The bathroom mirror was fogged over with a thick layer of condensation. The building was old. The realtor referred to it as “vintage” with “character”, which Fearless knew was just a fancy way of saying “old” and “a total piece of shit.” He, like the rest of the residents that had the misfortune of signing a lease, quickly realized that there was never enough hot water for the entire building. In fact, the only way to guarantee a hot shower was to rip the knob off and rejig the temperature regulator the landlord installed with a pair of pliers. The result was a scalding stream that left Fearless’s fair skin flamingo pink for hours after the fact, but it was better than the alternative. As a child, he had spent too many nights on the streets of East Tharsis, just trying to stay warm. And just the thought of shivering in his own apartment was enough to make his skin crawl.
Fearless wiped away the condensation with one hand. His body was lean, but the muscles were dense. It was a fighter’s body. The kind of body that was earned over time, as the fast-twitch muscle fibers slowly hardened with every blow. It was a form of environmental adaptation. The body was always preparing for the next punch.
He took his body in, his eyes finding the dark pink scar on the right side of his torso, just below the rib cage. It had faded a little more since the last time he noticed it. But not much. It would never go away completely. The knife had plunged too deep below the surface. The scar tissue had grown thick.
Not that he wanted it to go away. Hardly. Fearless liked to be aware of his mortality. Most people looked at it as a finish line. But the scar reminded him that it was right there with us, running by our side all along.
Kn-knock. Kn-knock. Kn-knock.
“Alright already. I’m coming. Christ.” Fearless made his way from the bathroom through the almost comically narrow one bedroom apartment. He whipped open the front door. There stood Vicious in a tailored three-piece suit, mid-knock.
Fearless took in his outfit. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could just buy off the rack. It was made for Vicious. And it looked damn good. Not that Fearless would ever admit that.
“You’re wearing a suit.”
Vicious’s eyes ticked below Fearless’s waist, then back to his eye-line.
“You’re naked.”
Fearless shrugged. “And you’re early. That’s a you-problem.”
He motioned for Vicious to follow him into the cramped apartment. Outside of the second-hand mattress that lay on the bedroom floor, there was no furniture to speak of. No houseplants. Not one personal effect. Not even a dirty coffee mug in the sink. You couldn’t even make the joke that it looked like Fearless just moved in, because then there would at least be a cardboard box or two in the corner. This place was empty.
Fearless disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a black vinyl suit bag in tow to find Vicious slowly strolling about the living room.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Vicious joked, as he gestured to, well, nothing.
Fearless ignored him. He griped, “I can’t believe you’re wearing a suit. The only time anyone should wear a suit is a wedding or a funeral. And even then, it seems a little excessive.”
He unzipped the vinyl bag to reveal a wrinkled, two-button thrift store suit with a slim black tie that was three sizes too small.
Across the room, Vicious raised an eyebrow at the sight of it. “I take it you don’t have another suit that doesn’t look like it was stolen from a man who sells counterfeit astral gate tokens in the bathroom of a casino?”
Fearless smirked as he pulled the suit on. He quickly knotted the tie and pulled it loose at the neck, then rolled the jacket’s sleeves above the wrist to conceal their lack of length. Somehow, he had made this dime-store suit look as good, or even better, than the one that was meticulously created for Vicious down to the last stitch.
He turned back to Vicious. Then smirked. “Who says I stole it?”
* * *
Vicious drove the town car with his hands at ten-and-two. He slowly eased the gas pedal down, careful not to exceed the speed limit. He didn’t turn the radio on. He barely said a word. Fearless had never seen him more nervous. He knew how much this job meant to Vicious. It was their first opportunity in two years to prove to Dodd and the rest of the Red Dragon that they could be more than the guys who scraped dead bodies off the marble floors of luxury high-rises.
