Ashley Fox - Ninja Orphan

  Chapter 23 – Slow Train Coming

  Wednesday Afternoon, September 21, 2310

  Dante, Yama and Frost drew the eyes of every orphan as they crossed the athletic fields. Word quickly reached Kaz and the others.

  As Dante approached, sans cane, the present members of The Iron Fist paused their video game.

  "Kazimov," Dante said.

  "What do you want?" Kaz asked, standing up.

  The Mongo rumor had been confirmed. Dante had stabbed the giant orphan through the heart. No one wanted to be caught sleeping when he showed up.

  "I've come to apologize," Dante said sincerely.

  Kaz didn't buy it. He came around the low table and approached the trio of devils. Of similar height and build, he and Dante had once been evenly matched.

  As they'd grown older, Kaz stayed in sports and had become the captain of the punchball team. Now he had a good fifteen pounds of solid muscle over Dante. It was so obvious that Kaz had the advantage in a fair fight, that Dante absolutely could not be trusted. Because everyone knew, he never fought fair.

  Instead of sports, Dante had gone into business, moving from one gang to the next. Kaz knew that the devils pulled in almost twenty to fifty grand a month, sometimes a week. Dante needed the status quo to remain calm. He needed things to get back to normal in order to turn a profit.

  Yet, the handgun tucked into Kazimov's belt, rendered the issue moot.

  "You do need to apologize, but not to me," Kaz said.

  Dante reached into his back pocket.

  For a moment, everyone held their breath.

  Kaz's hand twitched toward the weapon at his waist.

  Dante slowly, deliberately taunting everyone, pulled out his pack of cigarettes.

  Kaz stepped forward and slapped the cigarettes from his hand. “Someday that little trick is going to get you killed.” He was right in Dante’s face.

  Dante didn't flinch or back up. He didn't even look at the pack. He just stared directly into Kazimov's eyes. “Not today, apparently.”

  Dante glanced down at the weapon tucked into Kazimov’s pants. He smiled, "And what's that old samurai saying? If my enemy has a sword, I have a sword?"

  Like a chess player who realized he's left himself vulnerable to checkmate, a cold sweat broke out over Kaz's body. The gun, which he'd so proudly shown off, now hung, right over his dick, well within arm’s reach of his most dangerous enemy.

  Instead of letting Dante light a cigarette and occupy his hands with something, Kazimov had provoked him and practically offered him the gun.

  Was it loaded? Kaz wondered. Was it on safe? How could he step backward after slapping down the smokes? He would lose all his influence if he showed the slightest hint of fear.

  These thoughts drenched his mind with bitter adrenaline.

  His mouth watered. His stomach flipped, twice, then three times.

  Dante inched closer. No more than eight inches between them.

  "So you're Mr. Clean, huh?" Dante asked. "Never jumped in, no gang life for you, right? You were gonna be somebody. You were gonna be a star.”

  Dante stepped back, turning away from Kaz and fetching his pack of smokes. "But not now. Not no more. So, what now, hero?" Dante smiled.

  Orphans surrounded them.

  Dante saw that most of them displayed some piece of cop gear, like the formation of a new tribe or gang, the kid cops.

  "You know the difference between us?" Kaz asked.

  Dante shook his head.

  Kaz drew the nine and offered it to the gang leader. "I still remember when we were friends.”

  Dante hesitated.

  Kaz watched him closely. Now it was Dante's turn to sweat. Kaz knew he couldn't refuse the weapon and not look like a dick, but accepting it meant accepting a gesture of friendship, as well as taking something from the striker, even if it was just holding his gun.

  “When in Rome,” Dante said, perching his cigarette between his lips and accepting the weapon. He held it like a professional, with both hands, at a forty-five degree angle to the floor. He slid the bolt back far enough to expose the loaded chamber.

  Kaz didn't move.

  Dante released the bolt with a snap. He clicked the weapon back over to safe and lowered it to his side. "You should keep this darling on safe if you’re gonna jock her like that, sport. Now, like I said, I came down here to apologize.”

  "For something specific or for just being a bell-end in general," Hambone offered.

  Dante glared at him and flicked the weapon from safe back to fire.

  Yama and Frost laughed.

  Hambone lifted his shirt, exposing his extravagant gut and another Light-9 tucked into his belt.

  "You take that yourself, or did someone give it to you?" Dante teased him.

  "You want to try to take it from me?” Ham asked.

  "Like candy from a fatty," Dante answered, with a generous smile, the handgun held low at his side.

  Only Yama and Frost laughed, both relieving some of the tension and yet antagonizing the situation simultaneously.

  Kaz addressed Dante. "So what exactly are you here for? Apologizing for what? Sending Yama after the baton?”

  "No, actually. That's just business." Dante shrugged and handed the gun back to Kazimov.

  "Then you might want to apologize for giving a girl over to the fuzz?” Hambone stated.

  "Fuck her. Psycho-bitch broke my nose.”

  Kaz, Hambone, Sky and a several others enjoyed a laugh at Dante’s expense.

