Richard elbowed Vincent's shoulder then nodded to the sweltering concrete sea below their perch. "There's a cazador nest growin' on that whole building over there."
Slowly turning the .308 Winchester rifle decked to the nines which had become his most favorite toy, Vincent set aim at the structure. Holding it used to send his muscles ablaze, shake his arms, and make his back sore holding it for more than a minute. Now it was steady in his grip. The scope, however, was sensitive. Swaying crosshairs spied on giant woody mounds consuming the building. Growing wild like a tumor, each lump was punched with a gaping hole. The nasty things that made it came and went from their lair freely, buzzing ominously through desolate corridors, flickering black and orange against the wide blue sky. Wherever cazadors settled, at least two square miles was their territory and not even deathclaws would challenge that.
Vincent let out a cackle that drew Wayne's eye. The old man dropped the week's newspaper on his lap. "That's why we out here? Shootin' spitwads at bugs?"
"Spitwads? These aren't just any spitwads. These are exploding spitwads."
Wayne suddenly appeared next to Vincent. He flung the squeaky plastic chair back open and stole a front row patch of rubble. "Boy, lead with that next time."
A mischievous smile crossed Vincent's face. He looked at Wayne then Richard. While they hung on the edge of their seats, Vincent adjusted the stock pressing his shoulder. He loaded the magazine with a satisfying click. He flexed his hand around the pistol style grip while keeping his trigger finger rigid. Shimmying his shoulders again cozied him in a nest of concrete debris and dusty vapor. Can't forget to tune the knobs just right, peek down eighteen inches of black steel, then pop his head up to do it all over again while his impatient audience groaned.
"Oh!" Vincent paused. Fingers perused his vest pockets for ear plugs. Ignoring the two displeased men next to him, Vincent fitted the neon orange foam drops in his ears then resumed his position. "You ready—"
"We been ready, knucklehead!"
"Alrighty!"
The muzzle flashed. Vincent skid back what felt like a foot. A second later, the nest ignited. The growing inferno roared, quaking solid ground and rumbled through solid flesh. Voluminous plumes of brilliant red and orange swelled to bulbous clouds of black smoke. Heat waves crashed into them like the summer shore of Lake Mead. Richard uncupped his ears, and like Vincent and Wayne, his boyish fulfillment came to an abrupt halt. Sinister thrums reverberated in his bones. Orange carapaces ripped through the smoke. Wings caught wispy vapors on glass edges. The swarm massed together, shimmering like a broken warning light, then they dove into the concrete maze.
A scream wailed out. Echoed between vacant buildings and led the swarm through the streets, rising and diving, following the man's futile chase. Stinging cries stopped where the swarm hovered a couple blocks away. Angry buzzes quelled and the static mass closed ranks to take to the sky.
The three men stared at the shrinking blot on the horizon in silence. Once it disappeared in the endless blue, Wayne grunted disapprovingly in the lawn chair he never bothered to get up from. Richard tutted. He shook his head eyeballing Vincent under one peaked brow.
"Oh, shut up!" Vincent whipped around, clenching his fists. Eyes shot their own explosive bullets at the two packing up the shiny new rifle in record speed. Slinging it over his shoulders and marching to the stairwell, Vincent pretended not to notice Wayne's red-faced, eye-squinting chuckles. On the ground, the mercenary captain followed Vincent on a rocky trail to the streets—even though the young man protested, and occasionally gave him dirty looks.
"That was a good shot, though," Richard said. Vincent halted at a four-way intersection and plucked the pistol from his thigh holster. Without looking back, he waved to Richard to hurry. "Now you want me…"
"Looks clear," Vincent said, but didn't skirt caution when he turned the corner muzzle first. He held the long stretch of pitted asphalt at gunpoint evaluating the layout. Planted on faded yellow lines and dancing in the heat mirage was a lump of roadkill. Whatever his skin color was before dying now settled on black and blue, cratered by weeping holes like the pair of dark red jeans with denim blue splotches. Ballistic armor was obviously useless against angry, giant flying menaces just like the laser rifle under him, but the disemboweled fibers springing out of the armor felt like overkill. Vincent whipped out his cattle-prod to full extension and poked the man's shoulder. The corpse flailed. Vincent jumped back a foot.
"Goddammit…" Taking his finger off the button switch this time, Vincent pushed the man on his back. An unimpressed grunt responded to the corpse. He shrugged, "Okay, well any pinch of guilt I had is gone now."
Richard finally joined him. His face twisted to a grimace gawking at the dead man. "You wanna maybe give him a dumpster burial or something?"
Metal prongs glinted tapping on the corpse's vest where the profile of a golden lion stood out against black. "Van Graff. One of their thugs."
Richard looked to his left and studied the building. Nothing hid behind shattered windows. Or the pile of bricks collapsed centuries ago. Then to his right where a heap of rubble claimed at least three foundations. "Why's one of them out here?"
Vincent looked ahead and muttered, "good question." He stepped over the corpse and retraced the man's last steps. At the next intersection he stopped, looked up to the taller buildings, and turned until he found the apartment complex barely peeking over the single-story shops where Wayne was a tiny blot in the shade this far away.
"So, guess you do got beef with the Van Graffs…"
"Who doesn't," Vincent said, taking the path to his right. "Gloria and Jean-Baptiste Cutting—" Vincent marked his mocking tone with a scoff and shook his head.
"I ain't never dealt with them—energy weapons just don't have that…" Richard took off his hat and fanned the sweat beading his face. Damp hair took to curling on his forehead and neck. "Pizazz. Guns are bratty. They kick-back—like you." Vincent stuck out his tongue and blew raspberries at the man. Back to keeping eyes peeled was just an excuse to hide a flattered smile. "Exactly. Lasers just get a li'l warm…"
"I've been trying to figure out how to take care of the problem since my first encounter with them," Vincent explained. "They instigated turf wars between Kings and NCR back-when—got by-standers killed. Riled people up to get sales for weapons or 'protection,' but that psycho. Jean-Baptiste, just does it for fun."
Richard stopped. He stretched out the hand clutching his hat across Vincent's chest. "Well I'll be the cazador's cock—Lookit that."
Vincent's face bunched up at Richard. "What?"
Richard's shoulders swayed confidently as he clutched his belt and smirked. "Just came up with it. Like it?
"I don't think cazadors have dicks."
"They got stingers, though. Those are pretty phallic."
Vincent gave the captain a peculiar look, but Richard grinned, and it was irresistible. The way he smiled with his whole face chuckling like a little boy, then glanced away for a split second just to come back and knock the wind out of Vincent with those pine-green eyes.
"Alright, it's something." Vincent let loose a humored laugh as he admired every line winking from the corners of Richard's eyes and curving down cheeks to frame his beaming grin. At least until a knife twisted in his chest. He faced the alley with his pistol at a low ready. A habitual glance looked to his left wrist while the other hand turned black twine so the blue star on the silver side of the bottlecap faced him. Finally, he could move forward.
"You ain't goin' in there are you?"
"Well, yeah…"
"Ever heard of mole men?" Richard asked, laying his slow drawl on thick and poised himself so-matter-of-factly one might think he was an expert on mole men.
"Mole men?"
Richard threw up his hands. "How long you been here you ain't never heard about the people living under the city?"
Vincent sighed. He turned properly to Richard and stowed his pistol. He shook his head and said in a tone that resembled his mother a bit too close for comfort, "Just because they live underground doesn't make them mole people, Richard. And yes, I know of the tunnel systems under the city."
"Then you know it ain't a good idea to go in there alone."
Vincent's scared brow peaked. He gestured for Richard to go first.
"I don't wanna go in there," the captain mumbled. "Need more men, especially if we might be dealing with hired guns in a smuggle-tunnel—Hey! Why don't you send in one of them robots?"
"The securitrons?" Vincent pursed his lips. He twisted back to the vault door at the bottom of a short flight of stairs. "I guess… But where's the fun in that?"
Richard's taut lips tried to fight an oncoming smile. "More time to explore each other's smuggle-tunnels."
Vincent scoffed as he turned and started back the way they came. "You're a terrible flirt."
"Yet you keep coming back for more."
Sometimes the captain got the better of him. Like when Vincent couldn't shake the stupid look Richard was wearing all too pleased with himself.