But Fearless knew there was something else to it. Or rather, someone else that Vicious was desperate to impress. His father. Caliban. A businessman renowned across the solar system for his deep pockets and even deeper connections. What that business was, though, no one could really say. Some said he was an arms dealer. Others said he was a real estate magnate that specialized in acquiring unlisted, off-the-grid housing for the kinds of criminal enterprises that needed that level of protection. But what struck Fearless as the saddest part of all was that even Vicious was in the dark. He couldn’t tell you if his dad was an apple salesman from Earth or the prima ballerina in the Tharsis City ballet. Over the years, Vicious had tried to inquire about his father’s business in hopes that one day he’d be able to join him—but Caliban always turned him away. His father seemed to enjoy belittling Vicious, constantly reminding him that he’d never be smart or talented enough to run the family business. After all, what boy doesn’t dream of adding “and son” to the name above their father’s business?
“You’re driving like my grandmother,” Fearless quipped.
Vicious tightened his grip on the steering wheel. And checked his rear view. Then retorted, “You don’t have a grandmother.”
“I don’t know my grandmother. There’s a difference. I’m an orphan. Not an alien.”
Fearless reached down to the floor of the passenger seat, pulled out the titanium briefcase Dodd had entrusted them with and set it in his lap. He carefully examined the locking mechanisms on either side of the handle. They were digital, each requiring a separate three-digit combination to unlock the case. Fearless clocked a flat keypad. It was built directly, if almost imperceptibly into the surface. He pressed a few numbers. The case beeped loudly.
Vicious did a quick double take in Fearless’s direction. “Hey! What are you doing?!”
Fearless ignored him. “What do you think’s in here? Cash? Diamonds? Gold bricks?” He tried another three-digit code on each side. The case beeped loudly again. Incorrect.
“Well, it’s not 1-2-3 or 0-0-0. But I think I’m getting close.”
Vicious quickly grabbed the case from Fearless and placed it on the backseat. His eyes narrowed as he glared at Fearless. Fuming.
“I need you to tighten it up, Fearless.”
Fearless grinned. “I love it when you say my name. It makes you sound so… serious.”
“I am being serious.”
Fearless snipped back, “No shit—Dad. Look, I’ll pull it together if you relax a little bit. Alright? You can’t walk into Slade’s place with a goddamn flag pole up your ass. Yeah, it’s our first job. But she doesn’t know that. And if we want to start building a relationship with the biggest drug dealer this side of Jupiter, then we have to act like we’ve done this a million times over.”
Vicious took that in. Chewed on it for a moment. Then relented. “Fine.”
Fearless exhaled. “Thank you.”
It was silent for a moment. The decaying town car vibrated as it motored through the skyscrapers of downtown Tharsis, past the labyrinth of polished glass and shimmering steel that extended as far—and as high—as the eye could see.
Until Fearless grinned. That grin. “You think Slade’s single?”
Vicious’s head whipped so hard in Fearless’s decision it made an audible crack.
“Fearless, I swear to God—”
* * *
The financial district had seen its fair share of eateries. Most of them high-end, gastronomic-focused places where minimalistic cuts of bio-beef were served on top of a bed of billowing smoke from dry ice. But with its domed red-awning with the name Angeli written in simple script font, the restaurant looked like a relic from Earth. The place was underlit. The silverware was dull. The drinks were watered down. But still, people came from across the solar system to dine here. Some of them to pay their respects to Slade, but most of them to order the one delicacy that her restaurant had access to that even the most celebrated eateries couldn’t find: beef. Real beef. Not the kind that was grown in a lab. And if you served beef, it didn’t matter that your restaurant had an old awning in a town where it didn’t rain.
The door creaked loudly as it shut behind them. The restaurant was quiet. It was early in the night, before the dinner rush. Fearless and Vicious stood in the doorway, without a clue of where to go. Or how to find Slade.
Vicious whispered to Fearless. “How am I supposed to act like I’ve done this before if I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in the first place?”
Fearless brushed him off. “Just follow my lead.”
He approached the bar where an old bartender wearing suspenders and a bowtie stood, methodically wiping down the counter. He didn’t bother to stop, or even look up from the task, as Fearless and Vicious stood in front of him.
