Sinclair Feldman's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Sinclair found Achilles by the old generator, sleeves rolled, a scrap-steel armband clamped on his wrist. The rival's mark was etched plain into the metal. Sinclair stopped walking. Sundown was an hour out, and the deal had already crawled past him in the dirt. "They came to you," Sinclair said. Achilles didn't look up. He tightened a bolt, set the wrench down, and turned the armband so the symbol caught the light. "Came this morning. Terms cut me out. Same as before." Marcus stepped out from behind the carrier, hat low, hands clean. He didn't speak. He was waiting to see what Sinclair would do. Sinclair felt the radio at his belt, the weight of every order Red Hills had ever given him, and let it sit. "I came to tell you the truth before you decided." Achilles finally looked up. "Then tell it." "Red Hills moved on after you went down. Took the easy road. Nobody fought hard enough to go back for you." Sinclair kept his hands at his sides. "I half-believed it for a year. Now I'm saying it out loud. If you walk after hearing that, we eat the loss." Behind Achilles, a medic's blue-and-yellow bag sat open on a crate, vials catching the late sun. Zelda had been listening from the tent flap the whole time. Achilles worked the armband off his wrist. He held it a moment, then dropped it in the dirt between them. "Buried is buried," he said. "But a man who says it plain is a man I can sit across from." He looked at Marcus. Marcus gave one short nod. "We'll hear your terms. Tonight. All three of us." Sinclair breathed out. The alliance wasn't closed. But the rival's offer was dead on the ground, and the table was finally his to set.