Three securitrons stood outside the row of open doors to the Golden Nugget. Like forcing the wrong ends of a magnet together, the machines had a way of repelling people. Crowds walked around them, only acknowledging the units from a safe distance and went back to ignoring the fixtures. Two more were at the bar. Not to drink away a hard day's work but to guard a lone soul who sat waiting for the trio of suits sauntering over. Straight-faced and composed as though coming to negotiate with Vincent.
The head suit was Harrison Jones, the owner of the Nugget and a white walrus mustache that hid his lips like the sagging brows that gave him a natural poker face. The other two were nobody goons—Casino goons so at least they were dressed nicely, but they were far from professional; so much could be said in a split-second reaction without saying anything at all. Even the most curated facades could be ripped off like paper masks by the tells one's body betrays. For one goon, it was the twitch of a lip. A suppressed smirk that followed an evaluating glance of Vincent. For the other, it was looking at his partner to telepathically share the same opinion that the young man they incorrectly assumed wouldn't notice.
"I don't feel like handing over my hard-earned caps to the new-age highwayman this month."
"Your hard-earned caps?" Vincent peeled his boorish stare off the offending goon and sharpened it on Harrison Jones. Leather croaked as he leaned back, nonchalantly reclining against the bar top with an arm hanging off the edge. "Buddy, you ain't earned shit. Hand over the caps. I got better things to do with my time."
"Hah!" Harrison's stone facade cracked. "I heard the Van Graffs aren't paying taxes." He shrugged and his lower lip stuck out from the hairy mass under his rosy, pitted nose. "Why should I?"
In the high stakes games whether it was poker or the politics of New Vegas, there was always trickery. Fake tells. Bluffs. Which was exactly what Harrison was doing. Bluffing, because he wasn't coming from a place of power. Bluffs were based on assumptions, however, and Harrison's assumption was that this kid didn't know how to play poker.
Nothing ruffled Vincent's feathers more than these kinds of assumptions about him. They were an advantage as much as a disadvantage, but still… It was just plain disrespectful.
"You think you can stop me from taking it?"
The securitrons on standby at the door turned to face inside, and Harrison noticed.
"You and your two goons? Maybe you have some more in the crowd lurking nearby, but by the time their arms even jerk to aim their gun, in the second it takes to cock it, let alone even look this way, these tin-cans will have already incinerated them. And you want to know what will happen after you're ashes on the floor? You'll get swept up. Replaced with someone more cooperative. And forgotten."
After nine years setting out on his own, scraping gutters for caps as a filth laden urchin. Starving and sleepless, running from monsters disguised as charitable folk, Vincent was a man now. He earned his manhood, unlike this old cock-duster-stache pushing Vincent's shiny red button labeled detonate. After all he had accomplished, he deserved respect.
"So, you have one option, granted you actually like living. But if you want to be my first example for everyone to see how I deal with dissent—" Vincent cocked his head and bore a cheeky smile, "be my guest."
Harrison glared at the encroaching securitrons. His sneer curled up his mustache at a foul stink and revealed yellowing teeth. Elbowing one of his goons coughed up the sack they had the whole time. See, Harrison wasn't as dumb as he fronted. He was a professional player and professionals knew even they could lose. Planning for it was just smart; the reason they were pros to begin with.
A securitron grabbed the sack of caps jingling like music as Vincent slid off the stool. "Don't waste my time next month."
When Vincent first met Mr. House and each subsequent time after, he easily picked up on the man's no-nonsense attitude. Coupled with the comfortable detachment made the fossil seem aloof. Distant from the human race which he claimed to be a part of and wanted to progress. But as time went on, not only did Vincent realize this wall wasn't the fortified vault bulkhead it appeared to be. In fact, Vincent could ask any question and receive a straightforward answer—a privilege earned through loyalty and dependability—reclusiveness and eccentricity was simply how Mr. House was. There was no green felt table up in the penthouse nor a deck of cards between them. It was that fact Vincent came to appreciate, even if he didn't like Mr. House himself.
"The Freeside reclamation project has progressed as expected," Mr. House said. "The casinos and large businesses in the economic center have remained compliant since annexation. However, the Silver Rush refuses to pay taxes and follow regulations."
Van Graffs.
They were at the top of Vincent's to-do list for years. An abhorrent brother-sister duo that claimed a small gambling hall of the main street in Freeside peddling all varieties of energy weapons. Responsible for igniting turf wars between the Kings and the NCR soldiers, but that card wasn't playable anymore with a somewhat stable alliance. Now they annoyed Vincent with their mere presence—Like a zit. A heinous red pustule on the ass cheek of New Vegas he was dying to pop.
"The longer they are allowed to refuse assimilation, the more we risk our hold on Freeside. We have come so far." Ambient beeps hastened. Whirring fans hummed louder, and Mr. House's portrait flickered as if to regain composure. "We cannot afford to let this inconvenience fester into a bigger problem. Evict them."
They weren't the only proverbial blemishes on the metaphorical butt of the city. Every month on the first, and as stated in Mr. House's mandates, taxes were to be collected. Like clockwork, securitrons dispersed on the New Vegas strip, collected their loot, and returned to the Lucky 38 without issue. Freeside was different. They hadn't been under House's rule for even three full months. Luckily, the first month went off without a hitch because life in the ruthless Mojave Desert had only one rule to survival; might makes right, and the army of securitrons was overkill. However, there was one entity that refused cooperation. A painful, deep-seated cyst festering to a head…
Of course, it was Vincent who would have to address the problem. Do the dirty work of a dirty job. Cleaned up by the title of COO—chief operations officer. The other big guy, right below the CEO. Chief New Vegas Pimple Popper felt more accurate of a title. Vincent wondered if Mr. House was laughing when he left the penthouse after getting his big promotion. On the bright side, Vincent's dirty deeds weren't done dirt cheap.
The Silver Rush sat a block down from Freeside's strip and on the corner at a T-intersection. The building was a small, two-story gambling hall turned energy weapons emporium. Guarded by two thugs at the front door with more lurking inside like roaches. Kings posed themselves across the street from the shop, sharing laughs and smiles with friends as if they knew this show would end with a glorious bang that would destroy their long-time enemy. The Kings he knew by name and the ones he didn't acknowledged Vincent with a nod. At a distance behind him, sticking close to downtown's main street should they need to flee bullets or lasers, was a growing crowd. And Vincent stood in the middle of the intersection. Center stage for a role he wasn't particularly fond of.
"Let's get this over with," Vincent sighed. He reached to the securitron at his left and plucked off a receiver attached by a coiled cord. He pressed a button and his amplified voice bellowed out from the unit, "Grace period is over. Time to pay up."
The front door opened. Three hired guns exited first, flashing long laser rifles against matching black uniforms of kevlar vests and padded clothes. Then came Gloria and Jean-Baptiste. The brother-sister duo that ran the Silver Rush and that was the only notable thing about them. The gaggle lined up like a firing squad. Securitrons already reacted the moment the door opened, lining up to reveal they outnumbered their human opponents. Gloria crossed her arms and cocked her hips, wearing an amused expression under the grease smeared across her eyes. Bone charms rattled as an impatient boot tapped the sidewalk. Her shaved scalp beamed back the noon sun when she looked at her brother raising an empty burlap sack. He reached inside, rummaged around for a second then yanked out his hand, showing what was inside it all along, his middle finger.
Laughs barreled down the corridor, echoing back to Vincent and slowly pressing down on a big, shiny red button.
"That the one you finger your sister with?"
Laughter abruptly stopped. Jean-Baptiste started for Vincent but before he could get one foot on asphalt, Gloria pulled him back. "We don't have to do anything—"
"You have three days to submit mandatory taxes or face eviction."
Gloria was the level-headed one but even she took offense to being interrupted. Dark eyes shot at Vincent from across the street and she shouted, "His threats are toothless."
Vincent lowered the receiver and wrapped the securitron's steely body. "Can you take over Radio New Vegas for a message?"
"Accessing emergency broadcast override." The machine hummed and beeped, then buzzed again, "broadcast intercepted."
Freeside's strip fell silent behind him, and the whole of New Vegas followed. Eerily quiet like the days that must have followed a radioactive holocaust. Wind whistled through the streets. Distant gunfire reached across miles from the westside. Kings pushed off the wall they leaned on and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk. The crowd far behind Vincent stirred when he glanced over his shoulder to count how many gathered. Even the Van Graffs were curious what card he was going to put down.
