Every Last Drop by Charlie Huston

people they can kill with impunity. List of people they need to take a little care with before they kill. List of those on the inside. List of those on the outside.
Being inside the coalition means buying the line. The line is secrecy. The line is we don't exist. The line is the people out there who don't know about the Vyrus, they should never know about the Vyrus because if they know about the Vyrus they'll build camps and open labs and start rewriting all kinds of laws and redefining what it means to be created equal.
Frankly, I think they got it pretty much right.
It's not the line I disagree with so much. Its that they got no room for anyone who does disagree with the line. Disagree with the line and you're on that outside list. That list, its pretty much identical to the People to Kill as Soon as Possible List.
So while its an interesting turn of events to be in Predos presence without someone nearby stirring a pot of molten lead to be poured in my nostrils, I know the ultimate outcome to a scenario like this likely allows him to scratch my name off that list when all is said and done.
He opens a drawer and takes out a slim automatic with polished wood grips. One of those guns that looks designed by the same kind of people who dream up the hardwood and leather interiors of luxury sedans with obscure Italian names.
He sets it on the desk. —In hopes I might make you a bit more attentive, Pitt.
I look at the floor around my chair.
Predo edges up a bit to peek over the front of his desk. —Lose something?
I look up.
—No. Just checking to see if your flunkies left any other lethal weapons lying around. Seems I'm out of luck.
I fold my arms. —Guess I may as well listen to you.
He flips open one of the folders on his desk.
—Gracious as ever. But just so we can be certain you don't grow bored with what I have to say, why don't I make it more interesting for you by including some visual aids?
He draws a photograph from the folder and slides it to the edge of the desk. —Like a picture book. So that you may follow along more easily. —I prefer a pop-up book.
He rotates the photo so that it faces me. —I'm certain this will grab your attention.
Light gleams off the glossy finish, hiding the image from me. I scoot my chair forward, the feet grinding on the floor. I take the photo from the desk. I look at it.
I look at Predo.
He nods. —We can dispense with wit now and speak of things concrete?
I look again at the photo.
A very young woman. Younger than you'd imagine a person has a right to be. And beautiful. The photo is tinted in a manner that hides the color of her hair, but it looks like she's not dyeing it anymore. The natural color would be a complex shade of blond, much like her mothers was. She is exiting one of those cars suggested by Predo's gun, the door held for her by another woman, older, black, muscled in a way that promises the clean and abrupt snapping of a neck. The tint is greenish. The photo taken through a night filter. The only thing missing is a crosshairs painted across the young woman's face.
I set the photo down. —Yeah, tell me something concrete.
—She has gone quite out of control.
—Interesting. I never knew she was ever under control. Last I checked that
was how I got involved in the first place.
Predo taps the end of a pen against a thumbnail. —I am not talking about the delinquencies, teenage drinking and underage sex
her parents fretted about. Her actions are on a new order of magnitude.
The hole where my eye was is throbbing. I knuckle it.
—Guess the new scale of troublemaking goes hand in hand with becoming filthy fucking rich at a young age.
He drops the pen.
—Do not pretend nonchalance, Pitt. If I was not certain you cared, we would not be having this conversation. Whether you would feel some responsibility for the girl had you not killed her parents, I cannot say. But you did. And I trust your year here among the uncivilized masses has not changed your nature so much that