“Thank you all for coming out tonight.” Shales’ voice carried across the Vespucci banquet hall as he spoke into the microphone on his podium, as at ease as he ever was before the crowd of hundreds of his key supporters. Derrek sat among them, planted at a table between a bored Discord in his red suit and some politician from Nevada, either the governor or the treasurer, he forgot which. Miguel sat across from them, scribbling rapidly in a notebook, oblivious to his surroundings, and the other seats were filled with faces and names that meant nothing to him, just more public figures.

  “I know many of you traveled a long way to be here, and I want to extend my gratitude to you all for your support.” Shale fixated at a table to his right, pointing at a woman at its far end. “If my eyes aren't failing me, I believe that's governor Newman, all the way from Anchorage! I hope jet lag isn't hitting you too hard.” A ripple of light laughter rolled over the crowd, Newman playfully wagging a finger at Shale. “Wonderful. I wouldn't be here tonight if it weren't for all of your support. I've heard it said, ‘no man is an island,’ and traversing the political sea has convinced me that is in fact the case. Part of me wants to say years of running a business prepared me for all this, but truthfully, I’d be lying if I did.” Derrek smirked. He had heard several versions of this speech over the last week, and he knew exactly where Shale was going.

  “In business, it all boils down to either someone wanting something from you or vice-versa, and what the price for that something will be. Everything is transactional by its very nature, but a leader cannot lead on that basis. One cannot play ‘hardball’ with human rights, as they would with a client, for these aren't things one has the right to take away. A leader must put the quality of his peoples’ lives above any monetary value. A leader must blaze a path toward a brighter, rather than hark on the worn trail of the past. Nostalgia is a fine pillow to lay your head on, and ‘things aren't how they used to be,’ is a fine phrase as true as it has ever been, but time will march forward as it always has, whether we march on with it or not. And now that I've been lucky enough to secure my nomination, allow me to erase all doubts.”

  He slammed his fist on the podium, a hardness in his eyes Derrek had rarely seen, sending a chill down his spine. “We will not be left behind. We will charge on together, as one nation united under the grace of God.” Shale wasn't a particularly religious man, but he was well aware of the Christian majority. At any rate, the crowd erupted in applause, every seat emptying as they gave a standing ovation, save for the wheelchair-bound senator from California and Miguel, who still hadn't looked up from his notebook.

  “I swear, Billy’s always had the trick with speeches.” Discord leaned in so Derrek could hear him over the clapping. “Back in Kuwait, he was the biggest morale booster the jarheads could ask for. Give him a soap box and a squadron of fresh-faced flakes, and he’ll turn them into soldiers double time, all without saying a damn thing.”

  Derrek grunted. Shale never talked about his time in the gulf war, and that had always been fine, but it was interesting to think of who he had been as a young man. But still, a topic for another day. He leaned back and slid his eyes toward Discord as the ovation began to wane. “Be honest, what are his chances?”

  Discords’ cheeks blew out as he let out a streak of breath as Shale waved to the crowd and strode offstage, replaced at the podium by a pudgy, balding man giving a short stuttering speech about parking validation. “Not bad, but it's never easy going against an incumbent. Even though president Harrington’s got the personality of a wet pair of socks, that still gives him the advantage, even with all Billys’ public goodwill. I’d say…” He held out his hands and put down his fingers one by one, his face scrunched up in concentration. “Fifty-fifty, as of now. But the whims of the public change like the winds. It'll play out how it will, just like everything else.”

  Derrek smirked and nudged Discord in the ribs with his elbow. “That's a lot of words to say you don't know.”

  Discord snorted. “How about this then: there's a bakery in Ohio that sells cookies with each candidates’ face on them every cycle, they call it the ‘doughmacratic cookie-poll,’ and they’ve gotten it right every time but once since 1984. The nominations were announced today, but everyone knew what the matchup would be from the get-go, so they started the poll a week ago. Not for nothing, but I have it on good authority that they're still working through their first batch of Harrington cookies while the Billy ones have to be made fresh every morning.”

  Derrek raised an eyebrow as the plump man wiped sweat from his forehead and shuffled offstage, prompting the crowd to begin filtering out of the banquet hall. “Which one did they get wrong?”

  Discord grimaced. “2020, but we aren't pulling on that thread.” He scooped up a spoon from the table and sent it spinning at Miguel, who was still scribbling something Derrek was certain he wouldn't understand. It thudded gently against the man's beanie, clattering back onto the table as the scientists’ gaze darted around, as if he was only just now realizing where he was. His eyes settled on Derrek, and he broke into a grin.