Vincent cleared his throat. He raised the receiver again, held for a pregnant pause, then made his play. "Good afternoon fabulous New Vegas. Please excuse the interruption for an important message, specifically for the occupants of the Silver Rush—You have three days to pay mandatory taxes for this month, last month, and the month before that, payable to the nearest securitron unit. Non-compliance will result in eviction from the property, the city, your earthly bodies, or all the above. The clock starts now. Thank you for your time, and stay classy, Vegas."
Vincent hung up the receiver. He turned around, parted his securitron entourage, and marched back to his personal oasis at the top of the world. After nine years, but mostly within the last three years, Vincent learned something about respect. It wasn't given. It wasn't going to be handed to him like Harrison handed over the caps and it wasn't even earned despite what people said. Like everything else in life, it was something you had to take. And Vincent was collecting interest on the principle he was denied for too long.
—
"Y'know, I'm super nervous right now." Anderson tugged his blazer then adjusted his tie. "Like first date, kind of nervous."
Anderson grimaced watching the councilman approach the podium. Gale Barrett. Boneyard born and raised with all the corruption of the upper classes to boot. But today, Barrett would not be so selfish for once. Maybe he had a change of heart or was guilt tripped after the blistering expose in the papers, but either way, the 'ribbon-cutting' to the newest manufactory opening in the industrial district wasn't going to be an opportunity to waste. And it was nice to get out of the house, even if Lawrence had to be escorted by Anderson and company.
"I may not like the guy, but I don't approve of making change this way," Lawrence said. He wondered if Barrett's suit was paid for by the Stockman's Association too. From the back of the crowds gathered around the gates of the recommissioned factory plopped downtown, Lawrence felt easier, but he was nervous too. Not because the life of a councilman, as sleazy as he was, would be the juicy steak to lure out a deathclaw. It wasn't even the crowds that bugged him this time, although he wasn't fond of the numbers. Rather, it was the prospect of actually catching the culprits behind the chaos.
"He's going on stage any minute now," Anderson muttered pacing by Lawrence again.
For now, the councilman was safe on the ground with the cover of his security as his aids prepped for his best appearance on stage. Lawrence unwillingly counted down the minutes marked by Anderson's pacing and clutching his radio like an old lady clutching pearls. Soon boisterous words thick with false enthusiasm would hush groaning towers. Looking up at them gave Lawrence vertigo, but he powered through, scanning each window as if he could spot the smoking gun before it fired.
"Checkpoints status," Anderson spoke to his radio. Lawrence tried to decipher the muffled garble coming over the bulky headset. Anderson pulled the ears off and looked to Lawrence, "still clear. For now…"
"They won't strike from the ground," Lawrence said. He said that when they first arrived too but whether the government suits would listen to him was up for debate. His eyes wandered back up to withered skyscrapers.
"Oh, I'm getting nervous again," Anderson muttered, grabbing his stomach.
Lawrence flung his head back. Studying them this time, he asked himself where he'd make his nest. Frankly, in this area of downtown, he'd have plenty of places to choose from. Most buildings here were still under construction or hadn't even been zoned yet. No occupants. No resistance. Mazes of floors to lose pursuers in. It wouldn't take much to break in, but there were only so many vantage points close enough to make a sure kill. Not too close. That'd make for a difficult get-away—and, if the killers were who he thought they were, they should know there would be security. Especially after the last hit. They would want a confirmed kill. No fuckups this time, and for a ranger, an unconfirmed kill was a big fuck-up. He turned his back to the stage and looked dead ahead at the end of T-shaped street. A condemned hotel. Probably a luxury in its hey-day but now it housed rats, vagrants, and potentially a sniper.
"Anderson," Lawrence elbowed the man. "You have anyone patrolling that building?"
"On the ground—Should I even ask what you're thinking? Do I wanna know?" Anderson hushed his voice to a whisper and leaned to Lawrence, "can I live with not knowing?"
"If I were going to kill Barrett, that would be where I make my hit from."
Lawrence looked at the younger man. Monkey-suit sighed. Mumbling about regretting this under his breath, he clipped the radio to his belt and exchanged hushed whispers with present security detail.
And it was over to a decaying hotel suspended on iron stilts. Leaned on by an unwanted confidant of concrete and rebar, it bulged in the middle floors. Stains of time seeped in black streaks down the smooth facade of sharp angles and bold geometric reliefs. Rotted plywood boarded empty art-deco sockets. Windows lay shattered on the sidewalk, mixing in with wind-blown garbage and the weeds springing up in cracks split by centuries of earthquakes. Taking the rotating doors chained closed and marked with a city-ordinance wasn't a clever idea for a would-be assassin, so Lawrence led Anderson around the building. Through the crumbling garage thick with cement dust and corroded vehicles crushed beneath the rubble, where they found the old Boneyard's vagrants in a private city of tents and tarps. The two waded unnoticed among chem-fried brains preaching the end of times to those lost in throws of ghoulification. At the end of the neo-apocalypse was the tertiary entrance to the hotel Lawrence had come to expect studying New Vegas's layout.
The boards keeping everything, but its intended target out lay broken in splintered, disintegrating pieces upon a moth-eaten runner in a long, dark hallway.
Anderson audibly gagged. "What is that smell?"
"Rat piss," Lawrence shrugged. "Rat shit too. Dead rats—Lots of rats… Could also be human—"
"I get it."
Lawrence stepped inside. Anderson followed behind him but not without grumbling complaints fighting off dust-laden webs.
"You got a light?"
Anderson finally shut up for the few seconds it took for him to find the flashlight stowed in a suit pocket. Lawrence beamed the light down the corridor then on the runner. He traced the boot-tread left in the bed of dust. One set of tracks.
"We need to guard any way out."
Anderson peeped over the taller man's shoulder. Complaints revved up again and he yanked the radio off his belt.
"Let me go ahead," Lawrence turned to Anderson before he could even press a button.
"What?" The monkey-suit retorted as if Lawrence just insulted his mother. "No, we get back up—"
"Anderson, I know how a ranger thinks. Operates. I know all the tricks. I can catch up to them before they try to kill Barrett. You need to guard this exit until we can get back up."
Anderson sighed. He pursed his lips and conceded, "Fine. Take my spare gun." Before Lawrence could take the pistol, Anderson grabbed him by his wrist. "Don't make me regret this. Like, seriously. I really don't like my boss. If hear another one of his stupid, outdated, geezer-bullshit spiels I am going to shoot myself—"
"Anderson, buddy. I need to stop an assassin."
"Right." Lawrence checked the pistol's safety. A disappointed glare flickered on Anderson as he muttered, "maybe the spiels are warranted sometimes…"
The silence is what got to him in places like these. His own breaths echoed around him. Ears homed in on his own heartbeat just to assure they still worked. The lightest steps tapped on endless cold tiles. Following boots prints up a wide set of creaking stairs lead Lawrence to a maze of rooms spanning several floors. On every floor the track led to the room with a street view, and then back to the stairs. Each one was identical to the last, save for those hosting desiccated corpses keeping their worldly possessions safe for all eternity. Ancient wallpaper curled in strips on walls concealing broken pipes. Tarnished fixtures hanging from clouded brass reliefs by threads pulled on warped ceilings. Moth eaten curtains tricked Lawrence's eyes in the dark. Still, he felt their eyes on him. The ghosts of those that died in this hotel haunted him the same as a ghost he pursued.
Ringing ears hushed when his heart thumped faster. Sweaty palms lapped up layers of dust turning the banister and he began the hike up one more floor. Termite eaten planks whined under his weight. Every grating wail begged a question he couldn't answer. He paused three steps from the top. Peering over, eyes followed tread prints to the room across the hall and through the open door. He readied the pistol. Waited for hard breaths to calm then he crept across the hall. Flushed against the wall, Lawrence peeked inside a master suite.
Misty windows cast dim light on faded red velvet. Frayed curtains hung terribly stagnant in the stillness. The ornate living room set in the center of the foyer faded to powdery gray. Muzzle first, Lawrence pressed onward. He was used to the stale, musty air by now which is why he noticed a scent that stood out. He made a sharp turn to a chevron-sunburst arch leading in the bedroom. Sun bleached drapes bloomed at the open window staring down the asphalt strait. Gold tassels lingered like the hair of a ghost as the breeze died. Thin curtains remained like a veil of mist, obscuring the shadow on the other side.
