Hench Read online

  “You’re going to have to excuse my place. It’s about the size of a shoebox.”

  Bracken stretched a little, the picture of casual serenity. “No problem. We can go to my condo next time.”

  I smiled harder, thrilled that there might be a next time. “So.” I gathered whatever scraps of courage I had and rested my hand on his knee. “What would you like to watch?”

  He smiled expansively. “Anything you’d like.”

  “I have so many horror movies. What kind of horror do you like? Ghost stories, classic slashers, that kind of thing?”

  His smile visibly faltered. “Yeah. I don’t really do horror.”

  “Oh, that’s fine!”

  “The problem is, I actually get scared.” He put his hand on top of mine. “I’ll be up all night thinking there’s a murderer in the kitchen.”

  “I’m sure I have something you’d like.” I tried to remember if one of my exes had left behind any shitty comedy DVDs, or anything to help convince Bracken I was a human person with normal interests. Not that I expected—hoped—we’d be watching anything, given my hyperawareness of the warmth and weight of his hand on top of mine.

  “I am sure you do.” It was a terrible line, but I let it work on me all the same. I looked up and he smirked at me. I tried not to stare at The Seed.

  A loud, awful squawk went off inside the cab, startling us both badly; our hands leapt apart like we’d been caught. Oscar swore and fumbled at the dashboard, trying to shut the shrill alarm off.

  “What the hell, man?” Bracken glared at Oscar, then gave me a little “can you believe this fucking guy” hand gesture.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Oscar stabbed at the tablet mounted to his dashboard agitatedly. “Priority call.”

  I was hit with the sick wave of certainty that calling on him rather than a regular cab had been a terrible mistake.

  “Is there any way you can drop us off first?” I asked weakly.

  “It’s E. Your boss.”

  “Oh god.” I felt ill.

  “Your boss?” Bracken’s brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Company car,” Oscar explained, coming to my rescue. “She’s very important.” I mentally doubled his tip.

  Oscar tapped the screen one more time and put the call on speaker, to my utter horror.

  “Hi, Anna! How are you this evening.”

  I am so sorry, I mouthed at Bracken, stricken.

  He waved his hand, a little “don’t be” gesture, but he was clearly still agitated.

  “I’m fine, E.”

  “Listen, I know this isn’t in your job description, but I’m in a pickle. I need some Meat transported and your driver is the closest one who works with us. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind sharing the cab and supervising the process.”

  “I mean, I can . . .”

  “Great! That’s just great. Should be quick. Have a lovely night!”

  The call cut off.

  “So what’s that about?” Bracken asked.

  “We just might have to make a quick stop,” I said as vaguely as I could. I looked up, trying to meet Oscar’s eyes in the rearview again. “Do you know how out of the way we need to go?” I was not looking forward to having to share the cab for any length of time with a brooding, sweaty kneebreaker.

  Before Oscar could answer, the right-hand rear door of the cab was wrenched open, before we were even completely stopped.

  “Oh fuck,” I said, as a huge man heaved himself inside and across the back seat. His head hit the window next to me and his shoulder bashed into the center of my chest. One of his elbows dug painfully into my thigh, and his hips and legs slammed into Bracken, who had flung his own arms up in disgust.

  “Drive!” The Meat’s voice was a bark.

  “Get off me!” Bracken was trying to shove the man, whose combat boots were trickling slush all over Bracken’s expensive raw denim, off his lap and out of the cab.

  “Shut the door!” I yelled. Bracken looked at me in disbelief. I elbowed him. “Do it!”

  “Shit.” Bracken pulled the door shut, furious.

  The cab lurched forward and Oscar picked up speed. The man in my lap was younger than I expected, with an immaculate fade. His eyes were glassy and panicked, and his complexion was going gray.

  Bracken let out a disgusted yelp. “He fucking pissed on me!” He shoved the Meat and tried to recoil farther into his seat. Then he froze; his palms had come up bloody.

  Right then, something shifted in my brain; instead of panicking, everything inside me got very calm and clear.

  “Where is it?” I asked. The Meat pointed to his thigh and a rip in his black tactical pants. It was difficult to see the tear because of all the dark blood pooling underneath. “Goddamn it.”

