LATE FOR WORK AGAIN, I set down my wauto, a four-door wind automobile, in the lot outside my office building and hurried inside. Gusts of ghetto-infused wind forced my jacket to flap about in earnest. If someone was watching close enough, they might've gotten a good glimpse of my gun. The weapon couldn't be seen otherwise, and normally I didn't sport it out in the open so much. With the temperature down in the thirties, I should've been buttoned up, but then I couldn't reach my piece without unbuttoning. Though I could undo them in about a minute, it only took two seconds to squeeze off a shot to kill me. Lately, people have tried to do just that. It didn't leave room for me to be fashion conscious or stylish.
I never really bought into the whole beauty before death idea of life.
Greetings, I'm Cybil Lewis, private inspector and all around snoop.
Already Tuesday's noonday sun sprayed the handful of vehicles sprinkled throughout the parking lot with sunlight that wore down the paint job and gloss, baking them like little biscuits in an oven. Way off in the distance I could make out a patch of clouds, puckering up and waiting to deliver a downpour of snow later tonight, perhaps first light tomorrow.
Sweating despite having gotten out of a warm, climate controlled vehicle, I knew the unbuttoned coat was a no-no. Icy blasts tore through my sweater, right to my skin. Chills scaled up my back and blanketed my arms. I shuddered. Yet I couldn't walk around the better parts of D.C. without concealing the gun. Well, I had a choice. I could leave it home or take it with me.
You already know which option I selected.
As I crossed the threshold into the building, I headed straight for the elevator. My office was located on the East Side of D. C. From my private office window, I could see the bits of the now ruined former capitol of the United States. According to the news files, a committee had been assembled to see if they wanted to convert it to condos or rental meeting rooms.
Downtown D.C. was a ghost town on the verge of resurrection. Hallmarks of our territory's past sprinkled the ten-mile area like hollowed husks of once fruitful glory. The governor of the district and the senate council operated out of the district's building on Pennsylvania Avenue. The White House had been obliterated and the capitol, although still standing, had been assaulted and abandoned.
My slice of heaven wasn't in the best neighborhood and definitely not on the up and up, but I couldn't beat the rent.
Cheap.
Sure the vagrants made their presence known by soliciting funds, exposing worn, ragged, desperate faces, but they were harmless.
To be honest, the violence that occurred on this area's twelve-block radius was a result of yours truly.
As I rushed into the building, I caught the elevator before the doors closed. Shoving my bulk through the diminishing gap, I discovered I wasn't alone. I shared the funky carpeted and wood paneled compartment with an insurance salesman. With the trench coat, withered gray cardigan and hat, he looked the part of salesman. He didn't speak to me and I didn't speak to him. He kept his eyes averted and his hands folded in front of him. A little man, with a head the size of a cantaloupe and stringy hair, he seemed to be apart of the ancient, grim interior of the building. He didn't smile or even wink at me.
Definitely a strange one.
He got off at the fourth floor.
Two floors later, I fled the tiny space and moldy air for the somewhat cleaner breeze of the air-conditioned hallway. As I approached my office down the sixth floor corridor, I noticed an armed bodyguard posted outside. He wore opaque, sunglasses and a big navy blue jacket that could have been used as an elephant tent. I caught a brief glimpse of my reflection in his glasses as I passed him and entered my office.
His post outside my place of employment didn't work well if he wanted to be incognito.
But with bleached blonde hair, a turquoise blue sweater and shiny black shoes, perhaps incognito wasn't what he was going for.
Let's not overlook the big-barreled Bronzing laser gun he held over his chest like a crucifix.
Now everyone who passed my office would know that someone who thought they were important was inside.
As you walk in from the hallway, the lobby's layout consisted of Marsha's desk in the center. Her desk was flanked by the door to my private office on the right and Jane's, my inspector in training, desk on the left
Immediately I didn't like what I saw.
Seated in the two visitors' chairs were two more goon-heads like the one outside, each wore navy-blue jackets and turquoise sweaters. They smelled like honeysuckles mixed with gun cleaning oil. One of the bodyguards, a male had a serious hair loss condition and the other, a rail thin female of no older than eighteen reached for her weapons when I entered.
Jumpy and possibly trigger-happy?
Tuesday was already looking up.
)
In the year 2146, the United States has completely collapsed, leaving the country in ruins. In this turmoil, Cybil Lewis and her inspector-in-training, Jane, fill a need. When begged by Jane to look into the disappearance of Jane's cousin, Cybil is catapulted into a world far removed from anything she has experienced so far-a world of lies and deceit. As they investigate, they move far into the reaches of the divided states and deep into the upper crest of political turmoil. Reluctantly caught up in a world of betrayal and corruption, Cybil and Jane unearth long buried secrets and survive attempts on their lives. As they move closer to the truth, they discover that the people, who are entrusted with the safety of the territories, will do anything to keep their secrets, including murder. Especially murder. Cybil and Jane will do what they must to get to the truth. They will never be SILENCED!
