Free Catwalk: Messiah by Nick Kelly

tried to pull back, instead catching the brunt of its dead colleague full force. The two Sirens slammed into the pavement.
    With the weight of its dead colleague trapping it, the last Siren struggled for freedom. Cat approached angrily, stopping only briefly to pick up his pistol. The Siren mumbled something resembling a plea in a language the hitman didn’t comprehend. Cat pressed his thumb above the clip handle, catching the emptied ammo clip in his free hand. Tired of the useless voicing of the Siren, he slammed the empty clip into its mouth.
    Standing above the last of the gangers, Cat reloaded the 11mm. The Siren’s eyes grew wide, and its vocalization switched to outright begging. Scowling, the hitman emptied the fresh clip into the Siren’s face.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    With a crushing blow indicative of his namesake, Midas swung a fist, shattering the one-piece mirror that ran the length of his bedroom. Glass shards rained through the room like a plague of locusts. He roared. The anger of Nitro City’s Golden King shook the walls.
    The hired whores who’d earlier been writhing in his satin sheets fled in any direction they could find, praying that his violence found only inanimate victims. His golden eyes stared at a few hundred of his own reflection, varying in shape and size, each occupying a fractured portion of the mirror. The shards of his image fell to the carpeted floor. Midas waited a few breaths, regaining his posture. He brushed a few flecks of broken glass from his shoulder.
    Watching his assassins overcome so easily demanded a reaction. Had he thought it through, he’d have simply choked one of the whores in his bed. Each of them was chump change compared to the value of the mirror.
    He turned his eyes to the nearest woman. She didn’t even realize what a lucky little cunt she was tonight. He beckoned a gold finger, and she approached, unaware of the glass cutting into her feet. She disrobed and moved to the bed as he gestured.
    Midas reached a hand to the nightstand, his metallic fingers gripping the bottle of Courvoisier. Shrugging off etiquette, he took a swig of the cognac directly from the bottle. He barked into the table-mounted comm. “Get me a line to this assassin. He’ll be one of mine soon.” The pimp took another deep gulp, staring at the frozen image of yellow eyes on the video feed.  
    “He’ll be mine, alright, or he’ll be dead.”

    It was all wrong.
    Cat blew out a quick breath. Sweat rolled down his temples and the nape of his neck. He shook off a chill, impossible for how hot it was outside. He squeezed his eyes and shook his head, careful not to lose control of the motorcycle in the process. He stared at the wavy horizon, focusing on his breath. Finally, the feverish symptoms began to wane. His head cleared enough to process the attacks.
    Cat knew it before he even got close to the confines of familiar territory. Someone had tried long and hard to make sure he was a corpse, and that the Sirens got credit. Only whoever had organized this missed on two key definitive areas. First, Cat had new armor, armor that only he and Delambre knew about, which meant his newfound acquaintance had been trustworthy after all.
    Secondly, the real Sirens were equipped with sonic weapons surgically implanted to imitate the mythical creatures of the same name. Several also opted for cybernetic controls for their intercostals and diaphragm. Popular rumors circulated that a coordinated attack by two Sirens in harmony caused more damage than an earthquake registering 6.0 on the Richter scale.  
    The four beings who’d attacked him had anything but vocal attacks. Two were martial artists, the other two a cleanup crew. That composition was far more conventional, common to hostile takeovers, assassin teams, or even his old cop squad in DC. This team could have made up a small infantry band in the last territory war, or a Fixer’s eraser squad. Cat let the logic play in multiple directions.
    First of