Fearless cleared his throat. The bartender continued to wipe.
“I’m… sorry, we… are looking for Slade.”
The bartender looked up to Fearless. Then to Vicious. His eyes slowly scanned their pristine suits. He didn’t utter a word. He didn’t have to. The eyes said it all: These guys are fucking amateurs. He shook his head and motioned to the back of the restaurant where a corner booth was illuminated by a small lamp that sat on the table.
Fearless nodded to him. “Thank you.”
Vicious and Fearless made their way toward the booth, past a couple occupied tables where elderly, well-to-do regulars sat quietly and ate their beef. Fearless turned to Vicious and whispered.
“Talk about the graveyard shift.”
Vicious elbowed him. A sharp jab into the ribs, as if to say, what did I say about taking this seriously? Fearless rolled his eyes.
Slade was waiting at the table for them. She wore her hair down to the scalp, a faint yet elegant bleach blonde mohawk. Her fingers were full of exotic jewelry that looked as if it was poached from kings and emperors from across time. A mix of rubies and emeralds that sat atop thick, meticulously polished settings. But the pièce de résistance was the solid gold skull she wore on her middle finger. It was scuffed. A bit worn around the edges. And if you looked closely, you could see that it was flecked with blood. She never cared or cleaned for it. Slade wanted anyone sat across from her at this table to know how far she was willing to go.
Slade’s lips curled to a smile as she gave them both a long once over. She motioned to the other side of the booth.
Fearless and Vicious quickly followed her order, the old vinyl seating crackling beneath their asses as they slid into the booth. Once seated, they looked across to Slade, who simply raised a single eyebrow. Vicious nodded in her direction, then turn to Fearless. He cleared his throat.
Fearless looked at him quizzically. Whispered. As quietly as he could.
“What?”
Vicious again cleared his throat. This time with a deep, mucus-laden gusto. His eyelids and nostrils flared. The case, you idiot. Fearless’s eyes went wide. Then narrowed. Right. He reached under the table and procured the titanium case at his side. But before he could place it on the surface, Slade raised five fingers to stop him. Not pleased.
“I don’t do business until I’ve had a proper drink.”
Vicious began, “With all due respect, Slade, we were told that—”
Slade cut him off. With vigor.
“If you’re going to choose to begin a sentence with a phrase like ‘with all due respect,’ then what follows out of your mouth is most certainly going to lack any respect at all, now isn’t it?”
Vicious swallowed back his nerves. Then continued. “It’s just that, our boss—”
Slade groaned. “Yes, yes, I’m well aware that Dodd doesn’t want his errand boys to stay for a drink. You’re certainly not the first ones to tell me this. However, this is my restaurant. Therefore we play by my rules. Not Dodd’s.”
Fearless spoke up. “In that case I’ll take a Kudo.”
Slade’s eyes ticked to Fearless. She held his gaze for a moment. Her eyes narrowed as she took him in with a heavy dose of skepticism.
“You come to my restaurant… On a job… And you order… a… kudo.”
Vicious rubbed his eyes as he quietly muttered to himself, almost certain that their careers were over before they’ve even begun.
Fearless shrugged. “Is that a problem?”
Slade chuckled. She admired his confidence. “No. In fact, let’s make it three.”
BANG!
The muzzle of a MP5K submachine gun flashed, briefly illuminating the under-lit room. Slade’s head whipped back unnaturally, a single bullet seeming to pass through her eye in slow motion as a dozen more pockmarked the peeling papered wall behind them. A light pink spray followed, a ghastly mix of retina and blood.
Out of instinct, Fearless flipped the table on its side to create a barrier between them and the shooter. He turned to Vicious, who sat frozen, and quickly pulled him to the floor just as a spray of bullets annihilated the booth, ripping through the vinyl and exploding its white filling into the air, right where they were just sitting.
Vicious looked to Fearless and gave him a single nod. “Thanks.”
