Session three:
The pool balls clacked, breaking the racked group and scattering across the table. As he waited for them to roll to a stop, Spike took a gulp of his whiskey neat and set it back on the rail. He leaned over the table, lining up a bump shot for number one in the corner pocket. It was impossible to ignore the chatter all around him.
It had taken days of covert discussions to play Kev into the right angle seemingly of his own accord. Spike couldn't seem too disinterested or they'd lose the only lead. Likewise, too eager and the man would smell a rat. At last they agreed to meet. All of them. Over a dozen men with a handful of teenage boys had trickled into the pool hall over the last hour. At a glance Spike assessed each of their experience levels. The majority had a handful of years tops in a gang. Their bravado had yet to be beaten from them. These fools boasted and bragged, showing their scars and tattoos as though they should mean something to the galaxy. Then there were the more experienced thugs. At least two had made it into the ranks as hitmen, Spike spotted their quiet intimidation like looking in a mirror. Another two he pegged as at least having some rank in drug running, probably more corporate level. Paper-pushers. None were officers. He alone was the closest to a capo in this ragtag collection.
The odds, as usual, were unfavorable.
Before the wannabe syndicate members even arrived Spike had taken solitary command of a pool table, playing game after game against himself. Each strike at the cue ball focused on channeling his former self. Step by step he forced the facade of who had once been. Cold, went the two ball. Calculating, went the seven ball. Merciless, sunk the eight.
"Is he really a Red Dragon?" A whisper carried through as he drew back the cue. Similar remarks had already circulated, over and over again. Some more colorful than others.
"That scrawny broomstick? No way. I could sweep the floor with him." A burly tattooed man in a chain laden black leather jacket slammed his drink down. "Besides, there are no more Red Dragons. Any that were left after the tower blew up were arrested or slunk off into hiding. That syndicate is long dead and buried."
"But Chains, Kev said this guy is the real deal. He used to be a serious high rank enforcer. Said that in the middle of the syndicate coup he went right into their headquarters and leveled the place cause they were gonna kill him. He got to them first. Even slaughtered his old partner."
"You believe everything you hear. That couldn't have been one person. I was in Tharsis when that happened. Saw the building from the street. Looked like a military strike, grenades, C-4 and shit like that." Chains pushed up from his chair and cracked his knuckles. "No measly wimp like this dud could have possibly pulled off that much damage."
Spike felt the challenging glare from the young punk. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The sound of his lighter clapping shut dashed the group into silence. Fixing the mouthy Chains with a half-lidded stare he leaned on the pool cue. Not old enough to have a rep, yet. Bet he dubbed himself Chains. Loser. The smoke twisted in tendrils between them adding to the haze in the dive.
All eyes locked on the pair. Not a peep among the men. No one even lifted a drink.
Chains stared at Spike, flexing his hands. "Listen, pal, these idiots say you are some kinda legend." He spat on the floor. "I say you're nothing but a faker tryin' to steal some trumped up glory." He snarled, smacking his fist into a palm.
Stunned whispers carried through the room.
Spike raised the pool cue and held it out to his side horizontal above the table. His expression oozed boredom as he released it, dropping it neatly onto the tabletop. He did nothing more. Great, here it comes.
Chains grunted. "I'm gonna snap you in half like a twig!"
As the heavyweight thug closed the gap, Spike stepped under his sloppy guard. In a swift motion, his shoulder came up under Chain's armpit. Spike grabbed his wrist and upper arm and in a violent twist flung the man into a catastrophic cartwheel that didn't end well thanks to gravity. Chains landed on his hip with the extra force Spike applied at the last minute, whipping him in a ricochet.
The only sound in the room was Chain's, moaning.
Click.
Alarmed, Chains stared up into the barrel of Spike's Jericho. All the thug could manage was a raspy gasp as Spike kept a firm finger on the trigger.
Spike's voice bore an icy tone, his eyes still half-lidded, but a glint sent a shiver down everyone's spine close enough to see it. "On the top floor of the Red Dragon's tower this gun ended a long feud between my ex-partner and I. Don't give me a reason to use it on your sorry ass."
Slowly, color drained from his face as he locked eyes with Spike.
Fresh meat. Why do they always hafta ask for this shit? Bad enough some of these idiots want to put me on a pedestal, worse when they want a shot at a title that doesn't exist. Well, just in case anyone else has any ideas, let's put a stop to this. Placing a foot in the center of Chains's chest, Spike gave him a shove as he holstered his gun. Everyone edged backward.
Kev came forward, his knitted wool hat in his hands. "It's true, we aren't much to work with. But everyone in here wants to be part of something bigger. We've been trying, in small groups, to get a better hold. But it's not working. We need someone who's experienced. We need someone like you, Spike, to run the game. To organize us." He fell silent, waiting for a reply.
He turned to the pool table and snatched up the cue, lining up another shot as his thoughts roved over memories, the march of time spent working under Mao Yenrai. Even if his mentor never fully explained his motivations, Spike still grasped the concepts over his time serving as his enforcer, after all, Mao had been grooming him to take over as capo. Sinking a few of the balls he pondered the situation here and the resources Kev relayed before. None exposed a connection to the ISSP, yet. He doubted any of this lot would know if they'd actually crossed paths with a plainclothes agent. That took time and instinct to be able to gauge, something many didn't live long enough to gain. Well, so much for this being short and sweet.
