Chapter 2: Falel
Gray clouds streaked the dawn like melted lead, the red sun spilling as blood across the sky. Spread out below, and all around Drifter, was the Falel section of Civitas Apex. While the rest of the city was stylized by heavy stone construction replete with arches, pillars and curlicues, Falel had been built on a more practical, industrial plan. Huge sheds with steel rails and aluminum sides, brick buildings with rusty iron stacks reaching towards the sky, and warehouses of composite materials. The office buildings were the only things stylized to fit the rest of the city, like an ancient temple set in the precincts of a mechanical cloister. Drifter crouched on top of one of these offices, arms resting on the low stone curb around the rooftop as he inspected all that was before him.
This sector had been hit less hard by the fall of Greenspark fire. Holes were melted in many roofs, a few buildings were knocked down in a heap of dusty rubbish and technology had come to a grinding halt. But many of the huge, industrial structures still stood.
Nearby, a water tower was upright, though one steel leg was mangled. Its sides bore the name of the sector in once-red words so faded that they were now a soft shade of periwinkle. The Falel company steelworks lay spread out in that direction, the huge corporation which had given the sector its name and owned many of the sub-companies throughout it.
Huge pipes, silos and storage yards bracketed the buildings, holding the furnaces, kilns and rollers of the steelworks. At one time it had refined metals for a large portion of Apex. Now it housed one of the cruelest gangs of all those which terrorized the fallen city.
Drifter scanned the area carefully, looking for any sign of movement. So far, he had not seen anything except for a few scavenging birds fluttering between steel frames in a yard below. The scene was broodingly peaceful. Grime, ancient and new, clung to the buildings, scraped off on one side of the steelworks to create huge letters reading, 'Steelfist Rules’.
Drifter knew from an earlier experience with the Falel gang, one which had nearly led to his own demise, that the name of the gang’s leader was Steelfist. Drifter had escaped, just barely, by taking the life of a member of the gang. If they remembered him, they would have a vendetta against him. But so many victims passed beneath their hands, he doubted that they would recognize him again.
Still, better to be safe than captive. His searching gaze caught no movement below. The Falel gang seemed to be either out raiding in another area or sleeping off the effects of a raid in their rat hole. Probably the latter, as their one vehicle, a giant semi-truck with plenty of 'additives’ was parked under the edge of a shed near the main building. Bent double to avoid notice, Drifter backed off the building’s roof and descended an outside staircase on the far edge. In a dark alley nearby, his car waited in the shadows.
He had been unable to find any fuel for it on the way to the Falel sector. Now the gauge read close to the empty line.
After lifting the hood, Drifter unscrewed a cap beside the engine. Then he pulled a cylinder from his belt which held a faint bluish glow inside the sight-glass. Popping the lid, he tilted it over a tube which had been exposed under the engine’ cap and tapped the cylinder gently on its rim. Five or six crystals slid out, disappearing into the tube with a faint rattle. Their pale blue glow disappeared into the darkness of the fuel storage container, swallowed by shadows. Drifter inspected the inside of the silver cylinder in his hand to find it empty, before tossing it away with a shake of his head. Those few crystals were the last of his fuel. Five or six grains of medium-small grind. Enough to go a dozen miles, maybe further if he went slowly. Not nearly enough to reach the Academy section of Apex. If he wanted to find Dick rather than the sorceress.
Swinging into the driver’s seat, he piloted the car out of the alley, creeping down a nearby street. If the sorceress was looking for phantoms she would probably come, sooner or later, to the place Drifter had once seen such an apparition.
Guioletti’s Cafe, once the favorite eating place of many mill workers in the area, now a haunted wreck of strange sadness and beauty. It was a place seemingly made for wraiths to haunt. It was the place that a magic lady would be drawn to like iron to a magnet.
Drifter set his mental compass for Guioletti’s, careful to stay away from all streets opening onto the steelworks.
---
The street which Guioletti’s stood on was narrow and winding. It was hemmed in on the west by a trashed apartment complex, while a collection of rubble, brick walls and the backs of buildings took up the east beside it. Girders and beams, which had fallen from the apartment building, lay over the avenue across the tops of lower buildings, making stripes of shadow on the cracked pavement below.
Drifter pulled to the side of the street, looking carefully up and down it before shutting off his car. In front of him, to the north, lay a gravel parking lot fenced with chain-link. Behind him the road curved away to where it met the main thoroughfare. All was empty and silent.
