by Brad C Scott
I turn to Patton. “Brief Evans and have her follow me – I’m going after him. See if you can follow us from the surface, maybe get ahead of them somehow.”
“Understood, First Redeemer.” Be careful, Malcolm. He hovers out of the room.
Shining the pistol’s barrel light before me, I squeeze into the tunnel – Krayge can’t be more than a minute ahead.
After hunching my way through the narrow dirt tunnel for twenty meters, it ends in another rough-hewn opening in concrete. I nose the pistol out to look both ways, viewing the feed from the pistol cam on my eyeblade. No contacts, so I step out into the arched sewer tunnel running north to south beneath the street fronting the church above.
“First Redeemer,” transmits Evans, “I’m on your six.”
“Copy,” I whisper. “Keep it quiet.”
Holding my breath, I tilt my head and listen. Faint noise echoes from the north. I take a step in that direction before pausing, unsure – would Krayge and his man stay together or split up? A scan of the tunnel floor, bare concrete caked in old grime, reveals a set of tracks heading north – but only one set, and none going south. Remember who you’re dealing with.
Evans pops out of the opening beside me. I nod south and quick-step in that direction.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Movement ahead, one fifty,” says Evans, her visor’s enhanced vision allowing her to see farther up the tunnel.
“Hold position,” I say, going to my haunches. Deactivating my barrel light, I strain my eyes against the black. About a hundred and fifty meters out, the bluish glow of moonlight fills the tunnel where it opens into a chamber of some sort. “Cover my approach.”
“Copy that.”
I move forward while hugging the right side of the tunnel – it looks like it opens to the left into the chamber ahead – my eyes adjusting to the darkness. No sound, no movement, but if Evans saw something… One hundred meters out. Seventy-five. Sixty. I raise the pistol in a two-handed grip, check it’s set to stunshock. Fifty. Forty.
“Contact!” shouts Evans.
Movement precedes the flash and bang of pistol fire. Shots zip by as I go to a knee and return it, the pulsing payloads of stunshock rounds flaring down the tunnel at 150 meters per second. The crack of Evans’ rifle echoes past me as more muzzle flashes reveal the outline of a man leaning out, arm extended toward me. Instinct saves me as I rock backward, the displaced air of near misses tickling my stubble. From my back, I take careful aim and squeeze, my shot hitting the edge of the opening. The sparking explosion reveals Krayge’s lurid face as he jerks back. Evans shoots again. Gunmetal clacks on concrete and muffled curses follow.
“Target hit,” transmits Evans, “but not down.”
Activating my weapon light, I jump up and quick-step forward. “Move up!”
Reaching the end of the sewer tunnel and noting the pistol on the deck, I step out into the concrete room and sweep the weapon light around. Other arched openings terminate here, an overflow chamber of some sort, though it’s dry now. Moonlight bathes the place through a series of grated openings near the ceiling ten meters up. From above also comes the susurrus of flowing water – the river must be nearby. Metal steps lead up to a grated, railed platform on the chamber’s far side with a ladder to the surface and another tunnel opening beyond it.
Krayge’s on the platform, moving toward that tunnel opening.
“Please move,” I say, locking my sights onto his back.
He stops, turns, and raises his hands up. Blood drips from the left. His thin lips twist into a cynical smile as his black eyes meet mine. “Reverend,” he says with deep-toned disinterest.
He’s even uglier than I remember. He’s grown his hair out a bit and sports a scraggly beard – that’s new. A way to hide his scar, the love mark carved by the ex he murdered? Or a means to put his former jihadist associates at ease? Either way, it needs work.
Patton, I thoughtspeak, we have Krayge. Get here as soon as you can.
Affirmative, he replies.
“You leave a lot of dead bodies in your wake,” I say to Krayge.
“So, we do have something in common.”
“Come on down. We need to have a long talk, you and I.”
He smiles, shakes his head. “No, I’d rather you just shoot me. Oh, I know you want to – you’re ready to pop one off in your pants just thinking about it. So go on. Do it.”
