A Dangerous and Cunning Woman

by Ethan Johnson

  “Rookie? That’s not a nickname, unless it sticks when I’m a senior detective or something. Come on, ‘Hammer’, I can take it. Tell me what they’re calling me.”

  “Fine. Only because you insisted, and for the record, I don’t agree with it. Goodwin says it’s ‘BD’.”

  Diane tipped her head. “BD? How is that so terrible?”

  “It’s short for bulldyke. He says you’re down for the ladies.”

  “So what if I am?”

  Her partner’s eyes widened. “For real, Pembrook? I mean, you’re not exactly ladylike, but I figure you’re into dudes. Hinajosa told everyone you two were going at it pretty good yesterday.”

  “He what, now?” Diane had been feeling pangs of guilt for making him out to be the bad guy to Lyssa. Now she wondered if she hadn’t been forceful enough in her arguments.

  “Oh yeah. He told us—” He wagged his chin toward the windshield. “Crap, Pembrook, we have a situation. Eyes forward. Prepare to engage.”

  Diane snapped her attention to the windshield as directed. A group of punks stood in the center of the street. Bandannas covered the lower half of their faces. They clutched liquor bottles stuffed with rags. Diane unholstered her gun and nodded to Hendricks. “Locked and loaded.”

  A bottle burst on the hood, sending a blanket of flames up the front of the cruiser, completely obscuring the windshield. As soon as the cruiser skidded to a halt, Diane leapt from the car as Hendricks called in the incident from his console. Diane crouched behind her door and aimed for the closest hostile.

  “Freeze. You are under arrest. All of you: get on your knees and put your hands where we can see them.”

  Another hostile lobbed a bottle, striking the cruiser’s roof. Hendricks raised his voice post-impact, calling out for backup.

  Diane remembered Mond, and his insistence of identifying as a police officer before doing anything else in the face of a hostile engagement. As if they didn’t know who they were messing with, she thought. Feeling enough had been done strictly by the book, she took the second impact to be an invitation for full engagement. She thumbed the safety to her sidearm and pulled the trigger. The hostile in the middle of the group dropped to the ground amid a cloud of blood vapor. One to the head. Diane prided herself on not wasting ammunition or winging anybody. If live rounds were going to be spent, she was going to make them count. Period.

  Two of the group looked down at their fallen comrade and gestured their disbelief and displeasure with Diane’s lethal dismissal. They lit their fabric fuses and lobbed two more bottles in her direction. The first landed in front of the door. The second struck it. Flaming liquid dripped onto the pavement as Diane ducked behind the door for cover. She gritted her teeth and leaned away from the door. My turn, she thought as she pulled the trigger again.

  Hendricks used his door as a barricade, fresh from his urgent plea for backup. He looked over at her across the open cruiser cabin and nodded his approval as another hostile dropped with a hole in his neck. “Damn, Pembrook. Same some for me, willya?”

  “You’ve got a gun,” Diane said. “Use it.”

  Hendricks fired a few shots in rapid succession. The hostiles ducked and scattered. Diane cursed his stupid decision making. When the hostiles stuck in a tight group, they were easy pickings. She thought she counted five of them, but their dark clothing and distance from the cruiser make it difficult to get an accurate assessment. A bottle sailed over a parked car and exploded near the cruiser. Stealth wasn’t an advantage, she noted. Not for the hostile, anyway.

  She waved across to Hendricks. “How are we coming on that backup?”

  “Five, ten minutes. We can hold them off.”

  “We can do better than that. I’m going in. Cover me.”

  “Pembrook, are you crazy? You don’t need to—” He shook his head. “And she’s gone.”

  “Yes, I do need to,” Diane muttered under her breath as she hunted down the closest hostile on the right. Hendricks didn’t believe she put five bullets into the bullseye at the firing range during her brief stint at what passed for the police academy in the wake of Arbor Day. He probably didn’t believe she took out six hostiles, saving several uniformed officers in the process, only to lose them to a downed plane. The plane wasn’t her fault. No amount of talk was going to convince him or anyone else of her skill. Hendricks needed to be shown.

