The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2)

by L. J. Simpson

  It occurred to Burns that instead of concentrating solely on Hobb’s illegal activities, they might spend a little more time investigating the legal ones. But before he could carry the thought forward, the door burst open and Mullins strode in.

  “I thought you went home,” said Burns.

  “I did. I’ve been watching the news feed from Earth. Remember Admiral Giles?”

  “Yes, Jacks’ old CO. We met him on O1 after Jacks was captured.”

  “Yeah, well he’d dead. Killed by a car bomb a few hours ago. And not just him either. Judge Haveloy-Basham was blown up on his yacht in San Francisco Bay. Same MO and both within an hour of each other. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  It didn’t take a lot of working out.

  “Jacks,” said Burns flatly. “It’s too much of a coincidence not to be.”

  “Do think Chuck is in danger?”

  That didn’t take much working out either.

  “Get on to O1 immediately and tell them to tighten security.” If it’s not too late already, he thought.

  * * *

  Orbital One

  Commander Jacobs had once described Archie Andrews as the laziest man he had ever met. This much was true. Archie was, and always would be, a shirker. And when he wasn’t actively shirking, he was going about his daily business with the energy and vigor of a sloth hanging from a tree.

  Archie was cheerfully honest about his shortcomings and would tell anyone who would listen that it was a genetic predisposition, and who was he to fight evolution? His idea of multi-tasking was limited to a simultaneous drinking of coffee and reading of the sports pages, and he proudly declared – with some justification – that he was never, ever late for work more than once a day. He claimed that it was the result of a medical condition called Acute Unpunctuality Syndrome. Nobody quite believed it, but nobody really cared either. O1 wasn’t the most demanding billet and Archie was good in other ways; he was good natured, generous, and in his own way, even dependable.

  Chuck glanced up at the clock in Ops, noting that Archie was now fifteen minutes late for the shift changeover. Duke Cooper had arrived punctually, relieving Baz Jordan who’d set off back to Alpha Section at the double.

  “What’s his hurry?” Duke had asked.

  “Three days leave,” said Chuck. “Off to catch the last shuttle over to Phoenix.”

  “Ah,” said Duke knowingly. “You know, that lad ought to get himself a proper girlfriend instead of messing around at Madam Fifi’s.”

  “He assures me that he’s picking up some useful hints and tips on how to entertain the fairer sex.”

  “Yes, and that’s not all he’ll pick up if he isn’t careful. The last thing a lad in his position needs is some feisty bacterial infection.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Chuck.

  “Take my word for it. Like peeing broken glass.”

  “Well, I imagine he takes precautions.”

  “That’s what they all say,” said Duke, “But half a dozen double vodkas and some frilly underwear and the precautions go straight out the window. Take my word for that, too. What he needs is a good, wholesome woman to set him straight. Someone like Dolores. You dropped lucky there, Chuck, mark my words.”

  “Be even luckier if I knew when she was coming back.”

  “Any news?”

  “Not really. Probably be another six months or so. Good news is that Penny should be paying us a visit in the very near future.”

  “The one and only Senior Cadet Parker?”

  “Acting Ensign, no less. She’s graduated Space School and promised to call in before her next posting.”

  “Penny, you say?” said Archie, strolling into Ops with his hands in his pockets. “Lovely girl. Be nice to see her again.”

  “Good evening Archie,” said Chuck pleasantly. “Right on time, as usual.”

  “We aim to please,” said Archie without a hint of bashfulness. “Everything running OK?”

  “Yeah, no problems,” said Chuck. “Orbital One is operating at peak efficiency and Duke is sober. Can’t promise how long either will remain that way but I leave everything in your capable hands. And with that I shall wish you gentlemen a very good night.”

  Chuck gathered his things together and trotted down the stairs towards the Avenue. By the time he got to Alpha Section Baz would already be on his way to Phoenix. He hoped he enjoyed the double vodkas and frilly underwear… and that Duke was wrong about that bacterial infection.

