Page 11 of Darcy
Slate’s been caught bare-foot on the beach. The bassist is ripped, and his loose tank top shows off every inch of his bronze skin. Unlike Dodger, whose tattoos are a colourful mix of dragons, skulls and flowers, Slate’s are black and grey. Words scroll across his skin in a mix of Spanish and English, surrounding a huge crucifix tangled in rosary beads on his left collarbone. I know from magazines that he’s got a chainsaw gun down his spine, but unfortunately, it’s not in this shot. A gold cross earring dangles from one lobe, beginning a trail of studs that climb all the way up the outer shell of his ear. His box braids are tied into a small man bun at his crown, and he’s levelling a black-eyed scowl at his photographer.
Last, but not least, Prophet has been caught shirtless in the gym. The drummer of Hazardous is the oldest of the bunch at thirty-five, but he’s no slouch either. His dark skin is glowing with sweat under the cold fluorescent lights as he keeps pace with a treadmill. His headphones are massive, swallowing his ears and hiding most of his cropped tight black curls. The photo only shows one of his stunning, mismatched eyes—the baby blue one—and maybe that’s for the best. If he’d been staring straight at me, I’d never be able to look away. The corners of his mouth are turned down, as usual, but it just draws attention to his full lips and well-trimmed goatee. Unlike the others, who all have piercings, Prophet has none. He’s the least outwardly metal of all of them, and I’ve always wondered if that was a conscious choice. The only thing that outs him are his black leather wristbands.
The photos have caught them completely off guard, so different from the posed cut outs I’ve kept pinned inside my closet for years.
Man clears his throat, and I grimace. Shit. He’s caught me gawping at their photos. Time to move on, and fast. I can stare at their pictures later; right now, I need to know why their band name is on this file.
According to Man’s intel, the band is in deep with the cartel. Miguel—the youngest Rosales brother—owns their label, and Hazardous’s contract with them is… indefinite?
That can’t be right. Most contracts last a year, or five, at the very most. No artist is contracted to a label indefinitely. That would be madness. I make a note to look into that later but skim past to focus on the rest.
The band’s tours are used as a cover for the cartel’s distribution and money laundering operations. Narcotics are hidden in the vast amount of stage equipment that’s dragged with them everywhere. Humans are trafficked as roadies or interns in small numbers every time they cross a border.
It’s the perfect cover, but I can see the drawbacks. Namely, they had to find a band with enough potential to warrant all of the logistics of touring every year, and Hazardous is the biggest band signed with the label. Cartels—like most businesses—are all about scaling up their operations, and there are only so many multi-platinum bands out there.
This seems like a pet project of Miguel’s, and the next page confirms it. He’s younger than his brothers by almost twenty years, and this is his baby. He’s made himself the band’s tour manager—though it looks like he has an assistant who does most of the actual work for him.
The contract is for all three brothers. No other casualties; though I know Man won’t mind the loss of a couple of cartel thugs. Take them all out in one hit. Make it look like it could have been an accident… All the standard stuff.
I flick over a page until I come face to face with my cover for the mission.
“Pyrotechnics expert?” I look up at Man. “Like… flamethrowers and fireworks? Yes! Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”
My face falls as I realise something else. “They’re going to recognise me.”
The band may never have seen any pictures of me, but we’ve been gaming together for years. They’re going to recognise my voice, and if I’m working for them, at some point, the truth will come out.
Man raises a single brow, and I scowl at him. “I’ll still do it, but it’s bound to happen.”
I don’t want one of the others to take the mission. They’re all experts, but if my clan got hurt in the process, I’d hate myself.
If—when—the band recognises me, what does that mean for us? For our friendship? Are they going to believe it’s a coincidence when I turn up as their new roadie?
MaybeI’m worrying for nothing,I think to myself much later, as I reread the file while sitting on the kitchen island, devouring my second pepperoni and pineapple pizza in as many days.After all, they're Hazardous; one of the biggest metal bands in the world. They’re probably above talking to—or even acknowledging—their roadies.
In fact, I’m willing to bet they won’t even notice me. I can tone down my makeup, wear my glasses, and keep my head down. Most days I slob around in hoodies, anyway. I’m hardly the type to catch their attention—though I could be if I tried.
Plus, I only know their online personas. In real life, they’re probably stuck up or rude, or high on the drugs their cartel buddies are peddling.
I flick through to the back, admiring the faultless ID that’s been provided. I could’ve made my own, but Man always sets us up for our missions. I like to think it’s his way of taking care of us.
“Darcy D’Angelo,” I murmur, stroking the plastic identity card.
It’s a bit on the nose—I had no idea Man paid attention to my gamertag—but I’ll take it. He’s given me a load of false references from other smaller bands, along with detonation and munitions training at a military college.
On paper, I’m the perfect pyrotechnics expert. In real life… Well, it’s been a while since I played around with anything as tame as iron wool and butane.
Something slips out from the back as I move the folder, and I frown at the slim piece of paper.
‘Hazardous is pleased to invite you to join them for the road crew kickoff party, celebrating the start of the third and final leg of theBroken Chainstour, hosted by the Museum of Contemporary Art. Dress code is black tie.’
I raise my eyebrows. If the dress code is black tie, does that mean the band will be wearing suits? I highly doubt it, but I really want to find out.
My clothes are currently in the laundry, so while I wait for Martha, the housekeeper, to save me from my own crusty laundry, I head to the garage to gather some more practical supplies.
I have my laptop, my phone, and spares of both—I learned the hard way how one impromptu swim can easily ruin even the best laid plans years ago—along with C-4, fuses and white phosphorous grenades. But I still need my gadgets. My last bot bit the dust after I sent it through the ventilation shaft with the explosives I used to kill the senator, and I’m not exactly sure what happened to the drone… It might still be buried in my case somewhere.
Walking into the garage is always a bit of a trip hazard. Tabby may have a place for everything, and her own system of organising things, but I can’t figure it out for the life of me.