Lawrence froze.
Feet refused to move even at his legs' demand. The figure turned its head. Sable crescents peered from the black. Sun-kissed skin as sweat glistened as the ten-story hike had made Lawrence, peeked through the reveal of his coverings. In the killer's arms, was a rifle. One both men could easily command with deadly accuracy.
And Lawrence was frozen.
The pistol was a shaking black blot in his eyes because he couldn't break the stare he held with the man kneeling at the window. But the man didn't move either. Still like a timid deer hoping the predator couldn't see it, or perhaps he was waiting for Lawrence to make his play. Time itself stood still. Lawrence knew it only passed by feeling droplets streaming down his temples. By the sting of eyes that refused to blink for fear the man was really just an apparition that would vanish once more.
He swallowed a dry throat. A rigid shake of his head refused to acknowledge the delusion. It couldn't be—
A stampede thumped up the stairs. Lawrence looked to the door; Anderson's agents would be at the top of the stairs any second—He had to know—Legs moved first to the man. His head followed, but he stopped in his tracks.
Gone.
Running deeper in the suite to a gaping hole blasted through the far wall, Lawrence darted after the man. He choked on dust and vapors. Eyes batted away thick particles. Jumping over debris and sagging floors, he struggled to keep up through the maze. Looking for boot prints in the dust no longer helped. Debris obscured his path. The chase brought Lawrence back to the main hallway. Doors that weren't open before led a zig-zagging trail through scattered daylight. Another stairwell lay at the far end. But the trail went cold long before that. Silenced by the chorus of agents Anderson led to the top of the stairs.
"He's here," Lawrence choked out. Anderson rushed to him, urging more out of the ranger, but all the words Lawrence could manage were pleas to take him alive.
—
Distilled to their most basic needs, humans like to feel safe. The strip was the safest place to be in New Vegas—the most fun too. Of course, there were problems… Pickpockets were common, every day occurrences remedied by a healthy sense of one's surroundings and company. At the most extreme end, suits were the likeliest of candidates for murder. That happened infrequently though. Despite Mr. House's appreciation for Vegas and its long seedy history, he'd prefer his employees negotiate their problems with words rather than bullets. Good being help is hard to find on the frontier and whatnot.
Freeside's own little strip was on par with the one- and-only. Stray about two to three blocks away and you were on your own. Literally. Securitrons guarded economic interests and there wasn't much beyond that invisible boundary, not yet. Curiously though, what made those areas precarious was also what made dense centers relatively safe. Because what inhabited the city was the most dangerous of predators. Hiding behind decaying facades. Out of sight, waiting to pounce like a deathclaw.
People.
People were the greatest allies and the worst enemies. Being who he was, Vincent had a knack for collecting enemies as one desires to collect chips at the tables. Lucky for him, however, wastelanders were largely incompetent. Too poor to hoard ammo for training their aim or buying weaponry to rival his personal arsenal and subsequently didn't have the scruples to claim anything that might give them the upper hand. The more daring types like raider gangs were so mentally fried from copious amounts of chemicals injected, inhaled, or inserted into orifices in hopes of a quicker high that they simply could not be anymore of a threat than a persistent scorpion. Dangerous, yes, but not as much as organized people. Like the Van Graff thugs who had followed Vincent to the Mormon Fort.
Dirt patina canvas flaps fought their bindings. Julie was talking about the Followers latest operations, settling into her new office, and perhaps a celebration for all the chins hairs Vincent grew just to stroke while lost deep in thought as he stared beyond the Mormon Fort's courtyard.
"Hm?" Index finger and thumb paused as he looked at her.
Julie laughed. "What's it like?"
"What? Having facial hair now?"
"Does it get itchy or bother you?" Julie asked, scratching her own imaginary beard.
"Not at all," Vincent chuckled. "Shaving every other day is annoying."
Julie hummed. Bright eyes squinted on Vincent. "Y'know, it kind of looks like how…" Her playful expression faded. The ranger lingered in the most innocuous ways. "It suits you, Vincent."
Vincent smiled and nodded. "I'll see you later."
He donned his sunglasses stepping into the sun. It only took a second in the heat to want to retreat to the shade. Heavy wood doors forever opened framed the blocks across the street like a painting. Except things moved in this one. Men in black. Boxy laser rifles in their clutches. Stocks flashed like silver as they advanced to their next cover. The two securitrons guarding adobe walls noticed them before Vincent but two wouldn't be enough. With eyes watching the men's cover Vincent tapped at his pip-boy and turned a dial.
He knocked on the metal dome concealed in his hat then started across red sand to his bike leaning by the flagpole. Keeping his eyes across the street, he freed a submachine gun from the backseat holster. A daring soul peeked from his cover. Vincent turned on his heels and marched to the gate.
"We got trouble," Vincent announced passing the guards' station. "Dead ahead."
Their caravan game scattered. The two guards took position at their sand-bag cover. The ghoull-ette lead called for her backup wandering the courtyard. Vincent crossed the sand threshold for asphalt streets. The two securitrons joined his stand. In his peripherals, four more more units rolled his way at top speed. In the thick of tension, a faint squeal carried along the concrete jungle. High pitched, but not loud. It was distinct. Climbing higher and higher until reached beyond audible frequency. An electronic buzz only energy weapons made.
"Advance," Vincent ordered. "Stun if you have the opportunity."
Tread spat up dust as six securitron units sped forward. Three pronged claws stretched out in unison. Utility arms transformed and mini-gatling barrels emerged. Two lines jumped from both sides of the pavement. Neon beams flashed. EMPs burst in brilliant white. Hostiles dispersed in the haze.
When they reappeared through the smoke, Vincent unleashed lead rain. Bullet riddled legs disintegrated. Blood spurt from torn flesh. Two men died, and Vincent's eyes only stung a bit fighting the glare of red strobes. Hot on the remaining three's trail, a lone securitron unit ignited flesh and bone in blue fire. Ash lingered in the air for a second before gracelessly falling in the street's cracks. Smoke wandered off and revealed all six securitrons survived, and with three Van Graff thugs in custody.
Vincent turned back to the fort. He would have considered it a victory had lasers not set tents ablaze or singed bystanders. Before their rifles stopped smoking, the guards jumped to action to assist the doctors amidst the shrieks. Vincent barked orders at his machines. They'd be able to put out those fires faster than human hands but nothing could calm the rage that burned cold in the young man for as long as he could remember.
Throttling his bike to full speed, Vincent raced to downtown Freeside. The roaring engine screamed for him. Sputters growled for pedestrians to jump out of the way. Once he hit the thick of the crowd under a neon canopy, the thunder storm was on foot, conscripting his robot army on the march to the Silver Rush. Every step rewound a conversation in his head as tread slapped the sidewalk. Standing before Mr. House's portrait. An eternally neutral expression towered over him.
However you do so, know it will be used as an example for any future non-compliance.
Before he knew it, flesh and blood joined Vincent's mechanical entourage. Kings strutting over like they already won.
"What's going on, man?" Rocky caught up to Vincent's side.
"Game's over," Vincent stated. "I'm dealing with the Van Graffs now."
Same as the first time he visited the Silver Rush, two guards stood outside the door. When Vincent halted the march, securitrons spread out like a wall on either side of him. One after the other closed ranks and surrounded the block. Behind them Kings gathered for a view, and lined up for their pound of flesh as well.
Vincent knocked on the unit next to him, "we're going on air again."
The unit beeped and as soon as it confirmed access to radio New Vegas, Vincent yanked off the receiver. The first rule of warfare is to never underestimate the enemy. The other first rule of warfare is to win.
He cleared his throat.
"Good afternoon fabulous New Vegas. Guess who?"
Vincent's voice echoed through the Freeside strip behind him. A second of silence pushed his audience to the edge of their seats, or so he liked to imagine.
"Coming to you live from the Silver Rush, on the corner of fuck around street and find out avenue. While we may be the incomparable, incredible, and exceptional Sin-City, there are some things you just do not do here." Salacious and thick with a kind of cockiness reaped by experience and enough to lure out just who he wanted to see. "Attacking civilians, already injured and ailed, seeking help from the selfless Followers of the Apocalypse, and then to turn your lasers on those charitable doctors is very high on my list of offenses."
Vincent turned heel and resumed his anxious pace. Eyes glared under black lenses at the three captives forced to their knees.
