I checked Aunt Zelda’s cabinets, found a bag of genetically modified potatoes. They were bacon-and-cheese flavored. I preferred the roast beef variety, but these weren’t bad. I ate two raw. I followed them up with a genmod apple, which tasted like pie à la mode. Delicious, and nutritious, fortified with every essential micronutrient.
Sadly, the rum bottle was almost empty. I took it with me to the living room, where I checked on Neil. He was snoring on the couch, and his breasts had already doubled in size. By morning, he’d be a D-cup. Served the little bastard right.
Then I weaved into Aunt Zelda’s bedroom, collapsing on her bed, feeling it form-fit to the contours of my body.
I was tired. Too tired to even take off Teague’s boots.
I drained the rest of the rum in one gulp, then shut my eyes, spinning into sleep.
A noise woke me up.
I looked around, unsure of where I was. Light was peeking in through the bedroom blinds, so it was morning. Aunt Zelda, and Neil, and the fix I was in all came rushing back to me. I sat up, listened for whatever had awoken me. I heard the air-conditioning hum. Neil’s footsteps, creaking outside my doorway. Snoring, from the living room.
My adrenal glands kicked into overdrive. If Neil was snoring, how could he be walking outside my door?
I went on the offensive, leaping out of bed, ducking through the door, running into—
“Teague. Son of a bitch. How’d you get in?”
“Smart magnet.”
Teague trained his Glock on my chest, but made no immediate effort to shoot. He had a neck brace on, the healing disk humming. Other than that, he looked the picture of health.
“You track me?” I asked, noting he had a new TEV unit on his shoulder.
He set it down and shook his head. “When you mentioned the name Neil, I remembered the wimpy guy who came to the office, talking about his aunt being murdered. She the one on TV?”
“She’s in the fridge.”
“That’s cold, bro.”
“About forty-five degrees.”
We stared at each other.
“I didn’t kill her, Teague. I didn’t destroy Boise, either.”
“Maybe you did; maybe you didn’t. Frankly, I don’t care.”
“So what do you want?”
“Who’s there?” muttered Neil from the other room. “Holy shit! I have tits!”
Teague said, “Ever since we were kids, we’ve always competed with one another.”
“You won most of the time.”
“You won the girl. That beats everything else.”
“She wasn’t a prize to be won, Teague. She made her own choice.”
“WTF?” Neil said. “They’re real!”
Teague put the gun in its holster, and for a brief moment I hoped we were actually going to reconcile. It surprised me how good the idea of it felt.
My elation slipped away when he raised his fists.
“I’m better than you, Talon. And I’m going to prove it.”
I put up my dukes as well. “Like you proved it in the cornfield?”
Teague’s eyes narrowed. “I’m taking you in. No guns. No weapons. I’m going to break your neck, and leave you in front of the Cook County courthouse. And there’s not a thing you can do to—”
I hit him with a jab in the nose, then followed with a right cross to the chin. My right was weak; the arm had gotten number overnight. Teague shrugged off the blows and snap-kicked me in the ribs, sending me stumbling down the hall. I fell onto my back in the living room.
Neil stood over me, his hands up his shirt. “I need some time alone,” he said. “I’ll be in the shower.”
He still appeared groggy from the sleeping pills, so much so that he didn’t even acknowledge Teague when he passed him in the hallway.
Teague advanced casually, rolling his shoulders. Besides my bad arm, I ached in about a hundred places. Unlike Teague, I hadn’t had the luxury of an ER visit. He probably wasn’t feeling any pain at all. Me? It even hurt to blink.
I stared up at my former friend. “You win,” I told him. “You’re better than me.”
He seemed to consider the comment. Then he offered me his hand.
I took it. After Teague helped me up, he punched me in the gut so hard it knocked the wind out of me. I doubled over, unable to suck in any air. Teague yanked my Nife from my utility belt sheath, threw it against the wall, where it stuck, and then followed it up with a kick to the chest. I managed to twist away in time, taking the brunt of it on my bad arm, but it still knocked me onto the couch. I sat there for a moment, trying to get my diaphragm to work.
“Pathetic,” Teague said.
He was right. I’d gone through all of this—all the fighting and running and searching—just to die in prison. The worst part was I’d never find out who set me up. It was like fumbling the hyperfootball on the nine-hundred-and ninety-ninth yard line.