Guioletti’s stood a little back from the curb, a tiled pathway leading up to it through the blasted sticks of what had once been a garden. There, it ended at what looked like a garden gate, made of wood and painted in peeling red. Curlicues of black metal acted as the hinges. There was only a hole where the latch should have been. On either side of this door stood a sooty white column, each supporting the fractured remains of a blue glass orb.
Drifter walked up to the gate and stopped outside of it to listen, before peering through the hole in the wooden planks. All appeared quiet inside. He pushed the door open with one hand. It creaked softly out of the way. Inside was a small courtyard paved in smooth gray stone. Cement walls ringed it on three sides, frescoed with images of trees, vines and flying birds. The forth side was made up of the cafe itself, which was entered through an open colonnade. Flimsy white chairs and tables were scattered about the courtyard, some still standing while others lay toppled. In the center of it all was a fountain sporting a statue which depicted a woman bearing a platter of grapes above her head. The marble statue had cracks all across it, stained reddish brown from age. Grapes of cold gray stone dripped from the upper basin, some laying broken off and lop-sided in the larger pool below. All of it was as dry as a bleached bone.
Drifter came in and shut the door behind him. He was just a pace beyond the door when he heard an odd noise. It was like far off singing, or a low humming, shimmering with sorrow. It sent a tingle all throughout him as it drifted nearer. Turning slowly, he saw something move in the colonnade on his right. A figure glided out between the columns, coming towards him.
The form was that of a pale woman dressed in a flowing, gauzy gown. Her hair swirled around her like snowflakes in a storm, her feet barely touching the ground. She did not appear to have any face. It was broad daylight and a phantom was haunting the cafe.
The song became stronger, wordless and sad, pulling at Drifter’s mind. He felt the world blurring and fading as a strange sensation prickled him like the edge of a dream.
Memories.
As the phantom approached memories filled his vision.
'The man who would become Drifter stood on the porch of his house, one arm on the shoulders of his pretty wife. She seemed so young, innocent…a child compared to who he was now. And in her arms an infant, their only son.’
'They were looking up at the sky over the horizon line of Civitas Apex. Up in the blue, something was falling, streaking the air with neon green.’
“What is it? Some sort of meteorite?” his wife asked.
The man shook his head. “I don’t know. My parents are watching the news inside. Why don’t you take the boy and join them?”
He thought that they would be safer inside. Something fell with a sizzle a few blocks away, like a fist-sized rock, sparkling with fiery energy.’
Drifter saw the phantom float up before him, pale emptiness where a face should have been, tilting towards him curiously. It was singing, he thought, as the noise came from it, but how it made the sound was a mystery. He struggled against its pull, but was dragged down again into memories.
‘Recalling his car, he stepped out and hurried to the drive where it was parked. The man had built this car himself, buying and fitting together the raw parts, painting it, installing every piece by hand. He had added one or two special ideas of his own to it as he went. Such as a force-shield generator.’
'The man thought that it would be quicker, and better, to turn on the shield generator rather than trying to get the car into the garage. Something fell to the lawn not far away, burning and fizzling in the grass. He paused for a moment to look at the clod of green, burning material before dashing to his car. Throwing open the door, he flung himself half-way into it and reached for the shield generator switch. One leg stuck awkwardly out of the door, balancing him.’
'He had just laid finger on the switch when something struck his leg. It was one of the curious meteors, which were starting to fall all around, thicker now. It seemed to melt into his shin like a fiery knife through butter. With a gasp of shock, the man pulled himself into the car, hitting the shield switch as he came. For a moment searing pain took him as he curled up on the seat…then everything went dark.’
Drifter saw the pale hand reaching towards his face. Even through the visions, he knew that it spelled danger. He fought to free himself, reaching for the kitchen knife tucked in his belt under his cloak--
'He awoke to a world of destruction, lived like a wraith in the blackened, charred ruins of his house. The pain in his leg ate at him as he teetered on the brink of sanity--’
Snatching the knife from his belt, Drifter struggled free of the visions and slammed it point-down through the phantom’s hand. There was a pause in the singing as the wraith stared at him without a face, gasping emptily in shock. There was a snapping noise and it was gone.
The courtyard was empty except for himself and the smiling woman who was a statue. The knife in his hand did not bare a trace of blood, or any other substance.
