Page 23 of Raven

What do you know about weapons? Or heavy artillery? A class-four firearms license? AI-powered surveillance?

After the Change, it was close to impossible to get heavy weapons. Legally, that is. But the black market was booming. The price was steep, but if you had the connections, you were invaluable.

Archer Crone might be the king of Zion. But I'm the crown. Kings change. The crown stays.

Don't get me wrong. No one is irreplaceable. Zion would carry on if something were to happen to me. But many of my connections won’t be valid once I’m gone, and that would screw up this little paradise so fast that Butcher would have no problem getting his claws into it.

I’m patting myself on the shoulder, of course. But you see, money is nothing. Unlike the poor, rich people understand it. They are businessmen. Archer's assets are not money but his brain and the late secretary's reputation and power.

Mine? Connections. War is business. And the Change made it into a money-making monster.

Remember, when people are dying, someone out there is getting richer.

The speedboat ride from Ayana pier to Port Mrei’s port entrance is gloomy this time. So is the weather. So are my thoughts about this Butcher business.

“It smells like food,” says Skiba, my right-hand man.

I can smell it too. It’s not the first time. The boat is equipped with mounts for AK-47s as well as bulletproof vests that we are about to put on. This trip is taking danger up a notch after what happened to Archer and Katura. But the salty ocean scent is laced with the smell of fried oil. Seriously?

I throw a glance around, making sure none of my men on the boat are stuffing their faces with food while we are going to Port Mrei to meet Butcher, with a very high chance of being dusted.

There was always that chance. Butcher and I were always silent enemies. Even more so now.

I light a cigarette and stare at the approaching port and the guards’ towers. The sky is gray. The sea is nervous. My heart starts beating faster. Thunder rumbles in the distance. A hurricane is coming in several weeks

We approach the shore, and port security gives us the green flag through radio dispatch.

Mac’s words always remind me of one truth, “Just because you came from the gutters doesn’t mean you have to be a rodent.”

Yep, that’s a choice. And Port Mrei somehow ended up having too many rodents and snakes, Butcher’s gang, while the rest of the town suffered at their hands.

“The vest, boss,” Skiba says, handing me one.

We approach the port where rows of cargo, boats, loading docks, and warehouses are surrounded by a tall chain fence. I see the guns sticking out of the towers on both sides of the port. These days, the port takes extra precautions.

The meetup place is not the usual Coco Jumbo tavern, which is far too deep into the town. Instead, as we disembark, I text Butcher the new location. It’s a restaurant two blocks from the port gates, right on Main Street, with tables outside, visible from the two towers that mark the fence between the port and the rest of the town.

Today, in addition to my usual two guards, Skiba and James, several others took their positions at the towers.

“Forty-one ready,” a voice on James’s radio says.

“Forty-two ready,” says another.

“Forty-three ready.”

James brings the radio to his lips. “We are walking. Stay put.”

The guards open the port gates onto Main Street, and I glance at James and Skiba, who set their hands on the guns on their duty belts.

This is a first, stepping into Port Mrei wearing bulletproof vests, considering they are no good if someone shoots you in the head. Then again, with Butcher, you never know how the meeting might escalate.

Port Mrei used to be a pretty, tropical tourist town with many local traditions, foods, and an annual Solstice festival that drew huge crowds of tourists from the mainland. Only two years since the Change, and the town is a perfect example of narcokleptocracy, simmering in violence and poverty. Butcher and his gang bathe in luxury while the rest of the population scrambles to make a living. If it weren’t for Ayana, which offers hundreds of jobs, they would’ve been screwed two years ago. But these days, you don’t need dead bodies washing ashore at the resort from that part of the island to know this the town is on a fast road to hell.

It’s hot and muggy, and the heavy bulletproof vest makes it ten times worse, weighing down on my shoulders like this entire Butcher business.

Steadily, without talking, we walk straight up the road toward the restaurant in the distance.

“Two o’clock. Men with guns on the second floor,” James murmurs.

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