These Divided States: High Price to Pay

One

2037

Outside of Phoenix, Arizona

Jane Doe glanced over her shoulder. Across the street, people milled in Murphy Park, gathered in knots around the library doors, or lounged on the metal picnic tables under the desert willows, enjoying the spring before the heat hit. No one looked up from their cellphones or holographic computer displays. No one paid her any attention. Jane might be an ordinary citizen heading for the caffeine fix before the drudge job began.

But she wasn't and never would be. Other people learned that sooner or later.

Her skin tightened and she rolled her shoulders to ease her discomfort.

It's just pretend.

She hauled open the glass door of Bean Tango and fell into the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and her nose twitched at the base notes of pastry. Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, she swept her spiky brown hair out of her face and surveyed the room.

Posters of couples locked in sweaty embraces lightened the espresso-colored walls. The images captured brooding, swarthy Latino hunks catching ladies mid-twirl, dipping them nearly to the floor or tossing them in the air. The shimmering fringe of the women's jewel-colored gowns radiated like spokes from their toned legs.

Clearing the sweetheart's table near the restroom, Jo-Jo Martin switched her attention to Jane. After setting the white mugs into her gray tub, she wiped down the vinyl cloth covering the wrought iron table. White streaked the curly black hair framing her dark skin. Hey, Jane, I didn't expect you so early.

Just killing time before my delivery run this morning. Jane sidestepped the yellow 'danger wet floor' sign and wove a path through the tables. Anyone who considered a wet floor dangerous never dealt drugs.

Never spent a night on the streets.

Under the window sign painted in Cinco de Mayo colors of green, white and red, two teenage girls with Easter egg-colored hair slouched on the bench seat and texted on holographic keyboards. The pink-haired one nudged her friend before aiming her wrist at the wall beside her. A video of a thin student stumbling down an institutional hall streamed down the dark paint of the coffee shop. The girls sank into a pool of giggles.

People were shitty to each other but this time it wasn't her problem. Jane exhaled a shaky breath.

On the opposite side of the room, a wisp of a man alternated between rubbing his beaky nose and typing on his plastic keyboard. Implanted inside his wrist, the Cain's mark of his drugs monitor played peekaboo with his tattered cuff. He glanced up at her. His beady blue eyes stared out of sunken sockets.

Jane turned away. Not too fast or too slow. This was her time to practice being normal, to blend in, to remember not everyone reacted with fists and kicks. Using the reflection in the glass display case, she watched the man.

The wisp of black fuzz coating his upper lip twitched like a rat's whiskers. Glazed eyes dismissed her before he glued his attention to his work.

Jane exhaled softly and focused on the pastries inside the case. He hadn't recognized her. Not that he was one of her usuals. Just an occasional fish in her stream of clients, surfacing only when his credit allowed.

She dealt only the best drugs.

And charged a premium for it.

Why not? Drugs were a legit business these days. And businesses needed to make a profit. Not that she planned to be a drug dispensary owner forever. One day soon, she'd leave this town and start a fresh life somewhere new, and her normal citizen garb would be everyday wear, not a costume.

But for now ....

Her stomach growled and her breath fogged the glass, momentarily obscuring the prune danish on the top shelf.

Jo-Jo sauntered into the serving area behind the counter. The tub scraped the glass display case when she set it down. Business good?

Yep. Jane wiped the condensation off the glass with her sleeve and straightened. Still generating income for my thug-partner, Uncle Sam, so you upright citizens don't have to work so hard.

Jo-Jo's dark eyes glinted, and she dropped her voice. And yet the economy it is still depressed. Maybe you are not dealing enough of the drugs, eh, chica?

We've dealt enough that the national debt is paid off. Not my fault you respectable folks can't do your share. Jane propped an elbow on the counter and traced the letters of the laminated menu taped to the counter. How many times would Jane have to push the barista's buttons until she was tossed out, proving she was just like every other upright citizen? In the two years since Bean Tango opened, Jane had needled the Latina twenty-three times.

Jo-Jo had flushed and sputtered a handful of times, but never treated Jane like shoe fungus as most others had. Was the woman infected with some kindness virus?

But they all turned eventually. It was just a matter of time.

Jane would try to get the barista to kick her out of her establishment next month. Eventually, Jo-Jo would break ties with Jane. Everyone did. Drug dealers were inconvenient acquaintances once a user came clean.

Jo-Jo ran her hands through the sonic wash station then whisked out a piece of wax paper. You think the government will cut the taxes now that we're back in the black? I could use the profit.

