The Lottery Trap — Part 2 (Finale)

Short Series — When Decklain and his partner pull a suspicious thread, they unravel a conspiracy that threatens to unravel the lottery, the Bureau, and the future itself

Photo by Rosalind Chang on Unsplash

Earlier…
***
Ybor City
2 Hours to Drawing

We slip out of the precinct under the pretense of grabbing some grub. No one objects. 'Far as they know, our perp is already under lock 'n key.

Craft and I park our cruiser down at Water Street to sell the ruse, then ride that tourist -trap street car down to the end of the line. Ybor's crowded. The base beat from a half dozen greasy nightclubs shakes the old brick streets. The crowd is a mish-mash of tourists, club goers, and teen gang bangers, weaving under iron balconies and arches.

We move off the main thoroughfare, away from the cigar bars and hangouts. Past an overgrown park, Craft's print-out directions bring us down an alleyway so tight, we have to step over a sleeping bum to get to the faded red door at the end.

Craft grabs the handle, and the damn thing groans as it swings open. “C’mon,” he says.

I hesitate at the threshold, heart racing. Why go through all that trouble to hide your tracks, then leave the damn door unlocked? No, something doesn’t smell right. But Craft’s disappeared into the dark building before I can object. Against my better judgement, I follow him inside.

Beyond the strip of streetlight from the alley, the place is blacker ‘n tar. The tight beam of my flashlight makes it hard to see more than a few square feet of the place at once. A dust cloth draped over some future here… a stack of wooden crates there.

A light shines in my face. “Hey, get a load of this.” It’s Craft, standing over an open box and shaking a wad of dough in my direction. Even from across the room, the glowing green indicator worms tip me off that it’s Future Cash.

“Bet it’s the same batch we found from the store,” I say. “We should start bagging—“ I froze mid sentence as my eyes fell on a familiar site: the gunmetal finish of a Jansten-model COOLR. The thing makes no noise whatsoever. I only know it’s on by the violet indicator light, blinking on the surface.

“Is that what I think it is?” Craft asks.

Before I can answer, he’s pulling open the lid. He frowns, clearly not sure what to make of what he’s looking at.