Volume VI: And Introducing Harley Morrow As - Herself

22. A Rebellion Named Harley

        I walked until morning came, the gun heavy in my hand. I tried tucking it into a pocket, but it was out of place everywhere I put it.

        After my scene at the bar, I went home. I left the gun next to the bed; there was no point in trying to hide it now. Besides, all that remained was a chamber of blanks. They bore the appearance of security. Comparable to the family. Our family.

        I was barely asleep when strong hands tore me from my bed. I was being dragged out, fighting and kicking in the night. I expected this. Well, not exactly in this form but one way or another. I was brought to Doyle. And he brought me to the roof.

        “Pandora sleeps,” he whispered. That was his explanation to me. I knew better. He didn’t want interference. I’d screwed with the works. I’d pay the price. He looked at me wearily. His lackeys left, I was permitted to stand free of assistance. He paced around me.

        “Feeling okay?” He was playing the part of caring adult, just enough to get the truth.

        I nodded. “Fine.”

        He pulled out a smoke and lit up, looking me up and down. “Funny word, but I’ll take it. So...I think you owe me an explanation.”

        “You? Nobody else?”

        He laughed. “For right now? If you make it through me, you’re mostly in the clear. I’m your biggest threat. I’m responsible for this group - the cops are going to ask questions with bodies turning up at random. If you had a problem, you should have come to me. Never take matters into your own hands that can be placed in hands already stained with blood.”

        “So am I explaining myself because I killed him wrong or because I killed him?”

        He smiled wide. “Clever girl. Sometimes. There’s still much to resolve. Fortunately, Sylum found him.”

        “Sylum?”

        “Officer. Don’t you remember?”

        I blanked out. No. I didn’t remember. I wanted to rant and rave and tell him this. I wanted to explain to him in my irrational tones that nobody clued me in. I merely shook my head, a confused look on my face. It conveyed everything in one solid motion.

        “Officer Bishop. He found the body. He’s running the investigation. But you’ll deal with him over this.”

        “I don’t understand. No harsh reprimand? No sort of punishment?”

        And he smiled sinisterly at me. “I never said all of that. You screwed with my command. Nobody dies around here without my say so. No guns are fired without my knowing it.” He was behind me at the moment, he reached out and dug into my shoulder, as Serkis had done. But his hand was larger, the fingers digging deeper. He kept at it until my knees buckled under me. “This is for your own good. So we know the incident doesn’t repeat.”

        “And the good Officer Bishop is going to help you cover this up without a qualm?” I coughed out. I was in pain; I wanted to crawl away. He wouldn’t free me.

        “I didn’t say that either.” And he let go. I collapsed onto my hands, heaving from the pain. He circled around - I could see his feet moving. And another set of steps, even and calm, approaching. I looked up from the pain.

        “Meet Mr. Bishop, kid.” Doyle’s voice was sinister and full of loathing. I had screwed with his authority. I made him look bad. And now the tables turned. He was going to prove to me that in the long run, we were all his. Every last one of us. Doyle dragged me to my feet and threw me into the man’s waiting arms. He held onto me loosely at first, but tighter when I tried to pull away. Rapid steps and two more figures burst into the scene.