Bearcat, p.1
Bearcat, page 1
BEARCAT
EMPIRE CITY BOOK 1
S.E. WARREN
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
bearcat
[ bair-kat ]
noun
Bearcat - a hot-blooded or fiery girl
CHAPTER ONE
CHARLIE
I knew better than most in this world: if you weren’t a viper, then you were a rat, and you would either learn to hide or learn to hiss.
From the ninetieth story of the sky-scraping Wilkins building, I watched the city writhe in the streets of Manhattan. Streams of sky-speeders made invisible lanes in the open air as far up as the fiftieth floor, each a gleaming beast made to look some variation of a vehicle of the past. The most common model nowadays was a 1925 Rolls-Royce Phantom look-alike called the Roar. It was a mirage, just like the city—made to fit the romantic’s idea of a beautiful world trapped in the 1920s.
“Listen, Mr. Wilkins, I don’t have all day.” I turned away from the window toward a broad mahogany desk, behind which sat an almost equally broad man. Sweat beaded across his balding head, and he pressed a handkerchief to his brow as he sifted pudgy fingers through a pile of papers.
I took a step forward and perched myself on the edge of his desk, one leg over the other, T-strapped heels off the floor. “If it were up to me, you would get that extension you need. I’d come back next week and I’m sure you would have everything by then....”
Mr. Wilkins stopped shuffling through documents, his eye grazing from my ankle up to my knee, and then slowly up the rest of my body to settle on my eyes. I leaned on my elbow until I was level with him. “But you see...it’s not up to me, Mr. Wilkins.”
Before he could utter a word, I spun across the desk, landing on the floor behind him. My blade glinted in the air before I pressed it to his throat. “It’s never up to me.”
I plunged the blade clear through his hand, leaving it stuck in the desk. He let out an anguished cry and slapped a hand over his quivering mouth. Behind him, my chin grazed his shoulder, my arm still outstretched grasping the hilt of the blade. “If the Mistress doesn’t get her money by tonight, I’ll be coming back here.”
I gave him a shove into the mahogany and strode from the office.
Closing the door behind me, I crossed the lavish hall to the elevator. Soft jazz played from one of the ceiling vents, and I counted the floors as the elevator grew nearer. When it reached level ninety, it gave a pleasant ring and slid gently open. I happily stepped inside and selected level forty-seven for one of the sky-speeder ports.
As the elevator descended, I caught my reflection in the shine of the doors. I stood in a beaded drop-waist dress, my soft blonde hair shaped into delicate curls held up by a beaded headband that crossed my forehead. My face was a collection of sharp features softened by smoky eyeshadow and deep lipstick—the picture of a 1920’s flapper, just like everyone else.
I pulled another blade from my hand purse and dragged it across the doors, disrupting the perfect reflection.
Ding. The door slid open to the sky-speeder port, a garage for the vehicles that crossed the Manhattan skyline. My heels echoed across the concrete as I made my way down rows of speeders to the one waiting for me.
The muffled sound of an old Duke Ellington tune drifted on the air as I approached the vehicle.
Michael, my driver, sat unmoving in the front seat. He had been my driver for at least three years. He knew his way around a speeder, that was for sure. I could recall countless times he had flashed a smile in the rearview mirror, dropping a pair of outdated shades over his dark laughing eyes, simply saying, “Hold on, sweetie,” before pulling some wild stunt to drop someone from our tail. Once he shut down the engine and let the speeder drop into a freefall from forty stories up only to rev us back to life at the last moment. Michael was the closest thing I had to someone I could trust.
I tapped the window with my knuckles. “Michael, unlock the doors.”
He didn’t move.
Cigarette smoke whirled around the closed window, accentuating the glass barrier between us. Honestly, how men could fall asleep anywhere was beyond me. I knocked again, this time with my full fist. “Michael.”
There was a soft sound, a click that was almost inaudible over the car’s music. I shouldn’t have heard it, except I knew the sound of a gun like the sound of my voice.
I stopped myself from going rigid, repressed the fear trying to creep over me, and kept myself from turning toward the danger lurking behind. Better to let them believe they still had the element of surprise.
“Honestly, Michael, some days...” I reached into my handbag as if to search for the speeder key. Instead, my fingers wrapped around my dagger, the metal cool against my palm. Sometimes I felt my blades were an extension of myself. A cold, bloodthirsty extension, mechanically placed and unremovable.
Still hunched over my purse, I peered up at the window for a reflection. A man was creeping around the tail of another speeder, his eyes fixed on the back of my head.
One. Determine your target.
Two. Breathe.
I turned on my heel and released the dagger. It spun in the air, end over end in perfect rhythm.
The blade sank into the man’s shoulder without a sound.
In the moment he took trying to make sense of what had happened, I crossed the distance between us. Taking hold of the arm holding the gun, I wrenched it behind his back. My other hand reached around his chest and clutched the hilt of the knife, now acting as a handle by which to control my prey.
