Free Final Empire by Blake Northcott Page A

we walked single file, eyes locked forward in a feeble attempt to appear inconspicuous. As it turns out, it wouldn’t have mattered if we’d been accompanied by a marching band complete with a drummer and clanging cymbals – the lone security guard would never have noticed us.
    The portly senior slumped behind his desk was wearing VR goggles and noise-cancelling headphones. He reached up and grabbed invisible objects, moving them from one place to another like an oblivious mime. If I had to guess, he was remote controlling a robot in his home, and was organizing his kitchen cupboards. Using virtual reality to control basic two-armed machines was becoming a popular way to vacuum, dust, or perform heavy lifting with minimal effort, and it was a great way to kill two birds with one stone while sitting prone at a desk job. We snuck by undetected, letting the lobby’s heavy double doors slam shut behind us.
    The lobby opened into the hallway. The Savoy’s decor looked more like a carpeted museum than any hotel I’d ever stayed at; statues, paintings and antique vases lined each side of the wall, leading to the Royal Suite at the end of the corridor: McGarrity’s room, according to the visitor log that I hacked just twenty minutes ago.
    Towering cherry wood doors were blocked by a pair of guards clad in black. At least we assumed they were security guards, given their posture (and intimidating stature), until we drew closer. It was then that we realized the white logo embroidered onto their jackets was a small crest topped with a crown, and the words ‘London Metro Police’ were inscribed below in small block letters.
    Shit .
    We were just steps away, and they’d noticed us walking towards them. If we turned and left now it would seem far too conspicuous.
    We slowed our approach, shooting each other panicked glances.
    “Are you lost?” one of the cops called out in a clipped British accent.
    “No!” Peyton blurted, her body stiffening, freezing in mid-stride.
    “Well you look lost,” the other cop added with crooked grin. “Did you forget which suite you’re in?”
    “N-no,” Gavin stuttered. “We’re here to see Steve. McGarrity. The guy in that room behind you.”
    The officer’s jovial grin melted away. “How did you get up here, then? You need a key card to access the elevator, and it’s for registered guests only .”
    “Um, well, I do have a card in here somewhere...” Gavin pulled open his jacket and dug a hand into his breast pocket.
    Realizing what he was searching for I reached out, clasping his wrist through his overcoat. “Nope, no need to show them that card,” I said swiftly, my stare burning a hole through Gavin’s eyes. “I think if we just ask nicely, the policemen will be kind enough to notify Mister McGarrity that his friends have arrived.”
    And with those words the doors flung open, revealing the dopey, blond-haired idiot I’d been glad to have out of my life for the last eight months; the man I was willing to give a one-of-a-kind prototype jet to in the hope that he’d teleport to the other side of the planet, as far away from me as physically possible.
    McGarrity wore a fuzzy white bathrobe that was wrapped to his body, held in place with a loosely knotted belt (a belt I’d hoped would maintain its integrity). He was barefoot, but between his toes were purple foam separators, and several of his toenails gleamed in the overhead lights.
    “Oh, I am so sorry,” one officer said meekly, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you during pedicure time. I don’t know how this lot snuck up here.”
    McGarrity ignored the apology. He locked his feet in place and his expression darkened, eyes filled with fire. “ Moxon . Matthew Moxon. You have a lot of nerve showing up here. Especially after that shit you pulled.”
    The hallway fell silent. I reached behind my back as inconspicuously as possible, lifting my hoodie, curling my fingers around the grip of my pistol. I left it tucked in