  Yet he continued, undaunted, "She's a threat, to all of us. She is fucking crazy. You heard what she did to Ronnie? And you saw what she did to Marco. Carver's in the hospital, can't turn his fucking head around.”

  Dante raised his hands. "Okay, Carver's a scumbag and he maybe had it coming. We can all agree on that. But Ronnie, I mean, what the fuck? The kid never fucking hurt no one. He's the nicest guy. And she’s stabbed his goddamn eyes out! Over nothing! Over a two dollar shirt? Told him to go buy new ones! What the hell is that man?”

  "Rotten Ron?" Kaz asked.

  "Big pimpin," Dante answered.

  "Stabbed his eyes out?" Kaz asked.

  "With a rusty piece of wire.”

  "Sounds like some shit Lethal might do, doesn't it?" Hambone asked.

  Several kids nodded and mumbled affirmations were plainly heard.

  “Not anymore,” Sky said, loudly.

  Dante snarled at her.

  "How'd she jack you?" Hambone asked Dante.

  "In the elevator, taking her down to see her brother in ICU,” Dante explained, patiently.

  Hambone looked back at Geoff. "How did he end up in ICU?”

  "Lethal kicked him down the escalators," Dante answered without thinking.

  The block was quiet for a couple seconds.

  "And Ronnie knew that shit, didn't he?" Ham pointed out.

  "It happened ten feet from his stall. Lethal gave him the kid's shirt. So, I'm guessing yeah.” If nothing else, Dante prided himself on his balls and his honesty.

  Hambone nodded, "He saw it happen.”

  Dante ignored Hambone. "Anyhow... We're in the elevator and I asked her… Why'd you do Ronnie like that? He didn't do nothing to you.”

  "You asked her that?" Hambone inquired.

  "Yeah! What the fuck?" Dante replied.

  "That's why she broke your nose?" Hambone asked.

  "No. I asked her and she was all quiet like. She thought about it for a bit, right. And then that bitch said, "I'm still really upset about my parents being dead.” And man, what the fuck? I asked her, "You think that makes you special? In a orphanage?”

  No one said anything for a second.

  Sky suddenly burst into joyous, best-Christmas-ever laughter. She laughed so hard she started coughing

  Hambone and Kaz laughed, even Yama and Frost laughed. Soon the whole block was laughing.

  Dante laughed in spite of himself, but he didn't seem to get the joke. “Right?” he said.
“That was when she blasted me in the face man. I didn’t even see her turn around. I mean, what the fuck was that for?”

  Kaz shook his head, smiling. "Sometimes you can really be an idiot.”

  "What?" Dante asked.

  Sky smiled. "You're lucky all she did was break your nose.”

  "Do you have any idea how much she's cost us? In one week? I have to answer to higher powers, just like everyone else here. The bosses heard they were looking at almost a mil in reconstructive surgeries and her number is up, one way or another.”

  Kaz shook his head. "So she's a threat? You're a threat to everyone you meet.”

  Dante grew serious again. "Listen to me. The reason I'm down here man. The pigs are coming down hard. They're hot about the ambushes. Guess they resent having Porkchop here running up on their backside.” Dante gestured to Hambone, who growled in reply.

  “Point is, they're all freaked out. I mean really, look at you guys. Every kid as far as I can see is holding a piece of state-issued gear. You guys look like some mad band of misfits. Keystone Kops meets Lord of the Flies. What kind of mash-up is that?”

  Dante looked over at Hambone again. “Even the tubby bellhop is packing."

  "Butter, bacon and jam, baby," Hambone smiled.

  "And," Kaz asked.

  "And? Okay. I was wrong. You're right. We have to work together. Or the show is over for all of us. They want the gear back. They're offering you a deal: give up the guns, the badges, and the armor, and they let her go, tomorrow at noon, center of the bolt-garden mall. A million ways in or out, you know, all roads lead," Dante sounded sincere.

  "You're serious?" Hambone asked.

  "When's the last time I came down here?" Dante asked. "You drop the gear, they let her go. That’s the deal. Happily ever after.”

  "No way," Kaz said. "It's a trap.”

  "Of course, it's a trap," Hambone answered. "The whole fucking district is a trap. But we're already here, so what the fuck? We do it all at once, we'll have the numbers, instead of letting them pick us off one at a time.”

  Dante raised a hand, “Notice I said, you give up the gear, they give up the girl. They were specific about that. Notice the order, you give up the gear first. That part was clear,” Dante said.

  "Fuck that. If they don't let her go, they're going to need a lot more than rubber bullets," Kaz tucked the gun into his belt. "I'm tired of being guarded by soldiers with stun batons, rifles and riot gear. They want to wear that shit, let's give them a reason.”

  The kids cheered and slammed their shields like ancient warriors before battle.

  “You’re fucking insane, the lot of you,” Dante said.

  "Are you going to be there?" Kaz asked Dante.

  "I wouldn’t miss it for the world."

  The Mackenzie Pass shopping center was home to the Mercury Outfielder, a famous cop bar. The strip mall floated with a dozen other such facilities, out in the residential sub-divided atmospheric soup of the southern California sunset.