  “This is gonna be extra,” Oscar was grumbling. “Extra for bleeding in the car.”

  “Bill E.” I started to hunt for something I could use as a tourniquet.

  “You pay me and expense it,” he countered.

  “You’ll have to take a card.” I pulled my scarf off and tied it around the Meat’s leg above the gash as tight as I could, then stuffed the rest of the fabric against the wound. The Meat mewled pitifully.

  Oscar huffed. “Fine.”

  “You need to keep the pressure on.” I took one of the Meat’s hands and pressed it against the bloody wad of fabric along his leg. He gasped but nodded.

  A thin voice warbled, “Oh shit.” I glanced up at Bracken, whose face was suddenly wet and greenish. “Oh shit.”

  “You are both going to be okay.” I hoped I didn’t sound too annoyed. The Meat’s eyelashes fluttered and I poked him. “You stay awake. What happened. Tell me.”

  “Fucking . . . one of those throwing star things.”

  My lip curled. “Bearded Dragon?” One of the brooding vigilante types, he had a proclivity for using bladed weapons that resembled the frills of a lizard. They cut deep.

  “Yeah. It was him.”

  “Did you pull it out?”

  “Huh?”

  He must have been new. “Never pull them out. You do more damage.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s fine. They’ll patch you up.” I looked at Oscar. “We almost there?”

  “I’m sorry.” The Meat sounded lost.

  I awkwardly patted him. “It’s your leg, not mine, you don’t have to be sorry.”

  “I’m going to puke,” Bracken announced. He started to roll down the window but didn’t quite make it, and sprayed the glass inside and out with half-digested sushi.

  Oscar was having a fit. “This is going to be a goddamn nightmare to clean!”

  I was about to say something snarky, but he pulled over so quickly that the side of my head bounced off the window. We stopped in front of the mixed martial arts academy that served as a front for the Meat Market, where villains went when they needed some muscle, just like they went to the Temp Agency when they needed someone to answer the phone or be cuffed to a briefcase or reset the routers. The only difference between the two staffing agencies was violence. When you needed human cannon fodder to throw at a hero or someone to break a few bones on your behalf, you went to the Meat Market. The average life span for Meat was not particularly long, but the Market did maintain an infirmary, staffed mostly with cutmen, med school dropouts, and disillusioned “doctors” of questionable licensing status.

  One of them, an enormous Samoan man wearing black scrubs and latex gloves, was waiting at the curb with a wheelchair. As the cab stopped, Bracken fumbled weakly to open the door, and as soon as the latch caught, the Meat kicked it open.

  The man at the curb poked his head in, the freshly shaved, bald skin gleaming under the cab’s interior light. “Can you stand?”

  “Dunno.” He swung his head back and forth in agony.

  “Try.” The medic reached in and, gently as he could, started to wrestle the injured young man out of the cab. The Meat whined and hissed, sucking air between his teeth, as the medic
eased him down on the seat of the wheelchair.

  “Thanks, Oscar,” the medic said, patting the roof of the car and then shutting the door behind him. Oscar made a disgusted noise and pulled quickly away. I caught a last glimpse of the Samoan wheeling the injured young man toward the building, where two more staff were holding the doors open, ready to stitch the kid up and pump him full of painkillers.

  There was an awful beat of silence in the demolished, reeking cab. “Where to,” Oscar said eventually.

  I looked over at Bracken, whose striped dress shirt was visibly smeared with blood and vomit, and who was holding a filthy napkin up to his mouth. “Um. Can we drive you home?”

  “Stop the car,” he said, very quietly.

  “Eh?” Oscar craned his neck to hear better.

  “Stop now,” he bawled. Oscar brought the cab quickly to the next curb, as Bracken fought to free himself from his seat belt. “I’ll walk. Just let me out.”

  “This isn’t the best neighbor—”

  He slammed his way out of the cab and swayed on his feet for a moment. I reached for him in alarm and then quickly withdrew my hand; his disgust was palpable. He braced himself against the car for a moment, and as soon as he got his head together, he fled. I watched him quick-march away. I’d have run from me too.

