So far, he'd had no luck. The only people who had them were all far too difficult to reach and smart enough not to make themselves vulnerable.
But somebody who could go through walls… Well, that was a game changer if ever there was one.
"You think Greg can do it? Where is he?" The need to apologize still itched at the back of Dixie's mind, rested uneasy at the bottom of his stomach.
"He called earlier to say he'd picked up an unexpected job and wouldn't be back until tonight at best, more likely tomorrow," Byron replied, looking up from his notes. "I'm sorry."
"Ain't nothing to do with you. Did he say anything about the job?"
"No, but he rarely does when it's a freelance thing like this. Don't worry, he'll come back eventually. If nothing else, I'm the only place he can find the kind of wine he likes." Byron winked and went back to his notes.
Mouth pinched, Dixie rose and set his beer on the island before going to the drawer where Byron kept a notebook with numbers and preferences for the various delivery places in the city. "Should I order something for pintsize?"
"Yeah, get him a burger."
"Sure." Dixie pulled out his phone and called up the delivery diner and put in the order.
Byron finished scribbling something on his notebook then looked up. "How you feeling?"
"Fine. Thanks for helping. Without you I'd be lying glitchy and nonsensical in an alley somewhere."
"I doubt it," Byron said. "You're one of those, the harder you get knocked down the faster you get back up." He smirked. "At least now that you weigh more than ten pounds."
"You weigh twelve, shut up."
Byron snickered as he drifted back into his work.
Dixie left him to it, knowing better than to get in his way too much without Byron first prompting.
Wandering into the living room, he tapped the coffee table, made of the same black glass as the table in his maintenance room. It flared to life as he sat down, chimed softly once it had read his retina and fingerprints. "Scan newsfeeds for Michael Jones, Turncoat, and Dixie Mountebank."
The screen flared into bright, sharp life as the computer pulled reports, video feeds, and high priority alerts pertaining to him. Dixie tapped one of the news videos, winced as the news caster breathlessly recounted that Michael Jones was really the notorious Turncoat. He half-thought the damned man was going to come, he seemed to have so much fun reciting Dixie's long list of crimes.
The latest of which was conspiring with known thief Whisker. "Son of a bitch." Not that it really mattered. After a point the number of crimes they pinned on him became meaningless. One or one hundred, he was getting executed all the same. "Pull up bank accounts: Alias – Michael Jones. Master account – Dixon Mountebank. Transfer all funds from Jones to Mountebank."
He settled back more comfortably on the couch as the computer breezed through the lockdowns put in place by the government like they were wet tissue and erased all traces. When it chimed everything was done, Dixie said, "Run delete program on Alias – Michael Jones."
When that was up and running, he finished his beer and stood—right as the screen across the wall burst into life, flashing red and yellow around the edges. He frowned as a G.O.D. bulletin filled the screen, a high alert for Whisker and an unknown companion, suspected to be the zero-level hero known as Minder. "Byron!"
"Saw it!" Byron called, even as he came running into the living room. "I've pinged out where they are, roughly. But Greg hasn't called, which concerns me."
"Let's get a damn move on, then. Did you cancel the delivery on dinner?"
"Doing it now."
Dixie spun away into the small room off the living room, where he kept clothes and equipment ready to go at all times. Stripping off what he was wearing, he pulled on the special pants, shirt, and snug jacket, then tugged a ski-cap on his head before picking out weapons and tools to stow in various pockets on the pants.
He rubbed the back of his neck, waking his system. "Lockdown mode, high alert for G.O.D. sweeps and interference." His left eye blurred briefly as the scanners woke up, a faint stinging spreading through his face.
Returning to the living room, he followed Byron out of the apartment and down to the garage. They strode past Byron's Benz to a more innocuous white Honda Civic. Dixie climbed into the backseat and rolled the windows down.
They'd reached the opposite end of the city, right at the edge of a private housing complex for rich folk, when Byron's phone started ringing. He snatched it up off the seat. "Where are—?" he broke off, and Dixie didn't need to see his scowl to know it was there. "Who is this? Fine." He hung up and dropped the phone back on the passenger seat, looked at Dixie in the rearview mirror. "They're holed up in a shed a couple blocks down from wherever Whisker was working. He's beat to hell and needs medical attention. The man on the phone, Minder I'm assuming, said he could keep people away, but only by giving away his presence, so we need to hurry the hell up. But I don't know how the fuck I'm supposed to get past a shit ton of cops and G.O.D. in this locked down, overblown complex. I'm really fucking smart, but I can't do everything."
"Ain't nothing a distraction won't take care of," Dixie said. "I assume you're making like you live here?"
"Yeah, but that will only get me so far since they're letting people in but not out."
"Well, you drop me off after we're past them, I'll rustle up a distraction and ya'll can get the hell out of here. I'll find my own way out; you can meet me at the usual spot later. I'll call if that ain't possible."
