Fourteen had managed to eliminate the target because he knew how to do his fucking job, unlike the two rapidly cooling meat suits who used to be his handlers. There was still the small matter of being currently pinned down by gunfire behind a trash bin, but it was manageable. He was nothing if not creative.
As he was weighing his options, a small body came barreling toward him, nearly landing in his lap. His knife was at the person’s throat before he even considered the action.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize this hiding spot was taken.” The soft voice was at odds with the situation. Paying no attention to the knife, the person looked around, possibly searching for a less-populated part of the alley.
“Are you with the smugglers?” Fourteen asked slowly, not relaxing his grip on the knife.
“The only thing I’m smuggling right now is me.”
There was just enough light for him to see the person crane their neck and survey their surroundings. Fourteen was used to being ignored. It was something he usually cultivated, but, at the moment, he found it irritating.
He was fairly certain the tiny, hooded figure crouched next to him was not part of the mission, just a random child in the wrong place. In his line of work, fairly certain wasn’t good enough, but he didn’t hold weapons on children. He tucked the knife back into his jacket.
Fourteen gestured with his gun hand to the dead bodies littering the alley. “Go smuggle yourself somewhere else. This is no place for a kid.”
The moon came out from behind a cloud, throwing the bloodstained corpses into sharp relief.
Fourteen could tell when the kid’s eyes landed on the heap of bodies two yards in front of them because they let out a squeak and hastily scooted backward until they hit the wall next to him. The movement knocked the child’s hood free of their head, allowing a shower of long, baby-white hair to cascade past an androgynous face.
“You’re right, I should probably go.” The kid pulled their hood back up, stuffed their hair inside, and made to stand up, but Fourteen knocked their legs out from under them with the butt of his rifle just in time to keep the kid’s head from getting blown off by a flurry of renewed gunfire.
“For fuck’s sake! Stay low,” Fourteen snapped and returned fire with more gusto than he usually did—children didn’t belong on the battlefield regardless of what The Company thought.
“Sorry! Sorry.” Sprawled out on the asphalt, the kid struggled to pull themself back to a crouching position.
“This isn’t part of the mission. This isn’t what I do,” he muttered to himself.
“What isn’t your job?”
“Keeping people alive.” Fourteen’s hand gripped his rifle tightly, and he wondered why he had even bothered to knock the kid out of harm’s way. If he’d done nothing, they would be dead, and he would be free to complete protocol and present himself for debriefing.
“Oh. That’s okay. I wasn’t asking you to.” The kid made as if to creep off in the opposite direction they had come from.
Again Fourteen stopped them with the butt of his rifle. “Not that way, idiot. That’s where the bullets are coming from.”
“True,” they conceded. “But it’s also where my pursuers aren’t coming from, so I’m going that way.”
In the patchy darkness, Fourteen could see the kid’s shoulders shaking, but from their tone of voice, they could have been telling him directions to the post office. They were an odd little thing.
He looked them over, squinting at their bare, most likely battered feet, and he felt something flutter against the icy prison around his soul. He didn’t know why he was even considering this. He should just leave them here. On the other hand, they were small enough to fit in his equipment bag. If Fourteen took out the rest of the C4, it was possible he wouldn’t notice the difference.
“Do you mind?” The kid poked the gun blocking his way. “I really don’t want to involve you in this. It would be better for you if they don’t notice you.” They’d had to raise their voice to be heard over the increased gunfire peppering the trash bin in front of them. The members of the cartel were getting impatient, and if Fourteen didn’t do something soon, they would come to him.
Fourteen threw a grenade in the direction of the gunfire. He waited for the screams to die before he said, “You’re worried about me.” It was a statement, not a question.
It was a first for him—someone worrying over his welfare. The fluttering grew stronger, but he continued to push it back. Sentiment was useless baggage in a fight, and he’d had it beaten out of him long ago. Every now and then, a whisper of his former self piped up, but he would crush it as soon as it showed up. He had neither the time nor the desire to feel. But that didn’t explain why he was planning to go off-book to rescue a helpless civilian.
“Here.” Fourteen threw his equipment bag at the kid, and it knocked them against the wall. The muffled curse the kid let out was more masculine than Fourteen was expecting. Were they a him?
They struggled under the weight of the bag as it threatened to put them on their ass. Enormous eyes peeked over the bag in hurt surprise. “What was that for?”
“You carry that, so I can keep my hands free. When I say run, you run back the way you came. I’ll cover us.” Fourteen hefted his rifle.
“I already told you—”
“Run!” Fourteen rose, grabbed a handful of the kid’s hoodie, and yanked them to their feet. When the kid didn’t respond, he flung them back down the alley and then pressed the detonator in his pocket.
The abandoned warehouse exploded, showering everything in flaming debris. It should be all the distraction he would need to retrieve what he needed and shepherd the kid to safety. Then he would ditch them at the nearest bus station.
Fourteen darted out to the bodies of his handlers and rifled through Steve’s pockets until he found what he was looking for. When he turned and saw the kid standing where he left them, he growled, “Move!”
The kid took off like a frightened—if overburdened—bunny in the proper direction, but Fourteen had to keep shoving at the bag slung over their shoulder to keep them moving. At one point he considered hoisting the kid and the bag over his shoulder, but when they turned onto the next street they found a renewed interest in running. The kid was still going too slow for Fourteen’s liking, though.
Fourteen pulled the bag out of the kid’s arms so it wouldn’t weigh them down, and he ran down the sidewalk with them side by side, their pace matching, all hesitance gone. Fourteen thought he might have to help them, considering the state of the kid’s feet, but they kept up.
Fourteen was glad he didn’t have to carry them. He hated touching people. Random touches always felt like such a violation to him, and it was his one small rebellion against The Company. They controlled all aspects of his life, but he chose when and how he was touched. It was common knowledge in Storage that the last person to clap him on the back had gotten their arm broken in three places.
Fourteen waited until the kid began to stagger and gasp before he searched for a suitable hiding spot to allow them to catch their breath. When he spotted a partially burned-out building tucked in between the shadows of two larger buildings, he said, “This way.”
After making a quick circuit of the old two-story house, he decided to set up their rest stop inside the boarded-up porch. He chose it because it had enough broken boards in it for him to see out of, but it was too dark for anyone to see into—well, anyone but him. His enhancements gave him a leg up in the senses department.
Which was handy. Fourteen’s enhanced vision let him know the whole place was so shabby and cluttered that, if anyone tried to sneak in through the back, he was sure to hear them long before they got close—if the house didn’t fall in on them all first, that is.
He pried a board away from the screen door, dislodging a tattered sign announcing the building was scheduled for demolition, and ushered the kid inside. After one final look around to make sure they weren’t being tailed, he followed them into the dim interior of the porch.
A squatter must have called the porch home at some point—it was filled with old garbage and the occasional skittering creature. The kid didn’t complain about their accommodations, nor did they look around for a comfortable—or even less disgusting—place to sit. Instead, they collapsed to the floor, shaking with exhaustion.
How long had the kid been running before they found Fourteen? Together, they’d run a fair distance, but they were acting like they’d just finished a marathon. He couldn’t make out much in the scant light, but what Fourteen had seen of the kid so far made him think they were underfed.
