Ryan King of Spies

Silverspire Port docks, Iron Hull Tavern. Three letters on the neon sign were busted, leaving just "n Hull Tavern" barely hanging on in the night.

The man behind the bar was wiping a glass. He wiped one glass for forty-seven seconds, turned it six times, held it up to the light twice, set it down, then picked it back up for one more wipe. His right hand had a scar. His name was Ryan Wade, at least that's what they called him in Silverspire Port. He'd taken over this rundown bar three years ago.

The door slammed open. Five men walked in. Leading them was a bald guy with a snake tattooed on his neck—local gang, "The Viper Coven."

"Ryan, where's the booze?"

Ryan didn't look up. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and set it on the bar. "Two hundred dollars."

The bald man tucked the bottle under his arm and turned to leave.

"Two hundred dollars."

The bald man turned back. "You know who the fuck I am?"

"Yeah." Ryan looked up. "The Viper Coven. You owe me for three bottles. With this one, that's eight hundred dollars."

The bald man froze for a second, then laughed. He pulled a switchblade from his waist and dragged the tip across the bar, leaving a white scratch. "You run a shithole bar."

He didn't finish.

A chill started at the base of his spine, like ink bleeding into water, slowly creeping upward. To his lower back, to his shoulder blades, to the back of his head. The bald man's laugh caught in his throat. His heartbeat picked up. Sweat broke out on his forehead, cold. The hand gripping the knife started shaking, his fingers wouldn't obey, like the strength was being drained from his joints bit by bit.

The knife tip drooped. The guys behind the bald man stopped laughing. Someone took half a step back. The center of their half-circle was Ryan, still wiping his glass.

The bald man heard his heartbeat getting louder and louder, his eardrums filled with the roar of blood rushing through vessels. He felt like something had taken him apart into bones and muscle, laid him out under a microscope.

The knife dropped. It rolled to the base of the bar.

In Ryan's right eye pupil, dark red data streams flashed:

"Attack angle thirty-two degrees. Evasion: shift left zero point four meters, elbow strike seventh rib. Success rate ninety-seven point three percent. Engage."

"Beautiful." Voss said. The mechanical voice pressed with excitement, like a caged dog finally seeing the door open. "Engage."

Ryan didn't move.

"Engage!" Voss's voice rose a notch. "Shift left zero point four meters, elbow strike—zero point three seconds to end the fight. Engage!"

Ryan still didn't move.

The bald man's hand hung limp, his whole body like the bones had been pulled out.

"He's done." Ryan said quietly.

"He's got four guys with him." Voss went cold. "Four seconds, four shattered cervical vertebrae. Engage."

"Shut up."

Voss's voice cut off. Like someone had grabbed his throat.

Ryan walked out from behind the bar. By the time he reached the bald man, the guy's legs had gone soft, held up only by his last bit of strength to keep from dropping to his knees.

A whimper squeezed from the bald man's throat.

"The bottle. Put it down. Money. Eight hundred dollars." Ryan's voice was quiet.

The bald man's hand released. Ryan caught the bottle and pulled eight bills from his pocket.

"Get out."

The bald man turned and ran. Fifty yards out, he had to lean against a wall to dry heave. He looked at his hand. Still shaking. Couldn't stop shaking.

The bar went quiet.

Ryan tossed the switchblade in the trash. The red data stream in his right eye faded. This prosthetic eye had been implanted three years ago. On the surface it looked like a fake eye, but actually it was a military-grade tactical chip, bound to his nerve endings, codename Voss.

"You're not happy?" Voss asked.

"His hand was shaking."

"Irrelevant to success rate."

"He didn't want to fight."

"He came with a knife."

"He didn't want to fight." Ryan repeated.

Voss's data stream hovered on his retina for zero point three seconds.

"You don't kill him, he'll be back tomorrow. With more guys, longer knives. Then you'll have to kill more than one."

Ryan didn't respond. He poured himself a whiskey and downed it in one gulp.

Three years. He'd been pretending every day.

The curtain lifted. A woman walked in. Beige trench coat, sunglasses. She took off the sunglasses—hard features, traces of command in her eyes and brows.

Selena Grey. Silverspire Port's biggest information broker. The person who'd pulled him from a pile of corpses three years ago.

Selena glanced at the puddle on the floor. "You scared someone into pissing themselves again."

"He scared himself." Ryan pushed a glass of water across the bar.

She didn't take it. She slapped a manila envelope on the bar. "Graybay Storage, the Darden family. Fifty thousand dollar fee."

"Not taking it."

"How much does your bar make in a day?"

"Two hundred dollars."

"Fifty thousand will cover two thousand five hundred days."

"Six years and three hundred days." Voss added in his head. "Take it. I need action."

He ignored Voss.

Selena pulled a photo from her coat and placed it on the envelope.

The photo showed a thin man, a scar on his left face running from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth.

Ryan's fingers stopped.

Gregor McCall, codename Ghost. His second-in-command. The man whose life he'd saved three times. The man who'd stabbed him in the back three years ago.

"Beautiful." Voss said. His voice was different now—colder, like a blade licking a whetstone. "Finally."

After Selena left, Ryan sat behind the bar for a long time.

He flipped the photo over, then flipped it back. Three years ago at the border. Ghost had stood behind him, gun pressed against his lower back, said "I'm sorry," then pulled the trigger.

He'd fallen from a ninety-foot platform. Four broken ribs, his right eye half sliced off by shrapnel. He lay at the bottom of the canyon for three days, surviving by drinking his own piss. On the fourth day, Selena's people found him. By then his blood had almost run dry, his right eye was a bloody hole, his left leg swollen like a tree trunk. The medic said six more hours and there'd be no point in saving him.

Ryan shoved the photo in his pocket. With his hand still in the pocket, he squeezed the corner of the photo. The paper's edge cut into the scar on his right hand. It hurt.

The bullet from three years ago had passed right by this scar.

He stood up. He looked around this bar where he'd been hiding for three years—the scratches on the bar top, the moldy leather chair in the corner, three years of dust built up on the fan blades. He'd wiped these things for three years, wiped and they got dirty again, got dirty and he wiped them again. Like himself, pretending to exist, pretending not to exist.

"Go."

Just one word. Not said to Voss, said to himself.

He dumped the contents of the envelope—a warehouse floor plan, a car key, a note: 23:00, East District No. 7. He folded the floor plan twice and stuffed it in his back pocket, spun the car key around his knuckle once.

"Going?" Voss asked. His voice held barely suppressed excitement, like a war horse hearing the horn.

Ryan didn't answer. He swapped his work vest for a black jacket, the car key clutched in his palm.

He pushed open the back door. Sea wind rushed in, carrying the smell of fish. In the distance, searchlights on the docks swept back and forth across the clouds, cutting the night sky into pieces.

He walked into the night.

Didn't look back.