His gun rattled to the floor.
I held him pinned to the front of me, not caring about the contact. His free hand went to pull out the blade but stopped as I twisted the metal into his shoulder.
He let out an anguished cry.
Amateur.
“You and I are going to take a little ride,” I said, my voice like poisoned honey. I turned us toward the car and directed us to the passenger side. He let out a ragged breath as I jostled the blade. “Open the door.”
The man complied and the passenger-side door swung open. Cigarette smoke poured out over the concrete and rose around us. “Open the glove box.”
He reached to the compartment, and it fell open, revealing an old-school pair of handcuffs. I never trusted the electric ones. Sure, they could electrocute people if you wanted, but they were also easier to hack. No electricity meant no hacking.
I nudged the blade. “Cuff yourself.”
Gingerly, he picked up the cuffs and slid one over the wrist behind his back, then enclosed his remaining hand so that both sat behind him.
I let go of the blade in his shoulder and pushed him down into the car.
Standing at the door for a moment, I pulled a gun from the same holster strapped to my thigh and let the gentleman’s eye settle on the glinting black metal. “Just incase you get any ideas about trying to run.”
The garage reverberated the eerie music off the walls as I slammed the passenger side door and made my way back around the speeder. Keeping the guy pointed at the passenger seat, I managed to pull Michael’s body from behind the wheel. I didn’t need to check his pulse to know he was gone.
A surge of anger flooded through me. He just had to go and get himself killed. Well, he had always said he was a driver, not a fighter.
It was unlikely that I could put his body in the back seat one-handed, and I wasn’t about to lay down my gun.
“Sorry, Michael,” I whispered and took his seat, leaving him alone on the concrete. I revved the engine and pulled us out of the building.
“Gatsby,” I said.
The speeder’s AI lit up the control panel in response to its name. “Yes, Charlie?” the smooth British voice responded.
“Shut the damn music off.”
Silence filled the vehicle.
“That’s more like it.”
My firearm remained casually pointed toward my captive passenger as I steered us homeward.
Home was the top ten floors of one of the iconic buildings that made up the new Manhattan skyline. Miles of deco-style office buildings, topped with golden arches and rose-colored lights, painted the city into a vintage masterpiece at night.
There was a time I’d found the glow of lights beautiful and admired the way the spires seemed to grow directly from the ground.
That time had passed.
The sky-speeder slowed as it began its decent onto the platform jutting from the building. A row of jet-black vehicles was parked neatly along the edge. My speeder sat apart from the others. It was a glistening gold convertible with a velvet red interior. I glanced at her affectionately as Michael’s speeder put itself into park.
“We have arrived, Ms. Seville,” Gatsby’s voice rang out.
For the first time since the garage, I glanced over at my prisoner. I was so used to quiet that I’d almost forgotten about him.
He was a middle-aged, clean-shaven man. He wore a grey suit matching the style of the times, wing-tipped shoes, and a terri
He remained frozen in his seat as I climbed out of the speeder and made my way around the other side.
“P-p-please, miss,” the man began. His hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat. From fever or nerves? I couldn’t tell. “I just do what I’m told...m-m-miss. Please.”
A sigh escaped me. I hated when they begged. What did he think he was accomplish? Did he think I would forget his attempt to kill me? The man’s labored breathing reminded me of a caged animal, and I found myself taking pity on him.
“Listen here.” I rested my free arm up against the doorframe and leaned in close. “I’m about to take you up to see my boss. You’ve just killed her best driver and took a shot at her employee of the month. So she’s not likely to be impressed with you. Now, you can either go up there and cry and beg...or you can face her like a man, tell her who you’re working for, and maybe work out a deal that doesn’t include me kicking you off the edge of this platform. So get it together.”
I pulled him from the car and stood him up straight.
“You won’t need this.” I yanked the dagger unceremoniously from his shoulder. His scream was drowned out by the hum of air speeders and the music of the Manhattan night. He doubled over, but I placed a manicured hand on his good shoulder and straightened him up again. Then I slipped my arm through his and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, as though he were my escort instead of my prisoner. “Let’s go.”
We crossed the platform and I pressed my hand to the mirrored door. My ring bearing the insignia of a snake glistened in the sun as we waited for it to scan my print.
The door slid open and we stepped into an elevator. It ascended and a moment later we stepped out onto the landing of the penthouse.
The halls were paneled with dark wood and emerald-green sconces, giving the interior a dark, rich look. The long hallway led to a set of enormous French doors with golden handles. Two guards stood on either side with semiautomatic guns.
“Toby, Mason.” I gave them each a friendly smile as I approached. “I need to see the Mistress. Do you mind letting us in?”
Toby was a brute of a man, tall and broad-shouldered with the aura of a bear. He wore a permanent scowl and hunched shoulders. To this day I had never seen him smile.
