Locke found a glass behind the bar in the living room and poured two fingers of whatever Cross had been keeping, something decent, as it turned out, which tracked for a man who had been operating at a high level for a long time and had developed preferences.
He looked at the two bodies near the stairs and thought about the sequence of events that had brought all three of them to this particular apartment in Carroll Gardens on this particular Friday night.
He had no personal grievance against either of them. That was the honest accounting. Cross had been trying to protect his son. Wesley had been running on bad information and grief and the particular stubbornness of someone who has committed to a story and doesn't know how to stop. Neither of those things made them innocent exactly, both had been on Fraternity kill operations, both had been trying to end Locke's life in various ways over the past week but it made the situation feel like what it was: a chain of consequences that started when Mr. Y's body fell out of a plane onto Locke's car.
He'd had every intention of visiting the Fraternity at some point, before all this. Learning the Gun-Flicking Technique through legitimate channels, pay the tuition, do the work, take what was useful and leave the rest. That had been the cleaner version of the plan.
Fate had other ideas.
He swirled the glass.
At least Cross got to see his son at the end. Whatever else could be said about how the night had resolved, Locke had given Cross that. It hadn't been a deliberate choice, he'd been running the geometry of the situation and the math had come out that way, but the result was the same. Cross had died with Wesley beside him, and that was something.
Whether it counted for anything in whatever accounting system ran above the System, Locke didn't know.
The System, at least, had an opinion.
[Mission Complete - Uninvited Guest][Achievement Points ×1,000 / Potential Points ×1,000]
[Hidden Mission Unlocked & Complete - Cross's Redemption][Achievement Points ×4,000 / Potential Points ×4,000]
[Grand Scene Bonus - Applied][Achievement Points ×6,000 / Potential Points ×6,000]
[Status Refreshed]
[Achievement Points: 11,300]
[Potential Points: 13,300]
Locke set the glass down.
Eleven thousand.
He read the number twice. Then he read it a third time, in case he'd miscounted.
He had not miscounted.
The hidden mission caught him off-guard, Cross's Redemption, triggered by something in the sequence of events at the end. He wasn't sure exactly what the System had clocked as the qualifying moment. Probably giving Cross the chance to see Wesley choose his side. The System had rewarded him for something he hadn't consciously been doing, which was either a quirk of the reward logic or the universe's way of suggesting that some things mattered even when you weren't keeping track of them.
He filed that thought somewhere he'd look at later.
The Grand Scene Bonus he understood, the System had been telegraphing this since the mission note first mentioned scaling rewards for scope. Tonight had been about as large a scope as one person could generate without body armor and an actual army. Manhattan chase, police helicopters, a live news broadcast, a bridge, and three separate kill confirmations. Apparently the System agreed that qualified as grand.
Eleven thousand three hundred Achievement Points.
He stood up, finished the glass, and left, wiping it down with his sleeve on the way out, though the gloves had already handled the main concern. No record. No prints. No reason for anyone to place him here except the mathematics of the tracking card.
The police sirens were getting louder.
Time to go.
Back at Starlight Tower, Locke changed into something comfortable and stood at the bay window with a fresh pour of his own bourbon, looking out at the streets below. NYPD units were still moving, the whole night had generated a response that wasn't going to quiet down until well past dawn.
He thought about Monday.
The factory had a full staff on weekdays. The math now looked different than it had a week ago: he was going in with 11,300 Achievement Points already in the bank, Gun-Flicking Technique at Intermediate, Advanced Driving, and a mission structure that paid per elimination with a scaling bonus. Sloane was down his top two operatives. The Repairman was still there, along with the general staff, but the ceiling of what the factory could bring against him had dropped significantly.
By Monday evening, he thought, watching the city lights, the point totals are going to clear thirty thousand.
He allowed himself a moment to appreciate that.
Then he went to bed.
Carroll Gardens. 2 AM.
George walked into the safe house with the particular posture of someone who had been moving continuously for six hours and had decided not to acknowledge it.
Two bodies. One near the stairs, one against the wall. He looked at them with the professional detachment he'd developed over three decades and then read the files his officer brought him.
Cross Carlos. Wesley Carlos.
Cross: listed as a former employee of the Textile Factory, termination date several months ago. Wesley: also listed as a former Textile Factory employee, terminated more recently.
Both of them connected to the same factory he'd visited with Cullen tonight.
He looked at Wesley's file again. Something about it sat differently from Cross's, Cross had the profile of a long-term operative, the kind of person who left minimal traces and had multiple identities in circulation. Wesley had the profile of someone who'd been brought in recently, built up quickly, and pointed at a problem.
Someone made this kid into a weapon, George thought. And the weapon got used up.
"George."
Kate Beckett came in from the doorway, forensic gloves on, her phone still in her hand. She had the expression she wore when she had something.
"The information division ran a reverse trace on the Maserati's signal," she said. "After it entered Manhattan, it was stationary on Fifth Avenue for approximately ten minutes, right before the chase started."
"Fifth Avenue."
"Starlight Tower." She looked at her phone, then at George. "The R8 that was reported stolen, the one the suspect was driving, the report was filed by the registered owner at the time the vehicle left the building. Ten minutes before the chase began."
George absorbed this.
"The registered owner," Kate said, "is Locke-"
"Broughton," George said.
Kate looked at him.
"Locke Broughton." George said the name slowly, as if testing how it sounded when it meant something different from everything he'd thought it meant. "Sixteen years old. Transfer student. Texas."
Kate waited.
"He had dinner at my house," George said.
There was a silence in the safe house that had a specific quality, the quality of a case that had just become significantly more complicated and significantly more personal at the same time.
Kate looked at the bodies. At George. At the file on her phone.
"You want to tell me," she said carefully, "what kind of sixteen-year-old has a registered vehicle that ends up in a street chase involving Gun-Flicking assassins and a live news broadcast?"
George looked at the wall.
He was thinking about a dinner table. About a student who'd said exactly the right things when asked about Sin Hunter. About pastries from Helen. About a conversation on a street outside his house where Sin Hunter had said go home, Captain Stacy and known exactly who he was talking to.
"I want to make a call," George said.
He stepped outside.
The night air was cold and full of sirens.
He stared at the contact in his phone - Gwen - and did not press it.
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.