Maybe on you guys. But sin needs to be taxed, and folks like me punished for luring innocents into evil. Jane would be an average citizen once she sold her business. No one would ever learn of her past. She boxed up the thoughts, making them disappear like her childhood. I'll have two prune danish, an espresso, and a coffee. Tall.

Two? Caffeine not going to do it for you this day? Jo-Jo removed a paper plate from the stack behind her and slid open the display case. The sweet scent of cherry pie filling mingled with the fresh bread.

Jane almost changed her mind. Almost. Then the plate appeared and the danish stared back at her with exotic purple eyes. She loved purple. She loved the thickness of it on her tongue. I have to restock then be open for business tonight. Jazz in the Park begins at sundown.

Although using drugs was legal, her stream of users preferred darkness to daylight. Most didn't want the stigma, even if they bore the Cain's mark. She didn't blame them.

If she'd known anything other than drugs growing up, she might have chosen a different path.

But people like her didn't have choices.

Fate had screwed her since birth.

Lady Luck allowed Jane to profit from it.

And nothing goes better with the jazz than a banger or glider. Jo-Jo slid the plate on the counter. Her Cain's mark was a dull brown, as unnoticeable as a mole.

Except to a dealer looking at a sometimes client.

'Bangers and gliders are last century. Today's designer drugs will give you both. Most folks swear Misty Seas will allow you to watch the notes the band plays. Fishing out a currency card from the satchel on her hip, Jane slid it next to the plate and picked up one danish. Pastry flaked from the edges. Sugar glittered like stars. She took a bite, moaned as the buttery treat melted in her mouth.

Food, the original drug.

As far as she was concerned, the rest were pale imitations.

Behind the counter, Jo-Jo wiped her fingers on her apron before turning to the espresso machine. I've heard the Sinners' Salvation, they will be out tonight. They will probably target your store.

Probably. The Christian Taliban were always telling folks how to live their lives. Most of their rules began with ‘don't' and Jane refused to live her life in negatives. Besides talk was not help, food in her belly, or shoes in winter. She'd learned that lesson at six. Her stomach growled at the memory.

The barista balanced a small cup on a saucer and set it next to Jane's plate on the counter. I'm just glad this is only the third time they have picketed your shop. My friend Rose she say that the tenth time, they throw the bricks through the glass windows.

Jane grunted. Gossip was like friends, only good to inflict pain and suffering. Besides, if the ‘good people' who came to save her resorted to violence, what did that say about them? Bitter hypocrisy flooded her mouth before she washed it away with a sip of espresso. They'll have a hard time getting past my bullet-proof glass and reinforced walls.

Or the other traps she'd laid.

Over the whipping of cream, Jo-Jo whistled. Business must be really good for you to have installed that.

The previous tenant was a bank. They did all the work. Back when banks existed. Back when governments printed money. She'd grown up after the switch. Now everything was cards, fingerprints, barcodes and retinal scans. Setting the danish down, Jane licked the sugar off her fingers.

Be careful anyways. Jo-Jo eased the to-go cup of coffee onto the counter but didn't reach for the cash card to debit the sale. Cinnamon dusted the pyramid of whipped cream on the top of the to-go cup. You know I worry about you.

Plucking up a spoon, Jane dunked the cream into the black liquid until it disappeared. No one really cared about her. She didn't have anyone who thought she mattered. She swallowed the lump in her throat before she looked up. I'll be fine. This isn't my first drug delivery.

And never do I wish to live to see your last. Jo-Jo rapped twice on her countertop. Especially with all this talk of the drugs war starting again.

Jane waved her hand, dismissing the thought. The drugs war had been propaganda, not much more. She'd lived on the front lines then. She knew. It's an election year. Politicians will say anything to get re-elected.

Jane would live through her last day dealing to start a life on the other side. She was too street smart not to survive. After blowing steam off the espresso, she downed the contents. Heat seared her mouth. Thankfully the butter from the pastries prevented it from doing too much damage. Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

Was it time for her delivery already?

She removed her cell, smoothed the colored dots over its camera lenses, and thumbed it on. A Jeep trundled down the alley behind her dispensary, slowing as the vehicle approached her back door. The hair on her neck rose. Her competition was sniffing around again. Bastards.

Gotto go.

Trouble? Jo-Jo fixed the lid on the big coffee.