  Walking along the length of the Avenue Chuck found himself thinking wistfully about Dolores. He missed her more and more each day. He thought about her constantly, dreamed about her and worried about her. He supposed it could only mean that he was in love, but he knew that already. She wrote every day and so did he. Not silly, romantic verse, but just simple, everyday stuff that said I love you and care for you, without actually saying I love you and care for you. Another six months? He just hoped she could get a posting on Atlas after that.

  It crossed his mind that he’d never seen Dolores in frilly underwear. All she had ever worn was her standard, military issue undergarments: ‘Females – for the use of’. Sensible, functional and durable. Not the finest set of adjectives to grace a lingerie catalogue, but Chuck had never had much interest in sexy underwear anyway. It was rather like the fancy wrapping paper around a Christmas present – nice to look at while it was under the tree, but when the time came all you ever wanted to do was rip it off, cast it aside and see what was underneath. That’s where durable part definitely became an asset.

  The thought made him smile as he entered Alpha Section. Thanks to Archie he was twenty minutes later than usual, but those twenty minutes – and the faulty key pad on his door – were about to save his life.

  Commander Jacobs was in his quarters when the call came in from Atlas. He’d been nodding off to sleep in his armchair but the urgency in DCI Burns’ voice soon gained his complete attention. Now fully awake, he jerked upright and listened intently for a few seconds before abruptly cutting the connection. The first he did after that was to contact O1’s marine detachment and put them on full alert. The next thing he did was to talk to Ops.

  “Where’s Chuck?” he said. “Is he still there?”

  “He just left a few minutes ago,” said Duke. “Why, what’s up?”

  “No time to explain,” said Jacobs. “Get word to Chuck and tell him to go straight to the crew room and wait for the marines.”

  “Marines?”

  “Just do it, Duke. Quick as you can!” Then grabbing his jacket, Jacobs headed out into the walkway, jog-trotting towards Chuck’s quarters which lay fifty meters away.

  If he’d set out just ten seconds earlier he’d have been in time to see Chuck turn left off the main walkway and head down Corridor 2G towards his front door. As it was, Chuck disappeared from sight just as Jacobs emerged from the arc of the walkway.

  There were three doors on each side or Corridor 2G. Chuck occupied the last apartment on the right, just past the quarters of Baz Jordan and Guns Graham. The rooms on the left of the corridor were unoccupied. As Chuck passed Baz’s door he fished his wireless door key from his left pocket – the old key pads on the station were worse than useless and like most people, Chuck relied on the simpler remote key. By the time he reached Guns’ front door his data pad had begun to buzz. He stopped and fished the pad out of his right pocket, at the same time thumbing the button on his wireless key…

  The door to Chuck’s apartment blasted outwards like the shot from a gun. Rocketing across the corridor at the head of a great gout of flame, it carved its way through the opposite door as if it were made of tissue paper. None of this registered with Chuck, who had but the briefest impression of pyrotechnics before the blast wave caught up with him, a hammer blow that sent him flying head over heels back past Baz’s door and out into the main walkway beyond.

  Hurrying along the arc of the walkway, Jacobs arrived just in time to see a wall of transparent purple fl
ame burst out of Corridor 2G, Chuck’s body flying through the air in its wake.

  Chuck landed in a crumpled heap almost exactly in the center of the walkway. He rolled over once and half raised himself to his knees before collapsing back to the floor with a grunt. Then he lay motionless.

  “Sweet Jesus,” said Jacobs as the sprinkler system activated, drenching everything in sight in a shower of cold, dark water.

  * * *

  Atlas Central Police HQ

  Lenny had spent his first night in the cells in a bullish mood. It wasn’t the first time he’d been detained at the Atlas Police Department’s pleasure; he knew the drill, he knew his rights, and he’d known for an absolute, certain fact that he’d be out first thing in the morning once the cops realized they’d got nothing on him. Jack Hobbs and Foley would soon see to that.