"Not only did you attack the defenseless, start actual fires, and kill civilians, you sent a bunch of thugs to do your dirty work. What's the matter Jean-Baptiste? Mr. Zero-to-Murder can't be bothered to show up? Gloria, I thought even you'd want to make sure the job is done right. I don't even have a mark on me."
Vincent turned his glare to the Van Graffs and their hired guns on the stoop. All of them. He didn't bother to count though. They were unmatched against an army that did not bleed.
"See, Gloria, Jean-Baptiste, your first mistake wasn't calling my bluff. It was assuming I am bluffing to begin with. You upped the ante and made this personal. My offer is rescinded."
Vincent lowered the receiver and silenced the feed for a moment. "Rocky," he waved the King's man forward. Without wasting a second Rocky slipped through the securitron wall. "See these three here? Consider them a gift to the Kings. Do whatever you want with them, preferably where their masters can see from." With a cock of his head, the three scowling thugs vanished where help wouldn't get to them.
Vincent resumed his announcement when the beatings began.
"Cut the power."
Designated units dispersed from the wall. The mercenaries raised their arms but it was all posturing as evident by the lack of orders from Gloria.
"Shut off the water."
The robots closed in on the property, slipping behind the building, and swarming the adjacent vacant properties to gather on rooftops .
"Anyone who tries to leave is to be killed on sight. Anyone who tries to enter is to be killed on sight. Anyone who attempts to assist the Van Graffs will be strung up on a telephone pole and I'll watch the crows eat you alive while I'm sipping strawberry margarita. You should've quit while you were ahead."
Vincent stopped his pacing. An infuriating smirk crossed his face with a final remark, "the house always wins."
Jean-Baptiste whispered to his sister, surely asking what to do now. She only raised a hand in response. She had an ace up her sleeve after all.
Leaving the King's place, he had no choice but to stare down the Baron's Bull. Through the wandering crowds and chatter, he couldn't see Wayne, but part of him felt the old man's watching him. He crossed the wide path for the casino but on the way lost steam and stopped in the doors. Wayne set his half-emptied glass on the bar top. White froth clung to its sides, slowly creeping down the sweat on Vincent's back. Feeling eyes on him, Wayne looked to the doors. Peppered brows rose in unison with his beer. Vincent clanked over to the bar, his head bowed, and climbed up on his stool. Hands clasped each other on the waxy countertop. His eyes were fixed on the blue star held around his wrist because he couldn't look at Wayne.
He wondered if he could look to his left if it was Lawrence sitting there. How was it that someone who had been gone for two years had a habit of popping up in his life. Yet, as intimately as he knew the ranger, Vincent couldn't string together what the man might say or think. Wayne he could. Wayne always wanted him to be better. Which was why his heart was pounding out of his chest.
"So, when you gonna tell me about what's goin' on?"
"I know…" Vincent sighed. "I know you won't like how I'm handling the situation, but honestly, Wayne, do I have a choice? When they attacked the Followers just to get to me—I realized people like the Van Graffs, their thugs, all the outlaws we've rustled, they only respond to force."
"Seems like you made up your mind 'bout what I think without actually gettin' the facts, son." Wayne looked at him. Thick brows wrinkled his forehead drawn together not in anger but in concern. "Truth is, yeah, I wish there were better ways. But I don't have any alternatives to give you." He reached over to Vincent. His thick hand rest on the young man's shoulder and affectionately squeezed. Vincent finally looked at the old cowboy and Wayne's expression flattened. His voice lowered as their eyes met. "When you have real enemies, you deal with them swiftly and ruthlessly."
"I'm…" Vincent blinked. He stumbled over his words, unsure if he heard that correctly. "I'm surprised you'd think that."
"I learned a long time ago, some kinds of people are beyond the grace of clemency. You were just shown what that looks like today."
—
"Okay!" Anderson let out an exasperated sigh. Seems he found the courage to say whatever was on his mind wandering aimlessly around Linda's living room. Straightening his tie and then clutching his belt, he bellowed out, "So, now I think is a good time to disclose some information I was withholding—for good reason."
Linda exchanged glances with Lawrence joining the two in the living room. She set down a hot cup of coffee on the table and received a warm smile from the former ranger in return. Clutching her skirt, she sat next to him on the sofa and blew on her own cup.
"At the start of this investigation, I sent out an agent to be my eyes on the ground. Y'know—look into things as one might being a person drawn to Clint's cause like a moth to flame," Anderson explained. The young man nervous fidgeting with his hands and rotated through exaggerated expression. "Progress was slow, but a couple weeks ago he told me he may have infiltrated one of their cells in the Boneyard. He overheard one of the guys mention they were headed back to the giants." Dark brows rose as he sheepishly looked at Lawrence and Linda. "Ring a bell?"
Lawrence looked at the woman next to him who had an equally profound expression. Linda exhaled. She crossed her legs and leaned forward to set her mug on a doily.
"We had a sort of hazing ritual we did," Linda started. "In a place like the Mojave, the rangers become your family. And to formally join the family, the senior rangers like Clint and I would organize a 'party.' We would take our group and the new prospect out for fun and then pretend to kidnap them, although the prospect wouldn't' know it was us. Anyway, we brought them back to a safe house where we'd inform them not only are they officially a ranger now, but they're family and explain what the safehouse is. This would all happen in the Valley of Giants."
"You guys would really do that?" Anderson looked at them like they were crazy. "Cause that sounds awful."
"It's not that bad," Lawrence balked.
"imagine trying to wrangle this guy?" Linda laughed clutching her stomach. "I still remember that punch to the guy."
"Okay, well that explain that—" Anderson paused sensing a new lead. "Why is that place relevant?"
"If these people are who Lawrence and I think they are, then that's where they're operating from," Linda explained. "Only a select few people know about that place. And two are with you right now."
Anderson quickly sat himself on the loveseat. Had any of Linda's cookie been in reach, the lanky young man would be shoveling them in his mouth in anticipation. "Who do you think is up to all this?"
"I can tell you one I know for sure," Lawrence said. His expression soured and shoulders slumped. He held his head up by his chin doing the unthinkable. "Clint Decker."
"Oh,"' Anderson leaned back, rather unimpressed with the answer. "It can't be him. I looked into his little rebellion at the dam and him and all his people except you are K.I.A. Their tags and charred bodies were found not to far from Fortification Hill. Deep in the in Legion camp. Mounds of legions soldiers around them," Anderson said far too enthusiastically. "Pretty baller way to go out right?"
"Oh, Anderson," Linda chuckled. "Sweetie."
"What?"
"It's bullshit," Lawrence corrected. "Him and everyone of those rangers survived the initial battle, went to the Legion camp, survived that too, and then we all started south to hunt down survivors. I was with them, remember?"
"Yeah, but…" Anderson went white. "They set you free."
"I was with them for months."
"So, we definitely solved the who-dunnit part of the mystery," Linda cut in. "Now, you just need to go find them."
"I wouldn't count on anything soon," Anderson said. Still sullen, he deflated in the loveseat. "I got to get the bureaucracy involved before we can even step foot in the valley."
"Don't we have treaties with the tribes there?" Lawrence shrugged. "It was never a problem visiting back in the day."
"We do," Anderson said. "But, it's a gray area for the NCR. Say the word government and it's like putting a curse on them or something. Indio, Palm Springs, Hot Springs, and all them might tussle with each other from now and then, but the moment NCR suits like me show up, as handsome as I am, they'll put their differences aside."
"Vegas has nothing on how seedy the Valley is," Lawrence said. "Place is more like a black hole, than a black market. We just have to blend in. The safe house isn't even in any of their settlements."
"I get it but…" Anderson's lips thinned. "We have to go by the book. The bureau would rather not start more investigations into the republic's growing list of messes, especially if it's something we started." He laughed, "the irony in that report would be gut-busting, though."
Lawrence remained on the sofa while Linda puttered around the kitchen, gathering a generous helping of her latest baking experiments to unload on Anderson before he left. He heard their laughs and conversation, but didn't listen. Eyes lingered on the black rings at the bottom of a pastel blue coffee mug but didn't look at it. He was about a hundred miles east where Clint slapped Lawrence's back in a fatherly sort of way, smiling proudly, and Lawrence wondered if it was always a lie.
Linda closed the front door.
"Do you think they'd hole up at the safe house?"