Nothing I can't handle. Jane rolled her shoulders. She'd have to scare the bastards off her turf. Thank God, her work clothes were in her satchel.

Jo-Jo shoved the currency card across the counter. I'll get you the next time.

Jane ground her teeth. She hated owing people, hated the power it gave them over her.

The Jeep door opened. A meaty fist flung a crowbar at her security camera.

Fine. Raking her card off the counter, Jane shoved it and her phone into her pocket, grabbed the coffee and pastry, and then headed for the back door.

After glancing at her few customers, Jo-Jo trailed down the narrow hall behind her. Save a few of those Misty Seas for me, yes? Sam and I might feel like the experimenting tonight.

Sure thing. Using her hip, Jane leaned into the bar. A bell over the door tinkled when it slid open. Sunlight burned her retinas. Sheesh, rising so early was unnatural. Shaking her head, she dislodged her sunglasses. They dropped onto her nose and nearly slipped off. She used her shoulder to push them in place and jogged down the alley.

A man in tattered layers of cast-off glared at her from his perch on a dumpster. Cloudy blue eyes stared out of a grimy face. He'd been someone once. Someone kind. Someone who'd shared half a tuna sandwich with a starving kid.

She set the pasty and coffee on the ground near his overflowing cart. Breakfast, Hank.

Fuck off... F-fuck off. He waved his arms at her invasion.

Raising her hands, she eased away, allowing him to return to the insanity dissolving his mind.

Three streets and two left turns later Jane entered the access way to the alley behind her shop. The wedge of shadow in the narrow pass swallowed her, and the tree in front and dumpster in back shielded her from view. Her nape prickled. Easing left then right, she checked behind her.

No one could see her.

Unfortunately, she couldn't see anyone or the Jeep either.

Ducking under the strap of her satchel, she balanced it on the cement and rock trash can and flicked open the top.

Another check and she jerked off her polo shirt, revealing the stained marijuana t-shirt underneath. She unsnapped her jeans and shimmied them off. Her star-scape leggings glittered in the early morning light. Balling her citizen costume up, she shoved it into her satchel and tugged out her blue wig.

A car door slammed.

Her pulse galloped. They better not be trying to break into her store. She hurried to don her persona. Satiny locks brushed her shoulders as she tucked her hair underneath the wig. Gummy tape on her forehead held the mop in place. A pair of hipster black framed glasses changed her eye color from brown to blue and added a teardrop tattoo to the corner of her right eye.

She removed the false hard bottom from her satchel and slid free a small machete. Her fingers slipped into the familiar grooves. She might not have a real tattoo, but she'd earned the teardrop.

And most other dealers knew it.

They also knew the criminal injustice system didn't give a damn.

A Cain's mark meant the victim's death wouldn't be investigated. Good people didn't care enough about addicts to spend public funds on solving their murders. A fact that worked in Jane's favor.

Swinging the satchel across her vulnerable stomach, she clenched the machete and slipped into the alley.

The Jeep was gone.

She glanced right, then left, then right again. Cars coasted along the roads. None turned into the alley. Good.

Keeping her back to the wall, she sidled closer to the dispensary's back door. Once she was inside, she'd check the security streams and find out who had visited her. She might return the favor and—

Tires screeched.

A black SUV barreled toward her. The windows buzzed down, revealing thugs with automatic weapons and mirrored glasses in the front seat.

Red dots speckled her shirt, covering the area where her heart currently resided.

Two

Callum French paused outside the Drugs Oversight Agency. Across the street from the brick building in downtown Phoenix, a strip club advertised happy hour from five PM to eight PM. Bail bondsmen offices grew like mushrooms in the shadows of the towering county, federal, and city courthouses. Early morning sunlight glinted off the bronze plaque discreetly embedded in the dull red brick.

Callum's fingers twitched. Excitement coursed through his veins. Hot damn. He'd busted his ass, competed with over a thousand other applicants, and humped his way through the seven levels of hell to get here. He stared at his reflection. His buzz cut brushed the stiff collar of his white shirt and black tie. His newly purchased gray suit, the uniform of the Drugs Oversight Agency, looked cheaper than the five hundred dollars he'd paid for it.

But he blended in.

Men and women in tailored suits power-walked down the wide sidewalks. A bell dinged twice as the light rail glided out of the station. Along a grid of streets, the chemical cocktail of pollution and dust shrouded the city skyscrapers in a fog.

Pain lightning-bolted across Callum's skull, causing his hair to stand on end. Effing communication implants always hurt for the first week. He blinked, accepting the call.

