Outrider by Steven John

Author:Steven John
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Night Shade Books
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

14

Timothy Hale trembled in the cold night air. He was standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside his apartment building, dripping wet. The rain had grown heavier again in the last half hour, the entirety of which Hale had spent wandering around a few city blocks near his home. His tie was ruined; his loafers were overflowing. The golden lapel pin that marked him as a man of clout dug into the flesh of his left hand. He gripped the little chevron so tightly his palm was riddled with puncture wounds.

Hale was angry, terrified, and very much alone. A crippling undercurrent of sadness swirled beneath more tangible emotions: rage at Dreg for so quickly casting him aside after his years of service; abject terror as Hale realized he had nothing to fall back on—no backup plan for his life. The sorrow came from finally confronting the long suppressed reality that Hale had no one to turn to. There was no shoulder on which to lean; no smile from which to draw comfort. He had no real friends, no family with whom he’d spoken in years. He had no one, and now, quite possibly, he had nothing. What the fuck was I thinking? Who the fuck do I think I am!

It had yet to dawn on him that, earlier, as he rode the elevator down after leaving The Mayor’s office, it had stopped once, allowing several bureaucrats to board. The golden chevron—the executive pin he’d worn so proudly for so long—had been deactivated. When not lost in abject self-pity, he kept returning to the horrifying knowledge that The Mayor said he had known of the drain for some time. What else did he know? That I went snooping around his office and computer? That I’m a fucking rat playing hero? A fucking manchild fool?

The wind picked up and the rain began to assail Timothy. It was not enough to drench him; now the raindrops attacked, coming sideways down the street, seeking his face, his eyes. Cold and miserable though he was, somehow the thought of entering his home only brought more weight down upon Hale. The matching couches, the brushed steel appliances, and the faux-Tiffany lampshades . . . a store-bought life—nothing more. That’s what I have. That’s what I am goddammit. Fucking store-bought forty years.

Strayer had called him seven times in the past two hours. Hale had turned his phone off after the last call. Why won’t he just leave a fucking message? Timothy turned toward the brightly lit alcove of his building, determined to finally get on with things and go home. A few glasses of wine, a hot shower and then, with any luck, dreamless sleep. He could explain himself in the morning. With the right mix of contrition and deceit, no doubt he could talk his way back into Dreg’s good graces. The Mayor needed him, after all. Perhaps the few hours he’d spend without his right hand man would prove how much, in fact. Perhaps tomorrow would be handshakes and “Hale, fellow, well met.

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