Boom! Boom! Boom!
The blasts from Thorne Lewis' shotgun pounded through the air of the darkened room. Taking cover behind a nearby low barrier, he didn't look to see if his shots had hit home – he knew they had.
Through the dim light of the space, he scanned for his next targets. He allowed himself a moment to focus, to catch his breath and let his dragon eyes adjust to the room. Then, a beep sounded, followed by the clang of several targets popping up. Judging the distance, he could tell they were all the way on the other side of the room. And the clock was ticking.
Fucking Aurelius, he thought, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder, and leaping over the barrier.
By this point, Thorne's eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the shooting range, and, sure enough, he spotted his next three targets all the way on the other side of the room. Going by pure instinct, he rushed within range as fast as he could. Thorne leaped over the low barriers, ducked under the ones hanging from the ceiling, and dodged the shots coming from the small ports on the ceiling.
"Time's almost up, old man," came the voice of Aurelius through the room's speakers. "Ten seconds left if you wanna beat my record."
And now he's trying to fucking distract me, Thorne thought. Little punk.
But Thorne wasn't out of step just yet. Grabbing his shotgun and whipping into aiming position, he skidded onto his knees, took aim at the three human-shaped targets, and with a triplet of booming shots, knocked them down one by one. Once he confirmed he'd blasted the targets, Thorne ran with lightning speed over to the entrance to the range and slammed his palm down on the cherry red button next to it.
A buzzer sounded as the lights flicked on in the range. Scanning the room, Thorne noted with a pleased smile that every single target had been downed. With metallic grinding, the blasted targets raised on their tracks and moved back into their wall compartments. Thorne's eyes then flicked to the large, red digital display of his range time. Sure enough, he'd managed to keep his record – he'd beaten Aurelius' time by two seconds.
Should've been at least five, he thought, shaking his head. I'm losing my step.
The door behind him unlocked with a clang, and Thorne pulled it open and stepped through into the small storage space where he left his gun and ammo on the counter to be restocked. Once done, he stepped through the next door and entered a large room walled with banks of CCTV camera feeds. And sitting here and there was his crew, the Silver Talon Mercenaries.
They applauded as Thorne entered the room. All of them except for Aurelius, who stood leaning against the wall, his ropey arms crossed over his chest, his displeased expression nearly hidden by the long, ink-black hair that lay draped over his face.
"Fuckin' A, boss," said Corvo, Thorne's second-in-command, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a ruddy face and military-short hair. "You fuckin' wrecked in there."
"You know, cap," said Hoxson, a short, red-haired brick wall of a solider and the team's demolitions expert, "I thought, for a second, that you weren't gonna pull it off. But now I look like an asshole."
"An asshole who's out a grand," said the team's sniper, Jace, a willowy, red-haired woman with model-good looks and a mouth like a longshoreman. "Pay up, shitbird."
"Can't believe you bet against the boss," said Mick, the Talon's heavy assault expert, and a lean, strapping young man with a pug-ugly face and arms covered in fearsome tattoos.
"That right?" asked Thorne. "You put down money against your own captain?"
"Hey," said Hoxson, "Aurelius might be a prick, but he's got some moves. And the odds were too good to pass up."
"Well," said Thorne, "now you're going to be out even more than a grand. First round's on you."
"Ah, fuck," said Hoxson.
The team laughed and carried on, eager to get to the "free drinks" part of the training day. Aurelius, on the other hand, didn't budge an inch from where he stood. His handsome face was locked in a brooding expression that was typical for him, and Thorne knew something was up.
"That was a good score, Aurelius," said Thorne as the rest of the group headed out the door and toward the bar. "You keep at it and you're gonna be the top man in the Talons. But, for now, we're gonna get fucked up."
Aurelius snorted.
"I'll catch up with you guys," he said. "I'm going to stick around and run the practice a few more times."
"Sure," said Thorne. "Don't wait too long – getting fucked up's an order, not a suggestion."
With that, he clapped Aurelius on the shoulder hard and headed out. Moments later, he was out with the rest of the group, heading down the wide hallway of Silver Talon HQ.
"Where to tonight, cap?" asked Mick. "Taproom?"
"No go on the tap room," said Hoxson. "Had a little, ah, incident there the other night. Kinda want to avoid the place until the heat dies down."
"I'm gonna guess that by ‘incident' you mean you got shithammer drunk and picked a fight you couldn't win," said Jace.
"Right about everything but the part about not winning the fight," said Hoxson with a proud smile "I laid that little fucker out like you wouldn't believe. Some little shithead from the Golden Wings mercs."
"Gods, I hate those fuckers," said Mick. "Good thing it was one of those rich-kid twerps, otherwise I might be pissed for eighty-sixing my favorite fucking bar for the night."
"Let's do El Gringo's," said Corvo. "I could go for a fuckin' burrito."
