Free Red Denver: A Prelude to REHO (The Hegemon Wars) by D. L. Denham Page A

Soapy’s employees, a courier sent to deliver Reho an important message. The message contained an invitation to a private gasoline race for some high paying community members out in the Red Basin.
    There was no such invitation delivered, but the enforcers had found a letter in the dead henchmen’s pocket.
    If the blasted goon couldn’t kill me, the least he could do was frame me.
    The judge would never hear the truth of what had happened.
    ***
    “You Reho?” the goon asked, approaching Reho in an alley a block away from the market. It was mid-January, and the cold froze his words in the air as Reho turned. The goon took out what looked like a homemade cigar and flicked his lighter. Heavy pillows of smoke clouded his face.
    Reho had sensed he was being followed since he left the Southside Tenements. He did not recognize the man, but knew he would be working for Soapy. Until Reho had started racing, no one cared about another foreigner in Red Denver. Now everyone either cheered or cursed his name. Being undefeated had made him enemies. It was only a matter of time before someone made a move on him. And now here he stood, looking into the beady black eyes of the goon Soapy thought could handle his “Reho problem.”
    “What does Soapy want?” he answered the goon’s question with one of his own. The icy weather pricked his skin as he warily removed his hands from his jacket pockets.
    “You’ve really messed things up. You’ve screwed with the gasolines. A lot of people are pissed.” The goon shifted his weight. Reho knew what to expect.
    “I race. I’ve been lucky enough to win,” he replied.
    “Everyone loses sometimes.”
    Reho waited. Every fight should begin defensively—the one thing he had learned in his youth.
    The aggressor’s eyes turned to ice as he dropped his cigar and released a metal blade into the air.
    Reho dodged the assault, rolled sideways, and quickly unsheathed his knife. He paused as the goon launched his body toward him. His attacker held a shockblade. Reho had seen one of these before. They cut into the skin, blasting 50,000 volts of electricity into the body.
    Reho avoided the thug’s first few attempts without attacking. A blue current danced on the blade’s metal surface. He watched the blade and its possessor’s eyes. His attacker breathed heavily, and he knew the goon would soon rush him carelessly as his mind panicked. He hadn’t expected Reho to give him this much trouble.
    The shockblade once again cut the air, this time close to Reho’s face, the current stinging his cheek and leaving it blistered.
    Reho waited for one more assault before he took control.
    With the shockblade aimed at his chest, he planted his knife into the goon’s left thigh. The man quickly pulled back, Reho’s knife still in his leg. Reho closed in and grabbed his attacker’s arm, raising the shockblade high into the air. In one swift move, the goon fell back, his right arm snapping across Reho’s knee. A dreadful, childish scream flooded the alley. Reho knew spectators would soon arrive to see what was going on.
    As he removed his knife from the goon’s thigh, another bloodcurdling wail filled the alley.
    “Tell Soapy to find a new business,” he said, standing over the suffering hit man. A maniacal laugh replaced his screams.
    “You don’t understand Soapy. You never did. Soapy sent me to kill you. I can’t go back if you’re not dead.” With his good arm, he pulled a pistol from behind his back.
    Three shots sounded, each wild, as Reho buried his knife deep into the goon’s skull. The crack echoed off the buildings nearby, and a thin fog formed as body heat now seeped from the exposed arm and shattered skull.
    Reho looked ahead. A crowd was forming.
    It hadn’t taken long for Red Denver’s enforcers to find him in the market, purchasing food and charcoal.
    Now, Reho sat. Soapy had charged him with killing one of his employees, supposedly an innocent man sent to deliver an invitation to