Fearless reached into his jacket and procured his Red Dragon issued 9mm handgun. Vicious did the same, and they both racked the slide and chambered a round. Fearless held a fist to Vicious, instructing him to wait. And after a moment, the gunfire stopped. An eerie silence filled the room. The shooter was reloading!
“Now!” Fearless shouted, and he and Vicious jumped to their feet, guns drawn. The shooter was standing in front of the restaurant’s open-air kitchen. He was wearing a black jumpsuit and a ski mask. Whoever the hell this guy was, he didn’t want to make himself known.
Pop-pop-poppopop!
Vicious unloaded his clip at the shooter. It was a chaotic spray of bullets that pinged every which way, ricocheting off the commercial ovens and copper cookware. The shooter dove behind a nearby booth, untouched. Vicious’s 9mm emitted a hollow click. Empty.
Fearless side-eyed Vicious. “We need him alive.”
Suddenly, the shooter reappeared from behind the booth clutching his once-again fully loaded MP5K. His finger slowly squeezed the trigger. Fearless quickly lined up his shot, taking aim at the shooter’s right arm clutching the submachine gun. And just as the shooter was about to open fire and lay waste to Fearless and Vicious—
Phhhhhp!
Fearless’s single bullet struck the shooter’s collar bone, shattering it to pieces. The shooter yelped in pain as the sub machine gun fell from his grip. It skittered across the floor as he retreated back behind the same booth. He was incapacitated—and now they had him cornered.
Vicious turned to Fearless. “Nice fucking shot.”
Fearless shrugged. Smirked. “Thanks. Been working on that one. Call it the neutralizer.”
Vicious and Fearless approached the booth together, their guns down at their sides. They walked with a cocksure pep in their step, only to find—the shooter was gone!
“Shit!” Fearless yelled, his eyes quickly darting to the kitchen. The shooter was making a mad dash for the rear exit. Fearless turned back to Vicious, “Grab the case and meet me around back!”
The double doors that led into the kitchen swung violently on their hinges as Fearless ran through them, his 9mm leading the way. He carefully scanned the area for the shooter, but the only thing he found was smoke slowly billowing from the grill and steel pots bubbling over on their burners. It appeared the chefs—and his assailant—were long gone.
Fearless gave the air a hard sniff. The smell stopped him dead in his tracks. It tingled on his nose. It was a smell he remembered smelling once, as a boy, when he secretly lived in the basement of a black market butcher shop. No… he thought. It couldn’t be…
He approached the flat top where a single eight ounce cut of real, genuine beef slowly seared. His mouth began to water. He knew they had a more pressing issue at hand, but he couldn’t help himself. He grabbed a nearby butcher’s knife and plunged it into the pink flesh. The grill simmered as the ruby red juices ran down onto the hot surface. Fearless brought the knife to his nose, then took a bite. He slowly moved the morsel around his mouth, making love to it with his tongue. When:
WHOOSH!
Fearless instinctively fell to one knee as the shooter reappeared, swinging a copper frying pan at his head. The pan ever so lightly grazed his scalp, mere millimeters away from bashing his skull in. Fearless took the opportunity to shove the remainder of the delicious, tender beef in his mouth and then flipped the butcher’s knife in his hand so the butt of the weapon faced him. Then, he plunged the blade into the shooter’s thigh, turning the handle like a door knob for good measure.
“AHHHH!” the shooter yelped in pain. He hobbled backwards a few steps on one leg and regained his footing. But even with a bullet hole in his collar bone and a butcher’s knife still twisted in his leg, the shooter somehow managed to stay upright. Fearless clocked his resilience. He raised an eyebrow at his foe. Impressed.
The shooter looked down at his leg. Then shrugged. As if to say, That all you got?
Fearless scoffed, “Dick.” And quickly reached into his waistband and raised his 9mm at the shooter. But it wasn’t quick enough.
Twang! The shooter swung the frying pan and knocked the 9mm to the floor underneath a utility sink. Fearless eyed it. Shit. Well, that didn’t work. Then, suddenly—
WA-WHOOSH! WA-WHOOSH! WA-WHOOSH!