Still, he wiped it on his pant’s leg before returning it to the belt, tucked out of sight. That was the first time a phantom had approached him or made any sound which he could hear. He felt wary now, exposed, as if someone else was there sharing his feelings and watching him.
Turning, Drifter strode out of the courtyard to lean against a pillar outside. He had not remembered, not wanted to remember, for many days. Weeks, months even, had gone by without a thought of the past entering his head. Now he was forced to face what had happened; what it was like to live before the disaster. Having people and a place to call your own.
Closing his eyes, he shut the images out. Like a man hoarding gold, he locked them away again, somewhere they would not easily be seen. When they were gone, he let out a sigh and straightened, contemplating what to do next.
The sorceress was not likely to be in the cafe with that phantom. Or at least, be alive in it. Drifter considered going back to make sure, but he dismissed the idea with a rough shake of his head. The ‘magic lady’ would have to be forgotten. Whoever she was, wherever she had gone, he didn’t want to get caught up with any more phantoms while trying to catch her. Instead, he would concentrate on finding more fuel for his car and going in search of Dick Chelsea. They had been friends once, in a light manner. Long ago, back a few years before the disaster had even arrived. Dick was the one to answer his questions if anyone could.
Fuel would be a challenge to find, but Drifter had an idea of where a nearby a store of it could reside. Anyone driving a vehicle, and there were very few, would have to possess a store of crystal fuel to run it on. The Falel gang had a semi-truck. They would have crystals in plenty.
Retracing his path, he went back to the top of the tall office building. He had no binoculars or other long-range vision apparatus, but his sight was keen. Laying along the roof, he propped himself up on the low curb in preparation to watching for a longer amount of time. His dusty-dark cloak contrasted with the pale beige stones, but there were no buildings nearby tall enough for someone to look down on him. Only the upper curve of his hood and forehead showed above the curb, with a pair of eyes watching from it.
All was quiet in the steelworks, except for an occasional clink, clank or shouting voice to show that it was occupied. Drifter lay perfectly still as the day passed above him. He had a small bottle of water sitting beside him, but no food. He had learned to go long stretches of time without eating, especially when physically inert.
There was a bit of scrounged hardtack in the glove compartment of the car below, for when he was done watching and he needed supper. Until then he just took small sips of the water and kept alert so that he would not fall asleep.
Late in the afternoon he noticed some movement on the rooftop of the giant structure in front of him. Focusing on it, he made out three figures walking out of a door towards the edge of the roof. Two were men, roughly dressed and carrying what looked like wooden cudgels with metal inserts. He could see the metal gleaming in the sun. The other was a slim person dressed in a long, flowing robe of either black or dark purple. He could not decide which shade it as at a distance. The robed person moved between the two men as if being watched or held prisoner.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
They all three made it to the edge of the roof and paused. The figure in the robe reached up, pulling off the hood which hid its face. Underneath was a long, shining cascade of dark hair. Drifter squinted against the sun’s glare. The third person was a woman. It crossed Drifter’s mind with a sharp clarity that this woman was the sorceress.
The group on the roof had just turned and started back towards the door when Drifter was startled by a noise from directly below the building he lay on. He rolled to his knees, crouching for a moment in uncertainty. After a heartbeat he jumped to his feet and ran to the other side of the roof to look down. The sound was that of his car’s engine. Looking down, he saw two men lifting the hood to look inside, while another sat in the driver’s seat and at least one more crawled in from the other side to look at the objects piled on the wide shelf behind his seat.
Drifter clutched at his cloak in frustration. Feeling in his pockets, he found that he had left the car keys behind in the ignition. An easy steal for whoever came along. Gritting his teeth, he bent to continue watching. There were far too many enemies for him to risk an attack. Especially as he would have to descend the staircase in plain sight to reach them.
Laughing, one thief called to the other, “this is great! The boss will be pleased.”
“Too bad we have to report it,” another grumbled loudly.
The man in the driver’s seat poked his head out, speaking with authority, “Alright you clowns. Shut the hood and let’s take the car back. It’s in good order, better than any we’ve found before.”
“What about the owner?”
“What about him, you idjit?”
“Well, he has to be around here somewhere. The car still has a little fuel and runs fine. Why would someone leave it?”