Blond, blue-eyed, and fit as an active-duty Marine, Micah Wright was the poster child of the all-American male from last century. His friend grinned. Good morning, Agent French. Your mission is to lop off the heads of all the serpents in Eden.

The Mission Impossible theme song played in the background.

Asshole. Beyond the bluish tint of the photovoltaic windows, Callum detected movement in the murky lobby. Thank the good Lord everyone understood he wasn't talking to himself. He checked the time on the communicator. Ten minutes before he had to report to his superior, Agent Melbor.

You're living the dream. Micah's smile wobbled before he starched it and hung it from his wide cheekbones. The same grin was pasted on billboards and cyber ads throughout the city, calling the righteous to worship and salvation. I wish I could be with you.

Callum shook his head. After four years in the service, he hated taking a life, no matter how justified. But saving addicts was a mission he and his friend shared. Your path is different. And you're good at it.

Fine lines radiated from his friend's blue eyes and ‘what the fuck' grooves carved up the skin above his straight nose and around his pursed lips. Mine isn't as important as yours. Anyone can do what I do. If things had been different ... If your sister had survived ....

Callum snorted You would be a successful money manager or CFO of a tech company. My sister loved shopping, remember?

She never met a purse she didn't like. Remember that retro handbag shaped like a hamburger? Lips twitching, Micah leaned back in the chair and sank into the memory. Metal squeaked.

Callum knew the sound well. He had spent hours volunteering at Sinners' Salvation, manning the phones, or studying in Micah's office during his law school years while his friend quizzed him. He might not have made it without Micah. This path was never yours. You're doing the most good exactly where you are.

It's not like the early days. The afflicted don't want to be saved. Their numbers are fewer and fewer every month. Micah glanced out the window, overlooking the children's playground on the fellowship's grounds. And so many new afflicted get their Cain's mark before they even register to vote. His nostrils flared and his mouth thinned. I blame the designer drugs. Fewer overdoses might be good for the afflicted but it's bad business for us. Don't they understand what mainlining does to their soul?

Callum swallowed a lump in his throat. Loss sucked ass. Anyone not slated for erasure, I'll frog-march your way. Just like we planned.

He hoped his balance sheet was firmly in the black despite the blood on his hands. God knew he'd selected the Phoenix branch because of its low percentage of erasure warrants.

Through the blue glass, Callum detected a human-shaped shadow near the wall. Was his presence causing concern? He bent down to polish the smudge off the black leather. Did they think he was casing the place? With the drugs war heating up again, the Drugs Oversight Agency would be a prime target for any addict or dealer wishing to make a statement.

Micah rattled on about tonight's plan.

The words filled Callum's head like white noise.

The agency door opened. Head of the DOA and chief shit bird Ogden Whitlaw Fitzgerald strode out. Money, power, and purpose radiated from the heir to one of the most connected families in the United States.

Callum blinked so hard he nearly disconnected the phone call. What was the Sierra Bravo doing in Phoenix? I got to go.

Why? What is it? What's happening? Micah's voice rose an octave.

Callum traced the shell of his ear and disconnected the call. His heart thundered in his chest. No doubt the sierra bravo had seen Callum chattering like a school girl.

No doubt the action would be used against him.

Fitzgerald had taken control of the Drugs Oversight Agency six months ago. He'd immediately instituted widespread housecleaning. Nearly half of the agents hired in the last year had been dismissed for one reason or another. Rumor had it, the Drugs Oversight Agency, the last government-run enforcement agency in the US, was slated to be outsourced to private industry.

And the Whitlaw-Fitzgeralds owned nearly all the private policing agencies, including remnants of the FBI, CIA, and NSA.

Callum's hands clenched into fists. He planted them on the ground before pushing himself up. As much as he loved capitalism, he believed justice shouldn't be valued solely by its ability to make a profit. It's why he'd ignored the other offers of employment since his military discharge.

He wanted to work where ideals and principals mattered.

Callum straightened.

Director Fitzgerald crossed the courtyard. Towering mesquite trees cast his symmetrical features in shade then light. His expensive leather loafers whispered over the marble walkway. Between his fingers dangled an electronic badge. Special Agent French?

Callum nearly offered his hand. Shaking hands with Fitzgerald would be like shaking the hand of the President, a congressman, and a senator. God knew the Fitzgeralds of the world owned most of them. Yes, sir.

