Estranged

Truce

Lady Synthë arched a brow. “That question—a clear request for inside information—implies that we have already agreed to become allies, District Head.”

“I thought this meeting already did that?”

She blinked. “I think I like you, Mister Gringe.”

Gringe said, and he was a bit surprised to find that he was being honest, “The sentiment is reciprocated.”

Delayne waited out by the waterline, away from the three of them. Lady Synthë stared at him, gathering her thoughts. “The first thing she asked after you left was, ‘Which one of you six has he approached?’”

“And?” Gringe asked.

“We all denied having been in contact with you, of course. But know this: she’s very shrewd and resourceful. She can easily discern what options are available to you, and so predict what your next move will be. Any slip-ups and we’re done for, do you understand?”

The District Head nodded. He had done his research, he was well aware.

She seemed satisfied with his resolve. “After, she asked that we increase our men and supplies in RoseField, to prepare for imminent attack. She thinks you’ll try to sneak around my sector and go for Irrhyian’s first.”

Aliyah met his eyes, a concerned look in hers. But Gringe knew there was no need for alarm, not just yet. Wilda guessing that he would attack Irrhyian Sector first was merely an educated one. Irryhian’s was the sector with the largest area of arable land in Doranne, and so had the potential to be a major factor in the district’s food supply. It was also the smallest of the seven sectors, which meant it would be easy to set up base in and defend if it were taken.

Lady Synthë caught the glance he and Aliyah shared. “So she’s right?”

“Only partly. We will attack Irryhian’s sector…but only after we’ve assumed control of yours.”

“Oh?” Lady Synthë quipped, curious. “I’m listening...”

***

Aliyah sat across from him on the round table, her fingers drumming a quiet, steady beat on the lacquer finish. She and Gringe waited, a restless air in the silent side office. Apart from the table they sat at and a lowly humming fridge in the corner, the room was bare.

A loud bang erupted from the adjoining space. Aliya twitched at the sudden noise, her lips pressed in a tight line. A whistling sound followed, like an object slicing through the air, and then came a sharp clang. The sounds had been going on for minutes now, but Aliya could not help but be startled by them still. If they went on for much longer, she was going to erupt in a fit of rage.

He grinned at the thought of her getting angry again.

“What’s funny?” she asked a baleful glare igniting in her eyes.

On cue, Gringe heard a car pulling up in the parking space outside the building. He sprung to his feet, glad for the interruption. “Nothing. She’s here.” Aliya sighed with relief as Gringe made for the door, opening it and stepping out into a small, mostly empty hangar. Two men clad in military fatigues sat in lounge chairs in the middle, burning cigars hanging from their lips. One of them pointed a pistol at a spot on the wall not too far from Gringe.

Before the District Head could say anything, the gun went off, a deafening c***k that echoed in the large space. Gringe looked up at the wall to his left, where Whylan, the taller of the two men, had shot at. It featured an array of steel shooting targets hanging from the rafters; thick, round plates about the size of a large coin. Beneath them, spent bullets and knives littered the floor.

Scott, the shorter of the men, twirled a black tactical knife once and snapped his arm. The blade hurtled from his hand, hitting the same target that Whylan had just did previously square in the centre.

Gringe sighed. “Boys—”

Whylan leaned in towards Scott, a mischievous smirk on his face. He asked, “Blitz Round?”

Scott shrugged.

And that was all the prompt they needed.

At a steady rate of a shot per second, Whylan began to fire. Scott matched his pace with his knife throws. The hangar thundered from the noise of successive fire, the air thick with the acrid tang of gunpowder. And amidst all that was the constant, rapid double pings of first Whylan’s bullets striking the targets and then Scott’s knives matching the gunman’s precision. Whylan reloaded seamlessly, not breaking pace, and Scott seemed to have an endless supply of knives to draw from beneath his jacket.

Gringe pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration as their racket of a face-off went on. They would never hear him over the roar of continuous shots. Sighing once more, he trudged towards the shooting targets, unruffled as he stepped into the hale of flying bullets and blades and faced them. His right ear tingled as a bullet zinged past it, instantly followed by a knife. Standing in the path of their fire still wouldn’t be enough. They were skilled enough that they could just aim around him. Only one thing would work.

His arms snaked out in a flash, plucking two flying knives by their hilts out of the air. The silence that followed was just as jarring as the clamour it had displaced. “That’s enough play. She’s here.”

A squeal came from the District’s Head right. Aliyah stood wide-eyed by the door of the side office, gaping at him in disbelief. “Ho-how?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got good reflexes.”

Whylan snorted, stomping the butt of his cigar with his boot. “And bleeding sharp eyes. He’d catch the bullets too if they wouldn’t blast off his fingers.”

Gringe cleared his throat. “Plus they’ve got perfect aim really. I was in no real danger of being hit.”

Whylan narrowed his eyes. “Were you now?”

“You all sound like lunatics.” Aliyah looked at Scott unsurely. “Except him. He never says anything.”