Thorne stayed back while the team carried on, eager to get a drink in front of him and relax after a long day of training. Soon, the team was out of HQ and back on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. The red and white neon sign of El Gringo's was alight in the distance like a lighthouse leading them to booze. Minutes later, the crew was gathered around a small wooden table in the cheap Mexican joint, a huge metal bucket of beers packed into ice in front of them.
"No trip to El Gringo's is complete without a round of tequila shots," said Jace, waving down the nearest waiter.
Right at that moment, a buzzing sounded in Thorne's pocket. It was a particular buzzing pattern, one he reserved for special clients. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he glanced at the screen, his eyes going wide as he did.
"Yo!" she said once she had the waiter's attention. "Five shots of your cheapest, shittiest tequila! Pronto!"
"Make that four shots," said Thorne, holding up his hand, his eyes still on his phone.
"Whoa," said Mick. "Boss isn't getting fucked up?"
"As much as I want to, I can't," said Thorne, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "Just got a message from the Abruzzi."
"The Abruzzi?" said Hoxson. "You mean the ‘extremely old and extremely, extremely powerful dragon clan' Abruzzi?"
"That's the one," said Thorne.
"The ones whose legs we've practically been humping for the last two years to get a gig with?" asked Corvo.
"You got it," said Thorne.
"I guess we did enough humping," said Jace, a wicked smirk on her face.
"Then we're gonna be meeting with them, I suppose?" said Corvo.
"I'm going to be meeting with them," said Thorne. "And they want to meet right now."
"Holy shit," said Hoxson. "This must be a big fuckin' gig."
Thorne's mind raced with the possibilities of what the Abruzzi would want on such short notice, and why they wanted him, and only him. It was only a minute since he'd gotten the message, and he was already having a bad feeling about the whole thing.
"Whatever it is," said Thorne, getting up out of his seat, "I gotta get there now."
"Later, boss," said Corvo. "And keep us posted."
"You'll know when I know," said Thorne. "And good work today, all."
With that, Thorne took his leave of the group and headed back out onto the city streets. As he made his way to his ride, he tried to make sense of this new development. Thorne knew that Corvo was right; they'd been trying to land the Abruzzi for years. The older dragon clans of the city were hard nuts to crack, however, and tended to have their own personal mercenary groups that they favored. But they were where the big money in the city was, so long odds didn't stop groups like Thorne's Silver Talons from doing their best to get their foot in the door.
Guess I'll find out soon enough, thought Thorne as he approached his ride – a huge, motorcycle of polished, gleaming chrome – and climbed on top of it.
And that wasn't the only thing Thorne was worried about – Aurelius' behavior gave him pause. Aurelius was the newest addition to the team, a kid fresh out of training and eager to prove himself. Thorne was used to upstarts gunning for the more senior mercs like him, hoping to earn their stripes by showing that they were the new hotness, but there was something about Aurelius that was more pointed, more hostile, even. Thorne knew that Aurelius was from the wealthy and powerful Inri family, who used their pull to get Aurelius on the team, and he wondered if coming from such a rich and influential dragon family was factoring into his behavior.
Kid like that's coming up against the first real challenges of his life working with me, thought Thorne as he gunned the engine to his bike. And he's not happy with not getting his way. I'm gonna have to keep a close eye on him, make sure he doesn't turn into a resentful little prick.
Thorne tore down the streets of Manhattan, making his way to the Abruzzi tower in Midtown. After a short trip, he arrived at the tower − a tall, gleaming spire that cut into the night sky above the city like a silver knife. Thorne always had a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that more than a few of the super scrapers that dominated the Manhattan skyline were owned by ancient dragon families like the Abruzzi. Sure, Thorne had plenty of wealth of his own, but it was nothing compared to what clans like these had built up over the centuries. Some could even trace their wealth back to pre-medieval times.
After a long elevator ride up to the top of the building, Thorne stepped out into the sleek, modern offices of Abruzzi holdings, the front company for the clan. He made his way to the conference room and let the receptionist know he was there. The great doors of dark wood opened, revealing a magnificent conference room, the view looking out from the incredible height of the tower onto the glittering sweep of the city around them.
"There's the dragon we've been waiting to see," said Harold Abruzzi, the silver-haired patriarch of the Abruzzi clan.
He was dressed in his usual immaculate suit, his hair parted perfectly. At his flanks were Marion Abruzzi, his wife, and Cedric Abruzzi, his son. At the sides of the long conference table sat a dozen or so other members of the clan, all with the same prim, chiseled features as the three highest family members.
"Been waiting to see me, huh?" asked Thorne. "Can't help but wonder why you all would go from not knowing my crew even exists to calling me for a last-minute meeting."
"Well, Mr. Lewis," said Harold, "you're sounding a little insubordinate for a dragon who's about to get the job of a lifetime."
"Maybe we ought to give the job to someone else," said Marion, her stunning features in an expression of skepticism. "Someone who's a little more well-mannered."
