Got No Strings On Me

The car wasn’t much—a Frankensteined box on wheels, pieced together from junkyard dreams and duct-tape prayers. The hood was dented, the panels mismatched, and the paint job… well, calling it a paint job would’ve been generous. Every pothole and crack in the road made the engine cough up a death rattle.

“Classy ride,” I said, running a hand over the dashboard, where faded cigarette burns marked its history. “Where’d you dig this beauty up?”

“We’ve been diversifying,” Al said, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His tone was as dry as the ashtray wedged in the cupholder. “Little chop shop action on the side. Figured we shouldn’t bring anything we’d mind losing.”

“Smart,” I said, nodding. “Disposable wheels for disposable plans.”

“What I don’t get is… if the key and the box are supposed to open up some big, magical hoo-ha, why hasn’t Cat used it already?”

“Timing,” I said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Top-tier magic’s all about the details. Certain dates, certain phases. Gotta line it up just right.”

He shot me a sidelong glance, one brow arched. “Since when are you the expert on top-tier magic? Thought you hated that crap.”

“I didn’t make it through life on my good looks alone,” I said, grinning. “I know things.”

Al snorted, the kind of laugh that said he wasn’t buying it. Truth was, I hadn’t known a damn thing about the timing of the lunar cycles and leylines until Frank clued me in, but Al didn’t need to know that.

“Ever seen those old aether channel maps?” I asked, leaning back in my seat. “Leylines?”

He frowned, chewing on the thought. “Yeah, I’ve seen them. Crackpot junk, right? Something healers and new-age types won’t shut up about.”

“Funny how the stuff everyone dismisses as junk is always the first to screw you over when you’re not looking,” I said. “Bart’s place wasn’t just a hit job. It was cleanup. Whoever torched it wasn’t trying to kill him—they were after what he had. Records, maps, convergence points.”

Al’s grip tightened on the wheel. “And you’re saying the casino’s sitting on one of those?”

“Ding, ten points to Al,” I said, giving him a mock cheer. “That’s the magic of the Sapphire Club. It’s not just a den for Cat’s schemes—it’s a damn nexus.”

“And that means… what, exactly?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration.

“It means,” I said, turning to watch the skyline as we got closer, “when the moon hits its peak—midnight to three—those aether channels light up like power lines. And tonight’s special. First of the month. Everything aligns.”

“Shit,” Al muttered under his breath, a low, resigned growl.

“Exactly,” I said, my grin fading. “No more waiting, no more bluffing. Whatever cards we’ve got, it’s time to lay them on the table. This is it.”

Bit dramatic, aren’t we, Frank said.

Someone’s been pulling strings for a long time, Frank—but tonight? We’re cutting the damn threads.

Up ahead, through the painfully slow ebb and flow of city traffic, the Sapphire Club emerged in the distance, its blue-glass façade catching the last rays of the setting sun, glinting like a jagged shard of fractured sky. Thirty stories of mirrored arrogance, built to dazzle and intimidate in equal measure. To the rubes walking by, it was another high-end office building. But anyone with half a brain—or enough dirt under their nails—knew the truth. This was Cat’s castle, a fortress wrapped in glitz and guarded by goons who’d shoot first and forget to ask questions later.

By the time we pulled in, the last shards of daylight had just made their exit, leaving the city bathed in artificial brilliance. Neon signs buzzed and flickered, and the towering sapphire building gleamed like a jewel in the dark, its polished surface reflecting the glow of the streets below. Its opulence was absurd. The valet circle was paved with dark marble, reflecting the glimmer of ornate lamps. The doors shimmered in polished silver, engraved with intricate designs of sapphires and crescent moons. A valet in a pristine uniform approached the car and stopped dead, his face twisting in visible disdain as he looked at the beaten-down junker.

He glanced at us like we’d tracked mud into a museum.

“Be careful not to scratch it,” Al said, tossing the keys casually.

The valet stared at the car, then the keys, then us, blinking like we’d spoken in tongues.

Al popped the trunk and hauled out the duffle bags, slinging one over each shoulder. “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, and we headed for the entrance.