She looked at Lawrence, but the man was still miles and years away. Linda joined him on the sofa. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt then clasped hands together atop her knees but still couldn't find anything to say. Before Lawrence arrived on her doorstep, Linda knew Lawrence as a loaded gun. He was always ready to put up a fight. Take off faster than a bullet. Only the endless skies scraped by the jagged Sierra Nevada peaks and a desert so beautifully hostile yet teeming with life could ever make him stop and that was just to breathe in its awe. That ranger was still in there beneath a pale complexion and hunched posture staring listlessly at the painting on the wall that could only hope to capture the true beauty of the Mojave on its canvas.
"Given the information we have, it looks like it, but I don't really know him anymore, do I?"
"I've been wondering how much help he's had."
Linda tilted her head. "Sounds like it's the same rangers you were with at the dam."
"No, I mean higher up than that." Lawrence turned his head to Linda but his eyes remained low. "When I was at Forlorn Hope, Clint sent me out to deliver new codes to the ranger stations, and also look into some unusual reports. Long story short, Chief Hanlon was manipulating these reports when they reached him."
Linda's brows rose. Her eyes blinked rapidly. "Very long story short. You know for sure it was Hanlon?"
"I confronted him about it. He confessed and told me why he did it." Lawrence looked back into his empty mug hanging on his hand by its handle. "He felt holding on to the Mojave would be death by a thousand cuts for the republic. Believed the war was a waste, and frankly, I shared his beliefs. I just don't know if he's involved with what Clint's doing here."
"I find it hard to believe Chief Hanlon would support cold-blooded murder."
Lawrence looked up. His eyes finally wandered to Linda's as he sighed. "I do too, but like you said, we don't really know them anymore, do we?"
—
Sweltering concrete danced like a heat stroked mad man on the shores of a mirage. Squinting from the cool side of the glass window, Vincent still felt the sun. Overhead power lines had long since given into the heat and sway lifelessly, caught by the slightest breeze trying to revive them. Transformers glared back at the sun, and any daring to look at them too. Buildings in all states of decay scattered the outskirts of Vegas, sweating their brick facades and stucco reliefs, and one of those gray blots was the Silver Rush. Miles away from his vantage point in the Oasis, he followed Las Vegas Boulevard until eyes met the glaring metal canopy over Freeside's strip, then took a sharp left turn off a narrow side street and stopped at the next block.
The heat got to everyone, and everything out here. One can go months without food. Days though, when you ate good to begin with, well, that's when the mental hunger sets in. Like cutting off a junkie cold turkey, it's physically painful. Drives a man to insanity watching the body waste away, but Vincent anticipated the Van Graffs would have food and water stores. It would only delay the inevitable. They'd die of dehydration first. That was a special kind of hell out here.
Naked warmth pressed Vincent's back. Hands squeezed Vincent's shoulders, pulling the young man into a sweat-damp embrace. Keeping his eyes closed and letting his head fall back into the man's chest, he imagined it was Lawrence. Vincent lightly combed the back of his nails along the dense hairs on his lover's forearm, putting them all back into place, but when Richard kissed him, when he inhaled the mercenary's scent was when the illusion would fall apart.
Just once was all he needed. To see the ranger again. Talk to him. Hear his voice. Hear Lawrence's heartbeat with an ear against his pillowy chest, hugged in an embrace only that one man could give.
It wasn't that he needed to pretend Richard was Lawrence. The mercenary captain had grown on him in the past few years, but it wasn't to be anything more than that. That was their mutual agreement. A treaty signed on even ground and founded in something they both had in common. However, they shared looks that lingered on one another every so often. Smiles hinted at a suggestion to consider something more. What began as lust-driven rendezvous didn't quite lose its spark, but there certainly was more to the testosterone-fueled release feeling sweat-slicked and bare skin of another man pressed to one another, lips caressing glistening necks with pleased breath, and hands locked above their heads.
"What's on your mind?"
Vincent coiled a lock of Richard's loose brunet waves around his finger. Green eyes seemed to turn blue under the noon light pouring through the pair of corner windows.
"Before…" Vincent mumbled. His gaze weakened on the man, falling to study the pattern of hair that bloomed outward from the center of Richard's chest and only covered him half-way. In his peripherals, Vincent saw his own. Rather the gauze concisely wound about his shrunken chest to hide it. "A couple years ago, I could never imagine, or conceive of the things I'm doing. For better or worse—Do you think I went too far?"
"Too far?" Richard departed for the bed where his clothes lay on mangled sheets. "Dropping a nuke on 'em might be too far—No! Deathclaw army." Richard nodded, pointing at Vincent. "Gotta remember that one."
"I wasn't just thinking about preventing a catastrophe," Vincent said. "I wanted to humiliate them. I wanted them to suffer for what they've done."
The captain chuckled. "Your radio show certainly did that."
"What if..." Vincent's voice softened. Richard raised a brow at the unusually weak tone, but as soon as he looked at the younger man, any confidence in Vincent to confess a sin shriveled up.
"Look, Vincent," Richard sat down after pulling his underwear back on. "Ain't nobody gonna miss them. Nothin' to miss yet anyway. I'm no good with the philosophical stuff, if you're asking me if the ends justify the means."
"Do you consider that stuff as a mercenary?"
"It might surprise you that I do," Richard said, pulling pant legs on. He jumped up baring a proud smile. "I'm not any ol' slut. I got rules, alright?" Vincent managed a weak laugh. "About the ends and the means, though. I got rules of engagement like any good merc. But it's just that." Richard shrugged. "I'm a mercenary. I'm not trying to build a city or manage one."
"I always wondered what makes someone like Caesar. Or even Mr. House." Vincent shrugged. He gathered his own clothes haphazardly strewn across the suite floor. "He's just another kind of tyrant…"
"Y'know that sayin'..." Richard wagged his finger slowly strutting over to Vincent. His shirt was slung over a shoulder because he liked to neglect putting it on as long as possible. "You think it's a go-big-or-go-home type of a deal. I think it's a question you oughta ask yourself which can also be worded as; can you live with your means?"
Vincent hummed. His eyes wandered to the dresser they stood by, briefly glancing at the mirror of the same width hanging above it, but it was the sarsaparilla bottle cap wound on black twine he was looking at. Years ago, Vincent asked Lawrence a similar question and got Lawrence's answer just as he got one from Richard. But words were words; speculation was only speculation. They meant nothing without action. Much like the threats in a letter given to Vincent signed by Frieda Van Graff sent all the way from Redding, Shasta, New California Republic.
Wayne handed the long-traveled paper back to Vincent while the young man eagerly watched the bartender empty a frozen slurry of pink soda into a generously sized glass. The letter was originally sent to the Silver Rush but was redirected to the Lucky 38 where it would have ended up anyway and dropped off by a bewildered courier hoping he wasn't caught up in something that would get him shot in the head.
"Hubris runs in the family," Vincent observed but the sparkle in his eyes was fixed in the strawberry margarita in the work. "She really thinks she has any leverage here."
"Pride is one of those traits that lasts till death," Wayne said.
"I'm going to frame this and mount it to the Silver Rush's front door."
"What did I just say about pride? This ain't the end of that."
Vincent hummed. Taking the first sip graced his taste buds with ice cold sweet and fizzy slurry. "Oh, that's good." He let out a long-satisfied sigh. "I'll keep the securitrons on alert and tell the King to expect something. I have a feeling she sent this because she hasn't gotten anything from the Silver Rush since I sealed it off."
"Speakin' of," Wayne peaked a graying brow and stroked his beard, "think they might be willing to talk now?"
Vincent chuckled. "You're more optimistic than I am."
On the outside, the Silver Rush looked the same. Except for those guards—they were gone. Trapped inside along with at least fifteen others, and as for that ace up Gloria Van Graff's sleeve… Well, that ace won't be much help when the game was rigged by a securitron that welded their last resort shut.
The line held firm around the building. Watching. Observing. Reporting. Spectators visited expecting a show like the one they got a couple days ago when one of Van Graff's cronies attempted to escape. He now hung from the roof; a crispy strip of bacon flapping in the breeze for the crows to snack on. Now those impatient tourists left without any climax. Kings stayed longer hurling taunts, insults, or pulling up chairs just to drink water and cold Nuka-Cola.
Vincent stood in the front line. He perused a vest pocket, plucking out a thin silver case and a lighter at once. "Any life signs?"