  “Is it over already?” He stood with his notebook clutched to his chest, his chair legs squealing on the tiled floor. “It was a lovely speech. Short, and rather vague, but open to all sorts of favorable interpretations. I especially liked that nostalgia bit.”

  Derrek narrowed his eyes. “You were actually paying attention?”

  Miguel grinned wider. “Indeed I was!” He tapped the cover of his notebook. “I didn't need my eyes to hear the speech, and I didn't need my ears to perform my calculations. No reason I can't do both.” He winked then seemed to notice everyone was leaving, searching the crowd for someone. “Not to be a bother, but what’s the carpool plan? I rode in with Ian, but I think he already left.”

  “You can ride with me.” Derrek retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and slung it back on. “Wills’ limo is out front; it's poker night, and he’s hosting this month.”

  Miguels’ eyes sparked with mischief. “Sounds wonderful! I have poker down to a science!”

  Derrek snorted and nudged the squirrely man with his elbow. “Just like everything else, I'm sure. Keep in mind you won't be invited again if you make it not fun. Discord, I’m guessing you'll meet us there? And put that down.”

  The man in question was in the middle of shoving every piece of silverware from the table into his coat, eyes like a deer caught in headlights. He sheepishly grinned and placed the bundle clinking on his empty plate. “That's right, I've gotta grab beer and nuts anyway. You got the wings?”

  “I set a delivery order for an hour from now.” Derrek winked. “Let’s see if it makes any difference.”

  Discord laughed and punched him on the arm as led the way out of the hall, Miguel trailing behind. Derrek weaved through the lobby crowd, clumps of magnates and dignitaries lingering and mingling, shaking hands with anyone he made the mistake of meeting eyes with. Eventually, they made their way outside where the crowd was much more scattered, a platoon of valets ferrying in millions of dollars worth of shiny cars, scrambling to compete with the demanding VIPs as well as the meager evening traffic. Luckily, Shales’ limo sat before them, parked at the curb with a black man in a classic chauffeurs’ uniform, the brim of his hat hiding his face as he looked down at his fingernails.

  He looked up as they approached, revealing a youthful face accentuated with an easy smile and a thin chinstrap beard. “Derrek Snowe, I presume.” He offered his hand, and Derrek was struck by the strength of his grip. “Air force staff sergeant Darnell Jefferson, but please, call me Deejay. I’ll be your driver tonight.”

  Derrek smiled, relieved to speak to someone normal for once. Or at least someone who wasn't ridiculously rich or supernaturally inclined; no one who worked for Shale was normal. “Pleasure to meet you, Deejay. Not to offend, but what's a staff sergeant doing driving a limo?”

  Deejay smiled wider, showcasing a straight set of pearly white teeth. “None taken. I was a staff sergeant, but now I'm secret service, and I'm pulling double duty tonight.” He winked and readjusted the brim of his hat. “Security and driver in one.”

  “Security? What about Jeffrey?”

  Deejay shrugged. “He’s got the week off, something about getting a couch from a few states over, I didn't pry.”

  Derrek blinked. That was the same lame excuse Jeffrey had given when he disappeared for a week at the Schadenfreude. It was a lie then, and it was doubtless a lie now. Before he could even speculate, he saw Deejay was holding the door open for him and Miguel; Discord had disappeared minutes before. I’ll think about this later. He climbed into the limo, thanking Deejay as he ducked his head and planted his ass on one of the plush benches within, Miguel sitting across from him, the door closing behind them.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “So, what did you think, son?” Shale sat cross legged at the back of the cabin, a glass of champagne in his hand. “I think all the rehearsing paid off, myself.”

  Derrek smirked and poured a glass for himself from the minibar to his left. “I agree, you had them eating out of your hand. I really didn't think they'd laugh at the jet lag thing, but you were right.”

  Shale chuckled as Deejay climbed behind the wheel and cranked the engine, hidden by the tinted divider, effortlessly pulling out of the parallelly parked spot. Shale looked over to Miguel, who was tapping the windows lightly with his knuckles for whatever reason, staring intently at the point of contact. Shale paid it no mind and cleared his throat to catch his attention. “You must be Miguel Estamos. I've heard quite a lot about you. I hear you're working on something…” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Very special.”

