Warcross (Warcross #1)(3)
I look for the break in the pattern, the nail that protrudes.
My gaze pauses on a cluster of four boys reading on the couches. I watch them for a while, waiting for signs of conversation or the hint of notes being passed by hand or phone. Nothing. My attention goes to the stairs leading to the second floor. No doubt other hunters are closing in on this target, too—I have to get to him before anyone else does. My steps quicken as I head up.
No one is here, or so it seems. But then I notice the faint sound of two voices at a table in a far corner, tucked behind a pair of bookshelves that make them almost impossible to see from the stairs. I move in closer on silent feet, then peek through the shelves.
A woman is seated at the table, her nose buried in a book. A man stands over her, nervously shuffling his feet. I hold up my phone. Sure enough, both of them are set to Private.
I slip to the side of the wall so that they can’t see me, and listen closely.
“I don’t have until tomorrow night,” the man is saying.
“Sorry,” the woman replies. “But there’s not much I can do. My boss won’t release that kind of money to you without taking extra security measures, not when the police have an arrest warrant for you.”
“You promised me.”
“And I’m sorry, sir.” The woman’s voice is calm and cynical, like she’s had to say this countless times before. “It’s game season. The authorities are on high alert.”
“I have three hundred thousand notes with you. Do you have any idea what that’s exchanging for?”
“Yes. It’s my job to know,” the woman answers in the driest voice I’ve ever heard.
Three hundred thousand notes. That’s about two hundred thousand dollars, at the current exchange rate. High roller, this one. Gambling on Warcross is illegal in the United States; it’s one of the many laws the government has recently passed in a desperate attempt to keep up with technology and cybercrime. If you win a bet on a Warcross match, you win game credits called notes. But here’s the thing—you can either take those notes online or to a physical place, where you meet a teller like this lady. You trade your notes to her. She gives you real cash in return, while taking a cut for her boss.
“It’s my money,” the guy is insisting now.
“We have to protect ourselves. Extra security measures take time. You can come back tomorrow night, and we can exchange half of your notes.”
“I told you, I don’t have until tomorrow night. I need to leave the city.”
The conversation repeats itself all over again. I hold my breath as I listen. The woman has all but confirmed his identity.
My eyes narrow, and my lips turn up into a hungry little smirk. This, right here, is the moment I live for during a hunt—when the bits and pieces I’ve exposed converge into a fine point, when I see my target standing physically before me, ripe for the picking. When I’ve solved the puzzle.
Got you.
As their conversation turns more urgent, I tap my phone twice and send out a text message to the police.
Suspect in physical custody.
I get a reply almost immediately.
NYPD ALERTED.
I pull the stun gun out of my backpack. It catches for an instant against the edge of the zipper, making the faintest scraping sound.
The conversation halts. Through the bookshelves, both the man and woman jerk their heads toward me like deer in headlights. The man sees my expression. His face is covered in a sheen of sweat, and his hair is plastered against his forehead. A fraction of a second passes.
I shoot.
He bolts—I miss him by a hair. Good reflexes. The woman darts up from her table, too, but I could care less about her. I race after him. He hops down the stairs three at a time, nearly falling in his rush, scattering his phone and a bunch of pens behind him. He sprints for the entrance as I reach the first floor. I burst through the revolving glass door right behind him.
We emerge onto the street. People let out startled shouts as the man shoves them aside—he knocks a camera-clicking tourist flat on her back. In one movement, I swing my electric board to the ground, jump on, and slam my heel down as hard as I can. It makes a high-pitched whoosh—I lunge forward, speeding down the sidewalk. The man glances over his shoulder to see me gaining fast on him. He darts left down the street at a full, panicked run.
I veer in his direction at such a sharp angle that the edge of my board protests against the pavement, leaving a long, black line. I aim my stun gun at the man’s back and shoot.
He shrieks and falls. Instantly, he tries to stand again, but I catch up to him. He grabs my ankle. I stumble, kicking at him. His eyes are wild, his teeth clenched and jaw tight. Out flashes a blade. I see its glint in the light just in time. I kick him off me and roll away right before he can stab at my leg. My hands get a grip on his jacket. I fire the stun gun once more, this time at close range. It hits true. His body goes rigid, and he collapses on the pavement, trembling.
I jump on him. My knee presses hard into his back as the man sobs on the ground. The sound of police sirens rounds the bend. A circle of people have gathered around us now, their glasses recording away.
“I didn’t do anything,” the man whimpers over and over again. His voice comes out garbled by how hard I’m pushing him into the ground. “The lady inside—I can give you her name—”