I felt myself falling down into the mud, my feet leaving the floor, darkness enveloping me as the warm dirt surrounded me …
And when my eyes opened, there was the orange glow of fire, the smell of gunpowder and alcohol, and a hard wooden floor against my body.
I got up to investigate my surroundings, but I already knew where I was. I always came here when I dreamed. I came here too often, yet I had only been here once in reality.
I had a Thompson in my hands, my Diamondback in its holster. Behind me was the door I’d come in through. It was connected to a large warehouse, which was currently being raided.
Morello was sitting in front of me. Three mechanical fingers on his right hand wrapped around his pistol, which lay on the desk. He’d been expecting me. I knew how it went down — how it always went down whenever I had this dream — but he never did. How many times had I shot him? Not on that night, but since that night, in dreams?
“What are you planning, Roche? Going to take me in?”
“No.”
A bullet exited the submachine gun. Morello’s gun fell from his grip, and he doubled over from the shock of the impact. I walked around the desk and stood over him. I tried shooting him differently each time, but he always clutched the same wound. I couldn’t change the outcome; it always ended the same way. He knew it. I knew it better.
The expression in his eyes changed from one of confidence to fear. Mine changed from fear to anger. Luciano was dead, and soon he would be, too. Two kingpins dead, but with a cost attached. He looked up, putting up his hands to shield his face from the barrel of my revolver.
“Don’t kill me, Roche. Please.”
“We’re beyond please, you coward. You took something from me, now I’m taking your life as recompense.”
A door in the hallway behind me burst open. The raid was in full swing. Sinclair entered the doorway of the room, his eyes filled with concern. I turned back to Morello, my finger already squeezing the trigger. But this time, I didn’t see Morello. No, I saw a pair of green eyes. And then, a moment later, they were bright-blue eyes.
“Elias, don’t.”
This time, like every time, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop it.
My eyes snapped open. A featureless ceiling stared back at me.
I was in my own bed, lying on satin sheets with my shoes on the floor beside me. I still had my clothes on. I sat up and cupped my head in my hands. There was light coming in through my window, which meant I had slept through the night for once. I immediately felt the sting of the bruised purple flesh on my wrist and suddenly remembered what had happened the night before.
I’d fucked up bad. I had to try to fix things. I wondered if Allen was still here. I glanced at my closet and thought about changing, but I didn’t have the luxury of time, so I just got up and left. I probably smelled worse than Yuri out there, but duty before beauty.
Allen was standing by the living room window staring down at the street. Had it been here all night? I supposed it didn’t matter, since it didn’t sleep. Or did it? Hopefully it wouldn’t grill me on my little episode the night before. The last thing I needed was to relive the War two days in a row.
“Morning, Allen.” I gave it a nod and walked into the kitchen, my gaze lingering on the notches on my fridge handle, as well as the empty bottle of booze on the floor. I grabbed a mug and slotted it into the coffee machine, hooking it up to the Tesla Battery in the wall. The machine whirred and spat black liquid into the cup. I downed my shot of caffeine for the day.
When I turned back to Allen, I saw that it hadn’t moved an inch.
“Allen?” I called again. It seemed to jump, turning to me with a bewildered look on its face. “You okay there, bud?”
“Yes, Detective Roche, I was … pondering.” It turned back to the window and the city beyond it. The fluorescent bulbs on the underside of the Plate poured light on the Lower City and through the window. They almost made me forget that it wasn’t real sunlight.
“Pondering?”
“Yes.”
I walked over and stood next to Allen. Snow was falling through the Plate’s turbine frames. The immense hatches above the rotating blades were open to relieve pressure from the building snow on the Plate. In less than a day, what with the snow falling from the sky and the upper streets, and heat no longer coming down to buffer the temperature, the Lower City had been covered in a white blanket. It was still pouring into the streets. Most traffic had stopped, and cars were stuck in at least six inches of snow. People mostly scurried through the streets on foot or took the subway this time of year. But in the distance, I saw the great artery that was 7th Avenue gleaming, its towering billboards still shining across the city, even in daytime. The city would never stop the flow of traffic on 7th. On the contrary, they’d do anything to keep it going — but for what purpose, I wasn’t sure.
“Care to elaborate?” I asked. “You seem to forget there are proper and improper times to keep quiet.”
“I was pondering whether to let you leave this apartment.”
“I’m surprised the handcuffs are off.” I rubbed my wrist. It still ached, even after more