  Miguel grinned, his eyes going wide with excitement. “Very special, indeed! I've had great success with invertebrates, and under Frostbytes’ patronage, we are hurtling toward being ready for mammalian trials!” He looked left and right, as if there were any prying ears, and followed Shales’ lead, leaning in and speaking low. “I do not believe it to be an exaggeration to say we may have a final product within a year.”

  Shale smiled like only he could, as though all was right with the world, and for a moment Derrek could almost believe it. He reached out and grabbed Miguels’ hand, setting down his champagne so he could clasp it in both of his own. “Marvelous!” His eyes slid sideways to meet Derreks’. “Less than five months at the helm, and you've already accomplished more than I could ever dream of.” He let go of Miguels’ hand and leaned over to Derrek, planting his hand on his shoulder. “I'm so proud of you, son. I always knew you’d do great things.”

  Derrek smiled, patting the hand on his shoulder and swallowing the lump in his throat, thankful for the Reapers’ touch; he might have burst into tears without it. “Don't give me too much credit, all I've done is play the cards I've been dealt. Miguel pursued this line of research on his own initiative, I was just lucky enough to be the investor he sought out.”

  Miguel beamed at the compliment, the windows behind him showing the plain concrete walls of the Brooklyn bridge interchange, the grainy gray giving way to the vista of the East River, the statue of liberty proudly thrusting her torch to the heavens, guiding the way for all those seeking a new home. Derrek smiled wider, thankful for all Shale had done for him, the second chance he had been given that set him on the course he had ventured. It had been a bloody path, but that wasn't Shales’ fault; there was no way he could have known what Derrek was, Derrek hadn't known himself until destiny had thrust itself upon him. In that moment, he felt capable of anything, able to save the world if it came down to that. In the next moment, there was a deafening boom and his head slammed against the roof of the limo as he flew weightless through space.

  Time moved irregularly, speeding up and slowing down at random as Derreks’ body was limply flung around. His head was spinning, but he was reasonably certain the limo was airborne. That suspicion was confirmed when it came crashing roof-first onto the pavement, its occupants flung downward onto the ceiling as it screeched to a stop. Derreks’ eyes fluttered open and he tried to push himself up, but his left arm wouldn't work right. He managed to shove himself up to sitting, his entire body screaming in protest, and found the problem; one of his bones was jutting out though his palm, three inches of bloody white stabbing out from the center of his hand. He wanted to be sick, but there were bigger problems at hand. Miguel seemed fine, save for a cut on his forehead and a few scrapes, but Shale was splayed out on the ceiling, his gray hair matted with blood, and black smoke was steadily filling the cabin. Derrek awkwardly crawled over to his adoptive father, keeping low, taking care not to use his left hand as he kneeled before Shale, rolling him face-up.

  “Will!” He slapped Shale in the face, and to his great relief, his eyes groggily opened. “Are you alright?”

  Shale groaned as Derrek helped him up to sitting. “Not sure, but I think so.” He blinked a few times, his eyes going wide once he saw Derreks’ left hand. “Jesus, son! Are you alright?”

  Derrek tried to hide the hand behind his back, but the pain was too great and he couldn't move it that far. “I’ll be fine, I always bounce back. Miguel, how are you doing?”

  The savants’ beanie was askew, but he was as alert as ever. “I'm intact.”

  “Good. Try the door, I'm going to check on Deejay.” Miguel nodded and hopped to his task as Derrek crawled toward the front of the limo, realizing the smoke was pouring in through the shattered divider behind the front seat. The smoke was too thick, and he couldn't get close enough to tell anything, coughing and sputtering as he retreated to the back, where Miguel was fruitlessly struggling with the door, peeling away pieces of the paneling to try and accomplish something behind Derreks’ concussed reasoning. He scooted beside the squirrelly man and nudged him aside, positioning himself firmly on the ceiling before the door. He kicked with all his might, feeling the limo shake as the door shifted in its frame. He kicked again, the jarring impact jolting up his ankle with the impact, and again and again until the door finally gave way, flying open and slamming against the side of the limo.

  He grabbed Miguel by the scruff of his collar and tossed him out of the limo, wrapping his arm around Shale and helping him out slightly more gently than the smaller man. He hobbled with his adoptive father in tow to the median wall, helping Shale down to sitting beside the concrete. Without giving him any time to protest, Derrek turned back toward the Limo.

  “Son! No!” Shale called behind him, but he ignored it, thinking only about the man still stuck in the burning limo. He limped to the driver's door, the window shattered, Deejay draped over the steering wheel, blood running down his face as smoke continued to roll into the cabin. Derrek tried the handle, but unsurprisingly, it was busted. He gritted his teeth and reached into a gap between the door and the chassis, planting a foot on the side of the limo and pulling with all his might, feeling every vein stand out from the strain. All at once, the door came free and swung open, slamming against the fender, staying stuck open.