"Scanning," the securitron buzzed. "Visual spectrum: negative. Infrared spectrum: insufficient."
"Elaborate." Vincent opened the case, plucking out a single cigarillo, and pinching it between his lips.
"Infrared optics unable to penetrate walls."
He took in the cigarillo's first breath and held the smoke in his mouth. A mild sweetness lingered on his tongue and clung to his lips like a departing kiss. "Guess we better check it out then."
Scant yellow peaked through gaps in the windows tarnish. Dust glittered passing in honed columns of light cast on a showroom floor. An expansive collection of energy weapons hung on wall racks; laser rifles, energy pistols… On a U-shaped table where the transactions took place, bins held EMPs, plasma grenades, and the ammunition one would need for the fancy futuristic weapons. And across from that, armor that would at least mitigate their effects. Ironically, these weapons could rival machinery like securitrons and other robots. Yet it sat blanketed in fine dust. Not a piece out of place. Two securitrons stopped a stairwell on the far end of the showroom floor. Their bulky bodies shrunk, absorbing the length of their single axle until only half a tire showed. Three angled claws on each of their arms closed together to make a flat surface. Then the two parted ways, climbing up or down the respective stairwell at a frighteningly fast pace for such a heavy thing.
The third stood at a door not too far from the stairs with its back to a one-way mirror adjacent to an office door. The door stood ajar, a chipped hole where its knob used to be, and the knob itself lay on the floor by the machine that plucked it from its socket like an eye. Vincent pushed open the door with the toe of his boot. Hinges croaked. Half-expecting its owners to be inside, Vincent carefully peeked around the door frame. Heavy steps thudded scraped wood floors. An unimpressed expression evaluated a desk lined up to the one-way mirror watching the showroom floor. Papers remained where they were left a week ago. Turning around he met a second desk that hosted a terminal. Underneath its surface was a blot far too dark to be a natural shadow. The black screen watched Vincent descend into the cubby hole.
So far there were no traps in the Silver Rush. It was as if the siblings figured they'd be back to work as usual in a short time. Cold metal met his palm. "Hey, Rust-Bucket," Vincent bellowed out from under the desk. "Come here."
The securitron wheeled to the door frame. The machine paused for a second then turned to its side and rotated its wheel independently to crab-roll inside. Meanwhile Vincent already pulled the desk from the wall, smiling pridefully because he didn't need to move one thing off the heavy slab of metal to do so.
"Object of interest detected on basement level," the securitron announced.
Taken by a more interesting prospect, Vincent started for the basement as he bellowed for the robot to get the safe open. The two scouting securitrons joined him in the basement. Guided by their bright white lights, Vincent crept down the narrow flight of stairs. Cold dust lingered in the air. Sharp shadows focused. Crates stacked from floor to ceiling took up most of the basement. Bold black paint listed their contents, but that wasn't what Vincent was interested in. It was a vault door shining the securitrons lights back at them.
Vincent retrieved his own light as his other hand signaled to the door. "Take the wheel," he kept his voice low. "Do not open until I say so."
The securitrons each extended one arm to the door's wheel. Metal claws tightened around the curve. Soles scraped concrete floors. Standing at the door, silence returned to the chilly basement. Vincent pressed an ear to the door. Fuzzy ringing relented to his heart gaining speed. Nothing stirred on the other side, so he knocked.
"Marcel?" A muffled voice penetrated dense steel.
"Nope!" Vincent shouted back. "He's dead. Guess again?"
Steel locks groaned. The securitrons' grip refused to let it make a full revolution. Half a foot thick metal hushed arguing voice. Muffled words hushed and Gloria's voice returned. "Look, we can negotiate." While her tone of desperation wasn't crystal clear, a smile still crossed Vincent's face. "You want a cut—"
"You had your chance to negotiate." Vincent's smile turned to a grin feeling the vibrations of a deeper voice reach new, commanding lows. "It's time to reap what you sow."
Richard was right about one thing. Vincent needed to ask a question, but it wasn't the one the mercenary captain thought it was. He cocked his head staring at the silver door. Futile fists struck from the other side. Pounding relentlessly, over, and over, while a chorus of voices begged to be let out. They weren't asking the right question either.
At that moment, Vincent asked himself whether he should let them out. But Wayne was right; they didn't deserve mercy. Caesar didn't deserve mercy. Benny didn't deserve mercy. There were many people out in the wilds of the wastelands, in the city of New Vegas, and far beyond the Colorado that didn't deserve mercy either. Hammering fists reminded him of the ruthless part Wayne mentioned. That was the part he felt a question hiding in a fine smokey mist, or behind the thick metal hushing voices screaming to be let out; was he beginning to like that part of the job?
True, there was an exhilarating rush enacting revenge on those who wronged him. A kind of satisfaction only derived from destroying an enemy and watching it play out before him. He learned that years ago from a certain dictator fallen from grace, so perhaps he always enjoyed that before it really was a part of his work. Then the real question was: Was it okay for him to revel in it?
That he didn't know. Vincent turned his back to the vault door. He would think about it though. Leaving the basement and starting up the stairs, he did know he could live with letting them die in there. He could live with returning a week later to free the corpses trapped in the tunnel. Cut off a finger from Gloria and Jean-Baptiste as he flinched at the cracking bone. Then hang all of them up alongside the first who tried to escape and let the crows pick them clean. Write a concise and short warning to their mother that went something like this: Dear Frieda, send any more of your spawn and I'll kill them. Step foot in Vegas, and the Van Graffs end with you. P.S. I sent you a little something. Would you like me to send the rest?
He could live with that.
—
Lawrence took his position at the corner post of the front yard's fence. Linda sauntered freely down the sidewalk for her destination, but Lawrence was homed in on the pair eyes peeping through the spread blinds next door. He had an informal introduction to this specific neighbor because as Lawrence soon learned, every Wednesday the stout goblin emerged from his cave to water his weeds. The sole purpose of this ritual was for nothing more than to sneer at Linda's visitors and spew a variety of insults at the women. Miss Tiffany, much like Lawrence, did not take kindly to this. Whereas Tiffany gladly slung back her own colorful rebuttals, Lawrence was more of jump-the-fence-and-get-in-his-face kind of guy. So now every Wednesday, Lawrence had his own ritual to stand in the far corner of Linda's yard scoping out the enemy fortress should there be any unwanted advances.
While today wasn't Wednesday and Linda had no visitors, she did have a mission. A plate of cookies for the recently settled neighbors on the other side of the goblin's swampy cave that needed to be delivered. The peeper's squint found Lawrence's crosshairs aimed on him and promptly withdrew.
"Hello, Ms. McBeal!" A little pony-tailed brunette hopped up from her playground in a patch of dirt on a spotty lawn. Her face lit up glancing at the plate in Linda's hands. "Did you bring cookies?"
"Hi Ruthie!" Linda beamed back as she knelt to the girl's level. "I made your favorite."
"He's not very friendly. Gave me and Rachel the side-eye first day we got here." Lawrence spun around. A man appeared from beyond browning hedges, out for a stroll it appeared. He raised a friendly hand and said, "Hello."
Lawrence returned the gesture. Wearing a red and white jacket on his shoulder like a hanger made him thinner than he probably was under a plain shirt and jeans. As the man drew closer, gaunt features focused. However, his friendly smile convinced Lawrence he was no threat even as attentive eyes met Lawrence's yet felt miles away. "You're Linda's friend?"
"I am."
"I'm William, but I go by Billy," he said. "My wife and daughter just moved in over there."
Lawrence squeezed his eyes shut at a sudden surge in his head. "Lawrence," he quickly said, raising an open hand to the man on the other side of the fence. Billy eagerly reached to shake Lawrence's hand. Both men froze and looked at the stump that was Billy's left arm.
"Sorry." Billy chuckled at his gaff and his arm, amputated just a bit below the elbow, quickly retreated to the cover of the jacket hanging on his shoulders. "I'm still getting used to it. Shrapnel bomb took it—I heard you and Linda used to be rangers."
"Yes." Lawrence swallowed and noticed his mouth was drier than Mojave dirt. The surge struck him again like the explosion of a grenade. Blinking away the blinding lights left an iridescent impression of a rooftop view. A sparkling river split a town in southern Nevada. "I-It's nice to meet you."
They finally shook hands properly. William tilted his head, looking strangely at the color washing away from Lawrence's face, "Are you ok?"
