Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

The radio music gave way to a local news update. There weren’t a lot of construction projects going on, but a few might impact traffic patterns. Atlas filed that information away.

“You’re keeping your apartment because of a plant?” Cristian made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Sounds like a fucking dream, Mr. Kinkaid.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Atlas agreed, deadpan. “That’s the best description I’ve heard of my entire life, Mr. Slava.”

Traffic updates segued to a story about a homeless man killed in an animal attack near the riverfront. Atlas quickly turned down the volume, unwilling to let yet another story of death take residence in his head.

“What has your life been like, Mr. Kinkaid?”

He had no reason to avoid the question, not with Cristian’s careful phrasing. It was polite conversation, that was all. He gathered his thoughts and said, “Joined the Marines. Served overseas. Ended on a bad mission and got discharged. Bea hired me to work at Whitethorn.” He forced himself to shrug, as if his entire back hadn’t locked up in foolish preparation for flight or fight, and added lightly, “It’s been fine since.”

“You really don’t like talking about yourself, do you?” Cristian mused.

“Well, it’s not like I’ve heard you offering up your own sob story,” Atlas shot back.

Cristian chuckled. ?

?True.”

A new silence fell between them, leaving Atlas on edge. Their conversation felt unbalanced, with Cristian taking without giving in return. He was so caught up in wondering how to coax some details out of Cristian that he jolted when a hand appeared suddenly by the side of his head, pointing at something down the road.

“Sorry,” Cristian whispered in his ear as he leaned forward between the seats. “But you’ll need to turn left at that intersection.”

He dutifully put on the blinker and moved to the correct lane, ignoring his speeding pulse. “I thought we were headed for Rapture.”

“Just a quick stop along the way,” Cristian said.

Cristian didn’t draw away like he expected. He stayed there at Atlas’s shoulder, offering quiet directions that led them farther and farther away from the newly civilized center of the dying industrial town and closer and closer to the shattered, abandoned warehouses bordering the sluggish river. Shadows moved in the cluttered alleys untouched by the dim lights in this section of town. His skin crawled and he reminded himself he was home, back in New York, and the moving shapes were probably just coyotes or something. There was no reason to freak out.

“Here,” Cristian ordered a moment later.

Atlas braked, but didn’t put the car in park. The former warehouse to their right was a dilapidated mess. Aged bricks bore rusted watermarks from too many storms, windows were shattered and boarded up, and industrial wreckage lay scattered in the scraped dirt yard out front.

“Here?” Atlas asked. He could go for the instinctual gruff command to not get out of the car, which Cristian would instantly try to buck, or he could try for something else. His sense of humor had died out in that battlefield, but he made an effort anyway. “If you’re a serial killer, I expect a pay raise to keep your secrets.”

The dry humor didn’t land perfectly, but it kept Cristian at his side. Atlas wasn’t prepared for him to lean forward even closer, watching him with amusement. “You think I’m a serial killer?”

“Not sure yet. What’s in the bag?”

Now Cristian retreated to his backseat. He took up the duffel bag, his grip firm and somewhat protective. “Nothing you’re paid to worry about. Now, sit. Stay.” And then he had the audacity to wink at Atlas in the mirror, which shorted Atlas’s brain long enough for Cristian to escape the car and head for the warehouse door. Before Atlas could throw the car in park and follow him, the door opened and Cristian ducked inside, leaving Atlas alone with more than a few regrets.

He abandoned the car as his earlier doubts returned, louder than before. Everything about the situation was off. He didn’t know what was in the bag, but the timing of this visit after the meeting at the clinic was too coincidental for those things to not be connected. Whatever Cristian was up to, Atlas wanted no part of it. It was time for them to go.

He was on the edge of the disgusting yard when the door of the warehouse swung open with a god-awful groan. Cristian emerged, empty duffel in hand, though his attention was fixed on the small, wizened woman beside him. Her skin was paper thin, stretched tight over the knobby knuckles of the hand grasping Cristian’s bicep. Her eyes seemed too large for her face from the dark circles etched into the skin beneath them, and her thin lips moved over a mostly toothless smile as she and Cristian chatted. Her clothes were threadbare, and Atlas fought to control his expression when he caught a whiff of stale, unwashed skin even at such a distance.

The sight of Cristian in his designer clothes beside this unkempt figure didn’t fit. None of it fit. Atlas took a step forward, unsure if he should try to pry the woman off his charge. The movement caught Cristian’s attention, and the woman’s.

She tried to retreat back into the building. Cristian clasped his hand over hers and kept her at his side, murmuring something to her, even as he shot Atlas a stern look. The woman trembled, but didn’t try to flee again.

Unsure what to do, Atlas asked, “Mr. Slava?”

The woman’s eyes widened comically. She looked at Cristian and asked in a hoarse voice, “Mr. Slava?”

Cristian rolled his eyes and whispered something else to her. Whatever he said made her start cackling. She whispered something back, and Cristian’s bright peal of laughter made Atlas’s breath catch. Still laughing, Cristian squeezed the woman’s hand one last time and disentangled himself from her.

“See you soon, Nell,” he promised on his way toward Atlas. “Don’t forget to lock up behind me.”

He was nearly to him when Nell called out, “Next time, bring the good stuff!”