Mason, on the other hand, was likely one of the happiest people you could ever meet. He smiled with his teeth while he was talking to you, whistled when he walked, and found a way to see the bright side of every situation. He was tall and slim with flaming red hair, and I had a hypothesis about the two men—that they had been one child in the womb, but a terrible accident had torn them into two separate humans, each with only one half of the emotional spectrum.
“Good evening, miss!” Mason’s cheerful voice floated out. He always spoke with a slight accent that I couldn’t seem to place, almost like a mix between Irish and Australian. “I see you’ve made yourself a friend! Well, isn’t that nice!”
“Yes, this is my new friend—” I turned my face to the man beside me and the strings of my beaded headband clicked softly next to my ear. “What’s your name?”
“Alexander.”
“Yes, my friend Alex. We just met when he tried to shoot me in a parking garage not thirty minutes ago. And of course, just before that, he killed Michael. He’s certainly made quite a first impression on me. Maybe not as much as my first impression on him.” I gestured toward the dagger wound. “So I thought, he really does need to meet the Mistress. I think she’d get a real kick out of him.”
The last words made Alexander stumble. Or maybe that was from the blood loss. Who could know?
Mason and Toby stared at him, one glaring and the other, Mason, placing a hand gently on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. Michael was a good man.”
Toby reached out a hand and placed it less gently on Alex’s shoulder, digging a thumb into the gash. “Michael was a good man.” His voice was an almost incoherent growl.
How good could he really have been, though? He’d been working for the devil.
An awkward silence fell over the four of us. Well, almost silence, except for Alex’s whimpering at the pain in his shoulder. Then Mason seemed to remember that I was waiting to enter and pulled open the door.
I let Alexander take a final breath and then shuffled him inside.
The Mistress’s office was a sacred place—a room where important deals were made, orders were given, and lives were changed. This was where I had learned the most important things in life: Trust no one. People only looked out for themselves and so should you.
The office was lined with ebony shelves filled with books and beautiful trinkets. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the wall opposite the door looked out over the city skyline. A broad desk stood at the head of the room, demanding a position of power, behind which sat the Mistress, Agatha Estrella.
Her dark eyes pierced through the dim light as a sharp smile slid across her face.
The Mistress was a dangerous woman. Her thick, dark hair was usually kept in a sharp chin-length bob, making her face appear severe. She was tall, with long spindly arms that extended into equally thin fingers, usually pinching an opera-length cigarette holder. Her lips were always the same shade of rosy pink, unsettling against the rest of her dark features. Today she wore a black pinstripe suit and a satin black tie.
She was the picture of fearless power, and she knew it. She took a long drag and let out the smoke through her pointed nose.
“Charlene, dear.” Her voice was gin—metallic and not quite reaching sweet. “How did things go with Mr. Wilkins?”
“I don’t think you’ll be having any trouble with him.” I didn’t venture more than two steps into the room, my arm still hooked into Alexander’s.
The Mistress shot him a quizzical look and cocked an eyebrow. “Who is your guest?”
“This is Alexander. He pulled a gun on me in the Wilkins building and killed Michael.”
That lifted eyebrow sank back down into an expression of irritation and almost boredom. The Mistress rose from her seat, displaying her full six feet of height, and dragged her fingers along the desk as she walked around to lean up against the front of it.
“Alexander, come and sit.” She gestured to one of two chairs in front of the desk.
Alex shuffled forward and sat awkwardly with his hands still cuffed behind his back.
I opted for the seat in the corner of the room, draping my crossed legs over the arm of the chair.
The Mistress took his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I want you to tell me the truth the first time I ask for it. Please nod your head if you understand me.”
Alex gave a vigorous nod with widened eyes.
“Very good.” She released his chin and sat back. “I would like to know who instructed you to kill Charlene Seville, why, and how many others were instructed to do the same.”
“It was just me.” His words tumbled out in a hurry. “I didn’t know who I was even after, I swear. If I had known, I never—”
“Skip a bit, dear.” The Mistress waved him on with one hand.
“I was hired by a man named Warren Henshall. I needed the money. I just lost my security job at the capitol building.”
Somehow that didn’t surprise me. By the ease with which I managed to overpower him, it seemed his talents had to lie elsewhere. Warren Henshall, his employer, however, did surprise me.
“Why would Warren Henshall want me dead?” I asked.
“He didn’t say.” Alex wrung his hands together behind his back and leaned toward the Mistress. She gave him a disgusted look, rolling her eyes, and turned slightly to reach for a box on her desk as he continued his confession. “Miss, I don’t know why he wants her dead. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask!”
“Then that is all I need. We appreciate your honesty.” From the box behind her the Mistress produced a delicate loaded pistol. She examined it, still facing away from him, and then turned in one fluid motion and shot him between the eyes.
