crazed smile.
His hands rested on his waistband.
“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Will continued. “ALL OF YOU, BREAK IT UP!”
The Liberated were the first to notice. The Shadows needed a few extra seconds before their beer-addled brains realized there was a new player in the game.
Predatory eyes drilled into Will’s own. Arms crossed over chests. Hands dipped out of sight.
The guy at the bar continued to ignore everyone.
“You’ve got problems with each other, you take it outside,” Will said. “Don’t drag civvies into it. You know the rules.”
“Fuck the rules,” a Shadow slurred.
“Oh yeah? You’re 86’d. You’re all 86’d.”
They stared at him. A Liberated smirked. A Shadow whispered into his friend’s ear.
“You’ve got ten seconds to get out here,” Will said. “Beat it.”
A Liberated in a red jacket locked eyes on him.
“You’re Will Connor, aren’t you? What are you doing here?”
“Keeping you lot from killing each other.” Will thumbed over his shoulder with his left hand while hooking the fingers of his right hand around the hem his jacket. “Get out.”
“You killed a lot of us,” Red Jacket said softly.
“He killed a lot more of ours too!” a Shadow added.
The oldest of the Shadows, a lean, hard man sporting a goatee, glared at Will.
“You’ve got a death wish?” Goatee asked.
“Do you?” Will replied.
“He’s alone, we can take him!” Mr. Slur replied.
“Riveria PD is on its way. You leave now, no one has to get hurt,” Will said.
Red Jacket chuckled. His buddies chuckled too. The Shadows grinned.
“RPD won’t lift a finger,” Red Jacket replied.
Of course they wouldn’t. Just like in Babylon, RPD was riddled with soldiers of the New Gods. They would show up only after the dust settled.
Which was why Ikeda-san had called Will instead.
“You know me,” Will said. “You know what I can do. Will do.”
“Was that a threat?” Goatee asked.
“A statement of fact.”
The air chilled. Silence descended. Sparks danced in the eyes of the Liberated. Darkness crept across the sclera of the Shadows. Electricity ran down Will’s spine, kicking his heart into high gear.
Here was a target rich environment. There was a time when he would have pulled steel. Now, though, he had mellowed out.
Slightly.
“We are all Elect of Namanah,” Red Jacket said. “You are a mortal.”
“We have the powers of the Night!” Goatee said. “You have nothing!”
“I have enough ammo for all of you and then some,” Will replied.
“You’re going to draw down?” Mr. Slur said, his voice sharpening and clarifying.
Will grinned.
This was his war grin, the grin he wore into battle against gods and monsters, dishing out death with fire and steel.
“If my hands move, it’s the last thing you’ll ever see,” Will said.
Everyone looked down at his hands.
At a flash of hard black polymer over his belly against a blood red shirt, peeking out from around the flap of his jacket, drawn back by his fingers of his strong right hand.
“What will it be?” Will asked.
Electricity crackled in the tiny space. Liberated and Shadows alike shifted uneasily from foot to foot, calculating their chances. Though his heart slammed a tattoo against his chest and his vision narrowed into a tight tunnel, Will remained completely still. He breathed fully, deeply, willing his heart rate to go down. He scanned left to right, right to left, reading the crowd, his muscles coiled like springs.
“We’re leaving,” Red Jacket said.
“Same here,” Goatee said. “The beer here ain’t worth shit anyway.”
They motioned to go. Will shook his head. Slowly, deliberately, his right hand still frozen, he held up his left palm.
“Not yet,” Will said.
“Thought you 86’ed us?” Mr. Slur sneered.
“Pay for your meals.”
Goatee clicked his tongue. With similarly slow movements, he brought out his wallet, showed it to Will, then placed a roll of bills on the table.
Slow was good. Slow meant there would be no misunderstandings. Despite everything, he was still in control of his senses. Mostly, anyway.
Red Jacket drew a credit card instead, and headed for the counter. As he brushed past the guy in the gray suit by the bar, Red Jacket mumbled something. The suit didn’t even notice.
Ikeda-san popped up out of cover and reluctantly accepted the card. The Liberated and the Shadows stared down each other for a moment longer, unwilling to make the first move. Finally, Red Jacket signed the bill and cocked his head at the door.
The Liberated marched in lockstep down the aisle. Will stepped out of the way and planted himself by a table, watching them go. All of them gave him the cold shoulder, watching him out the corners of their eyes. When the last of the Liberated left, the Shadows followed. Goatee glared at Will as they passed.
“You got lucky this time,” Goatee said. “One day, your luck’s going to run out.”
Will just stared at him until he left.
Then Will released a long, low, exhale.
That had been close. Too close. It could have gone either way. Without a badge or a uniform, all he had to bank on was his reputation and his skills. Skills that he knew had gone rusty since the end of the Special Tasks Section. There would come a day when his rep would no longer save him. On that day… he hoped he was still at least half as good as he once was.
By the bar, Gray Suit calmly tore into a grilled chicken skewer. Who the hell was he? He acted like he was above it all, as though the incident was nothing more than a squabble between children and he an adult observer with no reason to intervene. He was too cool a customer for an incident like this.
Which meant there was much more to him than met the eye.
Will strolled up to him, hands still low.
