Vigilante 01 - Who Knows the Storm (2 page)

Generally.

These days they were growing bolder. Money was finally trickling out of the District, as whores and gambling bored the tourists after a while, and the “classy” joints couldn’t keep patrons entirely satisfied. Visitors wanted something else, something thrilling and dangerous. Something they couldn’t get anywhere else.

The secret of Dead Bolt: You could only get it here. A few hits of the pool-blue powder and the euphoria beat anything sold in those shiny casinos.

The movement of crime into residential areas worried him. For years he’d taken care of the stray criminal that ventured into his territory. He kept an eye on the street trade—he knew who had which neighborhood in their sights, which of the street gangs that had popped up over the years were an actual threat and which were just overgrown clubs for the bored and underemployed. The visitors could take care of themselves—he didn’t care what they stuck into their veins or how many of them kicked it in alleys downtown. They were part of the problem, bankrolling the festering wound of corruption strangling his city.

Nothing would change so long as more money could be made on strangers with itches to scratch than on those carving out livings amongst the ruins.

T
HE
COLD
October air smelled like more snow—winter seemed to start earlier and earlier with each passing year, a double-edged sword of less crime and less food mixing together in five months of desperation. Junkies and dealers, workers and citizens, all trapped inside and trying to survive until spring.

It was crazy to stay—he knew that. It was just… still home to the ones who couldn’t force themselves to leave. They’d survived the hell of the Storms; they’d made it when so many others perished. Maybe it was a badge of honor to scrape out an existence here.

He was a different story.

Where would he go? There were no fresh starts in the world for him. If he left the city, he’d leave behind all the tricks and lies he used to stay hidden. Here, money talked and laws were loose—he could play the system on the island. Off it? He’d be just another penniless drifter with no education, no plan, no real identity.

So he stayed. And he wondered if one day this city would be anything like the one he remembered.

A few blocks from home, movement caught his eye: two dark shadows hovering in the doorway of a long-abandoned store near the corner. A sliver of moonlight illuminated only their general shapes—men, most likely, darting together and pulling away but too tense, too sharp for it to be a romantic encounter.

A deal.

He blended with the darkness, stealthy and slow as he gained ground on the spot of transaction. The crisp, cold air was still, the icy sting pulling into his lungs with every breath. His clothes kept him warm; the black color let him blend into the shadows. The breathable fabric across the lower half of his face left him anonymous. A blackjack in his hand kept him safe.

Murmurings of the conversation caught his ears. He paused, listened.

How much can you get me tomorrow?

A pound.

He ducked and dodged the piles of bricks—buildings had come down on this street, destroyed by storms and fire, ignored by the city—until he reached the doorway one away from theirs.

Black-gloved hand tight on the weapon, breath held, eyes steady.

He exhaled and stepped out into the open.

They were unprepared for him. One lethargic and drunk on his own smug power—no police, people hidden away, no one to challenge him. The other’s brain a mess from Dead Bolt and neglect, no idea how to defend himself.

It was over in a few seconds; the dealer lay unconscious, the junkie cowering in the corner.

“Stay out of my neighborhood,” he said simply. He took the bag of poison and dumped it out into the dirty, slushy snow that lingered from the last storm. With the heel of his boot, he crushed it down to unusable dust. “If I see you here again, I’ll kill you,” he said, quieter now.

The man nodded, frantic and jerky in his movements.

He searched the dealer, taking his gun, credit cards, and identification pass before rolling him onto his back. A check of his pulse—alive and well—reassured him that his work was almost done.

His gaze on the wide-eyed junkie, he tugged the dealer’s right arm away from his body until it was straight. Unfurled the fingers. A perfect target.

This was his signature, how they knew he meant business. He raised his foot, then brought it down onto the man’s palm with his full weight behind it.

The dealer jolted awake, then passed out again from the pain.

Practice meant he knew exactly where to connect to break bones.

The junkie swallowed a scream; he scrambled away, tripping and falling in his haste.