There was a pause of silence as Drifter crept away from the edge, making for an emergency escape hatch in the center of the roof. Behind him he heard the words drift up, “Clance, Hugo, look around and see if anyone is in the area. The rest of us will take this back to the boss.”
Drifter opened the hatch, careful to hold it so that it would squeak as little as possible. Inside, the building was dark, only the end of a metallic ladder showing near the hatch. Without a pause, Drifter swung onto it and started down, closing the door behind him. They had his car, and there was no way for him to get it back, at the moment. But with a little patience he could keep himself alive and perhaps regain what he had lost.
The shadows inside the structure became less dark when he was within them. The top story was gutted inside, garbage and insulation from the wall laying scattered on the floor in drifts. A shattered window, thick with grime, looked out on the steelworks, letting in only a little of the westering sunlight. Through the thick walls, Drifter heard the faint sound of two people ascending the staircase at the back of the building, arguing all the time. He couldn’t make out the words, only the angry overtones. Looking about him, he found steps leading down another story and took them, testing cracked stones before trusting them with his full weight. At the bottom, he was in a hallway leading between office rooms. The doors were hanging open, all of them arched and set with round panes of glass in a fashion prevalent in Apex before the fall.
Down another flight of steps, past more office rooms and storage closets, he came to a place where the stairs were broken and fallen away. The walls were bulging here as well, shaken out of shape by the earthquakes. Looking around, Drifter spotted an entrance to the elevator shaft. But when he glanced into it, he saw that the elevator was at the bottom, smashed, the cable snapped. The emergency escape and repair ladder along the side of the shaft was also broken away. There was no easy way down to the next story.
Turning, he heard voices echoing from the level above.
“See the footprints in the dust? Someone went this way.”
“Hush! Let’s find them.”
Drifter moved stealthily to a nearby office door. Slipping behind it, he waited, peering through the dusty glass pane with one eye. It was not long before soft footsteps could be heard coming down the steps. A moment later the two men came into view. The leader had a hand gun, small but powerful, held ready. The other carried a cleaver. Immediately, they became labeled in Drifter’s thoughts. The one with the gun was Target One, the other was Target Two.
Target Two was lagging, falling behind to check office doors and peer out of the windows they passed. Target One led the way, intent on the footprints in the dust. He walked hunched over, gun pointing before him and head bowed towards the ground. Neither man was armored. They were wearing only ragged and worn clothing which looked second-hand, or perhaps third.
Drifter tensed himself, careful not to concentrate his thoughts too hard on either man until he was ready. But as soon as Target One was just past the door, Drifter’s concentration focused on him like a laser beam. He slid out around the door.
He moved so quickly that Target One barely had time to look up before the gun was being kicked from his hand. It flew through the air to clatter off the wall, while Target One had just begun to tilt his head up, mouth opening in surprise. His head was stopped part way up by a blow to the back of it by the edge of Drifter’s hand. A second blow took him on the side of the jaw, while a kick sent him sprawling. Target Two had more time to prepare himself. Swinging the cleaver upright, he advanced in a few hops towards their assailant. His face was set in a snarl and filthy words dripped from his lips.
Drifter was calm. Everything flowed from him and around him at just the right pace, not too fast, not too slow. He let Target Two advance until he was almost within striking range with the cleaver. Target Two tried a few swings, always just missing the dodging loner. Finally, Drifter slid to the side and forward, bringing his hands together in a double-handed grip on the other’s wrist. With a wrench he twisted the knife from his opponent’s grasp and unbalanced him. A kick to the ankle and Target Two was laying on the floor. It only took a few extra blows to pacify him.
It had all taken only a few minutes. Drifter stood looking down at his targets, panting lightly.
“Too bad for you, Clance and Hugo. Better luck next time.”
Stooping, he picked up the pistol from the ground. It was a compact model in black, with a clip which slid into the grip. There were three bullets in the clip, none on the body of inert Target One. Ammunition was rarer than fuel, as there had been less of it before the Greenspark fire fell and just as much had been destroyed. Three shots was all that was in the gun. It was more than Drifter had owned since the disaster.
Tucking the weapon into his belt, he retraced his steps up the stairs, onto the roof space. Those two gang members were still alive, but they would be unconscious for some time. And unable to get themselves back to the steelworks, to report. Now was the time for Drifter to go after his car, before a larger group was raised to come looking for him. He would have to go carefully into the old industrial structures to find the car, make sure it was refilled with fuel, and perhaps pick up one more thing before leaving. And getting out of the area fast.
