Cleve shook his head. “You’re such a dick, Marcton. You know that?”
Marcton broke away from Derek and Cleve, swept his arms around, motioning for the five other Runners they’d brought with them to separate and search different areas: two to go across the street where the man’s car still lay upside down; two to go up on the warehouse roof to get a bird’s-eye view; and one to stand guard at the back entrance. All connected by walkie-talkies.
“Hey,” Cleve shouted over the wind, “why aren’t you avoiding my footsteps like you do Palermo’s and your own?”
“Quit needling the poor bastard, Cleve,” Derek said, scanning the tracks that disappeared into the blowing white haze.
“Shut up, Derek,” Cleve said. “Answer me, Marcton.”
“Don’t always do it,” Marcton said. “Just sometimes. You know, like you and thinking before you open your fool mouth. Now let’s be quiet and keep our eyes peeled, yeah?”
Cleve frowned, unsure whether or not he understood the insult. He stomped in the snow, mumbling under his breath.
The Runners grew quiet as they approached their designated search areas. The two on the roof slipped up via a rusty fire escape pinned to the back of the warehouse; the two out front drew their guns, more exposed to street-fire than the others; the guy at the back door just stood smoking, swiveling his head back and forth like an oscillating fan; and Cleve, Derek, and Marcton drifted slowly apart from each other along the tracks, a lantern Cleve had stolen from a neighboring factory trying like mad to illuminate their way through the storm.
Marcton’s walkie crackled. A thin voice squawked out from one of the guys on the roof: “Nothin’ up here. And nothin’ movin’ down below. Not that we can really see shit through the storm, mind, but still. You guys? Over.”
Marcton tapped the side of his walkie. “Nothing so far here, either. Just a pile of snow getting blasted into our faces. What about over at the car? Over.”
Marcton released the walkie’s button. Waited.
Nothing. Cleve and Derek started pulling away from him on the tracks. He wanted to shout at them to wait up, but thought better of it. They pulled farther away still, and Marcton decided to risk raising his voice. “Hey! Slow down!”
Cleve spun around and gave Marcton the finger, kept walking. Derek slowed a bit, though, now about halfway between Cleve and Marcton.
Pressing the walkie’s button down again, Marcton said, “Hey, everything cool by the car? Anyone copy? Over.”
More silence.
Then finally, something: “Yeah, rooftop here. Trying to see what’s happening down by the car, but tough to tell, so much snow. Looks like movement other than our two guys, but can’t be certain. Just waiting to see whether–”
Then shouting filtered through the walkie system. Marcton brought the walkie to his mouth. “Report! Over.”
Rooftop answered: “Fuck! Christ. Both men down. Repeat, two men down, front of warehouse, near the overturned car. No one other than the bodies, though. Not sure when it happened. Killer could be…”
“Shit,” Marcton whispered, turned, yelled for Cleve and Derek: “Two men down out front! Get your asses back here now!”
Cleve turned, started walking back; Derek turned, too, but then a dark shape, one arm raised, sword in hand, seemed to materialize from the swirling snow about three feet from where Derek stood. Derek, completely unaware, opened his mouth to shout something to Marcton farther up the tracks. But instead of words, only silence came out. Then Derek’s head toppled from his shoulders, his body following it to the ground a moment later.
But just as Derek had been taken unawares, so was the killer, as Cleve fired two shots into him as soon as Derek dropped. The first pulped the killer’s right eye, the second burst his heart. He crumpled and lay still in the snow.
Cleve, now squatting low, looked all around him, gun tucked in close to his body. Without another word, Cleve and Marcton searched the area carefully while shouts on the walkie confirmed that the two Runners out front had been beheaded. Satisfied that there were no other immediate threats in the area, Marcton and Cleve headed back to the warehouse.
The guard at the back door stepped aside to let them in, said he’d seen nothing, just heard the shouting on the walkies. The interior of the warehouse was bustling as Cleve and Marcton came in. Palermo barked orders in all directions. “Total lockdown!” he said, pointing at the exits and first-floor windows. “No one in or out unless it’s on my say so, is that fucking clear!?”
Concern about whether or not a Run would happen tonight – and the consequences of such – hung in the air, but no one spoke, just went about securing the building.
Marcton approached Palermo, leaned in close, spoke in low tones near his ear. “Derek’s dead, too, sir. Beheaded like the other two. Cleve got the fucker who did him, though. Dead, as well, not more than a few feet from Derek.”