That red flag starts flapping in the musty air – he’s exuding an awful lot of bravado for a man in his position. A bluff? Or does he have a surprise for me?
“Target acquired,” transmits Evans from the tunnel behind me.
“You move, she’ll shoot you dead,” I say. With Evans covering him, I risk another look around, sweeping my barrel light over the various tunnel openings. Was that the sound of a boot scraping on concrete? No sight of anyone else, though I’d need to move in further to be sure. A glance up into Krayge’s scornful eyes confirms that’s just what he wants me to do.
“You’re stalling me,” I say, putting my pistol on him again and deactivating stunshock. “Come down. Now. I won’t ask again.”
“Boys?”
Suddenly, men in stealth suits materialize around me, their active camouflage dropping. Four that I can see, all with pistols extended toward me as they slow-step out of the various tunnel openings. They’ve got me dead to rights. Not Evans, but if there’s an engagement here, she may not survive it.
“Hold fire,” I say, pistol steady on Krayge. Patton, I thoughtspeak, we’ve got four hostiles in stealth suits. We need some help here.
Inbound, is his reply. ETA sixty-five seconds.
Krayge lowers his arms and steps to the railing cradling the injured hand, a tired smile directed down at me. “What’s wrong, Malcolm? You sure you still don’t want to do this?”
My turn to stall. “I’m sure. Tell your men to back off, or we go together.”
“Really?” Krayge lifts a clawed, bloody hand at me. “You should reconsider. Red there will die, too. If she’s lucky, it might even be quick.”
“So we stand down and you, what, let us walk?”
“Just the girl. It’s nothing personal – I give zero fucks about you. LA is ancient history, in the past. You need to let it go.” A good bluff, but he’s lying about letting go. The beard can’t hide the truth.
“You haven’t,” I say. “Why keep the scar? Tell me: do you still feel your hands around her neck? Your face was the last thing she saw, wasn’t it?”
His hands twitch. He stares at me, face draining of all emotion, all color.
“I’m still offering a chance to redeem yourself for that. Tell your men to stand down. Surrender. It’s not too late, even for you.”
He blinks, works his jaw back and forth. “Liar,” he whispers. Then something comes over him, wall slamming down: he chuckles, black eyes glinting contempt. “You really should’ve been a priest, all this talk about things that can’t be.”
Inbound hot, sends Patton. Firing solution obtained.
“Last chance,” says Krayge. “Drop it and tell the redhead to fuck off.”
“No. We’re ready for death.”
On my one, sends Patton, evade backward toward Evans. Five…
“Are you?”
Four…
He narrows his eyes at me, takes a step back.
Three…
Krayge looks up, hears what I hear: a drone thruster coming full burn.
Two…
He looks back down at me, eyes wide. “You son of a –”
One…
I throw myself backward as Patton unleashes hell into the overflow chamber. Hitting the deck and rolling away, I clasp hands to ears as the booming thunder of his rail fire, amplified by the concrete around us, nearly blows my eardrums out. Blinking my eyes open reveals argent lines of light lancing diagonally down through the chamber, stark against the dirty gray walls, the traced rail rounds impacting into men, metal, and concrete. Muzzle flashes from despera
te pistol fire precede black-clad bodies getting torn apart. Clambering to a knee, I raise my pistol but it’s too late: no targets remain, the last of the mercs dropping lifeless with a baseball-sized hole in his chest. All fire ceases. I stop shouting and settle for taking ragged gulps of air, ears ringing.
I flinch at a hand on my shoulder.
“You OK?” says Evans, voice muffled. Fuck, I might need a hearing aid after this.
“Yeah. Thanks.” I get my feet under me and move into the kill chamber.
