Tick Tock

CODE 171. INVALID ACCOUNT.

He cocked his head at the screen like a poked rooster.

Huh? he thought. That was funny. Not funny fucking ha-ha, either. Not even a little.

He hit the cancel button, trying to get back the card to try again. But nothing happened. He tried it again, hitting the cancel button harder this time. Same result. Nothing. Shit. Why wouldn't it return his card?

He punched in his PIN again. Nothing.

He pounded the screen, clanging panic bells going off in his head. What the hell was this? What the bloody fuck was going on?

After a moment, the screen changed, and the PLEASE INSERT YOUR CARD crap came back up.

No! he thought, cupping his head with his hands. How could this happen? Without the card and the money, he was wide open, on his own, completely and utterly screwed. Something was wrong. Very goddamn wrong.

"How about that dollah, bruva?" said the Asian street musician, stepping in front of him as Apt exited the bank.

There was a snick sound as Apt whirled instantly. He embraced the man from behind, knife already in his hand, blade in, the way they'd taught him.

The derelict's guitar gonged against the sidewalk as the kid dropped to the sidewalk, holding his slit throat. Apt, already at the corner, calmly went down into the subway pit, Metro-carded through a turnstile, and hustled down the crowded platform.

A train came a second later, and he got on it without caring where it was going, his mind a blank screen of burning, pulsing, white-hot rage.