  Except this time he wasn’t out first thing in the morning. Breakfast came and went. He hadn’t even bothered eating it, so sure had he been that the cell door would presently open to reveal the confident looking face of his lawyer, ready to escort him to freedom. He paced up and down the cell impatiently and even prepared some choice parting words for that smartass detective and his sidekick.

  Then he’d heard the key in the lock and actually rubbed his hands together in anticipation, a joy that lasted only as long as it took that smartass detective and his sidekick to enter the cell. Then they’d asked him exactly what stuff he knew. Lenny only vaguely remembered his outburst the night before, but he remembered enough to know that it had been a mistake. The only thing to do now was play dumb. So he did, expertly.

  Lunch came and he ate it. But still no attorney. Then dinner came, and then supper, and lights out at 10 pm. His second night in the cells was less assured. He should have been out by now. They’d told him he’d be all right. They’d promised!

  And then his world had slowly but surely begun to unravel. The next day Foley had arrived and instructed him to stay silent. He was not to offer the police any information, he was not to answer any of their questions, and he was explicitly forbidden to respond to any threats or insults that they aimed his way. If he complied, he would be generously compensated. If not…

  Foley had let the words hang in the air and left it at that. If the young fool couldn’t figure out what it meant, he deserved everything that came his way, and in Foley’s estimation it wouldn’t be long in coming either, for Lenny was neither captain of industry nor valued financial broker. He was but a tool, a thug, and not a very good one at that.

  Lenny’s third night in jail was a nightmare – and not just figuratively. After lights out he tossed endlessly on his bunk, a succession of images from both his past and probable future dancing into his mind, unbidden and unwanted: Clive Donaldson’s face as the plasma rounds ripped through his chest, the detective’s eyes burning into his own as he read him his rights, and an image of a prison exercise yard, a narrow ten meter concrete square surrounded by walls a hundred feet high, with nothing to see but forbidding, grey clouds scudding overhead.

  In the early hours of the morning the silence of the cell block was abruptly shattered by a loud commotion out in the corridor. A confused jumble of shouts and screams were followed by a thud as something bounced off Lenny’s door. There was a howl of pain, some mixed curses and then still more scuffling until the door to the next cell slammed shut with a loud bang. As the key turned in the lock, the occupant threw himself at the door, howling in distress.

  “Bastards! You bastards! Bastards!” the man screamed, pounding on the door. The shouting soon gave way to retching and then sobbing, a sound which dwindled until all that could be heard was a feeble whimpering which continued long into the night. Lenny listened on in disturbed silence.

  When sleep finally came, it was a restless, fitful sleep, one filled with dreams of darkness and despair. Each time he woke the visions quickly receded but the anxiety remained, a cold, heavy ball weighing heavily in the pit his stomach.

  For almost the first time in his life, Lenny knew the meaning of fear. He feared prison and the things that could happen to him within its walls, for the Delph had few friends on either side of the law. Not only were they reviled by the police, they were universally despised by the ‘decent, honest’ crooks which would populate whichever prison he might end up in. He’d heard the stories, and while they might not all be true, they wouldn’t all be false either. Prison would be hell.

  It shouldn’t have come to this; it wasn’t supposed to be like this… but the only way out, the only option still open to him – if indeed there was one – was to cooperate with the police and take his chances. Didn’t they have some kind of witness protection scheme? If he told them everything he knew, would they cut a deal? They might… Hadn’t that detective said it would be better if he cooperated?

  Lenny lay back on his bunk. The first signs of dawn were filtering through the tiny window set high in the wall and the person in the next cell had finally fallen silent. And with it all a kind of peace descended upon him.

  Lenny made his decision: he would tell the detective that he wished to cooperate and take the best deal he could get. The alternative was God knows how many years behind bars, at the mercy of every career hood who fancied a piece of him. And as for Hobbs, Foley and the rest of them, well they could go to hell.