  She crept around the side of a delivery van and found her first target. A young man crouched behind a red sports car and flicked a lighter nervously, eyeing his opportunity to part with his last bottle. Hendricks fired three shots over his head, sending him to his knees. He shielded the bottle with his body and touched his forehead to the ground. Diane rushed forward and strategically aimed her weapon. The boy looked up in time to have a single bullet placed between his eyes. Diane snatched the bottle from his hands and carried it toward two more hostiles lodged behind a refrigerated truck.

  She was relieved to notice any innocent bystanders had fled from the shootout. A few clusters were closer than they ought to have been, but she figured it was literally their funeral if they didn’t know better than to stand close to a firefight. She glanced at the bottle and crafted a plan.

  Unlike the rooftop ambush she ended with a well-placed shot to the case of clear liquor the punks had hauled up for their assault, these hostiles didn’t seem to be using a central reloading point. Liquor bottles had been their weapon of choice from the outset, but from what Diane could tell, they each carried a limited number, scattering for cover when their supply ran out. What was their purpose? She assumed they weren’t targeting her personally, but they did target the first police cruiser that crossed their path. Was this a suicide mission? If so, why? Just like Arbor Day, very little about what Diane was seeing made sense from a purely transactional point of view.

  She got close enough to the duo to overhear snippets of their conversation. One told the other to wait until the cop was “close enough to blaze.” She didn’t know if they meant her or her partner. She didn’t care. They weren’t blazing anybody. No cops, anyway, if she had her way.

  Hendricks used the cruiser’s PA system to order the remaining hostiles to surrender peacefully and rattled off a list of charges they were already facing. Diane rolled her eyes. These punks weren’t going to lay down and surrender. Not yet. Maybe the final one would decide it wasn’t worth dying for whatever stupid reason they made up for their attack. Maybe she’d kill him and send a message to any others that might have thought the Panther Division was just a new name for the same old police force that couldn’t defend against Arbor Day.

  “I think Hawk got aced,” said one of the hostiles as Diane crept closer. “You sure this is gonna work?”

  “Shut up and stick to the program,” said the other. “They said to hit car 9551. We hit them. They’ve split up, like they said would happen. Now we do what we promised, and we make fat bank. Unless the bitch wastes you. Then it’ll just be me.”

  Diane cocked her head at this. Just him? She was sure there was at least one more hostile unaccounted for. Diane heard glass break and gunfire behind her. There he was. She peeked between two cars and saw Hendricks running after a man wearing all black. The hostile ducked into an alley and Hendricks skidded to a halt, apparently afraid to give chase through unfamiliar territory. Smart move, Diane thought, but it would have been smarter to shoot the guy before he could get away. She shrugged and focused her attention on her quarry.

  “Okay, Swipes got out. Let’s take this bitch down and get paid.”

  Diane got as close as she could to the hostiles without blowing her cover. One was armed with a bottle and a lighter. The other had a gun. It wasn’t a revolver or a semi-auto. Her eyes popped at the sight of a light machine gun. That wasn’t what the usual gangs were packing. Somebody had connections to that kind of hardware. That somebody was no small-time operator.

  “Okay, Squint, light it up. I think I hear her coming.”

  Diane clutched her bottle an
d counted to three. Immediately afterward, she charged around to their side of the truck. The hostile with the bottle had just lit the wick. She threw hers. It landed at their feet. They looked down, then the leader with the machine gun raised it to fire.

  Diane raised her gun and fired a single shot. She struck the second hostile in the chest. His bottle shattered, and he fumbled with the flaming wick as he doubled over. The puddle of liquor caught fire, along with the leader’s pant leg. The bottle-carrier’s clothing caught fire as well. The leader batted at his legs to snuff the flames, then sprayed a hail of bullets in Diane’s direction. She took one to the left shoulder and dropped to one knee. She fired one shot into the leader’s knee, sending him onto his back with a sickening crunch. The machine gun skittered away as he landed.

