Reckoners 01 - Steelheart

reading the document. “Are those people who stored things at the bank?”
    “No,” Tia said. “This isn’t a list of clients. It’s a list of people the bank was paying. That’s …”
    “The name of their insurance company,” Cody said, smirking.
    “Calamity, Cody,” Tia swore. “I hate you.”
    “I know you do, lass.”
    Oddly, both of them were smiling as they said it. Tia immediately began shuffling through papers, though she noticed—with a dry look—that Cody had left a smudged bit of mayonnaise from his sandwich on the paper where he’d pointed.
    He took me by the shoulder and steered me away from the table.
    “What just happened?” I asked.
    “Insurance company,” Cody said. “The people who First Union Bank paid piles of money to cover the stuff they had in their vault.”
    “So that insurance company …”
    “Would have kept a detailed, day-by-day record of just what they were insuring,” Cody said with a grin. “Insurance people are a wee bit anal about things like that. Like bankers. Like Tia, actually. If we’re lucky, the bank filed an insurance claim following the loss of the building. That would leave an additional paper trail.”
    “Clever,” I said, impressed.
    “Oh, I’m just good at finding things that are hovering around under my nose. I have keen eyes. I once caught a leprechaun, you know.”
    I looked at him skeptically. “Aren’t those Irish?”
    “Sure. He was over in the homeland on an exchange basis. We sent the Irish three turnips and a sheep’s bladder in trade.”
    “Doesn’t seem like much of a trade.”
    “Oh, I think it was a sparking good one, seeing as to how leprechauns are imaginary and all. Hello, Prof. How’s your kilt?”
    “As imaginary as your leprechaun, Cody,” Prof said, walking into the chamber from one of the side rooms, the one he’d appropriated as his “thinking room,” whatever that meant. It was the one with the imager in it, and the other Reckoners stayed away from it. “Can I borrow David?”
    “Please, Prof,” Cody said, “we’re friends. You should know by now that you needn’t ask something like that … you should be
well
aware of my standard charge for renting one of my minions. Three pounds and a bottle of whiskey.”
    I wasn’t sure if I should be more insulted at being called a minion, or at the low price to rent me.
    Prof ignored him, taking me by the arm. “I’m sending Abraham and Megan to Diamond’s place today.”
    “The weapons dealer?” I asked, eager. They’d mentioned that hemight have some technology for sale that could help the Reckoners pretend to be an Epic. The “powers” manifested would have to be flashy and destructive, to get Steelheart’s attention.
    “I want you to tag along,” Prof said. “It will be good experience for you. But follow orders—Abraham is in charge—and let me know if anyone you meet seems to recognize you.”
    “I will.”
    “Go get your gun, then. They’re leaving soon.”

15
    “WHAT about the gun?” Abraham said as we walked. “The bank, the vault contents, those could be a false lead, could they not? What if there was something special about the gun that your father fired at him?”
    “That gun was dropped by a random security officer,” I said. “Smith and Wesson M&P nine-millimeter, semiauto. There was nothing special about it.”
    “You remember the
exact gun
?”
    I kicked a bit of trash as we walked through the steel-walled underground tunnel. “As I said, I remember that day. Besides, I know guns.” I hesitated, then admitted more. “When I was young, I assumed the type of gun must have been special. I saved up, planning to buy one, but nobody would sell to a kid my age. I was planning to sneak into the palace and shoot him.”
    “Sneak into the palace,” Abraham said flatly.
    “Uh, yes.”
    “And shoot
Steelheart
.”
    “I was ten,” I said. “Give me a little credit.”
    “To a boy with aspirations like that, I would extend my respect—but not credit. Or life insurance.” Abraham sounded amused. “You are an interesting man, David Charleston, but you sound like you were an even
more
interesting child.”
    I smiled. There was something invitingly friendly about this soft-spoken, articulate Canadian, with his light French accent. You almost didn’t notice the enormous machine gun—with mounted grenade launcher—resting on his shoulder.
    We were still in the steel catacombs, where even such a high level of armament