  The car slid back into the flow of traffic, moving almost sulkily.

  “You, uh, want to go home?” Oscar asked, not unkindly.

  I nodded. In my bag, my phone started to chirp; it was June, checking in to make sure I had survived the evening.

  I don’t want to talk about it.

  I hit send, and tucked my phone back in my bag, ignoring the buzz of her repeated messages. I pressed my hot face against the window, watching the liquid city lights, defeated.

  “THEN MY CREDIT card was declined twice.”

  June was gasping for air, laughing so hard she’d stopped making any recognizable sounds and was just wheezing. She had a pair of swimmer’s nose plugs on to shield her from the scents of sweat and body spray and spilled crantinis at the karaoke bar.

  “Oscar finally took pity on me and said he’d invoice E.”

  “Shit, dude.” She gasped, fanning her face. “It’s so terrible. So terrible.” She tried to take a swallow of Chardonnay, but almost choked. I pressed my lips together and looked toward the stage, where Greg was belting out show tunes.

  “Your empathy moves me.”

  “I’m dying.”

  “So is my sex life.”

  “Are you going to call him again?”

  “Oscar? Yeah, he’s a good driver, it wasn’t his fault.”

  “No, you idiot, Bramble.”

  “Bracken.”

  “Whatever his terrible name is.”

  “Obviously not.” I looked down into my gin and tonic, stirring it fretfully with the little straw.

  “It could be a funny story one day. Your dramatic first date.”

  “He was covered in blood and puke.”

  “The start of a whirlwind romance. Your child will be named Decorative Hedge.”

  “You know I’m naming my firstborn Worf.” I drained the rest of my drink and rattled the ice in the bottom of the glass while she cackled. “I need another.” I stood, wobbling in my heels.

  I passed Greg on my way to the bar; he’d handed off the mic and was trying to attract the bartender’s attention to get another Long Island iced tea. He spotted me and lifted his hand for a high five; I walked right by, leaving him hanging.

  He scowled and dropped his arm. “Cold, Anna.”

  I leaned on the bar and ordered for both of us, as it was clear the bartender was going to continue completely ignoring Greg as punishment for singing “Mr. Mistoffelees.” Going out the night before the press conference, my first bit of fieldwork, was a mistake, but one I needed. I’d feel like shit in the morning, but the hangover and being made fun of by my friends might wash a little bit of the reek of failure that had been clinging to me ever since that decent-looking man had probably the worst date of his life in my company.

  I slid Greg’s drink over to him. He picked it up and nodded in thanks; his phone had rung and he was struggling to give tech support over the tinny synth and off-key singing.

  “Have you tried pressing ctrl-alt-delete? Yes, the buttons. Yes, at the same time.” He put his drink down and stuck his finger in his ear to try and hear better. I took a sip of my drink.

  He hung up a moment later and we walked back to the table together. June had somehow acquired a martini and was fishing out a pearl onion with her pincerlike fingernails. She flicked it at me. She was still grinning.

  “At least work seems to be going well,” she said, too cheerfully.

  “You’re enjoying this.”

  “I’m cheering you up.”

  “So magnanimous.”

  “Shut up. Also, I mean it. E likes you, likes your work.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was talking you up to Electrocutioner,” she admitted. There was a tiny bit of sourness in her voice, an edge of jealousy. It made me believe her.

  I sat up a little. “That’s something.”

  Greg had been nodding along. “It is something,” he agreed. “Going out in public with a villain is for-real henching. You’re part of the entourage.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Let’s hope my energy is aligned tomorrow.”

  June lifted a talon-tipped finger. “Also, stop dating civilians.”

  My smile twisted. “Yeah.”

  “You’re just going to get blood all over them. Start looking in the talent pool.”

  “Another hench?”

  She shrugged. “Or a villain.”

  “Yeah, I already have one ex who stalks me, I’m good.”

  “I’ve found the professionally evil are much more reasonable,” June said, theatrically drinking. She wound up spilling a bunch of martini down her shirt.

  “Is that why you keep dating that one piece of Meat?”

