The groan of rusted metal was the only sound I allowed myself to make. One hand braced against the graffiti-scarred interior of the crane's cabin, the other shoving the Tinkerer ahead of me. He stumbled out onto the grated catwalk, his breath hitching in the cold morning air. I followed, dropping into a low crouch, my rifle held at a low-ready, muzzle pointed toward the ground but poised to snap up in a heartbeat.
Below us lay the Boneyard. That's what the locals called the old Port Authority district. It was a sprawling graveyard of industry, a tetanus-trap of derelict shipping containers stacked like forgotten tombs, skeletal loading cranes clawing at a sky the color of dishwater, and warehouses with shattered windows like vacant eyes. The dawn was a weak, hesitant light, slicing through the industrial decay and painting everything in long, distorted shadows. Perfect for hiding. Even better for being hunted.
"Move," I rasped, my voice a dry crackle in my own ears.
The Tinkerer flinched. He was a small man, all sharp angles and nervous energy, a bundle of wires and intellect wrapped in a shell of pure, unadulterated fear. He was a liability, a bag of bones and terror that slowed me down, but he was also the key. My asset. My burden.
He scrambled down the iron ladder, his boots clanging a clumsy rhythm that set my teeth on edge. I followed with the fluid silence of a predator, my own boots finding purchase without a sound. On the ground, the air was thick with the smell of rust, stagnant water, and diesel fumes that had seeped into the very concrete.
"This way," I commanded, grabbing the collar of his thin jacket and pulling him along. Every instinct screamed at me. My skin prickled, the little hairs on my arms standing to attention. We weren't just being chased anymore. This felt different. Coordinated. A net was closing.
I didn't need a high-tech visor to see it. I could feel it in the unnatural stillness, the absence of the gulls that usually shrieked over the waterfront. Across the sluggish, oil-slicked river, on the roof of the OmniCorp tower, a flicker of light caught my eye—a glint of sunlight off high-powered optics. Deadshot.
Of course. They wouldn't send grunts for a package this valuable. They'd send the best cleaner they could afford.
From that perch, he'd be a king on a concrete throne, his kingdom laid out before him. I could picture it perfectly: the crisp, tactical overlay of his HUD, the cool, detached voice issuing commands that would ripple across this wasteland. He wouldn't get his own hands dirty. Not yet. He'd deploy his pieces, his hounds.
A high-pitched, almost imperceptible whine reached my ears. I glanced up, catching the faintest silhouette against the brightening sky. A drone. Kestrel's eye in the sky, sweeping for heat signatures, painting us as glowing targets on Deadshot's map. They were herding us. The open loading zones were death traps, the long, straight service roads were sniper alleys. They were pushing us away from the river, deeper into the maze.
Fine. A maze has two entrances.
"In here," I grunted, shoving the Tinkerer toward a narrow gap between two towering stacks of shipping containers. The walls were corrugated steel, bleeding rust-orange tears down their sides. The alley they formed was dark, claustrophobic, and reeked of decay. Every sound was magnified. The scuttling of a rat was a thunderclap. The drip of water from a leaky container was a gunshot. The Tinkerer's ragged breathing was a siren.
We moved deeper into the labyrinth, a world of right angles and dead ends. A flock of pigeons, startled from their roost, burst from a container above us with a frantic explosion of wings. The Tinkerer yelped and dropped to the ground. I grabbed him, hauling him back to his feet, my fingers digging into his arm.
"Quiet," I hissed, my eyes scanning the shadows. My gaze fell on the drainage canal that ran parallel to the containers—a concrete trench filled with murky, foul-smelling water. Something was wrong. The surface of the water wasn't still. Faint, almost invisible ripples emanated from the shadows beneath a concrete overhang. Not the wind. This was deliberate. Disciplined.
Whisper. The name surfaced from old intel files. Deadshot's shadow operative. He'd be taking the subterranean routes, the sewers, the canals. Using the guts of the city to get inside my perimeter.
I pushed the Tinkerer against the cold metal wall, my body shielding his. I leaned in close, my voice barely a breath against his ear.
"Stay low. Don't make a sound. If you hear a shot—don't look back, just crawl. Keep moving down this alley until you can't anymore. Understand?"
