I consider myself god's gift to fashion. I look good in anything. That's a fact.

That's why I went to Gus Bradley's wearing purple booty shorts and an oversized white tee. Not because I forgot to change out of my PJs. I could've walked in here wearing anything.

The man behind the bar sighs as I kick in his front door. The brown-painted metal flakes in protest. "It was locked, Alex," he says without turning. His voice is high-pitched and metallic. "Could've just knocked."

I dump the severed head of the idiot freelancer on Gus's infamous fake oak counter. The head makes an interesting squishy noise. "Who's this dumbass?"

Gus finally turns, wrinkling his nose at the mess. "You're soaked."

I can't tell if he's talking about the blood or the rain. I don't answer, instead opting to squish the head a little with my finger.

"That guy," he remarks, his mustache up in arms. The raven combover he'd decided to rock today accentuates his egg-shaped head. "Why'd you kill him?"

"He had the nerve to dump a body in my dumpster," I answer, frowning.

Gus pauses. "Ah." His expression goes dark. "You want to know who hired him, I suppose."

"It would help."

"You know I can't give you names every time you have issues with one of my clients, right?"

I give him the stink-eye. He sighs. "Some small branch head of the Coal Dragons." A vague flick of his wrist. "Jaime Cheung."

I release the head. It slumps over with a slurping noise, like someone deflated a watermelon. I think. Not many watermelons these days. "I don't know who that is."

"No shit."

"Then why'd you tell me about him?"

"Because he's the guy you want."

"Oh yeah. Where is he and what does he look like?"

Gus's forehead creases. "Hold on." He runs a hand through his hair. Big mistake. "I've seen what happens when I point you in the direction of anyone. The only reason I even gave you his name is because you won't know what to do with it."

I tilt my head. "Huh?"

He ignores me. "All I ask is that you don't mention me when this goes tits-up."

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"Why would it?" He stares at me just a moment longer than I'm comfortable. "Gus?"

He blinks. "Nothing, nevermind." He snaps his fingers, and my phone beeps. "Standard infobroker package there. Read that. Everything you need. I have...things to attend to."

Gus disappears into the kitchen. I pull up the top secret information in hologram mode for easier reading, placing my phone on the bar to hold it steady.

Nothing jumps out at me. His image and last known location are all I need. "Hey Gus?" I call.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you open so early, anyway?"

"I'm not."

"Oh."

I stuff my phone back in my waistband. Booty shorts don't come with pockets, yo! I shamble back to the entrance, leaving a trail of dampness behind. "Thanks for the macaroni, Gus!"

I can hear him shout "What macaroni?" as I step over the remains of the front door out into the rain. "Alex!"

He's poking his head out from the kitchen, the harsh white lights giving the wood of the bar a less inviting feel. "Where you going?"

I don't understand. "To kill Jeremy."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

"It's five in the morning. On a Tuesday. It's freezing."

"Is it?"

He looks like he wants to strangle me. "Do you at least have a gun on you?"

I shake my head. I think he's about to explode. "Go get. A gun."

"Breaker?"

"Are you asking me for permission?"

I take a second to mull it over, ultimately deciding I'd rather have fun. "Nope. Breaker it is."

I own one of the few dozen antipersonnel railguns in Site 17. Mostly by sheer happenstance, partially because I tanked a shot from it to take the weapon from its previous owner.

The Electrum Inc V70 Railgun. A fine piece of machinery. Railguns were leftover space launch tech from the golden ages before the war. Some wiseass decided to tweak the components from the bullshit all the nukes made. The result? An infantry weapon with the power to punch holes in tank armor.

My variation is the Breaker. A shotgun that simply shreds a rod of tungsten on its way out the barrel. I love it, and it will kill anything I point it at.

Unfortunately, I can't always keep it around my place. When the Wall Guard get nosy and decide to strike up patrol in the district for a while, it goes in storage. I'm not legally allowed to own it, y'see.

Anyway, I keep her stored in a locker down in the Third Street Bunker. Old nuclear bunker turned into one of the crappiest clubs in Guadalajara. But its security is top-notch.

The Third Street Bunker is one of the many fronts for the Chrome Roses, a fun little gang I prefer to avoid messing with. They're annoying, but they're the only storage in walking distance that will hide contraband.

The bunker is the solid steel base of a building holding up the mid level. Once-fancy murals painted on the concrete walls are fucked by stray graffiti. The steps leading down to the club from the street are bare concrete as well, worn down by nearly a century of constant use.

The doorman, a giant Asian man named Dave, scans my EyeD. Right, I left my scanner at home. Oh well.

I'm waved through. Inside, nothing I care for is happening. Seriously, it's five in the fucking morning.

Downstairs, an assortment of lockers of varying sizes line the wall. The lights don't quite work down here. The correct locker is hard to find. And they use mechanical keys, something only used nowadays when you don't want to leave traces. Mine fits one lock. Inside is my weapon.

Hours later, I get off the bus in Tiāntáng. My phone vibrates. Some number I've never seen is furious with me, blowing up my phone in a barrage of calls and texts. Gus must've given the client my info. Snake of a broker. I prefer Cain.

I flip my phone open. "I'm here," and snap it shut.

I hope he didn't visit Gus in person. I might be in for a wait.