  She paused to glare at me. “We are not dating. He’s a semi-regular booty call at best. Also, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

  “I could just warn the poor civvy next time.”

  June swiped at the front of her shirt angrily. “Pointless. They either write you off immediately or get a hard-on imagining you robbing banks in a thong and goth boots.”

  “So I shouldn’t wear that to work tomorrow.”

  “I mean, follow your heart.”

  “ANNA! HOW ARE you?”

  I flinched and turned to find E striding toward me across the Electrophorous Industries lobby. He was positively beaming, walking with a long, confident gait and wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit. His teeth were so white they seemed to glow, and his tan seemed especially deep. In one hand, he was holding a device that looked a lot like a gold dinner plate attached to a pair of brass knuckles. Two people from Ramp;D skittered behind him nervously, their eyes fixed on the device, hands twitching, certain he was going to drop it.

  I swallowed and smiled, hoping my face was not too drawn. His excitement was aggravating my headache. “I can’t wait to see what the day has in store.” I took a sip from the gigantic coffee I was holding.

  “Good! Good.” He fiddled with one of the knobs on the apparatus in his hand, and one of the researchers next to him grimaced.

  “Is that the new model?” I didn’t have to fake my curiosity. The gadget looked like a more advanced version of a prototype he’d had in development for ages, something called the Mood Ring. It was supposed to be able to scan emotional states, or “read auras,” if you were feeling particularly pretentious. June was adamant it didn’t work and E just made all the readings up.

  “Yes! Well, sort of.” He turned another knob and the Mood Ring started to emit a low hum, like a tuning fork. “No spoilers before the press conference, but it has a few new features.”

  “Oh yeah.” I tried to sound game. E swept the Mood Ring up and down in front of me, then around my body lik
e a handheld metal detector sweeping for weapons. He brought it a little too close to my face and almost knocked my glasses off. I smiled through my annoyance and nausea.

  The Mood Ring pinged and the humming faded to a low buzz. “Ah!” E eagerly brought the thing close to his face to get a better look at the tiny digital screen that displayed the Mood Ring’s readings. It reminded me of the screen on a calculator watch. “Hmm. It says you’re stressed.” He looked up, his dark eyes liquid and concerned. “Are you stressed, Anna?”

  I tried to stop my heart with my mind. “Good stress will still read as stress,” I finally offered. “I am keyed up for the presentation.”

  E nodded sagely. “True. True. I should adjust the calibration for that.” He fiddled with the device for another moment, then shrugged and tossed it to one of the hovering R&D guys. The developer caught it with a kind of fumbling panic, like E had thrown a baby at him.

  More henches had gathered in the lobby while we talked. Several administrators buzzed around carrying tablets and paperwork, and a half-dozen Meat, all wearing suits and earpieces, loitered about, exhibiting a look I liked to think of as semiformal murderer. One of them, with a tattoo on his neck of a jaguar, had been working with E for some time. I accidentally caught his eye and he winked at me. I turned away too quickly and a little bit of coffee leapt out of the lid of the travel mug, splashing my shirt. My head throbbed.

  E’s phone chirped, and he became even more animated. “Our chariots await!” He strode out the front doors, flanked by his bodyguards, and the rest of us followed.

  Just outside the doors a long, midnight-blue supercar waited, purring like a contented tiger. E climbed in along with the stony-faced R&D guy holding the Mood Ring and Jaguar Neck. The rest of us piled into the pair of SUVs parked just behind. I chose the car with the most admins, hoping it would be quieter, but as soon as the vehicle started to move the interior cabin lit up, painfully bright. A pair of screens, one for each row of seats, sprung to life, displaying E’s grinning, ridiculously pleased face. The video bounced; he was clearly recording with his cell phone. It made me seasick.

  “Hey, team, it’s the big day!” The sound in the car was tinny and too loud. I moaned audibly. One of the researchers sitting next to me—a woman with red hair in a tight bun—giggled quietly. “Thanks to all of you for being a part of this. Now, everything’s going to be pretty straightforward once we get there; it’s a teleconference being broadcast live, so there won’t actually be anyone in the space but us and the camera crew.” The image shook violently; he was doing excited jazz hands. “It’s going to be big!”