Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

Compressing her lips, she shook her head. The silver sword earrings dangling from her lobes brushed her shoulders. “You definitely haven’t been on the streets very long to still be prideful over such a trifle as your age.”

Trifle, prideful. Obviously Goth Lolita was also playing a part. His heart raced. Victory would be that much sweeter, if his prey provided a worthy hunt. They skirted the benches lined-up in front of the makeshift pulpit. “I don’t know that I’m on the streets.”

He stopped speaking. A great salesmen always knew when to stop his pitch. She’d bite. They always did.

She stopped near the entrance. The scent of powdered eggs and toast wafted out the door. “Just stand in line. Take a tray when you reach the stack and get your food. It’s not much, but it will fill your belly for a while.”

Then she turned on her heel and left.

Well, shit. Turning to the right, Trent strode to the end of the line. Tattoo stood in front of him. There was something definitely wrong with these people. It’s like they minded their own business or something. That wouldn’t do. Not at all. He needed information.

At this rate, he might need to ask the Marines about his car. At least, they were capable of speech. And who wouldn’t remember the Jag? But, if he remembered the Jag then he could hardly pretend to have amnesia.

He’d have to chance it.

He needed that bag disposed of or his perfect murder wouldn’t be perfect.

Tattoo shifted on his feet before rising on his toes.

Christ. Why did the man need to be taller? Trent unbuttoned his suit jacket. He must be nearly seven feet tall, a good six inches over Trent, and almost as wide. At least the man didn’t smell nor was he coughing like the majority of losers in the building.

Why were they coughing?

Were they contagious? Should he be covering his mouth? Trent cleared his throat. Not sore or scratchy.

Tattoo glanced over his wide shoulder. “You haven’t been on the street long enough to have caught the Ash Pneumonia.”

The big man’s voice rumbled like a bass guitar string that had been struck too hard.

“Ash Pneumonia?” Trent touched the dried blood on his forehead. Let the man take the bait. Don’t let all the inhabitants of bum town be abnormal.

Tattoo’s black eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest, looking down his flat mushroom-shaped nose.

He threw his attention to the floor. This mother-fucker had trust issues. And having done time, he’d probably see through Trent’s act. “That’s something I should remember, isn’t it?”

“It’s a coughing sickness that comes from the ash kicked up by those fires in China.” Tattoo widened his stance, digging in even though the line had moved forward. “They say that it’s only affected the soldiers, but they lie.”

“They being the government?” Trent glanced up. His skin seemed to shrink over his bones.

“Yeah.” Tattoo studied him, one predator to another.

A man next to him clutched his blanket tight as he bent over coughing.

Trent danced away from him. Shit! That rattle sounded exactly like the Redaction. “Is it contagious?”

“Nah.” Tattoo spread his massive hands wide and grinned. “Of course, they say it isn’t fatal. Yet, there’s not as many free spirits as there used to be.”

Free spirits. Trent swallowed his snort. What a pleasant way to say throw away people.

“How’d you get the grazing?”

No sense in playing dumb. The man probably picked out the weakest of the lot for a good ass fucking later. Trent straightened. He wasn’t on anyone’s sex party tonight. Besides, what did a few inches matter? He had a body trail of his own.

“Don’t know.” He snared Tattoo’s gaze and refused to let it go. “I woke up on the riverbed, rats crawling over me and a bum picking my pockets.”

“Yeah, you don’t exactly belong here.” Tattoo broke their optical stalemate to scan his Armani suit. “My guess is the Aspero got you. They had to hightail it out of the ‘hood’ real fast after their bout of stupidity.”

Trent’s muscles twitched and he resisted the impulse to shout. Finally, he was getting somewhere. Still, if he was too interested the man might shut his trap or demand payment of some kind. He was done paying. “Can we chat over breakfast? I don’t remember when I last ate, but my stomach tells me it’s been a while.”

Tattoo grunted but turned about and walked to the end of the line.

A small table with a stack of wet trays stood next to the steel bars running along the length of the serving line. Steam wafted from holes devoid of serving dishes. Plates clattered as they were loaded with a blob of yellow, a blob of cream and a square of dry toast. A mug of brown liquid was the only beverage.

Trent tipped his red tray so the water ran into his waiting palm. After setting it on the holder, he scrubbed his hands together then wiped them on his pants. It would have to do until he could clean up. If he could clean up. Lump had said there were clothes available at the mission, but Trent had yet to see any that weren’t being worn.

Most had their entire wardrobe on their backs.

Keeping his tray a respectful distance from Tattoo’s, Trent inched along the line. He smiled at the sour-faced woman behind the counter. Scars crisscrossed her face, distorting her features. Damn. Had she come into this world through a birth canal or a grate? “Hello.”

Ignoring his overtures, she scraped the crusts of yellow from the serving dish and plopped it on his plate. Her eyes narrowed and she sucked her lips inside her mouth, before scooting his food down the line.

“Sandy doesn’t talk to men,” Tattoo whispered loud enough for everyone within ten feet to hear, “but at least she’s stopped spitting in our food.”

Trent blinked. Was the man kidding or serious? “Uh, thanks.”

Sandy grunted, leaned forward and pulled the tray out of the serving line. Without a word, she stalked away.

Bitch! He released a shaky breath. At least she’d served one purpose—she’d provided the perfect opportunity to reopen the topic of the Aspero. “Did that Aspero character get to her too?”

Tattoo’s laugh rumbled up his massive chest to bellow out his mouth. Around them, people fell silent. He lifted his arms and took his plate. Two slices of toast were wedged between the mountains of food. “The Aspero is a gang not a person.”

The next server added the extra cream-colored blob to his plate then plunked a square of toast into it. God, what animals. Was it too much to ask to keep the food separate? After accepting his plate, he set it on his tray then added a cup of the brown stuff. “Um, thanks.”

The server ignored him.

Cretin. Picking up the tray, Trent followed Tattoo to the rolls of napkins and disposable utensils. “Where are the Aspero?”

Tattoo scooped up his utensils then stopped to scan the crowd. “Why you interested?”

Trent carefully placed his bundle next to his plate and waited. “I want to know which area to avoid.”

Without a word, Tattoo walked away. He turned at the third stripe of tables.

Bastard! He had the power and knew it. Trent’s grip tightened on the tray until it shook. Let it go. What does it matter in the long run ? As soon as he got his murder kit back, he’d even the score. He rolled his shoulders, easing the tension and followed the big man.

Tattoo paused next to a half empty table. Within seconds, the occupants swept up their trays and departed.

Trent smirked. Did the giant actually think scaring a bunch of bums would impress Trent Powers? Darting right, he maneuvered onto the opposite seat. “Look, if you think the gangsters did this to me, I’d rather not meet up with them again.”