Honor Among Thieves (The Honors #1)(7)

Quickly, I found a tattered, filthy rug that someone had set out for garbage collection. While the Zone might not be as surveillance-hot as Paradise, we’d still draw unwanted eyes hauling a bloody, person-shaped plastic package. I rolled the body up in it and then doused the area with the grog I’d bought earlier. If I was lucky, the cheap booze would degrade the evidence.

Since when have you ever been lucky, Z?

“Ready?” I asked.

In answer, he shouldered half the burden. The suit had been a big guy, and dead, he seemed to weigh twice as much. Derry was shaking, pasty, unsteady, but he managed.

Wasn’t pleasant, but we did it, sweating, mouths and noses covered against the stench as we carved out a deep trench in the mountains of trash—we called it Mount Olympus—and dumped the rolled body into it. I’d have scavenged the nice suit, but the pipes had ruined it, along with the blood. I shoved trash over his makeshift grave. In less than half an hour, he’d vanished without a trace.

Time for us to do the same.

Our friends hadn’t come back, but attachments were flexible around here. They could smell danger a mile off, and I didn’t blame them for scrambling. This place would be blown for a while as Deluca sent thugs to search for his man. They might find him in the dump. They might not. But they’d rip apart anybody they found in the area to ask questions.

Better if our crew found new friends. Other holes to hide in.

We were three blocks from Conde’s when I saw the black tail of smoke rising, and a cold feeling crawled up my spine. It can’t be Conde. Everybody deals with Conde. He’s got protection.

Some sinister whisper in the back of my mind said, From Deluca? Nobody does.

Derry didn’t say anything, but we exchanged a look and broke into a run. The streets were strangely bare now; the rats of the Lower Eight knew when to go underground, and they must have sensed real trouble.

Real trouble they had. The entire block of Conde’s shop was deserted, not a single face in a window. The acrid smell of smoke hung everywhere, and something worse.

Burned flesh.

Derry and I turned the corner and stopped. We just stared at the smoldering hole where Conde’s building had been. Deluca had tracked the purse. He’d probably raided the place, searched it, and not found what he was looking for.

Then he’d sent a drone to make a public statement.

With a shuddering breath, I grabbed Derry and dragged him into the shadows under an overhang. Everybody was off the streets because they’d seen what happened. Somewhere up there, in the low-hanging clouds, the drone might be circling, looking for another target.

Looking for us.

I dug the dead man’s device out of my pocket and threw it hard. My aching shoulder twinged, but the thing flipped end over end, catching the brief glitter of sunlight, and plunged into the inferno that had been Conde’s shop.

Before today, I’d never seen Derry shaken; hungover, high, coming down, strung out, all that, but scared? No. He’d always been cocky and assured, a smooth criminal, confident he could go anywhere and do anything. But looking at this, he knew better. So did I. The problem was, he’d stay. We’d met in my first forced rehab, separated when I got released ahead of him, but when they let him go, he found my house and persuaded me away. Then they sent me to reconditioning, and he came for me again. And again, until finally the last time I’d left, my family had too. For Mars.

The past few years, Derry—flying or falling, chemmed or sober—had been my one constant. He wouldn’t leave me now. Not unless I made him.

I had to make him.

“Derry,” I said. His eyes were dark and bleak, and I took his hands in mine to get his full attention. “D. Time to split up.”

“No.” He said it quietly, but he meant it.

“Listen. You can’t stay with me. Not this time. Maybe this will cool off, but it won’t do it soon.” I squeezed his hands hard, contrasting the chilly pallor of his to the warm brown of mine.

He pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me. We both reeked, but I didn’t care. There was only his trembling body, the fast rhythm of his breathing. He was on the verge of breaking.

“He’s not after you,” I said.

“I helped you kill his goon, Z!”

“He doesn’t know that. All he knows is he sent a guy for me, and the guy died. Derry. It’s on me. I’ll handle it.”

He shook his head. His hair brushed my face, soft as feathers, and I pulled in a deep breath. I had concrete in my soul, but he had a way of breaking it. “You can’t just leave me on my own, Z. It’s Deluca. I need something to cool me out. Get me something?” There was a pleading note in his voice. A bite of desperation under it.

“I can’t,” I said, which was a lie; I had a sweet little bag of chem burning a hole in my pocket. “They’ll have people on the streets, and it’s my face they’re scanning for.”

He pushed me away and paced. I knew the harsh, fast way he moved, the jerky steps, the tic in his cheek. Sometimes, the chem’s burndown left him angry. Now, he was pissed and scared. Bad combination. “I need something. Right now. You did this. You did.” It was rare his anger turned on me, but it had happened before. I’d learned to back off when I saw the flash of it.

“I’m going back,” I said. “To Parkview. They’ll send me to lockup this time. And lockup is way safer.”