  She had a clean shot at his head, but she wanted him alive, at least for now. Pain flashed behind her eyes as she struggled to stand. She had never been shot before, to her amazement. She had felt invincible up to that point. She had even opted for minimal protective gear, figuring the other guy wouldn’t have had time to pull his gun, let alone use it. She wasn’t expecting a machine gun.

  She staggered forward, keeping the gun trained on her target. She kicked the machine gun further away and stepped toward the hostile. “You wanted the bitch, huh? Well, here I am.” She rolled him onto his back with her foot when he tried to turn away. “How many more of you fools are going to keep losing to a girl?”

  The leader spat. “Screw you, bulldyke. Just ice me and shut the hell up.”

  “Not happening. Us bitches like to talk. And us bulldykes especially love to talk about our feelings. You’ve got feelings, right? Like, how’s your knee?” She gave it a swift kick, eliciting howls of agony from her prey.

  “Just shoot me already, Jesus.”

  “Here’s my feeling. I feel like small fish like you don’t get guns like that unless you know people. Serious people, with serious firepower. I feel like they’re paying you to take me out. Now, I feel like you’re going to tell me who, or I mess you up real bad.”

  “I told you to shoot me. If you ain’t gonna do it, give me your piece and I’ll do it myself.”

  “Nope, sorry. I’ve got the gun.” Black spots began to form in the center of her field of vision. “You’ve got one good knee. Talk, or I blow it out.”

  “How about, you blow me? Oh wait, bulldykes don’t roll like that. Then again, don’t knock it ‘til you tried it. Your mother did.”

  Diane blinked in vain as she tried to dispel the spots that obscured her eyesight. She began to feel dizzy. Her shoulder throbbed, and blood dripped down her left hand. “Don’t… don’t talk about my mother.”

  “Or you’ll what, cry like a widdle baby? Oh, waaah, your momma’s a whore. All of us had her five times last night. We each got change back for the dollar bill we gave her. Go on, cry, you baby.”

  Diane staggered backward as her vision completely blurred. “I’ll blow your stinking—”

  She awoke to find a pair of medics hovering over her. “Hey, she’s back,” said the right one.

  Hendricks crouched down beside her. “Pembrook? Holy crap, I thought I lost you. That was stupid, going out after those punks. You should have waited for backup.”

  Diane squinted up at her partner. “The leader of the gang… where is he?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Pembrook. Gunslinger got him. He’s riding with the ambulance to book the bastard once he gets out of surgery. Kenner’s orders.”

  “He was my bust,” Diane groaned. “Goodwin didn’t do jack.”

  “Kenner gave him the win. That’s what happens when you haul off and get shot. And with a snub-nosed piece of crap, to boot.”

  Diane tried to sit up but was held down by the medics. “Snub-nosed? The dude had a fricking LMG.”

  Hendricks held up an evidence bag with an inky black revolver inside. “Uh, guess again.”

  Diane shook her head. She knew what she saw. She saw it clatter away when she shot the guy. She knew the caliber of bullet lodged in her shoulder. It didn’t—and couldn’t—have come from a snub-nosed revolver. She resigned herself to have forensics look at it and correct the record. A dose of painkillers kicked in and her eyelids drooped shut once more.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When Diane regained consciousness, she expected to be either in the back of an ambulance or resting in a hospital bed. Instead, she squinted at a harsh overhead light. She turned away and found herself in a plain room with glossy black walls. She felt an instinctive urge to sit bolt upright and inspect her surroundings, followed by resistance at her wrists, ankles, and throat. She tried to see what was holding her down, but the strap at her neck prevented her from doing anything other than turn her head from side to side.

  She turned her head to her left and saw only glossy walls and an IV bag dripping slowly. She heard shrill electronic chirps. She wasn’t in solitary, or at least, she didn’t think she was. The place seemed vaguely familiar.

  She sucked in her breath as she heard approaching footsteps. A man—she thought it was a man—entered the room and shined a penlight into her eyes. She scowled and squeezed her eyes shut. The man inserted a device and forced her eyelids apart. The penlight returned, then a clicking sound. Diane allowed inspection of her other eye without further resistance.

