"You're going to hurt someone today. Aren't you?"
Sharon froze. Siro, her little sister, sat across the table. She chewed the sweet roll Sharon had bought for her. Her eyes were inquisitive. Intent. And worried.
Sharon wet her lips, searching for a response. She opened her mouth when she thought she found it. But it dropped away, vanished from her mind, and she pursed her lips and looked away.
People were going about their day. Some going into the bakery behind Sharon, some leaving it. The gray clouds crawled across the sky. The world was moving, but Sharon wasn't moving with it. She could almost see it: that tiny moment, that small sliver of time, when Siro didn't know what she did for a living. It fluttered away on the wind. Now, today, somehow...she knew. Her little sister knew.
"Sharon?"
"What makes you think that I'm going to..." she closed her eyes, "...do that?"
Siro took another bite out of her sweet roll. Kept chewing.
Sharon looked back at her. "Siro, answer me please."
A moment passed. Then, "Jorge told me."
Her eyes narrowed. "What did he say?"
Siro swallowed, but she didn't take another bite. She stared at Sharon for another quiet moment. Studied her. "He said that you only buy me sweet rolls when you have to do something bad at work. That it makes you feel better. Is that true?"
Sharon's mouth dropped open the smallest bit, revealing her surprise, and it took her a full three seconds to realize it. She blinked rapidly, shook her head to dispel her rising anger at what Jorge had done, then stood up. She rounded the table, crouched, and put her hands on her little sister's shoulders.
"No, no, Siro, listen to me, okay?" She took a breath. "I...do...what I do...so you can live the best life you can possibly live. I don't want you to grow up the way I did. You deserve better, you understand? I want to keep buying those books for you to study. I want to move us into a better neighborhood. And sometimes I just want to buy you one of these awesome sweet rolls you love so much." That got a smile out of Siro. "But I can't make any of that happen unless I do what I have to do. Everything in this life costs something. That's just how the world works. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Good." Sharon smiled back. "C'mon. Finish eating and I'll walk you home."
* * * * *
The gray clouds covered the whole sky now. A light rain fell onto the city.
Sharon stepped through a large puddle as she approached. Charles and Jorge stood outside the meeting place: a half-burned down house in a poor neighborhood, a section of Reajh where people didn't risk paying too much attention to other people's business.
She glared at Jorge. He grunted. His cheeks raised up slightly—he was smiling under the mask.
Charles glanced at the two of them. Let it go. Said, "Remember. 'Service'."
Charles pushed open the front door and went in. Jorge followed.
She'd have to give Jorge a piece of her mind later. Sharon entered and closed the door behind herself.
Inside, three armed men stood across a lonely table from them. Rain and dim light poured in through the large hole in the roof on Sharon's left; rainwater streamed off the charred edges. Even through the fresh rain the smell of ash and burnt wood clawed at her nose. Seeped into her skin.
"Charles," said one of the men.
"Stefan."
The man, Stefan, motioned to the table and the two cheap chairs beside it. "Let's talk."
"Let's."
The two of them sat at the table. Sharon and Jorge stood behind Charles, and Stefan's men stood behind him. Sharon eyed her opposite on Stefan's side of the room. He had his hand on his holstered pistol. Sharon gently put a hand on hers.
"You've got some explaining to do," Charles said.
"An apology, of course, from Mr. Deegan. One he hopes Mr. Winters will accept. Yesterday's incident...a tragic misunderstanding. We didn't know that was Mr. Winters' territory—"
"Bullshit."
Stefan held up his hands briefly. "Mr. Deegan knows this is no excuse. Reparations of drugs or gold, whichever is Mr. Winters' request, will be respectfully furnished for the mishap. Mr. Deegan doesn't want this incident to damage the relationship between our two businesses."
"Good. But there's a few other..."
Sharon focused more and more on the nameless man across from her. As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she saw that it wasn't a man at all. A woman, like her, just with short hair.
Sharon's mind wandered. How did this woman end up standing there? How did her path cross with Sharon's, in this blackened house, at this precise moment? Everything about her—every sweet memory, every dark moment—was about to end. Unceremoniously. Here. In this unremarkable place. Was it a life worth living, if she were given the choice to live it again? Did her journey matter?
Did her own?
"...can be arranged," said Charles. "Tell Mr. Deegan that Mr. Winters thanks him for his service."
You're going to hurt someone today. Aren't you? Sharon drew her pistol.
Three gunshots rang out as one.
Stefan's head whipped back and he fell out of his chair. The man behind Stefan tumbled to the floor, a chunk of his skull missing. The woman yelped and dropped her half-drawn pistol, collapsing by the man. She clamped a hand onto the side of her neck. Blood squirted out from between her fingers. She thrashed around, her boots kicking the table legs and the wooden floor in desperation.
Charles put down his pistol on the table. Stood up. Drew his dagger. "God damn it."
He walked over to the squirming woman. Crouched down and straddled her. Shoved the knife between her ribs. She kicked and kicked, knocking the table over. But her legs soon went still, her gargling soon went quiet.
Without looking back at them, Charles said, "Check the other two."
Jorge went to the body of Stefan's male guard.
Sharon swallowed, took a breath, holstered her pistol, and went to Stefan's body.
But Jorge found what they were looking for in the pockets of the male guard. "Here it is, boss. Note says, 'Crescent square. Six crates of Ignis root.'"
"That's the shipment." Charles stood up. Picked his pistol up from the floor. "We've got a couple hours til sundown. We'll hit that safehouse then. Use the cover of darkness to lift the goods." He holstered the pistol. "Leave one at a time. Draw less attention. You first, Vrouge."
"Got it." Jorge slipped the note into his pocket. He stepped up to Sharon, clapped her on the shoulder two times. She said nothing. He made for the door and left the house.
As soon as he was gone, Sharon looked to Charles and said, "I need to talk to you about Vrouge. He—"
"Hey. I don't know what the hell has gotten into you, Gordon, but I need you to stay focused on the task at hand." Charles gestured back at the dead woman. "You missed your kill shot—that's not like you. What if she got her own shot off? Hit me or you? Hmm? You wanna put your sister through somethin' like that? Seein' you come home wounded, or worse?"
"I—"
"This personal shit stays at home, or at the tavern, or wherever it needs to be. When you're on the job, you suck it up and deal with it. Or else you're gonna get one of us killed."
Sharon closed her eyes. Lowered her head. Nodded. "I understand."
"Good." Charles walked to the door. "Take a minute. Then leave."
And he was gone.
Sharon stood there in the house, the three bodies around her. The rain kept falling in through the hole in the roof. Splattering on the floor. The rainwater mixed with the blood. Diluting it. Erasing it. Like all things.
Sharon stepped out the door of the house. She looked to her left and right, then started walking away.