Brutal Precious (Lovely Vicious #3) (3 page)

“What’s that, you crazy fucker?” A boy leans in, holding his hand to his ear in an exaggerated motion. “Speak up, we can’t hear shit if you don’t say shit.”

The second boy brings out his phone and held it up.

“I got this. I’m recording, so do it.”

The third boy frowns. “No way, man, someone’s gonna see.”

“No one’s gonna see,” The second boy snaps. “We got his back.” He turned to the first boy. “We got your back. C’mon!”

The first boy hesitates, and that’s when I know. The first boy is not the real threat. Neither is the third boy, who looks uncomfortable, like he’s about to run away at any moment. It’s the second boy, the one with the camera, who is the true coward. Hiding behind a lens, just like Wren did that night. But unlike Wren, he’s smiling. Wren never smiled. Wren looked comatose, brain-dead. Wren looked like he was putting his soul somewhere far, far away to escape from the violence. Camera boy, on the other hand, is instigating it, egging it on, goading it with all the small, sickly power he has in his gangly teenage body.

Before I punch the camera out of hands, I briefly thank whatever god is listening. I’ve lived long enough to learn the differences between just bad people, and truly terrible people. Some people never learn that, and get hurt.

Like Isis.

Like Sophia.

My heart contracts painfully, and I punch again, this time for his face. The camera boy staggers, nose bleeding through his fingers. His friends jump, backing up quickly. The homeless man squawks and huddles in the corner, covering his head with his scrawny arms.

“Who the fuck are you?” The second boy shouts.

“Nobody hits Reggie!” The first boy ducks into a fighting position.

“Get out of here,” I say. “Or you two are next.”

“Fuck you!” The first one lunges, and I duck to the side and pull his arms behind his back in one fluid motion. He struggles, trying to kick and headbutt me away, but my grip is steel.

“You there,” I say to the third one. “Help your friend up, and leave. When you’re around the corner, I’ll let your friend here go.”

The third one is sweating profusely, eyes darting between his bloodied friend and his immobilized one. He finally makes the right decision, and pulls the camera boy up. Camera boy scrabbles for his phone, and limps around the corner with his friend, vibrantly swearing. I wait a hundred seconds, and shove the first boy forward. He backs up, pointing at me with a furious, twisted expression.

“I’ll get you for this, you piece of shit!”

“No,” I say coolly. “You won’t.”

This makes something in him snap – his pride, maybe. He rushes me again, and this time I’m forced to show no mercy. I put him in a sleeper hold, and when he stops flailing, I ease him gently to the ground. I extend my hand to the homeless man.

“We should go. His friends will be back.”

The homeless man uncurls, watery blue eyes connecting with mine. He nods, slowly, and uses my hand to help himself up. I make him walk in front of me, guarding the rear, all the way out of the alley and back to the front of the strip mall, where there are cars and too many witnesses for the boys to try anything else. The homeless man’s gait is strong and true, but a limp hampers him. A veteran, probably, who’s fallen on hard times.

“Thank you,” The man croaks. I shake my head, and open my wallet, fishing out two twenties.

“Go get yourself some real food.”

“Bless you. God bless you,” he says, taking the money and easing down the boulevard.

He did. God blessed me, I think as I watch him go. And then he took it all away.

I shrug that thought off. I’m far better off than most people. But it’s that same privilege that sickens me. I’m eighteen. I’m, by all nationality counts, Caucasian. There’s some Italian in me, on Mom’s side, and Russian on Dad’s. But I’m decidedly white. And male. I am not hideous to look at, nor is my brain crippled by general idiocy. Mom and I never wanted for money.
 
I am lucky. I am privileged.

The homeless man hobbling down the boulevard is the one who needs God’s help more than I do.

Sophia needed help more than anyone.

And I let her down.

I failed her.

The traffic becomes white noise in my ears, washing against me and around me. People pass, their faces blurring indistinctly. Nothing feels real – it’s a world trapped in a snowglobe. The colors of the strip mall are washed-out, instead of bright. The smells are Styrofoam and wood, instead of sun and dirt and greasy fast food. Nothing is right. I’m not right.

