The Flight of the Silvers (Silvers #1)(45)

“Oh, honey bear. You don’t even have time for the short answer. Trust me. You’re not long for this world either.”

Natalie closed her eyes and wept. “Why are you so cruel? What did I ever do to you?”

For once, her dialogue crossed into new territory. Evan’s smile dissolved.

“Huh. Weird. I usually get that question from Hannah, not you. For her, I have a long list of grievances. For you?” He gave it some thought. “I don’t know. Maybe you remind me of her. You both go wet for dumb muscle. You both seem to confuse lust with love. Now, granted, I never met your husband. But somehow I doubt you would have fallen for him if he was a professional chess player.”

Natalie turned her head, wincing. “Oh God. I just want this to stop.”

“Well, you’re about to get your wish.” Evan checked his watch. “It’s curtain time.”

While her shallow breaths settled and her consciousness slipped away, Evan stroked her arm and stared pensively at the trees.

“You know, I chat with the Pelletiers on occasion. I once asked them why they didn’t stop you from falling. I mean they can see the futures better than anyone. They could have tied you down, broken your foot, done a hundred other things to keep you on the ground floor. Hell, they could still go back and save you. I’m not the only one with a rewind button.

“So when I asked, that crazy bitch Esis just gave me a shrug and said, ‘Natalie’s but one of many.’ Can you believe that? They destroy a whole damn world to bring us here and we’re still nothing to them. Just rats in their maze.”

He checked her pulse, then breathed a wistful sigh. Natalie Tipton was gone.

“Ah, Peaches. You’re better off. I’ve seen the way this story ends, again and again. It never changes.”

Evan reached behind her and unhooked her necklace. The chain ended at a dime-size silver disc, engraved with the electric bolt logo of the San Diego Chargers. Despite his utter disdain for football and the people who watched it, the trinket had become a cherished piece of old-Earth memorabilia. Worth the trip every time.

With a creaky groan, Evan clambered to his feet and clasped the charm around his neck.

“I’d stick around for the wake, darlin’, but I’ve got a meeting with my old platoon commander and he’s a real bear about punctuality. Sorry to say your whole life was pointless, and your death even more so. But what can you do? That’s just the way the peach crumbles.”

He walked away whistling, quietly resolving to be nicer to Natalie next time. In the grand scheme, she never did him wrong. She was the only Silver he could say that about.

—

While the cab soared to its next destination, Evan dumped the contents of his knapsack onto the seat. He stashed the drinking cup between his thighs, then poured himself a cocktail of rubbing alcohol and orange juice.

The noise of glooping liquids caused the cabbie to peer through the mirror. Evan smirked at him.

“Ease it, flyman. I won’t spill a drop.”

He stirred the concoction with his new hunting knife, then plunged his fist into the cup. The moment his silver bracelet became submerged, the liquid churned with hissing bubbles.

Soon the taxi landed in a run-down patch of the Gaslamp Quarter. Evan tossed another pair of twenties to the driver, then made his way down a dingy alley. As he crossed into the dark shadow of an elevated highway, he could hear a man’s heavy breaths.

Evan bloomed a devilish grin. “Hello, hello, hello? Is there anybody in there?”

He stepped on a circle of concrete that was darker than the rest—a patch of the old San Diego, fused into the new. The upper half of a guitar case, complete with upper half of guitar, lay nearby. It had been sliced in a smooth curve. As always, the Great Cuban Leader hadn’t ventured far from his landing spot.

“Just nod if you can hear me,” Evan teased. “Is there anyone home?”

In the darkest corner of the alley, between two metal trash cans, a thirty-year-old man huddled against the wall. Black-haired, olive-skinned, and powerfully built, he wore a silk blue button-down over jeans. Even in his rattled state, the man was disgustingly handsome. Evan had lost count of the number of women who’d made complete fools of themselves to get his attention. Unlike Nico and Natalie, people he’d only encountered a few minutes at a time, Evan had years of experience with Ernesto “Jury” Curado. There were few folks on Earth he knew better, and few he hated more.

Evan watched with great amusement as Jury pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to will the universe back into order.

“?Qué bola, asere? Welcome to beautiful downtown Other San Diego. Don’t forget to try our Other Krullers. They’re out of this world.”

“Shut up,” Jury said.

“Hey. Ouch. Hostility. What seems to be the problem, officer? Are we having a bad trip?”

Jury rose to his full six-foot-two height, grumbling at Evan through a sleek Cuban accent.

“Look, I don’t know if you’re a hallucination or a street nut. All I know is that someone drugged me and I’m freaking out. So go away.”

Two years ago, upon receiving a Certificate of Commendation for exceptional performance, Officer Jury Curado had been called a “man of absolute conviction” by the Deputy Commissioner of the California Highway Patrol.

Yesterday morning, his twin sister had a different way of phrasing it.