Jac resisted the urge to reach for his Creed. Their meeting with Charles was tomorrow afternoon, and Jac was growing more and more convinced that, when they entered Luckluster Casino, they’d never walk out of it.
“You’regiving him what he wants,” Jac countered. “There are more weapons than fear.”
“Charles is past fear. Do you know what he did to me for betraying him and siding with Delia?” She rolled up her sleeve to reveal a gruesome series of scars, as though fishhooks had been embedded in her skin and ripped free. What remained was gnarled and uneven, rippled colors of still-red wounds.
“I—I’m sorry,” Jac said.
“I’d leave the business entirely, but he’d kill me for that.” The matter-of-fact tone in her voice made his skin crawl. “I’m not sure he’d take kindly to this meeting, either.”
“You agreed to it,” Jac reminded her. “And your support would mean—”
“No, I think it’s best you leave.” She hastily tugged down her sleeve, as if she’d shown him too much.
“Should we reschedule?” he tried. “I’ll bring Sophia next time.”
“I’m sorry. I wish you the best of luck, I really do.”
Within moments, she’d shooed him out of his seat and out the door.
Jac paused at the top of the metal staircase, sighing in disappointment. The warehouse pulsed with fast-paced music, and the air reeked of the acidic smell of Rapture. Neon streamers dangled from the ceiling and writhed from the winds blowing in across the rafters. With the band’s music so loud, it was easy to forget a storm raged outside, the pounding of rain swallowed by the bass.
He ran his hands through his hair and cursed. Sophia had given him one assignment—an important one—and he’d managed to muck it up in only a few minutes.
Jac climbed down the steps and dodged the dancers on his walk to the door. Outside, the rain splatters danced on the pavement, and the wind was too strong for an umbrella. He flipped his hood and trudged down the street.
Sirens called faintly in the distance.
Probably South Side, Jac told himself. After all, the whiteboots hadn’t made it past the Brint in over a month. But the river was over a mile away, and the storm would overpower all but the closest sounds. These sirens were close.
Jac quickened his pace. He’d planned to take the Mole back to Liver Shot, but escaping would be difficult if the whiteboots somehow shut it down. Still, it was a thirty-minute walk home.
The sirens grew closer.
He ran.
The rain pelted him, and the wind whipped his hood back. He could only go so fast without tripping, with water dripping down in his eyes.
Soon he realized the sirens weren’t only in front of him, but also behind him, to the east, to the west.
It only could’ve meant one thing: the North Side had fallen.
And he wasn’t the only one running. Doors to pubs and cabarets burst open, patrons spilling out and scattering like rats. Jac collided with one of them, so hard he slammed to the ground and dislocated his shoulder with an agonizingpop.
“Muck!”he cursed, clutching his arm. He tried to run forward, but each of his steps sent a quake of pain through him. He was in trouble.
Figures appeared at the edge of the street, murky from the rain. They ran toward the crowds, and Jac realized they were whiteboots. Each clutched a baton in one hand and a wooden shield in the other, as if they intended to ram and beat passersby.
If the whiteboots caught him, then Jac would hang.
“Muck,” he shouted again, and he sped off in the opposite direction, adrenaline dulling his pain. He ducked down an offshooting alley and mentally mapped out the route back to Liver Shot. In his condition, he doubted he would make it, and Olde Town was even farther away.
He was trapped in the heart of the Factory District...and he was alone.
Other panicked North Siders pushed and sprinted past him. Some knocked frantically on doors or threw things at windows. Jac turned around, to see if there was another cause for the chaos, but then he heard gunshots, and he no longer dared to see what chased him.
The devil themself, it felt like.
He ran with everything he had. The metal traffic poles swung from the force of the wind, and after several minutes of fleeing, Jac grabbed one desperately to steady himself. With his good arm, he reached for his Creed. He knew a sinner’s prayers were worthless, but he still prayed for mercy. If he could survive the night, he would never cheat anyone ever again. He would never hurt or steal or lie. He would throw the stash of cigarettes Sophia didn’t know about down a sewer. If he could just survive the night.