---
Through the layers of iron piping as the sun set, into the shadows of the giant structure housing the steelworks, slipping through the halls to the room overlooking the main foundry. Drifter had pursued this route cautiously, giving time for a few sentries to move out of his way and an argument between gang members in a back hall to be settled with blows, before moving on. Now he was leaning against a wall in the shadows, looking over a dusty control console at the room where molten metal had once been poured from a giant crucible into molds on a conveyor belt below. The crucible and belt were gone, torn out with only bone-like frames and structures left behind. In their place, a heap of glittering treasure had been built, containing everything from silverware, through jeweled knives, down to silken gowns and rich rugs. All of it pillaged from ruined houses or extracted from terrorized refugees.
Sitting on a large armchair in front of this useless heap was the boss of the Falel gang. It had been more than a year since Drifter had last met him, and he had not appeared to age a fraction. He was still a young man, little more than a boy, sitting draped in the chair with a smirk on his face and a wineglass in his hand. He wore a shirt with the sleeves torn off, exposing arms corded with wiry muscle and decorated with a wrap of thin gray chain from wrist to elbow. His shirt itself was plain white, with khaki green pants below, sporting huge pockets stuffed with odd items. His face was difficult to describe, as it held a collage of expressions from cruelty, cunning and intelligence down to sheer boredom. His hair was long and black, sleeked back over his head and glistening with oil.
The men who had kidnapped Drifter’s car stood before him, explaining what they had found and done. The car itself was parked over in a corner of the room, having been driven in through the large doors on the far side. Behind ‘Steelfist’ lurked a giant shadow, resting on the back of the chair. It was his body guard and chief thug, a fellow captured and spared because of his immense strength.
“You sent only two men to find whoever the car belonged to?” The boss sat up straighter, frowning at his minions. “Stupid. What if there were two people in the car? Or more? What if whoever owns it is armed with a gun? Hugo and Clance can be picked off from a distance with that! Go find them and capture whoever owned the car! And if you do, try to bring the drivers here alive. There’s something special about that car, I can tell. It wasn’t bought stock off the market. Go!”
The men looked at each other and hastily beat a retreat out of the room.
Steelfist tilted his head to look over the back of the chair. “Melchior.”
The giant moved out with a submissive bow. He was arrayed in faux skins, cut to look like a caveman’s outfit, with golden bands at the wrists and ankle. The gang had given vent to their crude imagination in keeping the giant as a pet and dressing him for the part.
“Fetch me the woman. And no rough stuff, now! She’s worth something to me.”
Melchior bowed, moving out of the room. The boss pulled himself out of the chair and went to look at Drifter’s car, running a hand thoughtfully down the hood. After a second, he moved to a chest against the wall, which had a blue glow leaking from under the lid. Thinking that it would be a good time to make his move, Drifter started heading for the door leading into the re-purposed foundry room. But he had only gone a few steps when Melchior returned, one huge hand around the wrists of the woman Drifter had seen on the rooftop earlier. With an inward sigh, Drifter returned to his post to watch.
The boss spun about and gestured for Melchior to let his captive go. The woman had her hood up again, so Drifter could not see much of her face, though he was closer than before. Her features appeared to be pale and refined, framed in inky hair, but he could tell little else. The deep purple robe flowed almost to the floor, showing a slim, tall figure.
“Witch!” Steelfist waved for her to step closer to him. “I want information.”
When the woman spoke her voice was low and cold, hardly varying in tone. Drifter didn’t hear the words. The boss looked at her with a frown for a moment, before slapping her across the face. The woman swayed to take the blow but offered no resistance.
“Melchior! Take her to the heap,” the boss ordered. His giant pet had been looking on with what seemed to be a sorrowful expression, but he still did as he was asked. Using both hands, the giant grasped the woman around the waist and dragged her over to the pile of treasure, the boss following behind.
At the heap of treasure Steelfist seemed to be pointing out things and asking the woman questions, to which she answered in her cold voice, which was too quiet for Drifter to make out.
