Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  “Reclaimer Evans,” Patton says, hovering down to join us, “the first redeemer has made numerous contacts with local representatives of the various trade unions. The Companions Guild is a reputable organization in St. Louis that contributes substantially to the local economy.”

  “It was a joke, Big Guy,” says Evans.

  I grin. “Besides, I prefer my women to be more complicated.”

  Speculation paints Evans’ face. “I thought blondes were the opposite.”

  I sigh. She figured it out.

  We make our way into the street, ignoring barked overtures from the merchants while wending our way through the crowd. I’m offered jewelry for my wife or mistress, combat-ready cutlery, untraceable field controllers, synthiskin masks, bionic attenuators, tattoos in ten, you-name-it. The drug vendors don’t bother us – they know reclaimers don’t touch the stuff. Besides, the top shelf stuff’s for sale inside with the whores. Some things just don’t go well with sunlight.

  “Anything new?” asks Evans.

  “Did you bring any evening wear with you?”

  “No.” She looks back at a clothing stall we just passed. “Do I need to buy something?”

  “Maybe. There’s a dinner tonight. I might need you with me.”

  “You asking me out on a date? Blondie might get jealous.”

  “You know I’m madly in love with you, right?”

  She snorts. “I’d say take a number, but I ran out last week. A new mission?”

  “A lead that needs looking into. I’ll let you know.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  I stop dead. “What. The. Hell.”

  The pale stone building of the St. Louis Metropolitan Constabulary looms ahead, the same facility used by the defunct police department before 11/15. White police cruisers line its edges. Sentry drones prowl the roof.

  First Sentinel John Monroe strides out the front entrance thirty meters away.

  Breathe, Malcolm. My hand strays to my pistol, caressing the grip. Just breathe. What the hell is he doing here? I feel a touch on my shoulder, but ignore Evans’ hand, staring hard at this man who deserves a hard reckoning by my own.

  Monroe, in a black suit, stops at the curb in front of a black suburban armored vehicle, intent on a call. Two armored enforcers heel him. He looks over and we lock eyes. His two escorts also look my way. In my mind, I headshot all three of them.

  I stride forward, forcing my arms to my sides. He gestures, and the two enforcers stay back as he steps forward to meet me.

  “Malcolm,” he says, face expressionless.

  “John. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Meeting with the chief constable.”

  “So. It seems we have to work together.”

  He looks away. “We do.”

  “I won’t make it easy on you.”

  “I know.” He pauses, eyes sliding back to me, before continuing, “Malcolm –”

  “Fuck off, John.”

  “All right. But I have to say it because you never gave me the chance in DC.”

  I hold up a hand to forestall him, body clenching to contain the rage.

  Yet he is not dissuaded. “I’m sorry for the loss of your men.”

  “You were complicit!” I shout, getting in his grill. “You may not have pulled the trigger or issued the orders, but you knew about it! You knew! Their blood is on your hands!”

  He doesn’t flinch or pull away, though his face does take on a pained expression. Is that regret in his eyes? Does he expect me to believe he’s sorry?

  The two enforcers eyeball me, coil rifles gripped tight. Two tan-uniformed constables further down the sidewalk look our way, all eyes and hands hanging near their pistols. A trio of pedestrians heading for the entrance reverse course and edge away. I don’t need to look back to know that Evans and Patton are ready to back me.

  I look away. Monroe can’t run from what he’s done, no more than I can. His day will come. And I’m honor-bound to work with him here. Better the devil you know.

  With a parting glare, I turn and walk up the short flight of steps to the entrance. As the glass doors slide apart, a smack and a grunt from behind whip my head around. Monroe staggers back into the two enforcers, reeling from a punch to the face. The enforcers keep him on his feet while trying to bring their coil rifles up. Evans stands feet planted wide and fists clenched, ready to swing again.

  “Stand down!” I shout.

  “It’s all right,” says Monroe, “Weapons down! It’s all right...”