But I’d known that for a long time, now. I’m not right. I stand out too much. I’m too cold. I am not like the rest of the faces in the crowd. I don’t feel as deeply as them. I don’t vibrate with as much emotion as they do.

If I was more like them, warmer, would I have been able to tell what Sophia was about to do? Would I have been able to understand her better? Would I have been able to see her despair, and stop it?

If I was more like Isis, would I have been able to save her?

That’s what you do, her voice echoes. You protect people.

My fingers twitch, the knuckles bloodied. I turn and head to the car.

I came to meet my new employer, Gregory Callan of Vortex Enterprises. This little side trip to the strip mall was for an ATM I could get cash from. I got sidetracked by the homeless man.

The September air swelters around me, crickets crying out lonely songs in the tall golden grasses on the side of the highway. The heatwave is the last, dying gasp of the brutal, once-in-a-century summer that hits Ohio. The city of Columbus has never looked drier, or bigger. The sky is a pale white-blue, and goes on forever. My white dress shirt sticks to every sweat-stained crevice of my body, and the dark suit over it is uncomfortably hot.

I shouldn’t be here.

I should be in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

I should be at Harvard, settling in to my lackluster dorm room and learning to tolerate the idiot who will be my roommate for a year. I should be taking classes now, taking notes on the laptop Mom bought me. But I returned the laptop, and I returned my dorm room. I returned it all. I redacted my tuition and closed my bank accounts and packed a single black backpack and left a note on the kitchen counter that told Mom not to worry.

And then I left.

That world, the innocent little fishbowl of young adult angst people like to call college, isn’t meant for me. I am older than they are. I always have been. I am smarter than they are. I always have been.

‘I’m amazed you manage to get your head off your pillow in the mornings.’

The voice rings, clear and bright in my ears. But I’m better at ignoring it, now. It’s gotten fainter. I haven’t seen her for half a year, and yet her voice clings in my brain. It’s incredible. Incredibly annoying. It’s either a testament to her infuriatingly persistent personality, or a testament to my unwillingness to let go of the last few moments in my life I recall being truly happy. Happy? I’m unsure if I was ever happy, even with her. It’s a mishmash of fuzzy memories and stolen moments of tenderness, all laced with the searing edge of guilt that is Sophia’s face.

Maybe I was happy. But it’s pointless. There’s no real value in being happy.

There’s no real value in something that doesn’t last.

I take a right onto the shipping roads of Columbus, where eighteen-wheelers gather five deep and Matson containers choke the dusty, fenced-in lots. Two massive cranes noisily rearrange blocks of containers, loading and unloading with creaking, dutiful slowness. Men in orange vests and hardhats weave between containers, checking the contents, marking things on clipboards, and shouting obscenities at each other over the ordered chaos. Gregory - a tall, broad-shouldered man with an impressive white mustache and a tweed suit - stands in a near-empty lot. A shorter, yet somehow even beefier young man stands next to him, wearing a dark suit like me. His posture is tense, yet relaxed, his hair spiked and his eyes dark. A dragon tattoo twines up his neck. It’s Charlie Moriyama – Gregory’s right hand man and most trusted bodyguard, aside from me.

Across from both of them is a woman with black hair tied up in a neat bun. She shuns a business skirt for a woman’s suit, instead, looking every part a professional. But a professional of what, I can’t quite tell. There’s no obvious weapon lump on her, and any jewelry that would mark her as a drug dealer or tattoos that would mark her as a gang member are well-hidden, if they exist at all. She doesn’t even wear makeup. Odd, considering most of the women who contract Gregory’s services are usually wealthy housewives with a vengeance.

Gregory sees me coming, and waves me over. He plays the jolly old man bit almost too well, but it serves to hide the vicious businessman, wizened soldier, and master black-belt beneath.