Spoils in his pocket—and no backward glance—he continued his journey home.

At the corner of his block, he paused. Once upon a time it had been prime real estate—million-dollar brownstones, homes of the old moneyed elite who sent their children to Trinity, Dalton, or Spence. Pure class.

His mother’s family had roots in the city that went back to when it was New Amsterdam. His father’s people came later but in time to fight in the Revolutionary War.

He was a child of this city, generations of architects and bankers who believed this to be their legacy to the world.

They would hate it now.

The shadows cloaked his path to the doorway. Inside lay the world of another man, a man who worked a job and was responsible for another life, who paid his bills and lent a hand when his neighbors asked. He kept a low profile because he—more than anyone—knew that danger lay everywhere. And in everyone.

Nox dropped the gun down into an open grate; below, he could hear the rush of water that flowed under the city. Sewers, long-abandoned subway tunnels—the water lapped at the shores of Manhattan Island and crept up underneath them, a few more inches every year. The water would sweep the gun out to the Hudson. The credit cards followed, disappearing into the darkness.

The identification pass might get him into places he needed to be—that he kept.

When his knees finally creaked under the pressure, he stood up slowly, working out the kinks in his back as he twisted side to side. He had three hours before the alarm would sound on his other life—the Vigilante’s night was over, and it was time to go home.

Chapter One

C
ADE
C
REEL
liked to keep his clients happy and satisfied, so when Mr. White laid one pale, blue-veined hand on his knee and said, “I need you to do me a favor,” Cade didn’t hesitate with his yes.

“My favorite,” Mr. White said, almost tender as he patted Cade’s cheek. “This is our little secret.”

Mr. White, at seventy-five, didn’t ask for much from Cade—conversation and cocktails by the fireplace in the Monarch Suite, some pats on the shoulder and thigh now and again. A chaste kiss, once. He only wanted to spend time with Cade, tell his stories of a lost New York City and his glory days of privilege and excess, and be rewarded with dimpled smiles and smooth compliments.

For Cade, every Thursday night was three hours of civilized bliss. He got to keep his clothes on; he was treated like a person.

So when Mr. White asked a favor—just a quick run uptown to deliver a letter—how could he say no?

At the Iron Butterfly, the customer was always right, always entitled to whatever they wanted (as dictated by their credit rating and initial deposit, of course), and should always leave an employee’s company smiling and satisfied.

“Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

His need, apparently, was to have a private letter delivered to the Old City. He didn’t trust the messenger services that handled all the mail, nor was he able to travel there himself.

All Cade had to do was place the letter in the hands of one Sam Mullens and he would earn Mr. White’s undying gratitude.

Easy enough.

Which was how Cade—a minor celebrity in the District and the highest-paid “model” at the Iron Butterfly Casino—found himself trudging up what used to be Broadway, headed for Ninety-First Street.

He woke up early on Friday, determined to run his errands before lunchtime and take care of the favor well before curfew, but nothing went right with his morning or afternoon—the approaching Anniversary Weekend had thrown the entire place into a tizzy—and so now he was racing against the setting sun.

Caught in the Old City after curfew? He didn’t want to have to explain that to the police. Or his manager.

Cade tucked his chin into the collar of his trench coat, arranging his cashmere scarf so everything below his eyes was slightly warmer. The wind off the Hudson River nipped at his heels as if reminding him to hurry the hell up. He’d walked all the way from the District, skirting around burned-out blocks and torn-up streets as he made his way north. Keeping the river on his left, Cade gave the old section of Central Park a wide berth.

He’d heard the horror stories.

District cabs refused fares up here—if you wanted to convince a driver, you’d better have a pile of cash on hand. He couldn’t request a car from the service they used; this wasn’t a job.

Following the grid pattern in the old part of the city wasn’t easy—too many things up here were destroyed and demolished, streets covered in rubble and fallen high-rises, almost two decades of neglect wiping out the orderly function of numbered streets and avenues.

Normally, Cade stayed far away.

