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Authors: Emily Lloyd-Jones
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always monologue at us?” interrupts Ciere. “It’s boring and just a little cliché.”
Guntram gives her a flat look. “Informing my colleagues is cliché?”
“Oh, come on,” says Ciere. “There’s informing and then there’s twirling your mustache.”
“I don’t have a mustache,” points out Guntram.
“You also don’t have a high-backed chair or a white cat, but you manage the B movie villain schtick just fine.”
“I,” says Guntram, sounding offended for the first time, “would not be a B movie villain.”
Conrad turns a laugh into a garbled cough. Alan tries not to smile.
Ciere throws up her hands. “Everyone knows about the trains! In fact, I’ve been one of those pickpockets. How’d you think I got from Seattle to Detroit when I was a kid?” She gives Guntram a triumphant look.
Guntram smiles. It’s one of those thin smiles that sets Alan on edge. “Conrad?” he says. “Did you know about the trains?”
“No,” says Conrad, and he grins at Ciere. “Kitty, we’re not all Americans. And I had better things to learn than the recent history of your trains.” His German accent seems to thicken around the last few words, as if in deliberate rebuke.
Ciere flushes and turns back to Guntram.
“Okay then,” she says grudgingly. She waves a hand around. “Continue.”
“I’ll try to keep my mustache-twirling to a minimum,” replies Guntram.
Alan and Ciere have been working with the Gyr Syndicate for just over two months. Two months of living with professional criminals and killers, and at some point in the midst of it, Ciere began talking back to Guntram. Maybe it was the familiarity—eating together, sleeping in adjacent hotel rooms, traveling in the same cars, listening to Conrad’s muttered curses and Guntram’s careful silences, and allying themselves against the same enemies.
As they became more integrated into the Syndicate, Alan watched Ciere gradually relax around the mobsters. She doesn’t trust them, even Alan can see that, but she doesn’t expect a knife in the back, either.
Alan’s not so sure. But then again, if the Syndicate is going to betray them, there’s not a lot he can do about it. Not yet, anyway. So Alan does what he has always done: remain in the shadows, listen, and wait.
As for enjoying Ciere’s verbal matches with Guntram…well, that’s just a fringe benefit.
Guntram leans against a barrel, looking as confident and comfortable as ever. “As I was saying, Hubbard and Co. run most of the private trains up and down the Eastern Seaboard. They make a nice little living off of it. But not all of their money comes from legitimate services.” He takes a breath. “They’re using the trains to smuggle weapons to the Alberani crime family.”
Ciere blows out a small breath. “Well, that’s inconvenient. Cops don’t search those trains. There’s supposed to be no need—the companies hire their own security and deliver any criminals to the police. Gift-wrapped, if the rumors are right.” She shakes her head. “Kit never let us work a job on those trains.”
Guntram reaches down, picking up a manila envelope. “Well,” he says, “you’re no longer working for him.” He holds out two slips of paper. Alan takes one and Ciere another.
It’s a ticket. A train ticket.
“You want us riding a train used by a rival crime family?” asks Ciere. She doesn’t sound afraid, just interested.
“Technically,” says Guntram, “you’re stealing from a train used by a rival crime family.”
There’s an old saying about a person not being the sum of his parts. It’s true—people are made up of memories and experiences, of families and relationships.
But Alan feels he has no sum; he is all parts. He is what he knows—and what he knows is everything about the MK virus. How to culture it, weaken it, render the virus inactive. What parts of the virus to strip away and how to craft the remaining pieces into the Praevenir vaccine. The
Guntram gives her a flat look. “Informing my colleagues is cliché?”
“Oh, come on,” says Ciere. “There’s informing and then there’s twirling your mustache.”
“I don’t have a mustache,” points out Guntram.
“You also don’t have a high-backed chair or a white cat, but you manage the B movie villain schtick just fine.”
“I,” says Guntram, sounding offended for the first time, “would not be a B movie villain.”
Conrad turns a laugh into a garbled cough. Alan tries not to smile.
Ciere throws up her hands. “Everyone knows about the trains! In fact, I’ve been one of those pickpockets. How’d you think I got from Seattle to Detroit when I was a kid?” She gives Guntram a triumphant look.
Guntram smiles. It’s one of those thin smiles that sets Alan on edge. “Conrad?” he says. “Did you know about the trains?”
“No,” says Conrad, and he grins at Ciere. “Kitty, we’re not all Americans. And I had better things to learn than the recent history of your trains.” His German accent seems to thicken around the last few words, as if in deliberate rebuke.
Ciere flushes and turns back to Guntram.
“Okay then,” she says grudgingly. She waves a hand around. “Continue.”
“I’ll try to keep my mustache-twirling to a minimum,” replies Guntram.
Alan and Ciere have been working with the Gyr Syndicate for just over two months. Two months of living with professional criminals and killers, and at some point in the midst of it, Ciere began talking back to Guntram. Maybe it was the familiarity—eating together, sleeping in adjacent hotel rooms, traveling in the same cars, listening to Conrad’s muttered curses and Guntram’s careful silences, and allying themselves against the same enemies.
As they became more integrated into the Syndicate, Alan watched Ciere gradually relax around the mobsters. She doesn’t trust them, even Alan can see that, but she doesn’t expect a knife in the back, either.
Alan’s not so sure. But then again, if the Syndicate is going to betray them, there’s not a lot he can do about it. Not yet, anyway. So Alan does what he has always done: remain in the shadows, listen, and wait.
As for enjoying Ciere’s verbal matches with Guntram…well, that’s just a fringe benefit.
Guntram leans against a barrel, looking as confident and comfortable as ever. “As I was saying, Hubbard and Co. run most of the private trains up and down the Eastern Seaboard. They make a nice little living off of it. But not all of their money comes from legitimate services.” He takes a breath. “They’re using the trains to smuggle weapons to the Alberani crime family.”
Ciere blows out a small breath. “Well, that’s inconvenient. Cops don’t search those trains. There’s supposed to be no need—the companies hire their own security and deliver any criminals to the police. Gift-wrapped, if the rumors are right.” She shakes her head. “Kit never let us work a job on those trains.”
Guntram reaches down, picking up a manila envelope. “Well,” he says, “you’re no longer working for him.” He holds out two slips of paper. Alan takes one and Ciere another.
It’s a ticket. A train ticket.
“You want us riding a train used by a rival crime family?” asks Ciere. She doesn’t sound afraid, just interested.
“Technically,” says Guntram, “you’re stealing from a train used by a rival crime family.”
There’s an old saying about a person not being the sum of his parts. It’s true—people are made up of memories and experiences, of families and relationships.
But Alan feels he has no sum; he is all parts. He is what he knows—and what he knows is everything about the MK virus. How to culture it, weaken it, render the virus inactive. What parts of the virus to strip away and how to craft the remaining pieces into the Praevenir vaccine. The
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