Page 62 of Ignite

A folding metal chair was slammed in front of the box screen. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Get to it.”

With trembling hands, she lifted herself to the chair and turned on the monitor. A voice in the background made a tsking noise. “She’s not going to be able to use that thing. It doesn’t have the necessary RAM.”

“She’s gonna get rammed if she doesn’t take care of business,” one biker guffawed while the others laughed. One of them started playing music out of an old boom box while another pulled out an array of liquor bottles.

Jazz heard a drip of disgust at the man’s next reply. “Not ram as in fuck. RAM as in random access memory. This one doesn’t have the capacity to do what you want her to do.”

There was a light accent to the man’s baritone. Jazz stiffly turned to see him. He had on a leather jacket, and she assumed he was part of the club. “Y-y-you’re right. I c-c-can’t do anything with this machine. It’s too old.”

His dark eyes met hers, and the blood froze in her veins. There was nothing there. No emotions. No hate. No love. No anger. No happiness. The man was void of life, yet still walking and talking. She watched as he raised a finger to stroke over a scar near his left ear.

This was him. The one who’d killed her friends, the other scam-shielders.

No, she wouldn’t be getting out of this alive. But she would fight until her last breath to keep others safe. “Do you have a laptop or something with at least DDR4 or DDR SDRAM?”

His black eyebrow rose. “Yes, I have an upgraded system.”

“Well, bring that shit in here. I want my fuckin’ money,” Ramrod yelled in frustration.

The man took his attention from Jazz and jerked his head to the back of the store. “It’s ready to go.”

Jazz stumbled along the short hallway to what might have been an office at one time. The room was small with a row of awning windows close to the ceiling. Two of them were open, and the other two were painted shut. A small skylight let the sunlight shine down on the card table with two large monitors, a keyboard, a mouse, and a powerful desktop. If she had any doubts about the man’s identity, there were none now.

“You want a snack and some water?” Ramrod sang out sarcastically. “Get your ass to work!”

Jazz bit her lip to keep it from trembling and sat in the wobbling office chair as she booted the computer up. The machine went through its beeps and clicks as it awoke.

“Hurry the fuck up!” Ramrod shoved her just behind her neck, and she gasped as she snapped forward. Her hands hit the edge of the table so her face wouldn’t smash into it.

The assassin made that tsking noise again. “It takes a while for the computer. Patience. You’ll get all that’s coming to you.”

“Whatever,” Ramrod growled. “I need to take a piss.”

Jazz flared her nostrils to take in a large breath as she pulled herself up. She could not afford to break down the way she wanted to. She licked her lips and tasted blood. Apparently, she’d made contact with the table anyway.

“So, I guess you’re the one who… killed my friends?”

“Yes.”

The cold answer wasn’t menacing. If anything, it sounded bored.

“Why did you do that?” She could see his reflection on one monitor. She focused on it, trying to glean anything she could from him.

“I was hired to do a job. I did it.”

“Those people who hired you are criminals. They take advantage of elderly people and steal from others who are just trying to make a living. It’s not right.”

“Not my problem.”

“The shielders were just trying to help those people. What if it was your mother or your sister who was robbed?”

His reptilian eyes met hers on the glassy screen. “I don’t have family. I suggest you get to work.”

She shuddered and placed her hands on the keyboard. “We were so careful. You must be a real whiz at code in order to find us.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. “Not my job. The man who built the code ran away. We can’t track him.”

“How did you find me?”

---