Three bodies, shredded and torn, blood pooling around all of them: Patton’s work, as merciless as God Himself. Hell, one’s even lost an arm. Rail fire is usually reserved for anti-material – tactical drones are inhibited from using it otherwise – but coil rounds might not have penetrated those metal grates in the surface openings. Patton made the only call he could given the setup, but hell, this is gruesome. A good thing my dinner was cut short.
Glancing up, Patton’s three blue eyes meet mine through the metal grating. “Please don’t do that again.” Sounds like I’m whispering. “Where’s Krayge?”
He retreated down the north tunnel, thoughtspeaks Patton. One other hostile escaped via the southwest tunnel and is also moving away.
“Come on,” I say, climbing the stairs to the platform. “He’s got less than a minute –”
Omega!
I push off and away from the stairs as an explosion booms in the tunnel Krayge used for his escape. Concrete shrapnel shoots past as the shockwave spins me around to land hard on my back and lose the pistol. I stifle a groan and cough as the chamber darkens with airborne debris.
“Kari!” I shout.
“I’m alright!”
Getting my feet under me, back protesting, I grab my pistol and move back to the metal steps. I climb them to reach the platform where Krayge stood, but debris now blocks the tunnel beyond. Perfect. I’ll give him this much: the scarred bastard’s got a gift for evading capture.
“Patton,” I transmit, “reacquire Krayge.”
Affirmative.
He moves off, thruster whining, leaving only our barrel lights to cut the dirty air. Evans tromps up to join me on the platform, visor raised.
“You didn’t take the shot,” I comment.
Her green eyes simmer with fury. And regret. “You wanted him alive.”
“Not really, but yeah. Contact Hawk and have him coordinate with… What?”
She’s shaking her head at me. “He’s gone. We lost him.”
By we she means you – and I can’t disagree. First in LA, at the battle that cost Doctor Hancock his life, and now here. Apprehending Krayge is the right path if it gets us to the real play-callers behind the deaths in LA, if we get answers to why it happened. And it could prevent a similar tragedy here in St. Louis. A lot of unknowns to stack against one certainty: justice delayed becomes justice denied if her sword arm is restrained too long.
And if he’s more monster than man? There’s a corollary to the Second Oath, unwritten though widely accepted by redeemers with field experience: justice applies to men, not monsters. Men can be redeemed. Monsters can only be stopped – and must be, even if Hell itself is the price.
CHAPTER 25
“Quite a crowd.” Evans stops eyeballing it to smirk at me. “They must’ve heard you’re part of the show.”
“First Class,” says Hawk, standing tall in our dark green formal attire, “you should be proud of this honor. Today, we represent the department’s finest.”
“Be thankful we’re not in DC,” I say. “The Capital Plaza is standing room only.”
“We wouldn’t have to do this in DC,” she mutters, pulling at her own suit jacket.
True enough. In the Capital, the 11/15 Memorial Ceremony is an extravagant event with participants like department heads, cabinet members, and senators. Political nobodies like us watch from the sidelines with everyone else. Here in St. Louis, the ceremony’s modest enough to warrant our involvement. So here we are, decked out in our finest, a trio of easy targets atop the raised platform fronting City Hall.
Evans shifts in place. “Those assholes could have us dialed in right now.”
I resist the urge to look for Krayge and Leeds in the crowd again. They may be gunning for us, but they wouldn’t risk public exposure. I hope. “If you want the day off, just ask.”
“And miss your speech?” she mocks, smile turning predatory.
I recheck my jacket pocket, ensuring the cards with my prepared remarks are still there. In the zones, the lineup of keynote speakers always includes a DRR representative, a sign of respect for the work we do. Keeland stuck me with the duty-slash-honor when I should be running security with Simmons, taking that role for himself. No doubt his way of paying me back for the headaches I’ve caused him.
Looking out at the crowd, I’m tempted to sneak off for a quick drink. Thousands of St. Louisans mill about in the cordoned-off street fronting City Hall, the throng stretching hundreds of meters in both directions and into Memorial Park across it. Over five thousand and growing, a choppy sea of red, white, and blue infested with pockets of black. The noise of blended voices flavors the air like the between-innings hum at a baseball game.
“First Redeemer,” says Evans, nodding at an approaching dignitary wearing a dark suit and the purple sash of an alderman. I recognize the silver-haired man, one of the senior and more influential members of the city council.
“First Redeemer Adams,” says the alderman, extending his hand. His smile appears natural enough, though his eyes say otherwise. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Alderman Carter,” I say, shaking his hand, “the honor’s mine.”
“Can I have a word?”
“Of course, Alderman.” I nod at Hawk and Evans, who fade down the platform.
“Chief Constable Simmons speaks very highly of you.”
He’s good – even I almost believe that lie. “The respect is mutual, Alderman.”
“I was surprised to hear that Sean passed on being the keynote speaker. He does enjoy the spotlight. You must feel quite honored.”
He’s fishing for something, but what? “Nervous, actually.”
“You’d be a fool not to be. So,” he says, sweeping an arm out toward the nearby platform manned by a brass ensemble. The muted light of a misty autumn morning glows from their trombones and trumpets as the musicians prepare, their practice riffs blending with the murmur of the crowd. “What do you think of our quarter-century ceremony?”
“Very impressive, Alderman.” Red, white, and blue is everywhere, banners and decorations edging the platforms and suspended from City Hall’s faded brown exterior. The largest stretches fifty feet across beneath its red-shingled roof, proclaiming: 11/15 – We Will Never Forget. “You’ve done it justice.”
“Like you’ve done us. I’ll admit, when the round-the-clock security started, none of us were happy. My wife gave me holy hell about hosting a group of reclaimers at our house – she threatened to take our son and go to her sister’s place in Kirksville.” He gives me a wry smile and a wink. “I told her that a delusional redeemer from DC had us all jumping at shadows. Then we heard about the attempt on Alderman Miller’s family. His two girls are safe because of you. And so is my son.” He holds out a hand. “Thank you.”
I shake his hand. “You’re welcome.” The team of black baggers that showed up at one in the morning was ready for the three reclaimers on duty, but not for the constables that showed up after the attack began. We got lucky – a patrol was in the area. The black baggers got driven off, though we don’t know who sent them. But I can guess.
He fixes me with a knowing look. “I understand you were in LA during their recent crisis. Right in the middle of that disaster.”
“I was.”
“Well, lucky for us, this isn’t Los Angeles. It would be a shame for DSS to take a more active role here. We don’t need enforcers patrolling our streets.”
Ah, so that’s what he’s fishing for
. “You’re right: St. Louis is not Los Angeles.”
He nods, the smile reaching his eyes. “We’re grateful. For your restraint as much as your protection. I look forward to seeing you in chambers tomorrow. Good luck.”
“As do I, Alderman. Thank you.” We shake hands again before he walks off.
“I see you’ve made another advocate,” says Sam, behind me.
I turn to see her beaming at me in a white suit jacket and skirt, blonde hair gathered up in an elaborate updo style. Taking her hand, I’m a young man again, fool’s grin and all. She’s been helping me relearn the lost art of smiling. Leaning in to give her a quick kiss reveals the alluring floral scent of the perfume she favors.
“Fair lady, you honor us with your presence.”
“I left my tiara at the hotel,” she says, blushing faintly.
“I arranged to have you seated next to me.”
“I saw that, though you won’t be sitting much, will you?” Seeing my smile fade, she reaches up to smooth my suit jacket. “You’ll do fine. You have the notecards we worked on?”
“Here,” I say, patting my pocket. “Hell, I’m tenser than I was two nights ago.”
“I won’t subject you to that again.” She gives me an impish smile. “Not right away.”
“At least I was honest about not being able to dance.”
“It was a valiant effort. And you warmed up pretty quickly. You’ll do the same today.” She sighs and pats my chest, eyes turning inward.
“Still worried?”
She looks out at the crowd, eyes anxious. “Aren’t you?”