  Derrek reached into the cabin around Deejays’ waist, holding his breath against the smoke as he tried to undo the mans’ seatbelt to no avail. Frustrated, he yanked and broke the buckle, sending the belt retracting to the side, allowing Derrek to catch the upside-down driver and pull him out. He almost did it.

  Then the world exploded.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Sicari mumbled to herself as she watched Snowe through the scope. His arm was injured, but he had still dragged the others out of the limo, and it seemed he was going back for the driver. “What a fool.” A brave fool, but a fool nonetheless. She lined up her shot as he petulantly tugged at the driver's door. There was no way he could-

  He ripped the door open, tearing the latch clear off from the frame. That was different, unexpected from a CEO of all people. But regardless of his strength, it wouldn't save him from Sicari or the bullets she saved for occasions such as these. High-caliber, high-velocity, high-explosive armor-piercing rounds, normally reserved for anti-tank purposes, but perfect to assure a payout like this. She trained her crosshairs on Snowes’ chest as he reached across the driver, letting her breath out slow as she pulled the trigger, the suppressed rifle thumping in her ears.

  Snowe moved at the last second, pulling the driver with him, and the bullet ripped through his shoulder, sailing past the driver and into the vehicle, its payload detonating as it sent the limo up in a massive fireball, sending her mark flying across the road with the driver in his arms, landing out of her sight. She scanned the scene for a moment longer, but her mark was out of sight, and even if he was still alive, she was out of time. She pulled back from the gap in the window, quickly disassembling her rifle and stuffing it into a black trash bag, tying it off and shoving it into the rolling trash cart she came into the space with. She secured the ballcap on her head and zipped up the coveralls, pushing her way down the hall toward the elevator. She called it to her floor, which had been closed for renovations for weeks, and boarded it as it dinged before her. She pressed the button for the basement, where she had a vehicle and a change of clothes waiting. She didn't like that she couldn't confirm her kill, but there was nothing to do for it but to wait. Either the news would be filled with bullshit mourning of his passing, or indignant anger at the attempt itself, but that would have to play out on its own.

  For now, Sicari had to lay low, regardless of the outcome.

  Discord was getting sick of things going wrong as soon as he left. It hadn't been ten minutes, and he could already hear explosions from Emery and Elliots’ Nut Emporium, a good three miles from Brooklyn bridge. He had to leave the forty-pound jug of mixed nuts on the counter just to find out what it was, a wrong he wouldn't forgive under any other circumstances.

  Derrek was unconscious, pressed against the concrete median with a charred body draped over him. Discord pulled the blackened form off of him, and was surprised to find it to still be alive. He hadn't seen someone so burnt but still alive in centuries, and was downright impressed at the grit it took to survive such a thing, even if he was only barely breathing. As impressive as it was, Derrek was still the priority, and he was in a hell of a state.

  He’d been shot, and with a monster of a bullet; his right shoulder was torn to shreds, his arm barely hanging on by a few obscene strands of viscera. His other arm was only better by comparison, what seemed to be his ulna jutting out through his palm, the rest of his body covered in cuts and bruises. Shale and Estamos were nearby, still reeling from the explosion. Discord stood up and strode over to Estamos, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar, pulling his face close to his own, pointing at Derrek.

  “Can you fix him?”

  Miguel blinked a few times, then looked over to Derreks’ bleeding form. His eyes went wide and he was silent for a moment, then his eyes snapped back to Discord. “I'm not a medical doctor.”

  Discord slapped him. Not as hard as he could, but not as gently as he could either. “Did I fucking ask if you were a medical doctor? Can you fix him?”

  Miguel reeled from the slap, readjusting his beanie before answering. “Yes. After the proper professionals treat his wounds, I can restore him to prime condition.”

  Discord stared at him for a moment, then let go of the man, letting him fall to the ground. He trudged over to Shale, helping the man to his feet as sirines approached.

  “Is Derrek alright?” Shale asked, more panicked than Discord had ever seen him, even when he had taken that bullet to the gut in the gulf. Discord put a hand on his shoulder, just as impotent as it had felt back then.

  “It's all gonna be okay,” he said as the first responders arrived. Even if it hadn't ended up being a lie back then, it still felt like one now. “It's all gonna be okay.”