The aroma of baking bread grabbed Marlow like a hug, pulling him into the store. He’d never experienced anything quite like it—this was the smell of home. At least he imagined it would be, if his mom had ever baked bread. The closest she’d ever really come to cooking was burning frozen pizzas in the oven or adding an accidental flambé to her martini while drinking and smoking at the same time.
The shop was busy, three men behind the counter and three times as many customers lining up. The display stands were full of things Marlow had never seen in his life, breads in all shapes and sizes and colors. Cakes, too, in a case to the side that Truck was already drooling over. He turned to Herc with an expression that belonged to a hungry puppy.
“Aw, man. Herc, you know I love you, right? Just one, okay? Just that cream bun there. And an éclair to keep it company.”
Herc ignored him, nodding to one of the servers, a hulking guy whose shiny bald spot was compensated for by a shaggy beard that stretched to his sternum. He looked more like a biker than a baker. He handed a customer some change then walked out from behind the counter, cleaning his flour-covered hands on his apron.
“’Errrrman,” the big guy said in a heavy French accent. It took Marlow a moment to notice he’d spoken Herc’s full name. “I would say it was good to see you, but we both know you wouldn’t be here if things were good, non?”
Herc grunted a reply and shook the man’s hand.
“Come, mon ami, Taupe is waiting for you.”
He led them past the counter and through a door in the back of the shop. Beyond was a short corridor that led into the heart of the bakery itself. The heat back here was intense, like they’d walked into a furnace, and Marlow had to wipe the sweat from his forehead. There were two industrial-sized ovens against the far wall and the man walked to the farthest. He grabbed the handle, opening the large door. Inside was not an oven but a corridor that stretched into darkness.
“I am sorry to hear what happened, ’Erman,” the man said, clapping a big hairy hand on Herc’s shoulder. “We never thought we would see the day that Mammon took the Engine. Our city, it is eating itself. Be quick, friend. Find him.”
Herc nodded curtly, then walked into the oven. Pan followed, then Truck. Marlow hurried after them, finding himself walking down a set of steep stone steps. They doubled back on themselves into a cellar, small and softly lit. There was one room, and one man in it. He was in his twenties and looked like he’d just walked off a movie set—Gallic good looks, perfect dark hair, and a smile that seemed spotlight-bright, especially when he turned it toward Pan.
Five seconds in and Marlow already hated him.
“Taupe,” said Herc.
“Herc,” the guy replied as they shook hands. His accent was more subtle, his English better. He was standing in front of a table that had been draped with a dustcover. Marlow couldn’t make sense of any of the shapes beneath. “Ostheim said you would come, and he said you would need help.”
“He was right on both counts,” Herc said. “You got what I need?”
“As always.”
The guy grabbed the dustcover and pulled it away, revealing an assortment of weapons that would keep a Special Forces unit in business. Marlow counted half a dozen machine guns, twice as many pistols, a box of grenades, a couple of crossbows, and something that he thought existed only in action movies.
“Is that a bazooka?” he asked before he could stop himself. Everyone turned to look at him, and the French guy smiled even harder.
“You will have to fight Herc for it,” he said. “This is his big girl.”
“Shut up, Taupe,” said Herc. “Got rounds?”
“Three,” said Taupe. “Enough?”
“It’ll have to be. You got the other thing, right?”
Taupe shuffled uncomfortably, wiping a hand over his mouth.
“Taupe, tell me you got it.”
“I did,” he said after a moment. “I do not like it, Herc. It is fighting fire with fire. It could do more damage than Mammon.”
“No,” said Herc. “It couldn’t.”
Taupe considered it, then nodded. He reached under the table and wrestled out a large green rucksack that looked like standard army issue. He dragged it across the floor and straightened, a sheen of sweat on his face.
“Use it wisely,” he said. Herc grunted, a noise that could have been a thanks or a laugh.
“What about intel?” Herc said. “You found anything?”
Taupe shrugged.
“Maybe, maybe not. We have been monitoring activity, there are some leads. Coding machines have been going nuts. Our people are out there. Herc, you met Ostheim. What is he like?”
Herc snorted, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Hell, you wouldn’t believe me if I showed you a photo. Guy’s … Well, he’s not…” Herc swore, looked to Pan.
“Looks like he couldn’t win a fight with a blindfolded, one-legged kitten,” she said.
Taupe frowned.
“All these years fighting for somebody, who’d have figured?”
“Hey, he’s still Ostheim,” said Herc, nervously scanning the walls, the ceiling. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, and all that. He’s still Ostheim.”
Taupe swallowed hard, nodding. Then he broke into a smile again.
“New recruits, I see,” he said. “They seem to get younger every time.” He glanced at Marlow. “Younger and rougher around the edges.”
“Yeah?” Marlow said, trying and failing to think of a comeback. “And who the hell are you? The baker?”
Herc sighed.