He gave a spastic nod, his eyes wide with a terror so profound it was almost paralyzing. I left him there, a trembling statue of fear, and melted back the way we came. The ripples in the canal were more pronounced now. Cocky. He thought he had us boxed in. He thought I was focused on the heavy footsteps I could now hear approaching from the main thoroughfare—Brick and his pack of fodder, the hammer to Whisper's anvil.
I climbed. My fingers found purchase in the grooves of a container, my boots finding holds in dents and seams. I moved up the steel wall with the practiced ease of an insect, silent and unseen. From the top of the stack, I had a clear view. Below, a single merc had peeled off from Brick's approaching squad. He was moving low and fast, rifle up, heading for the canal. The flanker. The smart one. Or so he thought.
He slid into the concrete trench, the water sloshing around his tactical boots. He was scanning the alley where I'd left the Tinkerer, confident his prey was trapped. He never looked up.
Gravity did half the work. I dropped from the container, a ten-foot fall that ended with me landing directly behind him in the canal. The splash was swallowed by the sound of his own movement. Before he could register the new presence, my left hand clamped over his mouth and nose, sealing off his airway, while my right arm wrapped around his throat, locking him against my chest.
His body went rigid with shock. He tried to bring his rifle around, but I twisted, using his own weight against him, and plunged us both backward into the deeper part of the channel.
The world became a muffled, desperate struggle in the cold, stinking water. He thrashed like a wild animal, his armored vest making him heavy and awkward. Bubbles erupted from his sealed mouth, a silent scream against my palm. I held my breath, my entire focus a cold, single point of pressure. I was an anchor, dragging him to the bottom of his own shallow grave. His boots kicked furiously, striking my shins, but the blows were weak, robbed of their power by the water. The fight lasted for forty-seven seconds. I counted. Then, a final, shuddering tremor went through him, and he went still.
I held him under for another thirty seconds, just to be sure.
Slowly, I let him go. The body, buoyed by trapped air in his gear, drifted to the surface, lolling face down in the filth. I didn't try to hide him. I dragged him halfway onto the concrete lip of the canal, leaving him sprawled there like a piece of discarded trash. The water around him was beginning to bloom with a faint, dark crimson.
Let them find him. Let Kestrel's drone paint this picture for Deadshot. Let the man behind the screen see his clean, tactical net get torn. This wasn't a hunt anymore. This was a message. You are not the only predator here.
I slipped the comms earpiece from the dead man's ear. It was a standard mil-spec unit, still live. Wading out of the canal, I pressed it into my own ear. The hiss of static resolved into the clipped, professional chatter of Deadshot's team. A voice, clear and feminine—Kestrel—was already reporting.
"...thermal anomaly in the canal. Stand by... Visual confirmation. Shit. We have a man down. I repeat, merc down in drainage canal four."
I didn't wait for the fallout. I doubled back to the Tinkerer, who was still pressed against the container, shaking like a leaf. "Time to go."
He didn't need more encouragement. I led him deeper, weaving through the maze until we found a small, rusted-out warehouse. The corrugated steel door was half-off its hinges. We slipped inside, into a cavernous space filled with decaying pallets and the ghosts of machinery. Dust motes danced in the slanted shafts of light piercing the grimy skylights. It was temporary cover, nothing more. But it was enough.
"...Brick, hold your position," Deadshot's voice crackled in my ear, calm and cold as a morgue slab. "All units, establish a perimeter around Warehouse 7. Whisper, what's your status?"
A soft, sibilant voice replied. "In position. Northern ventilation shaft. No sign of movement yet."
They were collapsing on us. A perfect, concentric circle. Standard procedure. Predictable.
I looked at the Tinkerer, who was huddled behind a pile of rotting crates. His eyes were fixed on me, waiting for the command to run again.
"They'll expect us to break for the docks," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "Try to punch through their line where it's weakest." I let a small, grim smile touch my lips. It felt foreign on my face. "They'll expect us to run. That's why we won't."
Through the stolen earpiece, I heard a long silence. The tactical chatter ceased. Then, Deadshot's voice returned, but the cool detachment was gone. It had been replaced by something harder, sharper. The sound of a predator recognizing a rival.
"Hold. All units, hold." Another pause, this one heavy with reassessment. "He's not running."
I drew the combat knife from the sheath on my vest. The steel caught a sliver of dawn light, gleaming faintly in the gloom of the warehouse. I crouched lower behind a rusted generator, my eyes locked on the door, my ears tuned to the enemy's net.
"He's hunting."
The game had changed. The board was set. And I was no longer a pawn.