Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,57

route?

I glance back, expecting to see black suits sprinting toward us, but we’re only getting weird looks from passersby. Gal presses into my shoulder, the deflector armor humming to life against my arm.

The tram glides into the station. “Now,” Wen commands.

We run like every system’s hell has unleashed its horrors on our heels. Shouts chase us, and a distant buzz sharpens in my ears. I glance back over my shoulder.

Three motorbikes come howling up the street, dodging between pedestrians. Two Cutters apiece. I will my legs to go faster, my gear to get lighter. My pack traps the blaster I stole against my back, and the one in my hand fires only grappling lines.

Wen dodges around one of the massive poles that support the wiretram lines, and something clicks in my head. I plant my feet and skid, whirling as I lift the grappling gun and fire a line clear across the open street, the bolt at the end taking root in a building’s fa?ade. I run the line twice around the support pole, and it snaps taut as the motorbikes close. The drivers try to divert, skidding and swerving to burn their momentum, but one of them takes the wire full-on, clotheslining the gunner off the bike as the driver ducks.

I abandon the grappling gun and take off after Gal and Wen. They’ve reached the station, and Gal’s fumbling with his datapad at the till. Wen beckons me over frantically, her eyes on whatever’s going on behind me.

The wiretram driver starts yelling something at Gal in a thick Corinthian accent, his vowels so broad that they threaten to bowl him over, shaking his head vehemently and pointing at the Cutters in the street. I blow past them, grabbing Wen by the collar and hauling her on board. The commuters shrink toward the back end, the front bobbing up as the weight redistributes. I glance back. Three Cutters are on their feet and running for us.

“Launch the tram,” Gal commands, and his imperial voice shoulders through the tram driver’s last scraps of resistance. Or maybe it’s fear of the Cutters closing. No matter the reason, the man moves to the controls, throws up the gates, and releases the brakes as the motors spin up. The wiretram sways forward.

Not fast enough. As it gains speed, the Cutters run alongside. They leap, catching the rear handholds as the tram lifts clear from the station, and my stomach drops as three black-clad mobsters haul themselves into the tram with us. A glance down confirms even worse—the other three have gotten their bikes under them. They come screaming after us as the tram gets up to speed, running along the parallel streets beneath.

“This doesn’t have to get messy, Iffan,” one of the Cutters says, stepping through the commuters. Her eyes are shielded by her helmet’s visor, giving us nothing but beetle-black plastics to read her through. “The boss wants you alive. Not a scratch on you, he said, or we’ll be the ones hung out to dry.”

Wen shrinks behind me, her lips thinning. “Doesn’t fill me with confidence. Dago Korsa just likes to know which work is his.”

A lazy smile cracks across the lower half of the woman’s face. “Didn’t say anything about these two, though,” she says, nodding to me and Gal.

“Now—” Gal starts, the word heavy with his negotiator inflection, but before he can say anything else, I’ve launched clear across the wiretram. The woman fumbles for the gun on her hip, but I knock it out of her hand, sending the weapon flying. She swings, her knuckles grazing my cheek as I yank my head back.

Her two companions reach for their guns. They draw fast, but I’m faster, slamming a stunner bolt into the one on the right before he has a chance to fire. He goes limp, his helmeted head cracking against the wiretram’s floor, and one of the commuters shrieks. The woman grabs my wrist, yanking my aim astray before I can target the other Cutter.

The fight sings through me. Pounds in my blood like drums. I drop low and jam my elbow up under her chin, striking soft flesh. She chokes,