The shooter begun to advance on him, swinging the frying pan with the ferocity of a man who had been both shot and stabbed in the same damn day. Fearless dodged the frying pan as he backed away down the narrow, galley-style kitchen. There was nowhere to go from here. There was no side-door or table to crawl under. It was a dead end.
As he kept one eye on the frying pan that was hellbent on decapitating him, Fearless’s hands feverishly swept the industrial stainless steel counters on either side for another weapon, but nothing seemed to be in reach, when he saw it.
A deep fryer. The oil inside bubbling with rage. The temperature surely somewhere between scalding and blistering hot.
And as the shooter realized he now had Fearless trapped, he grinned as he swung the pan at him without remorse. This would be the death blow. Or so he thought.
Fearless side-stepped him and contorted his body out of the frying pan’s path. It was as if he was moving in slow motion, his muscle memory from the Pits was coming alive. But this time, it wasn’t a fist or a foot he was dodging. It was high-end cookware. The pan passed by his face and continued its downward trajectory toward the hot oil. Fearless popped back up, and in one fluid move that would make Bruce Lee blush, grabbed the shooter by the forearm—causing him to drop the pan as Fearless forcefully plunged his assailant’s hand into the screaming hot oil.
And scream, the shooter did.
Fearless ignored his wailing and began to interrogate him. “Who the fuck are you?! Who sent you to kill Slade?! Tell me!”
But the shooter wouldn’t talk. He just screamed. And screamed. And screamed some more. All the while, the oil from the fryer popped and splashed onto Fearless’s suit. He grunted at the sight. Goddamnit. That was going to be impossible to get out. He turned back to the shooter. The bad cop thing wasn’t working. It was time to switch to insane cop.
“Listen asshole! I can do this all night! That’s right! Welcome to Kentucky Fried Flesh, motherfucker! So either you tell me who ordered the hit, or I fry you from head to toe and serve you with gravy and a fuckin’ biscuit—”
BANG!
A single gunshot rang out. The shooter slowly slumped to the ground. Blood poured from the hole in the side of his head where his ear used to be. His crispy, half-melted hand dangling besides him. Fearless slowly turned toward the direction of the gunfire.
It was Vicious. His 9mm still smoking in one hand. The titanium briefcase in the other. He smiled. “I know what you’re going to say.”
Fearless gritted his teeth. Pissed. “Oh, you do, do you? What was I going to say, Vicious? Tell me what I was going to say. Because I’d love to hear it!”
Vicious swallowed. This wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. Shit.
“Well, I mean, I thought you were going to tell me that it was a pretty great fuckin’ shot, because, I mean, well… it was—but now… I can see that you’re upset.”
Fearless’s eyes bulged. “That’s because I am upset! What did I just say about needing him alive?”
Vicious shrugged. “It looked like you were in danger!”
Fearless replied, “How?” Then motioned to the shooter slumped on the floor, “I was deep frying his hand!”
Vicious took a deep breath, tucked his gun in his waistband and placed the briefcase on the nearby industrial counter. “OK, OK. Fine. I’m sorry. But we both know we didn’t need him alive. We wanted him alive.” He removed his tailored suit jacket and approached Fearless. “What’s most important to Dodd is that the case is secure.”
Fearless rolled his eyes. He was right. But that didn’t make him any less annoyed. “I still can’t believe you killed him.”
Vicious knelt down next to the shooter and slowly pulled his ski mask off. The shooter looked to be in his mid-twenties. Other than a few scattered freckles, his face was fairly unremarkable. Vicious looked up to Fearless.
“You recognize him?”
Fearless smiled a big, toothy sarcastic grin. “Oh yeah, that’s Bill! We grew up together in East Tharsis! Can’t believe I didn’t realize it was old Billy Boy. Guess we can go home now. We know who killed Slade. Case closed.”
Vicious rolled his eyes, “Very funny.” Then turned back to the body. “Maybe he’s got an ID on him.”