By now, Drifter had decided to make his move even with the giant Melchior and the boss in the room. From what he could see, no one else was present, so he crept to the door and opened it. Outside, a set of stairs led down into the open space, traversing the shadows opposite the chair and treasure. He followed them down and clung to the edges of the room, moving around it towards the car and chest. The blue glow from under the chest’s lid attracted him. Stopping at it, he bent down and sniffed at the crack between. The unmistakable scent of crystal fuel leaked out, thin and acrid. Now that he was closer, he could see that other chests and barrels, better sealed, stood against the wall behind the front chest. They didn’t let a blue glow out, but were probably filled with the same substance.
Straightening up, he pried at the lid. It was fastened with a hasp, which he found on closer inspection to be closed with a small, thin padlock.
“More! Tell me more!”
Drifter glanced over his shoulders at the sharp words, but Steelfist was still immersed in interrogating the sorceress about the heap of glittering goods. Slipping the kitchen knife from his belt, Drifter jammed it in the hasp of the lock and twisted. The latch was made of thin, poor material. When he put all of his strength to it, the hasp snapped and the lock fell away. It produced a thin clinking noise, making him look over his shoulder again. Still, the woman and boss were turned away, lit by a lantern on a stand near the chair, looking over the treasure. Melchior seemed to be lost in the shadows beside them.
Upon opening the lid, Drifter was looking into a trove of crystal fuel. The bits of blue crystal ranged in size from fine to medium-large grind, all heaped and piled together. Acting quickly, Drifter pulled a miniature leather sack from one of his pockets and began stuffing it. He had just filled the sack and tucked it under one arm in preparation to close the chest’s lid when he heard a faint noise behind him. It could have been an in-drawn breath or a slight misstep. Whatever it was, the sound saved him from capture, perhaps death.
Whipping around, he saw Melchior swinging a massive fist at his head in a swift arc. Drifter tried to dodge it, but only managed on saving his head. The blow fell on his shoulder instead, sending him sprawling noisily to the floor. The sack of crystals dug into his side as he rolled out away from a kick from the giant’s foot, trying to recover his breath. Melchior jumped at him when the kick did not connect, stooping towards him with hands like monstrous clamps. Drifter rolled again, hitting against the chest of fuel. With his free hand he reached into his belt and whipped out the gun he had taken from either Clance or Hugo.
Melchior swung towards him and Drifter fired twice in succession. The first shot took the giant in the shoulder, making him stagger back a pace. The second hit him square in the chest. Moaning, Melchior stumbled in a circle, growling in a bubbling voice, “I’ll get the mouse...”
He crashed to the floor, blood staining his chin. Drifter jumped to his feet, noticing the boss running across the room towards him, shouting for his gang. Meanwhile, the woman had taken advantage of the situation to make a dash for the huge doors, robe flapping behind her.
Drifter only had a moment in which to act. With a grim smile, he considered that it was best to go out in a bright light than be captured by the angered gang. He spun around, discharging the last shot from his gun into the chest of crystal fuel. In the same breath he threw himself towards his car.
It started on the first crank and he gave it no time to wake up before demanding that it get him out of that place. The car complied, as always. He had only gone a few yards when there was a rumble and the first box of fuel exploded into a shower of burning sparks, like a enormous fire work. The sparks hit the nearby barrels and crates, starting to eat through the thin wood that bound them and creep through the tiny cracks between.
The woman had thrown open one of the wide double-doors in the far side of the room. Drifter aimed for it with the nose of his car, knocking the other door open, sliding into the huge hall leading outside. The woman had stopped against the wall, staring at his car in uncertainty. Hardly slowing, Drifter kicked open the passenger door.
“Get in!”
Without hesitation, the woman threw herself onto the chair. As soon as she landed they were flying down the hall, knocking over two hurrying gang members on the way. Behind them a series of explosions was starting to go off, fountains of flame and destruction shooting all throughout the room.
They shot into the gloom of twilight on the outside of the steelworks building, skidding into a parking lot ringed by chain link fence. At one point there was a gate, open just wide enough for a car to pass through. Drifter aimed for it, glancing once over his shoulder. Through the windows of the huge structure behind them he could see the reflected glow of hungry flames.
Once they made it through the gate Drifter slowed just a little, letting the bag of crystal fuel fall out from under his aching arm onto the chair beside him.
“Was that a planned rescue?” The woman on the passenger seat asked in her calm, frigid manner. She did not seem phased in the least by the circumstances.
“Not exactly.” Drifter pointed his car down the nearest street, taking corners as often as possible without going in a loop.
The woman looked out of the back window with a slow nod. “I didn’t think so.”