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  Kean’s Edge

  By Darby Krenshaw

  Copyright 2012 by Darby Krenshaw

  Cover Copyright 2012 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Darby Krenshaw and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Rules for the Care and Feeding of Tiffany

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  Kean’s Edge

  By Darby Krenshaw

  Kean gazes up at the stained-glass dome over the rotunda library. Its azure glass is inset with silver stars that twinkle in the soft light. Engrossed in the effect, he bumps into an alabaster bust perched on a column.

  “Please do be careful, Mr. Kean.” Dr. Fischer steadies the statue with one hand and places the other on the small of Kean’s back.

  “Kean,” he replies, making an effort not to jerk away.

  “Pardon?”

  “Just call me Kean. There’s no mister in front of it.” Kean moves away to take a closer look at one of the curved bookcases that circle the room. The shelves, packed with books, vases and figurines, rise from the floor to the dome that seems to float above.

  “Marvelous, isn’t it? The room is three stories tall and three hundred feet across, the floor is Italian marble. Humidity control is essential, which is one of the reasons it’s underground. The dome actually lies underneath a shallow reflecting pool located in the meditation garden. Ingenious, really.”

  “Ingenious,” Kean repeats, moving to step on the scuff mark his work boot left on the marble. “I don’t think I have ever seen a holographic library this big.”

  Kean places his finger on the spine of Jack London’s White Fang. The holograph doesn’t flicker. His blue eyes widen in surprise.

  “The code is amazing, Dr. Fischer. To create this type of interaction takes some seriously tight programming.

  The doctor grins and picks up the small dog that’s sniffing around Kean’s boot. Its body is covered with wispy long hair so thin Kean can see its gray-freckled skin.

  The doctor’s Japanese sandals clack across the marble, as he comes over to stand too close. “Pick it up.” He nods to the book.

  Kean gently pulls the book and let’s it fall open in his hand. “It has weight to it? How is that possible?” There’s a slight musty odor when he turns a page; he brings the book to his nose.

  “Mr. Kean.” Dr. Fischer places a hand on Kean’s shoulder.

  “Kean.”

  “Right, Kean.” He pauses for a beat, tasting the word. “And please call me Ellis. I’m afraid I brought you here under false pretenses.” Beads of sweat form on the doctor’s bald head.

  “Uh, listen, Doc—” He sneezes.

  “Gesundheit.”

  “Thank—” Kean stops. The copy of White Fang drops to the floor. “There’s dust on these.”

  “Please, do try to be more careful.” Fischer grunts over his large stomach to retrieve the book.

  “That’s organic. Only real books would collect dust.”

  Dr. Fischer returns the book to the shelf. “As I said, Kean, I brought you here under somewhat false pretenses.”

  Kean looks around again with growing apprehension. “Listen, Dr. Fischer. I’m not sure what you have been told, but I’m a hacker.” Kean starts to back his way to the elevator.

  “I thought we agreed on Ellis?” Fischer gives him a hurt look. “I need you to retrieve a book for me.”

  “A real book? Not possible.”

  “And yet look around you.” Fischer makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.

  “Sorry. Can’t help you.” Kean reaches behind him and pushes the elevator button.

  “I can offer you a great deal of money.” He drops the dog on a couch as he shuffles behind a brass-topped bar, his red muumuu billowing. He offers a bottle of water.

  The elevator doors open and reclose behind Kean. “How much?”

  *

  Kean takes the stairs two at a time to the one-room apartment. The thumping bass from the strip club below makes its one window vibrate. He bumps his head on the bare bulb hanging from wire just inside the apartment door. A round burn mark appears on his forehead.

  “When are you going to learn to duck?” Ozzy chuckles without looking up from her laptop.

  He gives her a sheepish grin and shrugs. “Your dad caught me downstairs.”

  “What does Frank want?”

  “What do you think? His cut from last week. Here, I fixed the other netbook.” He sits on the edge of the tired couch and rummages through his oversized backpack, tossing out his gym clothes.

  “Uh, please do not tell me my netbook is underneath all your nasty laundry.” Ozzy crosses her arms.

  He holds the little pink computer out to her.

  “Yuck. Just set it over there, will you.” She points at the desk. “So, what did you think of the good doctor?” she asks, wiping the offending netbook down with alcohol towelettes.

  “Are you mental?” Kean chews the edge of his thumb.

  “It’s serious bank.”

  “Do you understand what he wants us to do?” Kean stretches his legs, crossing his ankles. His boot bounces hard enough to move the couch.

  “Yes,” Ozzy draws out, giving Kean’s sandy hair a tousle as she settles cross-legged on the couch to face him. “He wants us to get an old book.”

  “An old book.” He nods, folding his hands behind his head.

  “Yes.”

  “When’s the last time you saw an organic book, Ozzy?”

  “Never.”

  “And why is that?” Kean looks at her from the corner of his eye.

  “Because they’re illegal.” She shrugs. “But, so what?”

  “Did Fischer tell you what kind of books he wants us to smuggle?”

  “Books? You mean there’s more than one?”