He searched the shooter’s pants pockets. But there was nothing to be found. He didn’t have any identification on him. Or, for that matter, a wallet. Not even a balled up receipt in his pocket. This guy was a ghost. Vicious scratched his head. Stumped.
Then, Fearless chimed in from above. “Roll up his sleeve.”
Vicious hesitated. “Why?”
“Because he might have marks. Tattoos. Ink. A lot of the families are wearing them now as a sign of loyalty.”
Vicious held his breath. He didn’t want to know. But he had no choice. And so, he slowly rolled up the shooter’s sleeve, to reveal—clean skin.
Vicious exhaled. “No marks.”
Fearless shrugged. “Well, yeah, on one arm. I Kentucky fried the other one. Remember?”
Vicious clenched his jaw tight. Shit. “Oh. Right.”
Fearless clocked Vicious’s reaction. He could see it in his eyes. It wasn’t a look of frustration. It was one he didn’t see often. He was nervous.
They were interrupted by a voice shouting from inside the dining room. Fearless recognized the sound of it. Growing up on the streets, you get used to hearing that sound. The kind that came from the mouths of wannabe hyper authoritative assholes with a God complex. Cops.
“ISSP! Come out with your hands up!”
The ISSP stood for Inter-Solar System Police. They weren’t particularly good at their jobs. Most of their cases went unsolved out of sheer laziness or because someone coughed up enough coin to make the trail go cold. But boy, did they have a hard on for putting the Red Dragon behind bars.
Fearless and Vicious traded a glance. Neither of them needed to say a word. But they both knew they needed to get out of there. Right now. Fearless grabbed the briefcase from the counter. They quickly hustled out the kitchen’s back door, narrowly evading the ISSP by mere seconds as the cavalry burst through the door.
The pair spilled out into the dark alley and hustled to the sidewalk ahead. A raucous, drunken crowd from the nearby nightclubs had formed in front of the restaurant to rubberneck the crime scene. The ISSP had trouble keeping the onlookers at bay, which allowed Fearless and Vicious to blend in seamlessly with the revelers. They were home free. For now.
Fearless turned to Vicious. “Look. We need to call Dodd before he finds out that the Red Dragon’s top drug distributor is dead and that we were there to see it.”
But Vicious didn’t react. He just shook his head. Then said, “We’re not calling Dodd.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We need to get the hell out of Tharsis. Tonight.”
Fearless pulled Vicious into the nearby alcove of a drug store. He locked eyes with him.
“What’s going on with you? You’ve had that same look in your eye since we left the restaurant. Like you saw a ghost.”
Vicious took a nervous breath. Then spoke softly. “I don’t think the shooter was trying to kill Slade. I think the shooter was trying to kill me.”
Fearless stared at him sideways. “That’s impossible—”
But Vicious just shook his head. Then came clean. “Last night. At the noodle bar. When I went to the bathroom. I walked out. Into the hallway. And I ran into that drunk with the tattoos. We had some words. He pissed on my boot. And then something happened.”
“What do you mean, something happened?”
Vicious took a breath. Then.
“I hit him. I couldn’t stop hitting him. I don’t even remember when I stopped. Or if he’s alive.”
“What?”
Fearless looked over his shoulder, to make sure no one could overhear their conversation. Then turned back to Vicious.
“Fuck, Vicious! Are you fucking crazy?!” Fearless punched the nearby wall. He was angry. But it quickly passed as he began to mentally extinguish the flames. “No one saw you, right?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“No? Or you don’t think? Which is it?”
“No one saw me.” Vicious swallowed nervously, then said, “There’s something else.”
“What is it?”
Fearless took him in. He expected the worst. He was always expecting the worst.
Vicious looked to his boots for a moment. Then looked up. “He had marks on his forearm. A Grecian woman riding a bull. I’ve never seen it before. But after what you said back in the restaurant—”
Fearless cut him off. “I’ve seen it before.” He froze for a moment. It was as if all of the possible implications of Vicious’s violent outburst flashed before his eyes at once. And then, he looked to Vicious and said: