Ashes of the Fall Read Online Free PDF Page A

would explain why the removal device was hidden.
    I blink, the gears in my own mind slowly turning as the TV flashes on again. The elevator has arrived, and the men are exiting with a sense of purpose. There is no escape—the only escape is in what I do best.
    But just being me won’t do the trick. Because if I want to survive, I have to become someone else.
    I have to become Matthew Stokes.

I jam the needles into the base of my skull without any real hesitation. If fear plays a factor here, it’s run roughshod over by adrenaline.
    There’s a light pinch, and my vision goes dark for a split-second as the HoloBand disconnects from my neural wiring—wetware, the off-grid tech who installed my stolen band called it, referring to my brain. Then I feel the needles slide out from beneath my skin, and it’s over.
    With a cautious hand, I take the coin apparatus away from my neck and slowly bring it into view. There’s a trickle of blood running down the edge. The two sharp points hold the HoloBand, no larger than a fingernail, in place.
    I take the chip out and crush it in my palm.
    I hesitate when it comes to the next part. There’s not much I find wrong—that’s all a matter of opinion and degree—but there’s something sacred about the dead that even I have a problem with disturbing.
    I remind myself that I don’t believe in spirits, souls or any of that crap the Lionhearted push in their stupid posters, and force myself to kneel down. Wiping the needles clean—as if he cares—I close my eyes and move his hair out of the way.
    “Sorry,” I say, and then I press down, feeling a little jolt in my hand. It only takes a second, but it feels like an hour. He’s still warm, but he’s gotten cooler since I touched him last.
    I pull the HoloBand away and stand up. There’s a knock at the door.
    “Matthew Stokes.” The voice buzzes over the intercom.
    I freeze, clutching the coin and my lifeline. The wall screen comes on, showing me a live feed of the SC agents outside the door. They don’t appear actively hostile—their pistols aren’t out, at least. But a visit from the SC is never good news.
    I see one guy, sporting the beginnings of a beard, next to the intercom, his thumb poised over the talk button. More knocks follow, as I try to figure out what to do next.
    “Matthew Stokes,” the same guy says, scratching his stubble, “we’re here for your appointment.”
    I look down and the plan forms fast, like a jazz musician reacting to the band—not entirely sure if it’s gonna sound good, just rolling with the changes, trying to feel things out. Vamp a little, you know. Pops liked Miles Davis a lot. Said that cat could play. Beneath this memory chatter, my subconscious finishes with its checklist.
    Will it work? Yeah, I guess it could.
    I take the HoloBand and plunge it into my neck. My eyesight dims for a second as the information and firmware interfaces with my wetware. Then it’s up and running again, other than a bout of slight dizziness. I stumble towards the wall screen, where there’s a receiver.
    I smash one of the buttons with a closed fist and mumble into the receiver, “Yeah, I’m in the shower.”
    “Your appointment is in ten minutes, sir,” the guy with the beard says. “I don’t think it’s wise to—”
    Sir? My brother must’ve been some sort of real hot shot.
    “And I don’t think it’s wise for you to question me,” I say. “Or for me to show up unbathed.”
    “Yes, sir, Mr. Stokes,” the guy says, with a chagrined expression. “My apologies. We’ll wait outside.”
    “I’ll be out when I’m ready,” I say. As soon as the conversation is over, and I’ve staved off the imminent problem, I rush into the bedroom. This is gonna be an issue, passing myself off as Matthew Stokes. Hell, our hair isn’t even the same color. Our faces look enough alike at a distance to fool people, I guess, but I need a little cover.
    I ransack the closet, searching for anything besides