Inside, the Sapphire Club was a glittering shrine to excess. The floors were polished marble, veins of deep blue running through white stone, the chandeliers overhead dripping with diamonds and sapphires. The walls shimmered with mirrored panels, reflecting every angle of the room back at itself in dizzying splendor. Jewelry displays lined the halls, guarded by men in suits so sharp they could have cut glass.

We walked past the opulence to the large circular reception desk at the center of the lobby. The desk was a monstrous thing, carved from solid white stone, its edges lined with silver filigree.

A young woman stood behind it, her glasses catching the light, and her towering beehive hairdo rising defiantly, every strand meticulously arranged. Her expression was cool, unbothered, as if she’d seen it all and wasn’t impressed by any of it.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone polite but practiced.

I adjusted the lapels of my jacket, Frank humming faintly against my skin, and smiled.

“Yes,” I said, leaning casually against the desk. “We’re here to see Catigan.”

The woman’s eyes flicked over us, pausing on the bags in Al’s hands. Her mouth twitched, not quite a frown, but close.

“Do you have an appointment?” A name tag pinned to her chest read Barbara, the lettering neat and precise.

She tilted her head slightly, her beehive hairdo wobbling as if testing the limits of its structural integrity.

“I’m afraid not,” I replied with a grin, “but I have a feeling he’ll want to see us.”

Barbara’s smile grew tighter. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Catigan doesn’t take callers without an appointment. If you’d like, I can leave a message.”

Before I could respond, a man approached, his gait hurried but attempting to appear nonchalant. He was tall, with a tie that was just too wide, as if he’d lost a bet with a haberdasher.

“Mr. Callaghan!” His face lit up with genuine warmth, his grin wide and welcoming. He shot out a hand, gripping mine in a handshake that lingered a moment too long—but not in a way that felt calculated. It was genuine, almost disarmingly so. “What a pleasure to see you again! Been too long, hasn’t it?”

I vaguely remembered him now—Joshua or Jacob, was it? Back in the day, when Cat and I had a semblance of mutual respect, he was there. Always polite, always in the background, doing his best to keep things civil in a world where civility was a dying art.

“It’s Jerald, but all my friends call me Jerry,” he added with a smile that didn’t feel forced, just a little tired.

Behind him, a security guard muttered under his breath, “You don’t have any friends, Jerald.”

Jerry chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Always the jokers around here,” he said.

His grin faltered slightly as he shifted gears. “I’d love to let you in, Mr. Callaghan, but things have tightened up around here. You understand how it is—security’s a little stricter these days.”

He stepped in closer, dropping his voice as he slid a hand onto my shoulder, steering me away from the desk like we were old buddies swapping secrets. “Now, don’t get me wrong, Mr. Callaghan—I’m not worried about you,” he said, his tone low, almost conspiratorial. “But rules are rules. And with the city circling the drain these days… well, you know the types out there. Dangerous sorts. Can’t be too careful.”

I matched his tone. “Oh, absolutely. Can’t be too careful.”

Jerry nodded, his expression softening for a moment. But then something changed. Maybe it was the tactical bulletproof vest barely concealed beneath Frank, or the slight glint of a gun at my hip. Maybe it was the way my fangs shifted behind my smile, or the sheer tension radiating off me. Jerry’s heartbeat quickened, his nervous energy palpable.

He wasn’t like the rest of them—not really. In a world where every handshake was a veiled threat and every grin hid a knife, Jerry stood out. Not perfect, not innocent, but better than most. And for a moment, I thought—if there can be wolves dressed as sheep, maybe there can be sheep dressed as wolves too. Even so, guilty by allegiance, unfortunately.

“I like you, Jerry,” I said, pulling him closer as I discreetly pressed the barrel of my gun against his ribs. “So I’m going to let you choose how this goes. You walk us through security nice and peaceful, and we have a polite chat with Cat. Or…”

“Or?” Jerry’s voice cracked.

“Or I shoot you here and we do it the fun way.”

“Tough decision,” he muttered, swallowing hard.

“Indeed.”

He hesitated, his eyes darting back to Barbara at the reception desk. “Can I ask a favor?”

