Page 33 of Mayflower

“If you go in by yourself, you can’t carry much. But you need an exit plan,” he says.

The next pleasant surprise is Candy. She brings a pouch that holds fifteen bullet-shot syringes.

“Loaded,” she announces.

“With?”

“I’m not a doctor. I asked for the fastest result. He said the paralytic activates within seconds if injected in the neck vein or anything close to the heart. The fastest one he has. But also, the duration is short. About ten to twenty minutes.”

“Perfect.”

“And if word about this gets out…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Right.”

She passes me the belt to strap across my chest, and a needle and thread. While we talk, Ali gets to work and turns the strap into an old-school bullet bandolier that holds the syringes instead of bullets.

“That’s better for fast access,” he says.

“Brilliant, thank you,” I tell him, surprised and grateful.

Shepherd and his men leave, and Ali finishes making my belt, which I study in admiration of his sewing skills.

The bullet-shot syringes became popular after the Change for the fast medication intake. The bullet shot looks like a large, long plastic bullet with a switch button on one end. The other end has a hidden needle. Put one end of the bullet against the skin, press the button on the other end—the needle pops out, piercing the skin, and automatically injects the medication. This smart tool was implemented when millions needed anti-radiation shots as fast as possible.

I might be out for a kill, but many men around Butcher probably don’t deserve to be collateral damage. Hence the reason for using the paralytic.

Ali and I wait until it gets dark—the clock tells us so.

It’s almost ten in the evening when Candy finally shows up again, smelling like booze and cigar smoke. Except she’s not drunk. Her expression is slightly vicious.

“I had to get rid of some customers. Currently, there’s no one upstairs. We should move.”

My heartbeat spikes threefold when we take the stairs. Candy tells us there are multiple cameras in Venus Den. But she leads us through the bar and the storage unit and toward the back door, the way we came in ten days ago, that doesn’t get tracked on the video footage.

Outside is dark and muggy, but I breathe in with my full chest. It feels like freedom, though what I am about to embark on is a death wish, indeed. But I’m ready. My wound throbs but is healing nicely. I can move pretty freely. The bruises on my face are almost gone too. I might have lost some flexibility during the stay in the bunker, but I’m not going to an important fight at Carnage. Let’s hope that weapons and syringes will do most of the work.

Adrenalin pumps through my veins as we crouch across the back street into another smaller building, someone’s house, abandoned. We exit through the front door, but instead of going out onto the street, we go through a garden, then between the broken panels in a fence that separates it from the next house, and duck into a tool shed at the back.

There’s a constant thought that this might be a trap, that Candy might sell us out for her own safety’s sake. Anything is possible. But when I see Shepherd and two other men and a bag with guns on the floor, I feel relief.

“My other guys are scattered outside.” He gives Ali a radio and an earpiece. “It’s on vibration mode. Turn it on and strap it to your shoulder.”

Two minutes later, the radios are tested by other guys waiting in the shadows across several other streets. I have a gun tucked into the duty belt Shepherd gave me. Another one is in my hand. Three magazines are clipped to my bullet-belt. So are two grenades.

Shepherd passes me a lighter and a small pack that looks like matches.

“Firecrackers,” he says.

“For what?”

“For distraction, if needed. Harmless but helpful.”

I tuck them in my pocket.

“Be safe,” Candy warns. “I’ll be here as soon as I can when you get back. Don’t set foot anywhere else on return. Lay low.”

With that, Ali and I take one of the streets while Shepherd and his guys creep away to be with the others.

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