  An hour later he was woken by the guard unlocking the small hatch in the cell door. Lenny hadn’t even remembered falling asleep. As the guard set his breakfast on the ledge, Lenny called out to him.

  “Tell that detective… what’s his name? Burns? Tell him I need to talk to him.”

  “What about?” asked the guard.

  “He’ll know. Just tell him.”

  The guard half shrugged. “He’s not in yet but I’ll leave a message.”

  Lenny took the tray from the ledge and sat down on the edge of his bunk. At least the food here was reasonably good – probably a lot better than he’d get in jail. Today’s breakfast was scrambled egg, a few bite sized hash browns, an orange and a carton of milk. He picked up the utensils, a flimsy fork and spoon made from soft plastic, and began spooning the eggs and browns into his mouth, chewing absently as he pondered what he was going to say to the detective.

  He had barely swallowed his first mouthful when a sudden burning erupted in his stomach, a red hot barb that stabbed deep into his tissues. His eyes opened wide in shock and pain and he wrapped both his arms tightly around his abdomen, gasping for breath. Staggering to his feet he lurched towards the cell door, but within half a yard a wave of nausea overtook him and the room spun before his eyes. He collapsed to the floor, a cry for help erupting from his lungs but dying even before it reached his lips. Spasms wracked his body and his heart hammered inside his breast as he gulped for air that his body was no longer capable of assimilating. The convulsions continued, increasing in ferocity until Lenny’s chest rose and fell like a jackhammer. Unable to stand the strain his heart first faltered and then quit.

  The cell block guard found him thirty minutes later. By that time, Lenny’s skin had turned a purplish red color and his limbs had already stiffened, though it was far too early for rigor mortis to have set in. The guard had seen enough – he closed the cell door and rang for a hazardous materials team. The Hazmat guys arrived in minutes. Clad in their full body protection suits they conducted their checks, took their samples and an hour later declared the area to be safe.

  Burns arrived just in time to see Lenny being zipped up in a body bag. He kept his face impassive but on the inside he was seething. How in God’s name had someone managed to infiltrate the station, either spike Lenny’s food or give him the means to commit suicide and then walk out without anyone noticing? Whoever it was, they’d made a mockery of the police, a mockery of the investigation and made a damned fool of him, too.

  As Lenny’s body was wheeled past on a gurney, Burns cursed in frustration. First Jimmy Franks and now Lenny. And Lenny had been close to folding. Burns had known it… and Foley had known
it too – he’d be mixed up in this along with Hobbs. Lenny had been the link, but whatever information he’d held had died with him. They were back to square one… again.

  The only thing Burns could say for certain was that while Hobbs, Foley and the rest of them would most likely end up in hell themselves, Lenny had very much beaten them to it.

  * * *

  The Cascades Club, Atlas Central

  It was always nice to start the working day with some positive news. Jack Hobbs had no sooner sat down at his desk than the news of Lenny’s untimely – or well timed – demise reached him. At least that part of the operation had gone according to plan. Larson had somehow managed to escape, but if he had any sense he’d be far away by now, which would suit Hobbs almost as much as it would Larson.

  But there were other matters to attend to.

  Much of Hobbs’ time was spent processing the proceeds of the Delph’s illicit operations – laundering the profits gleaned from protection rackets, prostitution, extortion, drug production and trafficking… The list was long and the proceeds considerable.

  The laundering process involved three distinct stages: placement, layering and integration. In the placement phase, the ‘dirty’ money was introduced into the financial system, and the easiest way to achieve that was to hide it with a lot of other money. The casino itself was one method – the cash came in and stayed in. For larger amounts, currency exchanges and securities brokers offered a simple and reliable service, as did banks, provided they were owned or controlled by suitably unscrupulous individuals. And finally, if the worst came to the worst, the cash could simply be shipped off-world, to be deposited in some discreet institution on a less heavily regulated planet.