The communicator flashed the time across Callum's eye. Nine AM. He wasn't late. So why had the sierra bravo come looking for him? Apparently, Callum's first month at the agency would be his last. All part of making the agency and its agents look corrupt or inept to speed along the privatization.

Everyone knew the drill.

This is yours, I believe. Wrinkling his nose as if he detected a foul smell, Fitzgerald turned the badge in his fingers so the hologram of Callum faced him.

Thank you, sir. Callum caught the badge as it slipped from his superior's fingers. He clipped it to the lapel of his gray pinstriped suit. He had a job to do. And he would do his best.

Until Fitzgerald fired him.

Turning on his heel, he headed toward the door.

Where are you going, Agent?

Agent. Not even his name. Did Fitzgerald even bother remembering the names of agents whose lives he'd wrecked? Callum's gut twisted in a hard knot. And he spun about. I was told to report to my immediate supervisor.

Anger wiped his memory, and he couldn't recall the agent's name. Maybe the guy didn't work here anymore.

You've been assigned to me. Fitzgerald fished a pair of tactical sunglasses from his pocket and slid them in place.

Callum ground his teeth and watched a muscle flex in the jaw of his reflection. No doubt Fitzgerald meant to intimidate folks by wearing gear favored by Special Ops units. The effect was wasted. Callum had served with men and women who'd earned those glasses. And he'd be damned before he trotted after the big man on some bullshit coffee run.

Fitzgerald's mouth quirked before he wiped away all expression. Let's go.

The boss strode down a handful of steps to the street-level terrace. Bougainvillea leaves spotted the brick like blood drops before clinging to his spotless shoes.

Callum inhaled deeply, then let it out. This wasn't just a job, but a mission. He'd vowed on his sister's grave to save as many afflicted as he could; if only to prevent innocents from becoming victims. Jogging, he caught up with his superior then matched him stride for stride.

You should know, you're not the right fit for the agency. Fitzgerald slowed as they approached the curb then checked his watch. Sunlight sparkled off the platinum band and diamond marking twelve on the dial.

Callum bit his tongue. No point in mentioning that he'd scored the highest marks in his class on the entrance exam, aced the physical fitness tests, and hit all of his targets in the tactical screening. No doubt, the man wanted some lump of flesh, related to one of his pocket politicians for the job. Tough shit. Callum would stay until they tossed him out.

Fitzgerald slanted him a glance.

A self-driving black sedan coasted to a stop alongside the curb. The emblem of the DOA marred the ebony paint on the doors.

Fitzgerald paused by the front passenger door.

Callum clamped his lips together. He hoped his boss held his breath waiting for Callum to open the door like a damn chauffeur.

After a heartbeat, Fitzgerald eased open the passenger door and folded his six-foot-two frame on the upholstered seats.

Callum slipped around the back of the hybrid sedan and slid behind the wheel. As soon as he shut the door, the self-driving car glided forward. Had Fitzgerald given directions while Callum skirted the vehicle? And just where were they going? He glanced at the screen in the center console. A map displayed a fraction of their course while the arrow marked the sedan's current location. Too bad their destination was missing.

The car braked. Overhead, lights flashed red, and a train icon appeared. A bell dinged. The light rail rumbled across the street. As soon as the signs switched off, the car glided forward. They took a right, then left, heading down narrow streets in the penumbra of skyscrapers.

Silence filled the interior like a third occupant—prickly, whiny, and demanding attention.

Callum rested his hands on the steering wheel. Silence was better than being balls deep in mud and muck while waiting for your objective to finish banging his whore, so you can blow his brains out. The vehicle's destination popped up on the screen. A hotel. They were headed for a hotel. And not one known for drug parties, but an upscale joint with gatekeepers in matching uniforms. What's at the August Hotel?

Fitzgerald grunted. A body.

A body? Callum tasted the word, made sure it matched the sierra bravo's. A body. On his first day. What the—? His time at the academy had been spent performing audits, combing records, building flow charts to monitor the movement of credits. In two years, he'd had two classes on dealing with the dead.

No one investigated overdoses.

No one cared if the dealers murdered each other. Hell, it was in the terms of use for those who partook of drugs or dealt them.

Problem? Fitzgerald stared at him. His eyes were gray and flat, a shark's eyes. Your file indicated you've seen bodies before.

Yeah. Sweat prickled Callum's upper lip. Images played across his mind like a montage in a horror movie. His buddies' remains—mangled from IEDs, obliterated from mortar strikes, and mutilated from torture. He scratched the thoughts from the surface of his brain and pinned his attention to the present.

