for ten meters before I reset my shoulder. I had done this so many times you’d think I’d be used to it by now. No such luck. The bone ground back into the socket and sent excruciating lances down my arm and across my heart. That was my right shoulder. Had I thought about it, I should have dislocated my left. I was right-handed.
Behind me, I heard crumbling stone, and squealing metal echoed in the tunnel. My muscular friends were widening the hole. There was a dull thump as my ring exploded, followed by a pair of screams. Good.
Hearing footfalls, I activated my shadow skin and flattened against a wall. In these cramped quarters, however, they might hear me, and they were large enough so they might scrape against me if they came too close.
Two men appeared in my branch of the tunnel. They bled from a dozen cuts, wore green glowing low-light goggles, and carried lethal-looking sidearms. They didn’t appear too happy either.
Rest your arm, Medea said. Let me take care of this. I am left-handed.
I thought you’d never ask.
4
M edea pressed my body against the wall, tensed my muscles, and with her left hand unsheathed my blade in one smooth motion, savoring the gesture. She was rated an expert with most firearms and possessed three black belts, but her real passion was for swords and knives—anything with an edge. She was one of the most dangerous people I ever had to kill.
The two men trotted down the tunnel. Up close, they were two hundred kilos of angular muscle, square jaws, and crew cuts that revealed their low foreheads. They didn’t need the pistols they carried; they could tear me apart with their bare hands. The one on the right stopped and waved a scanner in front of him.
Medea crouched into a ball and waited.
I find a hint of cowardice in your actions, the psychologist whispered. Every time there is barbarity to be done, you release her.
What do you mean?
Killing without guilt. It must be convenient for someone in your line of work.
I might have argued, but why? He was right. I didn’t enjoying killing people. It’s just what I did for a living.
The muscle boy with the scanner whispered to his partner, “He’s close. I’m not picking up a heat trail, but his footprints end here.” They both looked up, thinking maybe that I crawled into the network of pipes overhead. No such luck.
Medea moved then, a shadow in the shadows. She kicked low—knocked the one closest to her off his feet.
The other one shot at her. A sticky net expanded and hit the wall, sounding like a wet towel snapped. It stayed there, aimed too high to touch Medea.
She lunged up and caught the gunman in the soft under parts. Beneath his skin was a layer of armor, a weave of metal and carbon fibers, but my enchanted blade easily slid through, up into his guts, and pierced his heart. A single convulsive cough and he died.
She had time to shoot his partner while he got to his feet, but instead she kicked his pistol out of reach and flicked off the shadow skin. She wanted to take him up close and personal. She wanted him to try to kill her.
When he saw Medea step from her personal shadow, he charged.
It startled me how fast he moved, but Medea was ready. She stepped out of his way, grabbed his arm, and twisted. Something popped. Using his tremendous momentum, she directed him into the concrete wall. The crack of skull on stone, and he fell stunned to the floor. Medea finished him there, once across the throat and again in his back to sever the spine.
“Is that all?” she asked, disappointed, and glanced down the tunnel for more playthings. There were none in sight, so she released control of my body.
I immediately caught the scent of blood, thick in the air, and felt my muscles burning with her leftover adrenaline.
Medea was a homicidal psychopath (the psychologist confirmed this diagnosis). She lived for the thrill of murder. That was all there was to her, all that I absorbed from her soul. Ironically, this made her the
Behind me, I heard crumbling stone, and squealing metal echoed in the tunnel. My muscular friends were widening the hole. There was a dull thump as my ring exploded, followed by a pair of screams. Good.
Hearing footfalls, I activated my shadow skin and flattened against a wall. In these cramped quarters, however, they might hear me, and they were large enough so they might scrape against me if they came too close.
Two men appeared in my branch of the tunnel. They bled from a dozen cuts, wore green glowing low-light goggles, and carried lethal-looking sidearms. They didn’t appear too happy either.
Rest your arm, Medea said. Let me take care of this. I am left-handed.
I thought you’d never ask.
4
M edea pressed my body against the wall, tensed my muscles, and with her left hand unsheathed my blade in one smooth motion, savoring the gesture. She was rated an expert with most firearms and possessed three black belts, but her real passion was for swords and knives—anything with an edge. She was one of the most dangerous people I ever had to kill.
The two men trotted down the tunnel. Up close, they were two hundred kilos of angular muscle, square jaws, and crew cuts that revealed their low foreheads. They didn’t need the pistols they carried; they could tear me apart with their bare hands. The one on the right stopped and waved a scanner in front of him.
Medea crouched into a ball and waited.
I find a hint of cowardice in your actions, the psychologist whispered. Every time there is barbarity to be done, you release her.
What do you mean?
Killing without guilt. It must be convenient for someone in your line of work.
I might have argued, but why? He was right. I didn’t enjoying killing people. It’s just what I did for a living.
The muscle boy with the scanner whispered to his partner, “He’s close. I’m not picking up a heat trail, but his footprints end here.” They both looked up, thinking maybe that I crawled into the network of pipes overhead. No such luck.
Medea moved then, a shadow in the shadows. She kicked low—knocked the one closest to her off his feet.
The other one shot at her. A sticky net expanded and hit the wall, sounding like a wet towel snapped. It stayed there, aimed too high to touch Medea.
She lunged up and caught the gunman in the soft under parts. Beneath his skin was a layer of armor, a weave of metal and carbon fibers, but my enchanted blade easily slid through, up into his guts, and pierced his heart. A single convulsive cough and he died.
She had time to shoot his partner while he got to his feet, but instead she kicked his pistol out of reach and flicked off the shadow skin. She wanted to take him up close and personal. She wanted him to try to kill her.
When he saw Medea step from her personal shadow, he charged.
It startled me how fast he moved, but Medea was ready. She stepped out of his way, grabbed his arm, and twisted. Something popped. Using his tremendous momentum, she directed him into the concrete wall. The crack of skull on stone, and he fell stunned to the floor. Medea finished him there, once across the throat and again in his back to sever the spine.
“Is that all?” she asked, disappointed, and glanced down the tunnel for more playthings. There were none in sight, so she released control of my body.
I immediately caught the scent of blood, thick in the air, and felt my muscles burning with her leftover adrenaline.
Medea was a homicidal psychopath (the psychologist confirmed this diagnosis). She lived for the thrill of murder. That was all there was to her, all that I absorbed from her soul. Ironically, this made her the
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