Follow the river. As long as you see the red writing on the walls—
portus tutus
—you’ll be safe. At marker 91, take a left. You’ll see the gray house from there.

Seriously—he’d played video games as a kid that started like that and usually ended with zombies and someone getting their brain eaten.

But what was the harm in a little adventure? So it was the Old City. So it was still touched by the ruin of seventeen years ago. So what if no one knew Cade was up here except a wealthy and slightly scattered millionaire who liked it when Cade wore white gloves to dinner.

Cade swallowed his nerves, felt the brick-heavy weight of the slender envelope in his pocket. He didn’t know what was inside, but it might as well be a ticking time bomb given his jumpiness.

He wasn’t cut out for this spy shit.

Sometimes the Iron Butterfly’s manager, Rachel, imagined herself to be Mata Hari, keeping life interesting by playing with fire. He knew she dabbled in “information sales”—taking things picked up from scotch-soaked officials in dark corners of the casino and turning the murmured secrets into cash.

Sometimes she framed it as “doing good”—helping the little people who didn’t have enough cash to bribe a cop or city employee like the rest of them. “Information should be free,” Rachel would say, and maybe in other places it was. Here? Not so much.

Other times she drank too much and told him it was a good way to fuck with the bastards that ruined the city.

Did Mr. White fill his quiet days with the same sort of real-person chess? Was that what this was?

Up ahead, the path he was walking opened up a bit. Past the mess, he found a sudden expanse of space. Normality. Neat brownstones—bricks scarred and ivy covered—lined each street. A grocery store, open for business, showed off neatly lettered handmade signs in the window.

Milk—$10/qt

Homemade Bread—$6

Local tomatoes—$17 a bushel

We have REAL coffee! Only $35 a pound

A few people walked along the streets, most likely on their way home from the thousands of construction sites around the city—and all of them noticed Cade as soon as he emerged into the midst, their gazes like lasers.

Not one of them. Not a face they knew. Stranger.

Head down, Cade hurried on his way. There were signs here; like the grocery store, they were handmade. Red paint on black wood, fastened to buildings—or at least piles of bricks—on the corner.

89.

90.

91.

With the eyes of the neighborhood burning into his back, Cade strode down the third street he passed. The sidewalks were a mess, the streets torn up by weather and a lack of recent repair. Most of the buildings had clearly burned, hollowed-out shells with collapsed ceilings and walls. But the few houses seemed well kept, with many sporting flowers in window boxes along their top floors.

And bars on every window. Steel security doors marring the classic architecture. Gates lined each occupied home, sharp spikes deterring climbers.

In the middle of the burned-out block sat a slender gray townhouse that at first glance reminded Cade of a church. It stood defiantly in the ruins of that side of the street—at least half of it was nothing but overgrown rubble, the black char of fire giving the reason for its destruction. Only six homes remained standing on this street, a place Cade could imagine once housed the wealthy in this city.

He wasn’t a native—home was the family farm back in South Carolina—but like every person in America, he knew what New York City used to look like.

For years after the evacuation, cable channels had run movie marathons and documentaries, detailing over and over the destruction of the world’s most famous city. Storms and fires and freak events that erased everything it had taken hundreds of years to create. Tens of thousands dead. Landmarks and history reduced to nothing.

He was eight when it happened, and he didn’t remember much—Mom made him and his brother get on their knees and pray for all the dead and missing. She stayed up late, crying over the pictures of death and destruction until Daddy made her go to bed.

Cade dropped his hand into his pocket as he skirted around a pothole that could have swallowed a delivery van. A huge tree, its roots erupting through the concrete, sat just in front of the stone steps, leaving barely a foot between its weathered gray trunk and the steel bars of the gate.

Cade took a huge breath, filling his lungs with the cold, crisp air. The insanity suddenly became more than just a hum in the back of his head; he was miles outside the District, with no protection, with no weapon, with no reason to be here he could possibly explain without getting in a shit ton of trouble.