The Fired Gun

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

“f**k! European cigs are the best!”

Dakota rolled his eyes as Gage sucked down two whole cigarettes-worth of ash and tar. “Don’t they cut it with sawdust? I thought I heard that.”

“s**t, I dunno.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s just ‘cause I’m hurtin’ so bad. I’d take anything. You could drop one in a puddle of piss, and if I had no other options, I’d probably smoke it once it dried out! I’m not exactly picky right now, I’ll tell ya that. Not one bit.”

Now that was desperation! Dakota couldn’t imagine being that addicted to chemicals, especially not ones that could kill him. He would hate not having control over his own life. “Lovely visual. Thanks.”

Gage grinned. “Well, you’re welcome.”

“I’m told the booze here is pretty good, too.”

“Oh yeah? But you don’t drink, do you? Not even a little?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame. They got some crazy concoctions back home. It’s touristy s**t, but they sure do sell a ton of it.” After a purposeful pause, “Isn’t there anything you do to have fun? Or is it all business, all the time?”

He resisted the urge to reply with “I kill people.” While it would bring Dakota a small amount of amusement from witnessing the look on Gage’s face, it probably wasn’t the best call to be frightening his new assistant. He would need him to trust him later, especially when he did actual killing. And he wasn’t some psychopath. Removing a threat felt good, but ending someone’s life? He was numb to it, not overjoyed.

Instead, “I find outlets, when I need them.” s*x was one of them, but he partook in it irregularly, usually through one-night stands. He cleared his throat. “So, which way to the safe house?”

“This is gonna be a long trip if you keep dodgin’ all my questions!” But when Dakota offered up no additional information, Gage sighed. “Should be about five blocks east of here.”

All over the world, in as many countries and major cities as possible, there were locales with tenuous connections to Adelaide Price. Though she rarely felt the need to explain herself or anything at all, Dakota gleaned from various side conversations that the safe houses—some of which were little more than an apartment or back room of some store—functioned as part of a grand network, designed to guard information about talismans and help users in a bind.

While every person who ran the houses knew what talismans were, a surprising amount did not own any. And most had inherited the information, sometimes across many generations. They had a duty, given to them by their parents or a friend or a mysterious distant family member whose estate had come to them young in life. They could provide shelter for the night, food, money occasionally, weapons, and of course, information. Most were young, barely into their twenties like Dakota, or elderly: eighties and nineties, and looking every year of it.

He strongly suspected that some of the homes were former residences of Adelaide—perhaps hundreds of years ago in some cases—properties she procured for the purpose, or favors called in with people from her past whom she’d helped.

The locations were all marked. Not by some secretive symbol, but incredibly common ones. Hiding in plain sight. In western countries, it was the image of a sun and moon, with faces, joined together. Popular among new-age types and Pagans. In the East, the pervasive yin and yang, which held a similar meaning of balance, was employed. There were a few others for South America and Africa. Common as the symbols were in decorations, the knowledge of their secondary use was clearly not enough to find the desired places. One had to know where they were already, or at least a narrower location. And once one got there, a series of steps were required in order to procure any aid.

Sometimes word preceded them. A brief call from Gage or someone in Adelaide’s group, to alert an agent as to their arrival, what would be needed, and why. That way, whoever manned the station would have ample time to prepare. But regardless, every interaction began with a simple exchange, in whatever language the participants shared.

“Your symbol is beautiful.”

“It means nothing,” the safe house owner would then reply.

“Beauty means everything.”

While Dakota was anything but multilingual, he’d memorized those words in two dozen languages, and kept a small book of notes to remember. Luckily, in this case, Gage’s decent understanding of French thanks to his place of birth should come in handy for further conversation.

The passwords would then be followed by a kiss to the hand. Though the travelers bore no markings, all members of the safe house network had their symbol engraved on a ring that they wore. Like subjects meeting their king or high-ranking clergy, visitors were expected to plant a kiss on the piece of jewelry to signify that they would be civil and obey whatever rules of the house that were in place. Somehow, Dakota had a hunch this was Adelaide’s idea.

After that, a small gift was given as a token of gratitude. Since these visits were often unplanned, it could be an offer to help out with some chores or whatever the needy talisman wielder could afford to part with. In their case, it was a box of fine chocolates and a ceramic Mardi Gras mask—for some loaner guns, an annotated map, two tall glasses of water, and a nice, long conversation about the problem at hand.

Gage mediated most of it, as the young woman who stood sentry at this old Parisian house only spoke minimal English. She seemed to like him, and they were friendly. Dakota imagined that she’d received many calls from Gage in the past, and perhaps she was happy to finally meet him in person. But Dakota spent very little time dwelling on this fact. All he cared about was getting what they needed and finishing the job. At the first chance he got, Dakota made sure the two departed quickly.