“Jack! Vanessa and I were just talking about you.”

I sidle up beside Charlie, who crosses his arms and grunts.

“You took too long.”

“Had to make a detour,” I say. “Road construction.”

Charlie snorts. “Yeah? Is this the same ‘road construction’ that got you on the news last week?”

“Charlie, c’mon.” Gregory smiles. “Let’s at least try to pretend to be friends when in front of –” He turns and cocks an eyebrow at the woman, as if asking her what she is.

“Let’s call me a potential client for now,” Vanessa says. Her blue eyes are sharp, and riveted to my knuckles. I try to wipe the blood off on my pant leg.

“ – in front of a potential client,” Gregory finishes. “Besides, Jack’s entitled to his five minutes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

Charlie scoffs. “Jealous? Yeah, boss, I’m real jealous of wannabe Batman over here.”

I’d risen in the ranks faster than anyone at Vortex. Gregory himself had trained me. Of course Charlie’s jealous. He’s been in the business for years, even though he can’t be more than twenty-two. He had to claw his way up by his hangnails. He thinks I’m pampered and spoiled.
  

“I wasn’t aware what I did in my free time was up for criticism by you,” I say. Charlie throws a glare at me.

“It’s up for criticism when you fuckin’ decide to use your training to beat the shit out of guys who steal popsicles from 7-11.”

“They mugged a woman,” I counter smoothly.

“They were small time idiots pulling off small crime!” Charlie snarls. “But your little savior complex had you wasting time on their stupid asses.”

“My time. Not yours. It’s hardly any of your concern.”

“You got us on the news, idiot! We’re Vortex, not goddamn Walmart!”

“They never got his name, or a picture of him,” Gregory steps in. “Really, Charlie, you can relax. We aren’t here for a witch hunt, we’re here for the client. Settle this later.”

Charlie goes red down to his spiked roots. I glance at Gregory, and despite his smile he narrows his eyes slightly. He should’ve told Charlie to be quiet ages ago. Letting him blab in front of a client was Gregory’s way of letting Charlie embarrass himself. It’s the subtle kind of mind-trap game Gregory loves to play. Most of the young men he hires are too stupid to sidestep it. Save for me.

“Vanessa,” Gregory begins. “Would you do the honors?”

She nods, and pulls an ID out from her jacket. I feel my breathing slow. CIA.

“Jesus, boss,” Charlie sucks his teeth. “What the hell are we doing talking to feds?”

“I’m Vanessa Redgate,” the woman says. “Cyber Security Branch. We’re offering Mr. Callan a contract.”

“Outside of CIA approval, I assume?” I ask, and motion around. “Considering the unorthodox meeting area.”

Vanessa nods. “We are after a small, elite group of hackers who have been shuffling funds for the largest black market on the internet.”

“The Spice Road,” I say. Vanessa nods again.

“I’m impressed. I wasn’t aware Vortex agents excelled anywhere beyond their muscles.”

Gregory laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “Jack’s a special case. Please, continue.”

“Regardless, these hackers worked for the Spice Road. They call themselves The Gatekeepers. The CIA commissions board has unanimously decided against using third-party mercenaries –”

“Contractors,” Gregory interrupts, flashing a smile. “We prefer the term ‘contractors’.”

Vanessa eyes him warily, but corrects herself.

“- decided against using third-party contractors. But my supervisor, and a great number of agents within the project, have worked for years to trace the Gatekeepers. We finally have a lead, but the commissions board doesn’t want to risk deploying a team and spooking them into going to ground. Training special agents for this particular mission is just not cost-effective, and by the time we do train them, the lead may have already gone dry. ”

“So this is where we come in,” I say. She nods.

“We have strong evidence that two people closely connected to the Gatekeepers recently transferred into Ohio State College as Sophomores. The goal would be to maintain surveillance on these two without rousing suspicion. The ultimate goal would be to gather evidence, preferably hard copies and byte logs of their hacking activities, or their correspondences with the Gatekeepers themselves.”