“Sir, you alright there?” he asked.
Gray Suit grunted.
“Took lots of guts, just sitting there while it was going down.”
Gray Suit shrugged.
“Must be starving, huh?”
Gray Suit swallowed.
Spoke.
“They wouldn’t touch me.”
“How do you know?” Will asked.
Gray Suit turned to look at Will.
Soft and pudgy, his once-dark hair thinning into a silver streak, he could have been upper management at some small business somewhere. A civilian, not a shooter. Not a threat. His rounded smartglasses enhanced the effect. But in his eyes glowed a strange light. A light of conviction, of purpose, of outright insanity.
“Because I do,” he said.
He slid off the stool and exited the eatery.
Will blinked. Blinked again. There was something off about that guy. He suspected he knew what it was. He didn’t want to have to deal with it today.
Behind the counter, Ikeda-san bowed stiffly.
“Thank you, Connor-san.”
Will bowed back. “You’re welcome.”
“The New Gods are becoming more… active.”
“Yeah. It’s the fifth time this month.”
The fifth time in the Church District, that is. He’d heard rumors of other throwdowns elsewhere in Riveria. Some of those had ended in blows. Not gunfire, not yet, but the New Gods had powers more frightening than firearms.
“I don’t understand why they want to pick a fight over something so… small,” Ikeda said.
“It’s the New Gods. They’re always trying to one-up each other.”
“This cannot end well.”
“It won’t.”
The New Gods hated each other only slightly more than they hated the mortals who had dared to oppose them. They were always jostling for supremacy, always trying to expand their holdings. There was a time when the Church District was neutral ground. He suspected it wasn’t, not anymore.
With the STS disbanded, there was no one else who could keep them in check. Sure, the Temple Commission had taken some of their most powerful supporters off the board, but it wasn’t enough. Instead of a decisive blow, it had merely dealt them a dozen deep but recoverable wounds. And now, the Temple Commission was finally closing up shop.
Nature abhorred a vacuum. The New Gods were snatching up the remaining pieces of unclaimed and unprotected land everywhere in Nova Babylonia. Blood would spill across the streets of Riveria, Will knew.
Just not tonight.
“Have you seen the guy in the gray suit before?” Will asked.
Ikeda shook his head. “Never.”
“He paid the bill?”
“Yes. Right after he ordered, in fact.”
By itself it wasn’t anything. But his unusual composure, his cryptic words, his body language… He was a player. And players knew that you always paid the bill first so that you could leave at a moment’s notice.
“Keep an eye out for him. Let me know if you see him again,” Will said.
“You think he’s dangerous?”
“I don’t know anything about him. That is what makes him dangerous.”
Stepping out into the alley, Will glanced both ways. All clear. He checked his eyeshields, saw no new messages, then strolled down the path. He was done here. His shift had begun two hours ago, and he had six more on the clock.
The Church District used to be a quiet neighborhood. Not anymore, he presumed.
Ten steps down the alley, he felt an itching between his shoulder blades. An invisible weight settled on the back of his head.
He was being watched.
He fought the urge to run. To turn around. To confront his shadow directly. Instead, he spun on his heel, turning to face a vending machine on his left. He leaned in, as though squinting at the items on sale, turning his head to check his flank.
The alley was deserted.
Will bought a can of heated coffee. Holding it in both hands, he headed down the alley.
The feeling returned.
He slowed, lifting the can to his lips. He flicked his eyes side to side. To his left was the neighborhood fabricator, currently closed. On his right, a noodle shop did a bustling trade, the counter packed with customers. The owner waved at him. Will waved back, looking out the corner of his eye.
A shadow shuffled down the alley.
Past the noodle place, the alley opened into a crossroads. Will sauntered down the road, swiveling his head from side to side, as though performing a routine security sweep.
Then spun to his left.
Framed in the fatal funnel, the dim lanterns captured a soft man in a gray suit.
Will took three huge strides, then ducked into a nook sandwiched between two low-rises. Taking care not to disturb the garbage bags strewn across the floor, he held his coffee in his left hand and drew his M99 pistol with his right.
And waited.
And breathed.
And waited some more.
And breathed some more.
The coffee slowly cooled. He slipped it into his jacket pocket and gripped the handgun with both hands.
And waited.
And breathed.
And waited even more.
A hundred breaths later, he held the pistol close and peeked out.
All clear.
He returned to the crossroads and scanned.
Deserted.
He holstered his gun, pulled out his coffee, and headed back to the noodle store.
“Back so soon?” the owner called.
“Did you see a guy in a gray suit pass by?” Will asked.
Even as he spoke, Will swept his eyes across the customers. Civilians in street clothes. No hint of gray in sight.
“Nope,” the owner said, shaking his head. “You looking for someone?”
“It’s all good,” Will said.
That was weird. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to follow him on patrol. He’d have to mix up his planned route, take an extra-long surveillance detection route on the way home. No, on second thought, he should sleep somewhere else tonight, one of the budget hotels nearby that asked no questions and answered no queries. Then he would ask around too, see if anyone had been asking after him. Until he had more intel, that was all he could do.
Wait. There was one more thing he could do.
He popped the can of coffee, and drank.
And awoke his eyeshields and booted his phone app.
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