Steelheart (The Reckoners #1)(10)

Finally, Fortuity sni ed. “Tell Spritz that he’s forgiven, this time.

He should know better—I’m not his personal calculator.” He turned, sticking out his elbow to the woman and walking away,

obviously assuming that she’d jump at his whim.

As she turned to follow, she glanced at me, long lashes uttering above deep blue eyes. I found myself smiling.

Then I realized that if I’d fooled Fortuity, I’d probably fooled her too. That meant she—and the Reckoners—now thought I was one of Steelheart’s lackeys. They were always careful not to endanger civilians, but they had nothing at all against taking out a few hit men or thugs.

Aw, sparks, I thought. I should have winked at her! Why didn’t I wink at her?

Would that have looked stupid?

I’d never really practiced winking.

Could you do it the wrong way, though? It was a simple thing.

“Something wrong with your

eye?” Curveball asked.

“Er, got a lash in it,” I said. “Sir.

Sorry. Um, we should get back.”

The thought of the Reckoners setting off their trap in time to take out Curveball—and me—as a nice side e ect suddenly made me very, very nervous.

I hurried down the sidewalk, splashing through some puddles.

Rain didn’t evaporate quickly in the darkness, and with the steel ground, there wasn’t anywhere for it to go. The Diggers had created some drainage, along with pipes to circulate air in the understreets, but their eventual madness had

disrupted those plans and they’d never finished.

Curveball followed me at a moderate speed. I slowed down, matching his pace, worried he might come up with a reason to go back for Fortuity.

“What’s your hurry, kid?” he growled.

In the distance, the woman and Fortuity had stopped beneath a streetlight, where they had taken to searching one another’s mouths with their tongues.

“Stop staring,” Curveball said, walking past. “He could gun us down without even looking and nobody would care.”

It was true. Fortuity was a powerful enough Epic that—so long as he didn’t interfere with one of Steelheart’s plans—he could do whatever he pleased. Curveball himself didn’t have that kind of immunity. You still had to be careful when you were at his level.

Steelheart wouldn’t care if a minor Epic like Curveball got himself stabbed in the back.

I tore my eyes away and joined Curveball. He lit up a cigarette as he walked, a ash of light in the dark, followed by the coal-red sizzle of the tip hanging in the air before him. “Sparks, Spritz,” he said. “Could have sent one of you lackeys out after Fortuity in the rst place. I hate looking like a slontze.”

“You know how Spritz is,” I said absently. “He gured that sending you would be less o ensive to Fortuity, since you’re an Epic.”

“Suppose that’s right.” Curveball took a pull on his cigarette. “Whose team are you in?”

“Eddie Macano’s,” I said, naming one of the underlings in Spritz’s organization. I glanced over my shoulder. They were stil going at it.

“He was the one who made me run after you. Didn’t want to do it himself. Too busy trying to pick up one of those girls Fortuity left behind. Whatta slontze, eh?”

“Eddie Macano?” Curveball said, turning toward me. The red tip of his cigarette lit his perplexed face a scarlet orange. “He died in that skirmish with the underbloods two days back. I was there.…”

I froze. Whoops.

Curveball reached for his gun.





3

HANDGUNS have one distinct advantage over ri es—they’re fast.

I didn’t even try to beat him to the draw. I ducked to the side, running as fast as I could toward an alleyway.

In the near distance, somebody screamed. Fortuity, I thought. Did he see me run? But I’m not standing in the light, and he wasn’t watching.

This is something else. The trap must have— Curveball opened fire on me.

The thing about handguns is that they’re blasted di cult to aim.

Even

trained,

practiced

professionals miss more often than they hit. And if you level the gun out in front of you sideways—like you think you’re in some stupid action movie—you’ll hit even less often.

That was exactly what Curveball did, ashes from the front of his gun lighting the darkness. A bullet hit the ground near me, spraying sparks as it ricocheted o the steel pavement. I skidded into an alleyway and pressed myself back against the wall, out of Curveball’s direct line of sight.

Bullets continued to spray

against the wall. I didn’t dare look out, but I could hear Curveball cursing and yelling. I was too panicked to count shots. A magazine like his couldn’t hold more than a dozen or so bullets— Oh, right, I thought. His Epic power. The man could keep blasting away and never run out of bullets.

Eventually he’d round the corner and get a direct shot.

Only one thing to do. I took a deep breath, letting my ri e slide o my shoulder and catching it with my hand. I dropped to one knee in the mouth of the alleyway, putting myself at risk, and raised the ri e. The burning cigarette gave me a sight on Curveball’s face.

A bullet hit the wall above me. I prepared to squeeze the trigger.