  Monroe pushes away from the enforcers, rubbing at his jaw, a trickle of blood leaking from his nose. There’s no anger on his face, just the same pained expression as before.

  “Reclaimer, on me,” I say. “Patton, continue overwatch.”

  Evans turns and walks to me, her gaze lingering on Monroe, before preceding me into the constabulary. Once inside the lobby, I glance back through the glass doors to see Monroe getting into the vehicle with his escort. He does not look up as they pull away.

  “Thanks for that,” I say.

  “No problem,” replies Evans, shaking out her left hand. “I’ll let you take the next one.”

  A throat clears behind us. Turning, we see a rugged older man wearing blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a tan overcoat with a sheriff’s star on the breast. The bushy brown mustache, downrange blue eyes, and calm demeanor imply backwater sheriff, yet his roots are back in Denver, where he was deputy chief of police before moving to St. Louis.

  “Do you think that was wise?” says Chief Constable Simmons.

  “No, I don’t believe it was,” I respond, shaking his calloused hand. “Dan, good to see you again. This is Kari Evans.”

  “Ma’am,” he says, taking Evans’ hand, “you’ve got a mean left cross.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” she says, blushing faintly. Blushing? Really?

  “You and John have bad blood between you, I take it?” he asks in his down-home drawl.

  “That may be understating it.”

  “Well, at least you showed restraint. The two of you had best mend those fences long enough to get the job done here.”

  “I hadn’t been told you were coordinating activities.”

  “We’re not. John stopped by to say hello. We had a nice chat on the lay of the land. I won’t stand for seeing the people hereabouts hurt on account of your squabbling.”

  “I hope you remember who your friends are, Dan.”

  Friends might be stretching it. Though Dan Simmons and I have faced down hell together a few times, we’ve never seen eye to eye. He’s got an image problem, meaning his honest-to-a-fault, small-town sheriff act doesn’t match reality. Under his watch, the constabulary is rife with corruption. Their ties to the cartels could complicate things during the zone’s repatriation. So here I am, trying to steer him in the right direction. Like a real friend would.

  “Now, Malcolm, I’ve got lots of friends. Any of them prove otherwise, I get to show them what the inside of my jail looks like.”

  “Not much of a threat considering the service.”

  “You looking to book another layover?” he asks, placid countenance unaltered.

  “Wait a minute,” interjects Evans. “Did you –”

  “That he did, ma’am,” says Simmons. “Twice, as I recall.”

  “Once,” I emphasize.

  The chief constable doesn’t put up with anyone’s bullshit, mine included. I spent two nights in a cell for interfering with a crime scene investigation. Not a big deal – I did overstep my authority – though with good cause: the constabulary was concealing evidence on behalf of one of the cartels. The other time was for drunken disorderly, an embarrassing incident that the chief was kind enough to sweep under the table. I had to return the favor on that one.

  “S’right,” drawls the chief. “It was just the once. That other time don’t count.”

  Evans looks from one of us to the other, eager to hear more. She’ll be disappointed.

  He finally
gets to the meat of it: “Don’t mess with my city, Malcolm.”

  “You give Monroe the same advice?”

  “Right after I licked his boots. You might consider that a better approach than what you just offered. You got to respect the big guns.”

  “Only when they’re pointed in the right direction.”

  “You want to head to my office to discuss the memorial arrangements?”

  “Not today. I came by to say hello. And to thank you for helping with the extra security. I know it’s a stretch on your resources, but the protection details and beefed-up patrols could prevent another clusterfuck like New York or Los Angeles. So, thank you.” I stretch out a hand.

  He shakes it. “Well, I appreciate it. Too few folks bother with face-to-face anymore.”

  “One thing, though, while I’m here,” I say. “I want access to your case files. We need a solid read on the underworld situation in advance of the repatriation. Cartels, gangs, mercenary groups, any major players.”

  “I’ve been telling your boss ‘no’ for years. Why should the answer change now?”