  The penlight pulled away, and she got a glimpse of the man. He wore a white mask. It seemed to lack eye holes. She wondered if the spots in her eyes were blocking out the details. As she blinked, the spots bounced around and she confirmed her observation. The mask was nearly featureless.

  Its bearer had a short haircut and wore a white lab coat. He tapped away at a tablet and nodded to two men in black body armor. They stepped forward and released the strap from her neck. She wiggled her fingers in anticipation of being freed from her bonds, but the pair stepped away without a word.

  The man in the white mask tipped his head to one side. Diane thought he looked like a robot. Did he speak English? She craned her neck to see her feet. To her disappointment, she was covered with white bedding. “Let me go,” she said.

  The man in the mask stepped forward and dug around in his pocket. He produced a vial with a piece of crumpled metal inside. He shook it a little. It tinkled as the shrapnel rattled in the vial, then fell silent. “Do you know what this is?” His voice was pleasant. She expected an electronic timbre to it, perhaps with a foreign accent for good measure.

  “Looks like a slug.”

  The man nodded and slipped the vial into his pocket. “Correct. What caliber?”

  Diane grimaced as she struggled with her restraints. “9-millimeter.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “A light machine gun. The punk ass who shot me had one. That slug proves it.”

  The man shook his head slowly. “Incorrect. The bullet we extracted from your shoulder has been determined to be a 22-caliber projectile, which is consistent with the weapon recovered at the scene. This is official. We have certified the report and your file will be updated accordingly.”

  Diane felt her cheeks redden. “Bull. The guy had an LMG. He only nailed me because he sprayed like a little punk bitch. He wasn’t going to shoot me or anyone else any other way.”

  “The official report says otherwise. We deal only in facts here.” He nodded to the men in body armor, who stepped forward and re-applied the strap to Diane’s neck. She groaned as she felt the bite of the strap against her jaw. The men stepped away from the bed. The man in the mask stood over her and tipped his head again, as though she were from another planet. Or he was. Diane wasn’t sure what to make of him.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Diane curled her lip at the man in defiance.

  “Nothing at all. You will recover from the operation. You will resume your assignment. You will either succeed or fail.”

  “What operation? A 22 slug probably didn’t take more than three stitches.”

  Diane swore she saw the man smile, thou
gh the mask maintained an impassive expression. “9-millimeter projectiles are capable of considerable damage. It will take approximately seven days for the cap we applied to your reconstructed shoulder to fuse, forming a protective barrier. You should have full use of your left arm in approximately fourteen days.”

  Diane gasped. “Reconstructed?”

  The man’s voice was pleasant, yet emotionless. “It is not in our interest for you to be rendered incapable of performing your assignment. It should not be in your interest to be rendered incapable of being a valued security asset. You will take precautions going forward to mitigate such concerns. While your damaged shoulder was a considerable setback, a direct hit to your vital organs would have terminated you. Contemplate this as you recover.”

  “I’m not wearing a bulky-ass vest.”

  “We have constructed something more agreeable for you… and substantial.”

  “Like what?”

  The man nodded to the other two. All three left the room without a word. Diane struggled with her restraints, but they held fast. She felt something warm coursing through her veins. Shortly afterward, her eyelids drooped, and she fell fast asleep.

  Diane put her hands to her eyes when she awoke. Bright lights stabbed at her eyes from all directions. Her head pounded, and her shoulder ached. It took a moment for her to realize her arms were free. She shook her legs. They moved freely as well. She removed her hands from her eyes and focused on her surroundings. She was in a plain room with glossy black walls. The ceiling was pure white. The overhead light seemed to press down upon her, rather than giving an airy feeling to the room. She felt bare skin everywhere she touched. She looked down to find herself stripped down to her bra and panties.

  She crossed her arms and felt the cap on her left shoulder. The metal was cool to the touch. She didn’t like feeling weak and exposed. The last time she was stripped down, she accepted the situation as the gateway to a brighter future with the Fourth Precinct. This time was different. She felt like something in a lab. She wondered how many eyes watched her and from where. A word popped into her head: surveillance. It was the word she didn’t recognize in print back in Kenner’s office.