The penthouse loft on the top floor of a converted industrial building on 26th Street was supposed to be ghost-proof. High-end motion sensors, silent alarm relays to a private security firm, and an Italian-made electronic lock that cost more than a secondhand BMW.
The electronic lock was currently shorted out with a melted copper wire and a drop of battery acid.
Felicia Hardy stepped through her window off the fire escape, her sleek black leather suit slick with rain, carrying a leather duffel bag stuffed with bearer bonds from a Union Allied safe house. She tossed the bag onto the plush glass coffee table, pulled off her domino mask, and shook out her long, silver-white hair.
Then she smelled it.
Not expensive champagne or perfume. Antibiotic ointment, burnt gunpowder, and wet wool.
Felicia froze, her white-gloved hand dropping toward the custom whip coiled at her hip. Her emerald eyes scanned the dimly lit apartment, stopping at the high-backed velvet armchair by her bar.
Sitting in her chair, boots resting comfortably on her pristine white leather footstool, was a man who looked like he’d been run over by a subway car and pulled out of the Hudson River.
Jack had a half-empty bottle of her thirty-year-old single malt Scotch between his thighs, and he was currently using a pair of her silver eyebrow tweezers to dig a flattened copper bullet out of his shoulder.
Plink.
The bullet dropped into a heavy crystal whiskey tumbler on the side table.
"Nice place, Kitty," Jack rasped, not even turning his head. He took a long, burning swig straight from the bottle, coughing until his chest rattled like a tin can full of nails. "A little clean for my taste, but the alcohol selection makes up for the lack of character."
Felicia didn't draw her whip. She leaned back against the edge of her glass table, crossing her arms over her chest, a dangerous, amused smirk playing on her lips.
"You know, usually when handsome men break into my apartment, they bring orchids or diamonds," she said, her voice a sultry, purring murmur. "Not blood on my Persian rug."
"Orchids are out of season," Jack grinned, turning to face her. His wide, bloodshot eyes were lit with a manic, flickering fever, half his face smeared with dried soot and blood. "And as for handsome... well, the ladies back at the Bellevue trauma ward tell me my stitch-work gives me personality."
He reached over to her marble counter, picking up a box of medical-grade surgical gauze and a roll of heavy adhesive tape he'd looted from her bathroom cabinet.
Felicia walked slowly toward him, her footsteps light and feline. She picked up the crystal tumbler, inspecting the blood-coated bullet sitting at the bottom.
"You're the Laughing Demon," she said softly. "The one who turned Wilson Fisk's legal docket into radioactive sludge this morning. Half the NYPD and every Mob soldier from Brooklyn to Harlem are tearing down Hell's Kitchen looking for you."
"Yeah, well, tell 'em to form a line," Jack cackled—a dry, raspy HAHAHA that ended in a sharp wheeze. "Fisk's guys have lousy form, and the cops keep shooting at my good side. By the way, your burn cream? Top notch. Smells like lavender. Real manly."
Felicia leaned down, resting her elbows on the armrests of his chair, her face inches from his. Her green eyes locked onto his unblinking, crazy gaze. Up close, she could feel the heat radiating off his feverish skin.
"And what makes you think I won't just call Fisk right now and trade you for a couple million dollars?" she whispered, her lips curling into a playful smile.
Jack didn't flinch. He leaned right back into her space, his breath smelling of peat and copper, his bloodshot eyes widening until the blue prompt in his sight flickered: [8.4%... SYNCHRONIZATION RISING].
"Because, sweetcheeks," Jack grinned, his blood-stained teeth flashing in the dark, "you're too smart to take Fisk's money. He pays in rubber checks and car bombs. Besides..."
He held up a crumpled piece of paper he’d snatched off her counter—a list of Union Allied shell accounts she’d been tracking.
"...you're stealing from the same fat man I'm burning down. We're practically soulmates. What do you say we get married? I've already got the ring..." He held up a metal pull-tab from a soda can, grinning like a madman. "...and you've clearly got the penthouse."
Felicia stared at him for three seconds, then threw her head back and let out a rich, genuine laugh that echoed off the glass walls.
"You are completely out of your mind, Jack."
"Out of my mind?" Jack cackled, wrapping the surgical tape tight around his torso with a sharp SNAP. "Honey, I haven't been in my mind since Tuesday! Now pass the Scotch, or I'm gonna start bleeding on your silk pillows!"
Felicia shook her head, picking up the bottle and pouring two fingers into a fresh glass. She handed it to him, her fingers brushing against his dirty knuckles.
"Fisk is moving his main asset ledger tonight," she said, her tone dropping into something sharper, more businesslike. "To the harbor. Pier 42."
Jack stopped wrapping his ribs. He looked up, his crooked, bloody smile widening into something dark, sharp, and terrifyingly clear.
"...Pier 42..." Jack whispered, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, eerie hum. "...dare... dare to sail away..."
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