There was a body.

But no one he knew.

Please, God, not anyone he knew. He fished around in his past to remember the three reasons why the DOA would be called to the scene of a dead body and came up empty. Are we to determine if it's an overdose?

Fitzgerald drummed his manicured nails on the dash. We don't determine anything. Don't they teach you anything at the academy? We have medical examiners on staff who determine cause of death.

Right. Well, on the plus side, it was not like Callum could make a bad impression.

And before you ask, the department also has someone prep and release the corpse back to the family or cremate it if the ‘dicts have screwed over all their relatives in their search for their next fix and no one claims the bodies.

Callum winced at the overemphasis on ‘dicts. Most addicts were victims, too weak to resist the temptation of the serpent's fruit. The dealers on the other hand... He hoped the rumors were true and their ashes were thrown in the garbage.

The director side-eyed him. If you contact Saint Micah to have him come and pray over the dead, you will be terminated, got it?

Saint Micah. The media's golden boy. The true faith's answer to the drugs epidemic. No one looked past the stereotype to see the human underneath.

Got it. Callum's skin tightened. Just how much of a proctology exam had they given his background before offering him the job? Let them look. He intended to make the most of his time while he remained employed.

Red and blue lights flashed ahead. A cop broke open flares and tossed them across the road. The map on the central console blanked then flashed informing him that a new course was being set to detour around the accident. The car turned into a private parking garage. The blue light on the dash demanded access. The gate rolled up, and the vehicle coasted through. A few turns later, they banked onto a narrow side street and started a new course.

Fitzgerald stopped drumming on the dash. What circumstances make a body worth the Drugs Oversight Agency's time?

Great. A pop quiz outside of school. A spurt of adrenaline jump started Callum's memory.

There are three circumstances that trigger an immediate investigation. A dealer is killed without a local law enforcement official's erasure warrant being issued. He could see the logic, especially with the news outlets reporting the drugs war was starting up again. Reason two, the violence inflicted on the corpse was excessive. In the last decade, two serial killers had eluded justice while preying upon nearly a hundred afflicted. Even second-class citizens had some rights.

And the third? Fitzgerald set his hand on the buckle of his seat belt.

If an innocent or public property is harmed. But the investigation's scope was limited to assessing the compensation a victim could expect—and it was always higher for the property than a citizen's injuries.

Fitzgerald leaned closer to Callum then frowned at the speedometer. Can't you make this car go any faster?

Callum compared their speed with the posted sign. We are going the limit, sir.

Fitzgerald's eyes narrowed. You are a law enforcement officer on the way to a crime scene. Go faster.

The hell he would. Callum skin prickled with warning. If he sped there'd be a record of his infraction, a reason to make his first day his last. LEOs are allowed to exceed the posted limit only when lives are at stake. Not much worse can happen to a dead body.

He braced himself for a reprimand.

Fitzgerald tried to outflank him. You don't know how to drive. The agency requires manual driving skills. As director of this agency, it is within my purview to demand an exhibition of those skills. Drive us to the hotel within five minutes or you're fired.

Fuckin' A. Callum inserted his badge in the dashboard and initiated the override to manual. His fingerprints backed up from the command. The steering wheel jerked to the right, signaling the switch in control. He turned into an alley while his thumb worked the traffic controls. Lights turned red within a two-mile radius, halting all vehicles on the roads. He slowed as they approached Central Avenue.

Traffic clustered around the intersections. Pedestrians frowned at the red lights then jaywalked across the streets.

He bumped over gutters and zoomed down the next alley. Papers fluttered. Paper cups rolled along the curbs. He honked his horn at a citizen looking to cross the street then flashed his lights. The citizen froze on the sidewalk. Reactivating the lights, he jerked on the wheel and the car bounced onto Third Street then pinged surrounding traffic controls to clear the road for him.

Fitzgerald eyed the speedometer and clamped his lips together.

Callum made the last turn and swayed inside the car as the tires dipped into a pothole. The Art Deco hotel loomed on the right. He coasted to a stop in front of the hotel at the four minute and 35 seconds mark. The self-centered prick could suck it.

Grab the kit from the back. Fitzgerald shoved the open passenger door then slammed it after he exited.

Yes, sir. Resisting the urge to give the sierra bravo a one finger salute, Callum returned the sedan to auto-drive then popped the trunk.

A doorman in green ushered the director inside.

Removing a blue duffle