  .“Unbelievable. You just block everything out as soon as money is mentioned.”

  Ozzy sighs. “How many?”

  “Two, and you know what those books are about?”

  “What difference does it make?” She crosses her arms, her lower lip protruding.

  “It’s a set of references for papermaking and bookbinding.” Ozzy frowns.

  “It’s a set of organics that tells you how to make more organics.”

  “No shit?” Her green eyes widen.

  “No shit.”

  *

  Ozzy checks and rechecks the airline boards, fiddling with the heavy bracelet on her wrist. “Looks like we are right on schedule.”

  “My head looks like a giant bur.” Kean catches his reflection in an airport glass wall, turning his head from side to side. His shoulder-length hair is cut short and spiked Dr. Fischer suggested he alter his appearance to look a little more “friendly.” A change of wardrobe was in order also. The heavy work boots and scarred leather jacket were both gone, replaced with khaki chinos and loafers.

  “I think it becomes you, but you’re still too damn tall.” Ozzy grins. She pulls her black hair into a ponytail.


  “Gee, thanks.” Kean rolls his eyes. “Very reassuring.”

  “Relax, will you.” She grabs his hand and pulls him toward the security check line. “We’re golden. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  At the first security checkpoint, Kean extends his wrist. The ID implant emanates a faint glow just below his skin.. He can feel Ozzy’s eyes on the back of his head, willing him to relax. An audible sigh escapes him when his identity is scanned and confirmed.

  The bored security guard lifts an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

  “Oh, yeah, I just hate flying.”

  “Miss, please remove your ID guard and place it in the tray.” The security guard shakes the plastic bowl in front of Ozzy.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She wrestles the cuff from her wrist and drops it in the bowl. She looks at Kean on the other side of the checkpoint. “God, you look like you’re going to throw up.”

  “Just fine.” He replies, forcing a smile.

  “Some people have no sense of adventure,” she whispers to the guard, giving him a wink. He grunts in reply as he gives her scan a cursory glance.

  Kean pretends to ignore her.

  Ozzy grabs her backpack and elbows Kean in the ribs “Come on. We’ll get you a drink before the flight.”

  *

  “That went pretty well,” Kean says, scratching the frost off his beer bottle. He leans back on the chair and looks around the empty bar.

  Ozzy chokes and wipes her mouth, “You nearly hyperventilated at the first checkpoint, and we have two more to go.”

  “Yes, but now we know for sure the IDs are good. How do you think he managed that?” Rubbing his wrist, he leans in and whispers. “You should’ve seen all the treeware. What would you want with all those? Why piss off the CIC?”

  The Central Information Council started as an organization interested in preserving all the histories of humanity, by collecting, scanning and preserving books decades ago. The originals were locked away. In the last 20 years, they evolved into a paramilitary organization banning ownership of all books. They provided information interfaces in all public areas and in every home. The CIC made available all the information of the world to its citizens. Information they had complete control over.

  “Not only that, but I wonder how he found us,” Ozzy says, studying Kean. “I mean, it’s not like this is our normal gig.”

  He shrugs without meeting her eye, suddenly engrossed in the television above the bar. After a few minutes, he turns his attention back to Ozzy. “So how’s the new ticker doing?” He makes a vague gesture with his beer bottle toward her chest.

  “I think that’s our boarding call.” She reaches for her backpack. “We probably should go, if we are going to get you through the other checkpoints without some kind of CPR.” She rubs his head, then grimaces, wiping her hand on her jeans. “What did they do to your hair?”

  *

  “Would you like another cookie?” The toothy flight attendant leans over Kean. Ozzy elbows him in the ribs to get his attention.

  “Hey,” Kean gives her a look and rubs his side.

  Ozzy nods her head toward the flight attendant. “You want a cookie or what?”

  Kean grabs one from the tray and gives a cookie salute. “Thanks.”

  “Can I get you another bottle of water, or a drink perhaps?”

  “Water would be great. Thanks.”

  She sits the bottle on his tray and flashes another smile. “All right, enjoy the rest of your flight.”

  Kean’s gaze follows the petite attendant’s sashay to the back of the plane.

  “I’m a little parched.” Ozzy makes a show of grabbing her throat. “Geesh, could she be more obvious?” she says, flipping down her tray.

  “It’s just a cookie.” Kean holds it up to her face to inspect.

  “You really are clueless. Even the girls at the bar look after you.”

  “Don’t you think that has to do with the fact that my mom was a stripper and I was always at the bar?”

  Ozzy crosses her arms and turns back to the window.

  “Whatever.” He shoves the cookie in his mouth and returns to studying the street maps of Morocco.

  After a few minutes of silence Ozzy smiles apologetically. “My heart’s good.”

  Kean gives her a blank look.

  “In the airport, you asked how my heart transplant was doing. It’s fine.” She unconsciously rubs the top of the scar between her breasts. “In fact, this trip will let me pay Frank back in full.”

  “What?” Kean yells, hitting the tray with his knees, sending the water bottle into the aisle. Several passengers crane their necks.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Ozzy hisses, slumping in her seat. “Make a scene, much?”