  “Because it’s in both our interests. You know what’s at stake, you know powerful parties are working to derail it. Sharing intel could help stop them. And it’d help keep you in the driver’s seat after federalization. You’d have our support in that. So where does the Metropolitan Constabulary sit? With us, doing everything to keep the peace? Or on the fence?”

  “Hunting or fishing?” he asks, brow furrowed.

  “Both.”

  “I’ll think on it.”

  “On the fence it is, then.”

  His eyes smolder with intent. “You’d best pull in your horns, Malcolm.”

  “And you’d best be on the right side of things, Dan. If you hold out on us, and things go south... You know what happened to the constabulary in LA, right? It’ll be worse for you.”

  We lock eyes, a mutual simmer of outrage. He backs down first, scrunching up his jaw like he wants to spit before looking up, thumbs in his belt.

  “You always were a pain in the ass,” he says, looking down his long nose at me. “Well, then, all right. I’ll have one of my deputies grant you and your boss access to our case files. Restricted access. You’ll wrangle me for more later, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Thank you, Dan.” I stick out a hand. “Can you set that up today?”

  He takes it. “Who’s in your sights?”

  I shrug, hoping he won’t press. “No one special.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Remind me to thank your informant,” says Samantha. “An underworld stakeout. I knew there was a romantic behind that scowling exterior.”

  Sam grabs onto me as the century-old freight elevator lurches in its descent. The ride smooths out at once, but rather than let go, her bare arms slide up to my shoulders as she pulls her body close, my hands coming to rest on her hips. Her sea-green eyes, shimmering with lust, hold me in place as a hand glides up my neck, fingertips applying gentle pressure to draw me in. Her glistening lips part as they close in on mine…

  She hasn’t been honest with you. The thought makes me pull back. “We need to stay focused. I explained the danger, right?”

  “Relax, old man, this will be fun.”

  With the little black dress she’s wearing, it’s hard to imagine it otherwise. “How’d I let you talk me into this again?”

  “I’ve got your code mapped out. Too late for you – you’re doomed.”

  There’s only one reply, kissing her like I mean it. Which I do.

  The freight elevator shudders as it touches down. Taking Sam’s hand, I step off the platform, nodding at the big man in a black tuxedo giving us the once-over. We follow a trail of saffron glow bulbs strung along the cavern-stone ceiling into the depths of the underground. Bizarre artwork haunts carved niches in the walls, pictures of gothic architecture, Lovecraftian landscapes, and leering lunatics. The tunnel complex inherited the dark atmosphere from its creators, the Lemp Family, who turned the natural cave network into a brewery back in the late 1800s. Story is the brewing dynasty suffered a rash of mysterious suicides in the family. Urban legends say their ghosts still haunt this place.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” asks Sam. “Their cold dead eyes might be watching.”

  “I’ve enough problems with the living.”

  “You do. Romantic and superstitious. Little green men?”

  “They’re gray.”

  When Ruby gave me the lead on the meeting location, it made perfect sense – what better place for the lowlifes to gather than a subterranean space steeped in death? Connor Montoya, cartel boss and wanted asshole, should feel right at home. And he has little to fear – the denizens of Gatekeeper make their own law. The constabulary won’t send men down here – unless they’re on the take, that is – and our people also stay away, an accommodation made to the city council.

  “You sure you’re up for this?” I ask.

  “You like to worry. Don’t, I can handle myself. Besides, you need me.”

  How did I let her talk me into this? I can handle a bit of surveillance, but DRR doesn’t specialize in hunting down terror cells or preventing their attacks. DSS does, but they can’t be trusted. With no better option, I brought Ruby’s intel to Sam, knowing she could relay it to her associates in Task Force 1115, the DOD group she supports. She surprised me by insisting on taking Evans’ place. Made a compelling case of it, too, offering DOD collaboration in our hunt for Krayge and his associates. When I tried to argue my way clear, she pulled the you-owe-me card for Patton. Yeah, she’s got my buttons mapped.

  I give her hand a squeeze. “Where did you say you learned to read lips again?”