"Someone like me," said Cedric, his tone pompous. "I'm telling you, father – I could have the girl in the city by nightfall tomorrow. Just give me a ch–"
Not bothering to turn his head toward his son, his steely eyes fixed on Thorne, Harold raised a hand to signal that he wanted nothing but silence from his son.
"A girl?" asked Thorne. "What is this, an assassination mission or something? Lucky for you, wetworks are my specialty."
"Oh, I know," said Harold. "I did my homework on you, Thorne. You're a man who'll take any job without hesitation, from assault to assassination. And you'll take them without complaint, like the good mercenary you are. Matters like ‘morality' don't seem to matter much to you."
"That's the kind of shit you don't get the luxury of worrying about when you sign on to be a merc," said Thorne. "I like to think of myself as a tool – you use me to do a job."
"But…" said Harold, a small smile forming on his lips. "You weren't always like this. According to my research, you used to be something of a do-gooder."
Thorne bristled at this. He realized that the man had done his homework.
"That's all in the past," said Thorne. "Now, I'm all about getting paid. And I hear that your clan has money to spare."
"That we do, Mr. Thorne."
"Then what's the gig? And how much time does my team have to get ready?"
"Thing about that," said Harold. "We only require your services for this particular mission."
"See, that's not going to work," said Thorne. "You want me, you get my team. I don't work without them."
"You can have them for recon, or moral support, or whatever," said Harold. "I don't give a damn. But when it comes to the mission itself, I only want you handling the necessaries. Fewer mercenaries mean less attention."
Thorne remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back.
"And trust me," said Harold. "What I'm going to be paying you for this little operation will be more than enough to make you and your team very, very happy."
"Then let's not waste any more time," said Thorne. "Let's get down to it."
"Just what I wanted to hear," said Harold.
He then typed a few keystrokes into the computer setup to his right, bringing a satellite of the state of Louisiana onto the screen. The image then zoomed in on New Orleans.
"This is where you'll be headed for the mission," said Harold. "New Orleans. It's where your target currently resides."
"My target," repeated Thorne. "And what do I need to know about him?"
"'Her," corrected Harold. "Your target is a young woman by the name of Adelaide Wilson."
Harold typed in another few keystrokes, this time bringing onto the screen an image of a young woman who was so strikingly beautiful that it gave Thorne pause. The young woman was fair-skinned, with dark, shoulder-length brown hair that framed the stunning features of her heart-shaped face. And her body didn't look too bad, either. The image appeared to have been taken from a distance, but Thorne couldn't help but notice the lovely curves on display.
"And who is she?" asked Thorne. "Some dragon who decided life in the big city wasn't for her?"
"Well," said Harold, tapping a key, and turning off the display, "I'm afraid we've reached the end of the ‘need-to-know' information."
Harold lowered his gaze and regarded Thorne with a skeptical expression.
"I trust that this won't be a problem? After all, one of the reasons I choose you to perform this job is that you and your crew have a reputation for doing the work without asking questions. Anything for a payday."
Thorne nodded, the image of the girl still fresh in his mind.
"That's right," he said. "You pay me, and I don't give a good goddamn what else you have in mind."
"Excellent," said Harold. "So, your task is to find this girl and bring her back to me in one piece. I'd prefer that she be completely unharmed, but I won't object to a little roughing-up if you find it necessary in order for her to…cooperate."
"No assassination?"
"Absolutely not," said Harold. "It's imperative that she be brought to us alive. If anything should happen to her…well, let's just say, I sincerely hope, for your sake, that it doesn't come to that."
Thorne kept cool at this. Being threatened by one of the oldest clans in the city didn't exactly sit well with him, but he was used to such talk from clients like this.
"So," said Thorne. "Go to New Orleans, find this girl, bring her back in one piece. Sounds easy enough."
"I hope it is," said Harold. "This girl is a college student, so you shouldn't have any trouble apprehending her."
All of this struck Thorne as bizarre. What on earth did a clan like the Abruzzi want with some college kid? But he knew better than to ask.
"All sounds good," said Thorne. "Just the matter of payment to discuss."
Harold turned to one of the men at the conference table closest to Thorne and gave the man a slight nod. The man then reached into his suit jacket, withdrew a small, folded piece of paper, and handed it to Thorne, who opened it up.
Thorne's eyes went wide as he looked at what was written inside.
"I trust that this should be an adequate amount for a job such as this?"
"This..." said Thorne, trying to play it cool in the face of all the zeros on the paper in his hands. "…should be sufficient."
"Then good. Your deadline is one week. That will be all."
With that, Thorne was led out of the room and toward the elevators. Back on his bike, the events of the strange meeting swirled in his mind. He drove back toward Hell's Kitchen, ready to tell the rest of the crew just what was going on.
But despite the money, he knew there was more to this seemingly simple operation than Harold was letting on. Thorne could only hope it wasn't something that might kill him in the process of getting it done.