Back in my ride, I enabled the Mazda B-Series truck, which didn’t actually look any different to me than the Ranger. I’d selected it simply because it was the highest-level vehicle I had access to. It took me a good 30 minutes of driving on congested roads before I finally arrived on the back streets of Quincy near the less-than-spectacular Wollaston Beach. Given the traffic, I’d left only a handful of things active: Rusty Bumper Reinforcement, Duct Tape Patches, Extra Loud Horn, Homemade Smokescreen, Blinding Headlight High-Beams, and Spike Strip Deployment System. I had the Shotgun Turret, Retractable Side Blades, Improvised Flamethrower, and Harpoon Gun in my mental menu and ready to activate if I ran into any trouble.

  Who knew? Maybe this Mervin Rodriguez would put up more of a fight than expected. My real worry was shades. For that reason, I had my new Glock 19 and Beretta 92FS, both 9mm pistols, sitting in my lap. Each gun had a capacity of 15 rounds, making the combo the most ammunition I had ever carried.

  Quincy wasn’t far from the city center of Boston, but it was a fairly spread-out suburb. In school, I’d been mildly surprised to learn the city wasn’t named after President John Quincy Adams, but actually his great-grandfather, Colonel John Quincy. Wollaston Beach was probably named for someone famous, like most places in the Boston area, but we locals simply called it “Wolly.” It was an okay beach, I guessed, but nothing compared to Nantasket, even though it took a longer drive to get there.

  According to the map, Old Mervin was on the walkway along Quincy Shore Drive, the road that spanned the entire length of Wolly. I blinked at the time showing on the clock on the center console. What was this guy doing walking up and down the beach at 2:00 AM?

  I pulled the Mazda to a stop, idling just beyond the traffic lights at Beach Street, and peered north at what I could tell was my fare. Mervin was standing still on the sidewalk, staring intently at a parked SUV with steamed-up windows. What was he…Oh.

  Between the rocking of the vehicle and the realization that Mervin definitely had his hands down his pants, it wasn’t hard to connect the pieces. “Mervin!” I said out loud, trying not to laugh. “You old dog!”

  Checking my mirrors, I was glad to see minimal bystanders. No law enforcement. No cameras on the lights. Plus, I was pretty sure the occupants of the parked SUV weren’t exactly looking out the windows to see what the cars driving by were up to. Safe enough.

  I gripped the steering wheel, activated the scrap-metal armor plating, and floored it toward Merv the Perv. Godsmack blasted through the car as I accelerated.

  For giggles, I turned on the smoke screen, instantly blocking the visibility of anything behind me on the road. I didn’t need to see anything other than what was in front of me. At the sudden sounds of acceleration behind him, Merv turned, yanking his hand out of his pants. Wow. I finally understood what the fuss was about with gray sweatpants. Good for Merv!

  Seeing only the steamed-up SUV, I pulled the Mazda directly up onto the sidewalk and trailed Merv’s retreat northbound. It didn’t take long. I felt the hum of the truck around me as I closed in on Merv. I recognized the hum for what it was now, whatever magic it was that sent the fares to another world, activating and ready to do its job. And boy, did it do its job. Mervin Rodriguez, the ironworker from Quincy, left this world easier than any other fare so far.

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  I pulled back onto the road, disengaged the smoke screen, and made my way toward Neponset Avenue, where I would eventually merge back onto I-93 and head back home to Somerville.

  At least, that was the plan up until I saw the black figure shoot out the front of my car. Another shade! Like the others, it had black wings and claws. Unlike the others, this one didn’t attack me. Instead, it made a beeline toward downtown Boston.

  I resisted my instinctual reaction, which was to just shoot the fucking thing. I eased my hand off the gun still in my lap and floored it. If I could figure out where these shades were going, I might be able to figure out why they were being summoned to my world.

  fourth_wall: You made quick work of that fare, Somerville. Nicely done.

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Well… technically, I could have composed a message in my mind, but I was too distracted as I raced from Quincy through Southie, dodging the occasional insomniac jaywalking in typical Boston fashion. By the time I hit downtown Boston, tailing the shade had become challenging. It wasn’t that it was any faster than my truck, but I had to dodge around ground obstacles on top of trying to keep an eye on its path through the downtown cityscape.

  I lost it somewhere near South Station. The last time I’d seen the shade, it had been heading straight north, but now…it was gone.

  “Shit!” I muttered, pulling over to the side of the road. I disabled nearly all of my upgrades and turned the radio volume down. I leaned back in the seat. I was tired, and though I didn’t need to rest, I thought about just closing my eyes and pretending. Before I could, a flash of movement caught my eye.

  I sat back up in my seat with a jolt. My eyes were not playing tricks on me. The Ramcharger Killer himself, Axel, was heading the opposite direction. Interesting. I slouched deep into my seat as he drove past my parked truck, heading south on Summer Street. Once I felt like there was enough distance between us, I pulled a quick U-turn and followed him into the increasingly gentrified Seaport area.

  Axel continued down Summer, turning onto D Street to head into Southie. I followed at a safe distance. It wasn’t that I was particularly afraid of getting caught, more that I wanted to surprise him. I was due a fair amount of revenge thanks to that picture he snapped of my disastrous first fare.

  The Dodge Ramcharger was massively unsubtle, with many upgrades fully visible. He really didn’t seem to care, in the slightest, that his car was all over the news.

  I pulled a little closer behind Axel’s truck, my eyes straining to see what I could of the vehicle. The hood included a minigun mount, by the looks of it. The windows were thick, likely bulletproof glass. I spared a minute to mentally rummage around the Endr interface, finding that the Ramcharger option would require at least level 24, six levels beyond where I was.

  The Ramcharger idled at the corner of D Street and Broadway, the shadowy figure inside the car looking up at the back side of a second-floor window. Like most of the shops and bars on Broadway, the main east-west thoroughfare of South Boston, all but the first floor of the building appeared to be apartments.

  This particular building had a very familiar-looking Subaru parked on the street. Axel, it seemed, was making a stop at our fellow Endr’s place.

  - - -

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