“Marlow, Pan, Truck, this is Taupe. Ex-Engineer turned … I don’t know, what’s the kind word for it? Mercenary? Profiteer?”
“Please,” said Taupe. “Businessman is just fine. It is good to meet you, Marlow, Truck. And Pan, what an honor. I did not think it was possible to make a deal with the Engine for such beauty.”
Are you serious?
Marlow bit back a laugh, then almost choked on it when he saw Pan blush. She smiled, holding out her hand for Taupe to shake. He grabbed it and kissed it, holding it for a fraction too long. Not that Pan made an effort to pull it away.
Marlow shuffled uncomfortably, realizing that his own cheeks were heating up. For a cellar, this place was hot.
“You were an Engineer?” asked Pan when the French guy finally let her go. “I thought Engineers just, you know, stayed or died. I didn’t think anyone had actually left.”
“Not many,” said Taupe. “Just a handful. I made more than thirty contracts, back when I was a teenager. More missions than I could count.”
“Eighty-four,” said Herc.
“But age is not an Engineer’s friend. Eventually the contracts became too complex even for … even for Saul, God rest his soul. So I left.”
“Been working with us ever since,” said Herc. “Logistics, weapons, recon. Makes a damn fine sourdough, too. You heard about Saul, then?”
Taupe nodded. “Yeah, I heard. That bastard Mammon. I did not think it was possible, Herc. I did not think anyone could breach the Red Door.” He glanced at Marlow and the room heated up another ten degrees. “But we will find him. He is here, somewhere. The Engines are here. After all these years of looking, now is our chance. The blood on the streets does not lie.”
“Only good thing about the Engines being reunited,” said Herc. “Hopefully they’ll lead us right to them.”
“They know that,” said Taupe. “They’ll be waiting. And Mammon will be throwing out Engineers as quickly as he can. Finding the Engine is one thing, getting to it alive is something else.”
“Which is where my big girl will come in,” said Herc, walking to the table and hefting the bazooka onto his shoulder. “You can make a deal for anything you like, but a high-explosive antitank warhead to the face is gonna end you, contract or no contract.”
“Amen to that,” said Truck, walking to the table and picking up a shotgun. “Dibs.”
He took a crossbow in his other hand and gave it to Pan. She took it, investigating its weight and sights.
“We have only three bolts,” said Taupe. “All we had left after Morocco. They’re old magic, though, straight from the Engine, and they’ll put a hole in a demon.”
“Cool,” said Pan, and Marlow wasn’t sure if her smile was for the crossbow or for the Frenchman.
“Marlow,” said Herc. “Grab something.”
“I’m fine,” he said, flexing his damp hands. “Got powers.”
“They might not last,” said Herc. “Mammon could end them any minute now. Go, take a weapon.”
Marlow swallowed, wondering how his throat could have gotten so dry. Herc was right. His contract could be canceled at any time. It wasn’t the loss of his strength and speed that scared him, it was the fact that his asthma would come back—and it would come back hard. The monster around his throat would be pissed, and he didn’t even have an inhaler. He coughed at the thought of it, rubbed his chest. Then, when he realized that everyone was waiting for him, he walked to the table. The guns looked big, and mean, and ready to put a hole in him the moment he laid his hand on them.
“They won’t bite,” said Taupe with a high-pitched chuckle. Marlow wanted to throw a punch at him, see if he was still laughing then. He reached out and grabbed the biggest machine gun, lifting it awkwardly to his chest. It stank of metal and grease.
“Bloody hell, Marlow,” said Herc. “Put that down. Taupe, give him a forty-five, would you?”
Taupe laughed again, pulling the assault rifle from Marlow’s grip. He laid it on the table then picked up a small black pistol, handing it over. With every pair of eyes in the room on him, Marlow didn’t have any choice but to take it. He studied it. It looked like it fired Pez candy.
“It’ll give you time and space if you need it,” said Herc. “Remember, unless they’ve traded for invulnerability then you can still kill them.”
“The perfect little gun for le petit garçon,” said Taupe, and he had the nerve to fire a wink at Pan.
She stifled a smile and Marlow’s blood pressure rose so high he thought the top of his head was going to pop off. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants before he would crush it into a paperweight.
“It’s not about the size, Toupée,” he muttered. “It’s about how well you can use it.”
“And do you know how to use it?” the guy replied without missing a beat.
Once again Marlow’s brain gave him nothing to come back with and suddenly the whole room was laughing. His hackles rippled up and for a moment the world burned so bright that he wasn’t sure he could control himself. Then he felt a hand on his arm.
“Ignore him, kiddo,” Herc said, hefting the rucksack onto his back. It looked heavy. “We got more important things to worry about. Taupe, ain’t no point us sitting here staring at the walls. Where’s the best lead, where can we start?”
“Where to start?” The French guy mulled it over, his eyes scrolling the dirt floor. “In this city, where else could it be? We start with the dead.”