I raised an eyebrow. “A favor?”

“See Barb over there?” He nodded toward her. “We’ve got… a thing. Office romance, you know? Bit of a will-they-won’t-they situation.”

I glanced at Barbara. She was diligently jotting notes in a logbook, blissfully unaware of the chaos brewing mere feet away.

“You must really like her,” I said, half-smiling. “Got you wrapped around her little finger, huh?”

Jerry shrugged sheepishly. “You have no idea.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Alright, Jerry. What’s the plan?”

He shifted his weight, clearly nervous but thinking fast. “Maybe… I put up a bit of a fight. Can’t just let you in, even if you kill the bastard. I’d be marked a traitor. But if I give you a little resistance, you know… throw a punch or two—“

“I’m still going to have to shoot you,” I interrupted, my tone matter-of-fact. “Nothing I can do about that.”

“Fair,” he nodded solemnly. “Leg?”

“Reasonable,” I agreed.

Jerry exhaled, then glanced around the room. “Most of the guys on this floor—they’re low-tier staff. Part-timers. Report to HR, fill out timecards and everything. They don’t know…”

“I hear you,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”

Al shot me a look from across the room—one of those what the hell are you doing expressions. I gave him a quick nod that looked like follow my lead . Or at least, that’s what I hoped it looked like.

Jerry straightened up, squaring his shoulders.

“Ready?” I asked.

“As I’ll ever be.” He nodded, a flicker of reluctant determination crossing his face.

“Alright then.”

He nudged me, stepping back dramatically. “I won’t let you pass, sir!” he declared, loud enough for Barbara and half the lobby to hear.

Al sighed audibly.

Jerry reared back and swung a fist at my face. It connected—credit where it’s due, it stung. But when he wound up for a second shot, I slipped past it, caught him by the collar, and used his own momentum to spin him straight into the reception desk.

I fired, the shot echoing through the room as blood sprayed across the polished floor in a vivid arc. Jerry collapsed, clutching his right leg, a guttural groan escaping his lips as crimson seeped into the cracks of the marble.

Barbara screamed. Security guards surged forward, their weapons already drawn.

Al, ever the pragmatist, dropped the duffle bags and pulled out a shotgun, cocking it with a satisfying click.

“Legs,” I said, my tone flat.

Al shot me a look, the kind that said I’d just kicked his dog—or stolen his favorite toy.

“Legs,” I repeated, emphasizing it with a raised eyebrow.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

The room erupted in chaos. I focused my shots, aiming low, kneecapping the guards where I could to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Al, less subtle but just as effective, cleared the way with his shotgun, each blast reverberating off the marble walls. Jerry, to his credit, dragged himself behind the reception desk, shielding Barbara with his body.

The guards dropped one by one, and we disarmed them. The lobby fell silent, save for the distant hum of the chandelier swaying overhead.

I sighed, squeezing off a shot that took out a goon’s knees, sending him howling to the floor. A quick follow-up knocked the gun clean out of his hand, clattering across the smooth floor.

“You think they’ve got a union? Decent medical benefits?” I asked, already lining up my next shot.

Al was mid-reload when a thug charged at him, yelling as if volume could make the difference. Without hesitation, Al swung his shotgun like a sledgehammer, catching the guy across the temple with a resounding crack. The thug crumpled instantly, out cold before he hit the floor.

I gave Al a look, my eyebrow arched high enough to touch the ceiling. “Seriously?”

He shrugged, slotting another shell into the chamber. “What? He’s fine. Just a little sleepy.”

We moved toward the back, where a heavy, reinforced door blocked access to the casino’s inner sanctum. Al set an explosive charge with practiced ease, stepping back as the device beeped ominously.

“Cover your ears,” he said.

I glanced at Jerry, and without a word, he reached over, gently covering Barb’s ears. We exchanged a quick nod.

The explosion ripped through the wall, smoke and debris filling the air. When it cleared, we stepped through into the stairwell beyond, the faint sound of muffled alarms echoing above us.

Al glanced at me as we ascended. “What was that back there? Why the theatrics?”

I smirked. “You’ve never been young and in love?”

“Never that in love.”