He cleared the table and gulped down the last of the whiskey. "At the moment you are nothing more than a room full of clueless lackeys."
A room that erupted into angry grumbles.
Spike glared them into silence. "You want to be a syndicate? Prove to me that you are worth my time."
Chains stood up with a grunt and folded his arms, respect in his gaze. "What do we have to do, Spike?"
Faye stared down at Spike. As usual he was on the couch passed out on his back. She hadn't seen him much these past few days, and couldn't believe that the ship was still on this frozen moon of testosterone. Callisto. Nothing but frigid temps and cranky ass men.
She leaned over Spike and whispered. He didn't even twitch. Just continued to breathe steadily, each breath laced with stale alcohol. Aha, he'd been drinking. Her eyebrow raised as she devised a plan. Grabbing a playing card from the table she balanced it on his forehead. After a minute passed and he hadn't moved, she picked up a poker chip and placed it on edge in the center of the card. She gave it a flick and the chip danced in a tight circle.
She giggled into her hand. He was still out cold. Unable to resist the urge, Faye picked it up and spun it again.
"Leave him alone, Faye." Jet leaned over the railing from above.
Faye looked up and planted her hands on her hips. "Why should he get to lounge around here doing nothing?"
"He's trying to get some sleep."
"He's always sleeping." She picked up the chip and gave it another spin.
"I mean it, Faye. He was pretty beat when he came in last night. I had to wake him up twice as he stumbled through a short report to Bob."
"Bob?" She sat up. "Your friend Bob? Why is Spike reporting to Bob?"
Jet rubbed his forehead. "It's a long story. But you need to lay off the antics and let him work."
"Work schmirk, I'll believe he has a job when I see it."
The chip spun down. Faye gave a sly smile and was about to grab it. Spike's hand flew up and latched onto her wrist. In a single move he was up, his other hand catching the falling chip in mid-air. Faye gasped as he threw her back against the table. His blazing eyes bored into her.
"Do you know what happens when someone fails at their job?" Spike practically snarled in her face. "Well, do you?"
She shook her head, wedged back against the table. Something cold pressed against her stomach. She glanced down and her blood ran cold. The muzzle of Spike's Jericho rammed against her bare skin. His finger twitched against the trigger. Her mouth flapped, no words came.
"Spike!" Jet yelled, his steps carried down the stairwell.
With a shake of his head, Spike pulled the gun away. "Don't you forget that, you worthless bitch!" He swept out of the room and vanished down the hall to their quarters.
Faye immediately leapt to her feet and pursued with Jet not far behind. They found his door shut and locked. Jet placed a hand on Faye's shoulder, a somber light in his eyes. "Faye, lay off him. He's … I don't know what to say. But I suspect that what he's doing is stirring up some bad memories."
"What's he doing? Jet, this is serious. I've never seen him like that." She paused, her hand drifting to her mouth. No, that's not right, she had. "Wait … in the church. When he faced Vicious. Both of them had that same gleam in their eye. Primal. Almost animal." Faye narrowed her eyes. "What is he doing?"
Jet rubbed his synthetic arm, his eyes downcast. "Remember when I went off after that prison ship with Fad, my old partner from the ISSP? Well … it was a shock to find out that he was responsible for shooting my arm all those years ago. I almost lost my mind. Took me a while to get over it." He cast his worried glance at the locked door. "Spike doesn't talk much, but what he's told me of the past doesn't speak well of his experiences. Nor did he like who he had been." He shut his eyes and swallowed. "Bob asked him to flush out a Red Eye dealer."
She shook her head slowly. "No wonder he's turned into a low-life jerk. He's insufferable to begin with, but that Red Eye stuff is the root of madness. Are you sure he's not using it?"
"Yeah." Jet sighed. "That shit doesn't work on synthetic eyes. So it screws up Spike's vision if he does. He told me about the one time he tried it and regretted it. Seriously Faye, leave Spike alone. Let him handle this. I feel bad enough about letting Bob force the issue on him in the first place. By the time I noticed the signs Spike was hiding, you know, how much this idea bothered him, it was too late. You know Spike, he's not gonna just drop this." Jet moved off, rubbing his neck. "And it's all my fault."
Faye quietly approached the door and pressed her ear against the metal.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
An odd cadence carried through. She leaned her forehead against the door. "Spike. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean upset you. It was just a silly joke, nothing more. Please open up." She paused and listened, the sound continued. "Please, Spike?"
When he didn't answer, she rolled on her shoulder, her back against his door. She slid down to the floor and bit her lip.
"Please, Spike?" The muffled voice broke through his door. But Spike barely registered it.
Seated on the edge of his bed he leaned forward, staring sightlessly into the dark. The poker chip flipped in an endless rotation ticked by his thumb into the air again and again.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
With each topple of the chip he disconnected a thread of himself burying the life he had cautiously built up over the years. Each flip rolled him back closer and closer to the man he'd been before.
Bound by honor to serve the syndicate. Stone cold. A ruthless murderer.
Spike Spiegel, Red Dragon Enforcer.