  The center was anchored along the western spire of a suburban commercial-hub, out on the edge of the Tarzana airspace. It sported a few dozen shops, restaurants and clerical operations along with carbon-fiber docks and an internal parking structure. There were no working surveillance cameras and conversations could be had with some measure of privacy.

  The setting sun illuminated the drab interior of the bar with a startlingly beautiful light.

  Grey sat on one of the stools, leaning on the bar, blissfully drunk. An old comrade/instructor recognized him and came over.

  Grey’s iconic position in the republic's pop-history had a way of leaving an impression, people remembered him, whether he remembered them or not.

  First Sergeant Steve King stood at the bar next to him. "What's going on, killer?"

  Before he took offense, David remembered that King called everyone killer, the way someone else might call his friends bud or champ.

  King towered over David, tall and heavy, He’d fought as a champion kick boxer, winning a dozen Muay Thai trophies for his battalion. Most of the time, he was a first rate Special Forces operative. It was rare to see him in a bar, and it was just as rare for David to be there.

  David reminded himself that he did not believe in coincidence.

  Black Willow? This had something to do with the Black Willow Operations. But Grey was just an alternate on that team, c-string.

  David smiled. "First Sergeant, how you doing?”

  "What's the objective?" King asked, jokingly referring to the assembly of empty beer bottles.

  "A district governor," Grey said, not thinking.

  King took a deep breath, "Nothing's impossible. Where?”

  "Zero one three," Grey answered.

  "What?” King looked shocked. “You're over there? I guess that makes sense in a twisted sort of way.”

  "Hey, you name it we’ve got it, girls, drugs, torture. What's your pleasure?" Grey asked.

  The First Sergeant pulled out his phone and dialed a number from memory. It was answered and he spoke. "Jimmy, I've got someone down here you need to meet. Yes, now and I don't give a fuck. Mercury Outfielder, Mackenzie Pass, find it.” He hung up the phone and smiled. "On his way.”

  Grey scowled. “Jimmy who? Croswell?”

  “Now, now. Don’t go throwing that name around. No. He’s out on the east coast. And frankly, the less he knows about this, the better off we are.”

  Grey shook his head. “Your guy and your field tests. Someday it’s going to blowback on you.”

  “Funny you should say that.”

  “Why?” Grey asked. “Is that what this is?”

  “Does it feel like your whiskers and your tail are on fire? That’s usually a pretty good sign. Suddenly nothing is what it seems to be, that’s when you’re in Fox country.”

  “What are you talking about?” Grey asked.

  “You can’t really be that dense,” King said.

  “You’d be surprised.” Grey was getting angry and sobering up quickly.

  King held up his hands. "Hey, I couldn’t be selling you out, cause I don’t know shit, right? The man I called knows more than me and I trust him with my life, and yours; apparently. Ha.”

  "What don't you know?" Grey mumbled through the alcohol.

  "I haven't been here in almost twelve years. What are the chances we'd run into each other now?” King asked.

  “Who sent you?” Grey asked.

  “No one; that’s what I’m saying.”

  "Who did you call?" Grey asked.

  "Homicide detective, friend of mine.”

  Detective Cole arrived before Grey finished his beer. He was dressed in a three-piece suit. Grey guessed that a significant percentage of the weave was a bulletproof terillium blend; it looked expensive.

  Grey was a couple inches taller than Cole, but the detective looked like he could put up a hell of a fight, and had on several occasions. King towered over both men, as he introduced them to each other.

  Detective Cole asked for a beer and the three of them moved back to a table. Cole activated a signal-jammer and set it on the table between them.

  "So, what do you know about the district?" Cole asked.

  "Everything. What do you want to know?” Grey mumbled.

  "Okay. How about, have you ever been there?" Cole asked.

  "Seven months, permanent assignment.”

  Cole laughed. "I've been investigating them for almost six years, and I’ve never been there at all.”

  "Not getting very far, are you?" Grey smiled.

  "Considering the history of the place, I'm doing okay. Where were you stationed before you got there?" Cole asked.

  "My citizenship was sponsored in twenty-three hundred." Grey answered.

  "And?" the Detective asked.

  "And everything after that is classified." Grey replied, drunkenly waving his hand flatly between them.

  Cole rolled his eyes and laughed out loud.

  Grey opened his jacket, f
lashing Cole a glance at his codec, the solid black identification bar printed above his name.

  Cole did an involuntary double take. Only a few, very select professionals, were issued an all black codec. Even First Sergeant King had strips of white running through his.

  "So you want my help?" Grey asked.

  "Maybe. Maybe I can help you," Cole said.

  "What are you going to help me with?" Grey asked.

  "What do you need?" Cole asked.

  Back on District Thirteen, despite throngs of kids milling about, there seemed to be no guards present in any of the common areas. All over the district, no patrols were patrolling, no posts being posted. The entire place was eerily quiet, dead calm.

  Only the guardhouses were occupied. The uniformed citizens stayed behind the thick heavy windows. The NCOs kept their units quiet. They watched the security monitors, played cards, and totally refrained from harassing the orphan residents.