His voice faded as their handshake slowed. Lawrence's own was muffled when he repeated the name. He flinched at the third explosion.
"Hey, can I have my hand back, buddy?" William chuckled awkwardly.
Ears rang in its wake. The blast unsteadied Lawrence. His head floated up to the clothes while the rest of him sank. William gave Lawrence an odd look through hazy static.
"Linda," William called. Linda and Ruthie looked over to him, and then to a statue of a man whose face was carved in terror. Linda jumped up and shuffled back to her yard as fast as short heels would let her. Tapping slowed and she stood next to William while the curious brunette girl peeked from behind the safety of the tall woman.
"Lawrence?"
Lawrence's sweat-slicked forehead wrinkled. Brows tightened over eyes staring miles away. "He's just a civilian…"
William tugged his hand out of the former ranger's clammy grip. Lawrence's breaths hastened. His heart climbed up his throat like it was trying to escape his body. The sun squeezed every last drop of sweat out of him. Burning his head. His neck. Twisting up his clothes under tight fitting armor. There was no time to adjust for his comfort. Hundreds were depending on him and Marcus nested on the last floor of a roofless apartment complex.
"Take him out," the radio ordered.
The scope steadied on the figure wandering in the NCR's camp. The target looked to his right, then his left. Surrounded on all sides by soldiers slowly closing in on him. He turned again and showed the crosshairs set on him a fearful face.
"That's a civilian."
Marcus raised his binoculars to the scene. The boy's hands shot up as he pleaded with the soldiers around him. "It's Billy."
"Kill him, Garrett," the radio ordered again.
"What the fuck is he doing?" Marcus whispered. He snatched the radio between them. "That is a child. Answers to Billy—"
"Kill him."
"Shit," Marcus hissed. A closer inspection on the target explained the order. "Lawrence, pull the trigger."
"Ruthie, go inside," Linda ordered. The little girl hesitated for a second. A gentle push kicked her into gear, and she ran to the house.
"You have to kill him," Marcus urged. The radio yelled its orders on repeat. Refugees were getting antsy on the ground. The Followers' people corralled them deeper into the camp and away from the standoff.
"Lawrence, look at me," Linda patted his cheeks, but her words fell on deaf ears.
"He's a civilian!" Lawrence choked through panicked breaths. He fell to his knees. The radio and Marcus both screamed in his ringing ears to pull the trigger. Billy was a civilian. Strapped with Legion shrapnel bombs. Billy was a kid, a pawn, about to explode, and Lawrence was frozen. Like a computer stuck and working overtime to process overwhelming commands, some of which conflicted with his programming. Lawrence didn't pull the trigger. He could only watch the ones that survived the initial blast. Misted in red. Torn to shreds. Mangled in ways no human body should ever be, let alone survive even if only for seconds of agony. Lives forever altered in a matter of seconds.
Marcus switched on the rifle's safety then yanked it out of Lawrence's grasp. Distant screams forced him to look at the chaos wrought in the camp below. The radio on the ground demanded explanations. Demanded they return immediately. He knelt next to Lawrence who still muttered to himself about a civilian and positioned as if holding an invisible sniper rifle.
Hesitating to pick up the radio, a fist bounced on his thigh to the beat of incessant demands. He couldn't focus with Lawrence shaking like that. Being like that. Hearing those god-awful howls on the ground…
"Fuck." In a split-second Marcus disarmed and disassembled the rifle. Finding just the right piece to blame, Marcus chucked the firing pin into the ruins and reassembled the rifle. He picked up the radio and responded in a shaky voice, "equipment malfunction—Returning immediately."
He'd figure the rest out. And he did. He came up with a cover story. A lie with just enough believable details and a central character conveniently dead that it passed. A lie Lawrence wasn't coherent enough to protest at the moment. Eventually they would be alone, and Lawrence's disapproval would turn into begging forgiveness, reassurance, something to explain the unexplainable and Marcus replied, in a disappointed tone that matched his useless words:
"What's done is done."
A tear rolled down the side of his head. The lone droplet fell in his ear and Lawrence blinked. He batted away the sting in his eyes and for a moment was confused by the yellow haze filling the living room. The day meandered by as told by the watercolors painting the living room ceiling. He hadn't actually noted the colors, seeing only that day on repeat assaulting each of his senses and reminded him he was akin to a worn-out terminal. An old machine working overtime just to process the most basic of functions that froze and got stuck far too often to be of any value.
He sat up and shut his eyes tightly waiting for the vertigo to go away. The house was lit by an afternoon glow. Lonely without Linda baking or needling at the kitchen table. The humming refrigerator confirmed his deafness was temporary. He found Linda in the backyard. Kneeling by the latest addition to the garden; a miniature white picket fence that took the place of the stakes and rope they laid last week. Finches' songs lured Lawrence into the sun, and he took a brave step down from the back porch. Smooth stones led a path through the yard where dandelions and white cover sprung up faster than grass sprouts. Their soft faces danced around him as though they were the welcoming committee to the garden. Hummingbird sage scraped the sun-bleached fence at the far end of the yard. Coyote bushes grew in between. Packed in the wood crates organized within Linda's reach were poppies. Gold and orange flowers swaddled in burlap diapers around their roots like babies about to be put to bed.
Linda gave him a smile while gloved hands unwrapped a bundle. Looking back to her task, she loosened the dirt wad and freed the roots before planting it in the next hole. "How are you feeling?"
Lawrence knelt with her, observing the process once more before he tried it himself. He pressed both hands down on loose dirt and planted one golden poppy in the flower bed. Sitting on his legs, he stared at his hand prints in the dirt. Studied the sharp mountains inevitably left behind by the gaps of his fingers even as tightly as they were pressed together. No matter how he did it, it was just an artifact of the process. "Can I confess something I didn't tell you earlier about Vincent?"
Shallow dimples marked her cheeks. Sunspots dappling her face melted the caramel irises patiently looking at him under a wide-brimmed weave hat.
"I felt like a creep sometimes when I was with him."
"A creep?" Linda's dimples persisted through a weak frown. "You've never given that impression. Now, I have met some creeps in my time."
"When I stumbled on him, I thought he was cute," Lawrence said. A smile tugged the corners of his lips thinking of a moment he never thought would become so dear to him. "Couldn't make heads or tails of him but when he said his name was Vincent, I just figured he was a late bloomer and didn't think anything of it—He could make me laugh. Make me smile."
"Why did that make you feel like a creep?"
"He looked younger than he was," Lawrence explained. "Androgynous most days, but I never told him how we often got looks when we were out on the town."
"Yeah…" Linda nodded and gave him another poppy. "I got looks in my early days. Like they can't tell what you are. Did the looks bother you? Or contribute to… leaving?"
"No. That wasn't even really what bothered me." Lawrence inhaled deeply and took a moment to appreciate the populated rows of gold and orange petals. "My duty was to the republic first. Truth is, I was already doubting if I wanted to go on being a ranger, and Vincent was a reminder that there was something else out there for me. I began doubting my loyalty. I had criticisms before, but it wasn't something you just openly talked about, y'know? And Laughlin—I froze up at Laughlin. I didn't want to make the same mistake again, so I made a new one. Over, and over."
"You aren't alone with that," Linda's voice slipped for a second. She swallowed her own regrets and brushed her hand in wide circles on Lawrence's back. "If there's any comfort in that, I promise you aren't alone."
That was one thing about trekking the Mojave he took for granted. Things were slow to change in a landscape carved by millennia. When there was change, it was swift and brutal. Brought about by the hands of men in uniforms following orders. That started before he was even a ranger, way back in the 2250s when all he had to worry about was collecting the juiciest worms to lure strange fish living in the river canals to the surface. But the trials of war made generals like Aaron Kimball, who would later become a president and appoint their successors to carry on that tradition of progress which would sweep up Lawrence in its path and drop him where all the dust landed. In Nevada territory, occupied fighting a war where he would become one of those forces of change. Well, that's what he optimistically believed at the time.
Reality hit harder than any punch, stabbed deeper than any knife, and did about as much damage as a properly placed bullet. He helped make this new world he no longer fit in, and no longer wanted to be a part of.
"Linda, you said it's never too late." Their hands came together and shared a reassuring squeeze. Linda batted glistening eyes at Lawrence and nodded, agreeing to whatever he needed before he said aloud, "I want to go home."