  “I didn’t. Figure it out, detective.”

  When I narrow my eyes at her, she grins like it’s a compliment.

  We pass openings cordoned off with velvet rope dividers, the passages beyond delving into darkness. Strains of haunting violin music permeate the corridor, competing with the click of Samantha’s heels on the stone flooring. The smells of Italian cooking scent the air. We pass by a trio of well-dressed men passing a cigar around, gin tumblers in hand, talking business before a picture of a skull-faced man standing on a cliff.

  We’re approaching the entrance now, I send via thoughtspeak.

  …ative… er… are stand… comes the broken response from Patton. Damn, as I feared – even thoughtspeak, our only method of communication with the outside, is almost useless this deep in. He’s standing by with Evans and Hawk outside the main surface access behind us, our primary backup. Two DOD operators from Sam’s group watch with Gypsy near the rear entrance in case our quarry bolts that way. The rear entrance we know of, anyway. Chances are good there are other ways out of this rat’s nest.

  “We’re on our own,” I say to Sam.

  For reply, she smiles and puts her arm around mine.

  We arrive at the chamber housing Gatekeeper. No signage at the entrance, just a podium manned by a dignified Italian gentleman in a dark burgundy tuxedo, his gray hair slicked back. A pair of tuxedoed bouncers flank the open wrought-iron gate behind him, no doubt packing pistols in chest rigs like I am, the snub pistol used for special occasions. No one defangs a redeemer inside a zone, not even here in the very heart of darkness.

  “Good evening,” I say. “Reservation for Adams, two.”

  “Yes, First Redeemer Adams. Miss. Welcome to Gatekeeper. I’m your host, Dominic.” His black eyes roam over us, searching for signs of trouble. “This is your first time here, yes?”

  “It is,” I say.

  “Hopefully not your last,” he says with a suggestive smile. “You know our rules here, yes? Yes. Good. No electronic surveillance, no outside communications, no invasion of anyone’s privacy. Yes? Yes. Please follow me.”

  Dominic leads us into a spacious stone chamber parsed by a double row of square columns connected by arches. Wrought-iron chandeliers and flickering candles in sconces give the room a saffron, shadowy illuminat
ion, an old-world romantic flavor so often lacking in a world of holoemitters and plasma. Afterlife-inspired artwork shrouds the columns and walls. One triptych we pass portrays an ornate door contested by winged warriors on the flanking panels, a sword-bearing angel and an axe-wielding devil. The portal to Heaven or Hell, though? Patrons in designer clothes converse in low voices around thick wooden tables jammed between columns. We take seats at our table against one wall, reserved for its view of the chamber.

  “Your server will be with you shortly,” says Dominic. “Enjoy.”

  As he walks off, I glance around the room and spot our target. At a pair of tables pushed together across the room sits Connor Montoya, head of Los Santos. Two men and a woman attend him, clearly his by the deference shown. Catching Sam’s eye, I cut my eyes at them.

  “That our hitman?” she says.

  I nod and continue to study him. Montoya’s aged from the picture in the constabulary case files, taken over a decade ago when he was a prominent sicario being tried for multiple murders. Early 40s, old burn scars, jet black hair slicked back, a legion of worry lines nesting his dark eyes. His file says he’s Salvadorian, though viewing his candlelit profile from across the room, could be there’s some Italian thrown in the mix. He lounges back in his chair, maroon suit jacket unbuttoned, eyes half-lidded and lazy, just a man taking his ease with friends. A good act – there’s nothing easy about this guy.

  “A dangerous man,” says Sam, drawing my eyes. Resting her chin on steepled hands, she peers about. “Not the only one.” I follow her gaze to a trio of men at another table. Arabs, two clean-shaven and lean, one bearded and stout. Unsmiling, the bearded one gestures at the others, one hand missing stubs from its fingers. “My associates will want to know that one’s in town.”

  “Those two men there?” I say, cutting my eyes over at another table. “City aldermen. We’ve found that shady back room where the deals get struck.”