Marcus Bromley's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Dusk came on slow. Marcus was logging the carrier's new resting spot when Achilles crossed the lot with a cloth-bound book in his gloved hand. Pressed flowers stuck out from the pages. "Off the dead one in the slab," Achilles said. "Notebook. Got a name in it." Marcus took the diary by the spine. The ink was faded but readable. He turned to the first page and stopped. The name written there belonged to a man already inside the yard — the wandering trader in the safari jacket who'd come through the gate that morning, asking about parts and drinking coffee under the hut roof. "He's still here," Achilles said. "By the bay." Marcus closed the book. One angle at a time. He told Achilles to walk wide, cut off the gate, and wait. No weapons drawn. No noise. Then Marcus pocketed the diary and walked toward the bay alone. The trader was crouched by a crate, sorting through tube radios pulled from an old wooden shack of a station Marcus kept stocked for parts. Orange fur, dark glasses pushed up, medic patch on the sleeve. Andy Cerberus didn't look up. "You found the book," he said. "Took longer than I figured." Marcus set the diary on the crate between them. "Talk fast." Andy smiled, small and tired. "The man in the slab worked the same ledger I do. Different employer. I came to see who'd dug him up before the wrong people did." He tipped his head toward the coffee hut roof. "You already know they're watching. I can tell you who, and what they paid him for. Not for smiles, though." Marcus weighed it in one breath. Kill the angle, lose the intel. Keep him, buy a map of the watchers. He whistled once. Achilles stepped from the shadow of the bay, hat low, hand near his belt but empty. "He stays," Marcus said. "In the office. Door locked from outside. We talk in an hour." Achilles nodded. The yard had a guest now, and a price tag Marcus hadn't planned to pay — but the watchers on the roof had just become a name he could reach.