  Kean’s face reddens. “Your fucking father is making you pay him back for the heart transplant? That he offered to pay for?”

  “No. Can you keep your voice down?” she says through clenched teeth.

  “What then?”

  “It’s really none of your business but if you must know, I offered to repay him. You have no idea what it’s like to owe that man anything.” She stares at the back of the seat in front of her.

  On her 12th birthday, three days after her mother had overdosed, Ozzy moved into Frank’s one-room apartment. Ozzy’s mom had stripped in Frank’s bar. They’d had a long, tenuous and violent relationship. Ozzy wasn’t even sure Frank was her father except they shared the same dusky skin and full lips. To Frank’s credit, he hadn’t tossed her out, but he made sure she understood that a roof over her head was all he was willing to provide.

  Kean takes a deep breath and counts to five. “I’m sorry. You’re right. We’ll figure this out after we finish the job. Okay?”

  She shrugs, opening her laptop. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

  Kean found and paid for the heart. He’d hacked hospital records all over the world looking for a suitable donor. He found Melatie, a young woman with a brain tumor, in Indonesia It had already stolen her sight and left one side of her body paralyzed. She agreed to give Ozzy her heart for the right price, the catch being Ozzy needed the heart now and Melatie could linger for months, maybe damaging the heart in the process. For a larger sum, she and her family agreed to a “premature termination” in order to save the heart.

  Ozzy would’ve never agreed to any of it, he gave the money to Frank. Who kept his mouth shut for a percentage and played the part of magnanimous father. Now he was trying to collect another payday.

  Staring at the seat in front of him, Kean daydreams about how and when he is going to break Frank Banner’s neck.

  *

  Kean leans against a stucco wall trying to blend in with the sea of colorful tourists milling around the Medina of Marrakech. Weary vendors pack their wares at the end of the day and are quickly replaced by food vendors setting up for the night. Orange juice purveyors place small tables under large green umbrellas. Dancers and acrobats limber up for the night’s shows. Kean’s stomach growls at the smell of grilled lamb, cumin and cinnamon permeating the air.

  Keeping an eye out for Ozzy, he pulls a phone from his backpack and quickly punches in a number.

  “Hello?”

  His jaw clenches. “What the hell, Frank?”

  “Kean? Where are you? Is Katherine with you?” Frank asks.

  That he calls her Katherine and the concerned tone sets Kean’s teeth on edge. Frank never worried about Ozzy’s whereabouts, unless he wanted something.

  “You’re a real piece of work. Ozzy tells me she’s going to pay you back for the transplant.”

  Frank pauses. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “I’ll say.” He spots Ozzy with a man in faded blue jeans and a Ukrainian Hockey t-shirt. She gestures with her hands, the tall man smiles and nods as they weave their way toward him. “I can’t talk now, but this isn’t over, not by a long shot.”

  “Wait, where—”

  Kean drops the
phone in his pocket as he turns and smiles at Ozzy.

  “Found him.” She grins.

  “You must be Amal.” Kean shakes the man’s hand.

  “Yes. Welcome to Morocco. I hope your flight was comfortable,” Amal says. “Please, I have arranged transportation to take you to my father. He is eager to meet you.”

  Amal gestures to two scooters parked against a crumbling pink wall.

  “And where are we going on those?” Ozzy’s eyes narrow as Kean starts one of the scooters. “It sounds like an angry bumble bee.”

  “To the Souk el-Haddadine, the blacksmith’s market.” Amal says.

  “I’m not getting on that thing with you,” Ozzy says. “No way, not after last time.” She twists her long black hair under a military-style cap and glares at Kean.

  “What?” He looks at her innocently.

  Amal chuckles as he starts the other scooter. “How long have you two been married?”

  Kean snorts. “We’re not married. We grew up together. Our moms worked together.”

  People rarely asked what their mothers did, but they had an answer for that, too. Together they had constructed a story where their mothers held day jobs, looked over their homework and gave them curfews.

  “Ah, like brother and sister, then,” Amal smiles. Kean frowns at the description, but says nothing.

  “I apologize I could not get a third bike.” Amal’s face reddens.

  “Don’t worry about it.” She gives Kean a look. “I’m sure he will be on his best behavior.”

  “Cross my heart.” Kean grins.

  “As if you have one.” Ozzy flicks his ear, climbing on behind him. She grabs his waist as he makes the bike lurch forward, laughing.

  They cross the large market square, weaving between delivery trucks and people strolling from stall to stall. The sound of music, diesel engines and vendors hawking their goods fills the evening air.

  They turn down a narrow alley covered with wooden slats that filter the setting sun. Kean slows to a walking pace waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He stays close to Amal. The alley pushes people, bikes and small cars closer together, making it hard to maneuver.

  After 20 minutes, they stop at a store front that spills out onto the street Wrought-iron lamps with intricate scrollwork hang from the awning above the door, enormous mirrors with heavy metal frames are stacked up against the wall next to a white enameled trunk painted with delicate sundial patterns.