by Neil Hunter
Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
KILLZONE
In the 21st Century nightmare of violent cities, mutant-ridden Chemlands and lawless Outlands, marshals like Thomas Jefferson Cade carry a badge, a gun and a burning sense of justice.
FIRESTREAK
Cade and his cyborg partner Janek – as cool and orderly as Cade is hell-bent for leather – are assigned to nail Loren Brak, a renegade drug dealer heading west to start his own empire. Brak and his shock troops made a formidable enemy, as does the assassin hired by shadowy New York financiers to reclaim the booty stolen from them by Brak.
Surrounded on all sides by hostile forces, the Justice marshals follow the bloody and violent trail across country to the electronic wonderland of Los Angeles … and enter the killzone, guns loaded, targets in sight.
FIRESTREAK
CADE 3
By Neil Hunter
First Published by Gold Eagle Books in 1993, under the name ‘Mike Linaker’
Copyright © 1993, 2013 by Neil Hunter
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: November 2013
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Arrangement with the Author
Prologue
Villas was getting tired of waiting for Brak. Just lately the guy had been getting to be a real pain, throwing his weight around as though he was running the business single-handedly, arguing with his three partners. It seemed, to Villas and everyone else, that Loren Brak had forgotten he had partners and obligations. Brak was always edgy these days, as if he was on drugs himself instead of just selling the stuff. Maybe the strain was getting to him, or maybe it was time Brak let someone else have his share while he moved on to some other enterprise. It wasn’t as if he was all that happy about the Outfit’s operations. He was always grumbling about something or other and was never satisfied.
Villas had known Brak for a long time. They’d all come up from the gutter together, pushed cheap dope when they’d started out, run a few girls and played the field until business took over and they realized they weren’t in it for kicks. They organized, took on more territory and ran the business properly. Now they had one of the biggest independent drug setups in the country, with contacts and distribution running all the way to the West Coast.
But something was wrong. Villas knew it and didn’t like it. Maybe that was what Brak wanted to talk about. Maybe it was why he’d arranged the meet with Villas at the Park Avenue apartment they used to entertain important clients and associates.
Even so, Villas was angry at the way he’d been kept waiting. He was a busy man and didn’t have time to waste like this.
He shoved himself out of the lounger, ignoring the video playing on the holo-deck, and stalked across the spacious room. He paused at the panoramic window that looked out across sweltering New York. The glittering upper levels of the city, blurred in a shimmering heat haze, spread out below him.
It was the hottest August he had ever known, and he’d been through some of New York’s hottest months. Turning from the window, Villas called for the house droid.
The silver droid appeared and scuttled across the lounge. “You called, sir?”
“What’s wrong with the air-conditioning in this place?” Villas snapped. He pointed to the vents in the walls. “It’s blowin’ warm air.”
“I’m afraid there’s been a malfunction in the central unit, sir,” the droid apologized, cringing. “I checked earlier with maintenance. Apparently they have been unable to get the service company to send someone out.”
“Great,” Villas grumbled. “We pay all those damn charges on time and can’t get help when we need it.”
The droid silently watched him, aware of Villas’s outbursts.
“Have we got any ice?” Villas asked hopefully
The droid nodded. “Plenty, sir.”
“Get me a drink, then. And it better be cold. Understand?”
The droid smiled indulgently and returned to the kitchen.
Villas checked his watch. “You got until I finish my drink, Loren,” he muttered.
He stared out of the window, watching an ad-drone cruise by. The drone’s wide display was showing a sundrenched strip of beach inhabited by bronzed, blue-eyed girls wearing nothing but gleaming smiles. The ad offered trouble-free vacations on the secluded beaches of the Spice Islands, while the stereo sound system badgered potential consumers not to miss the offer. Away from the daily grind. Away from the city’s grime and overcrowding. And all for a small down payment.
Villas watched and smiled cynically.
The bastards never let up. Always on the make. Offering a way out. Something to take you away from your problems. But they never tell you that it will all still be there when you get back, with the added burden of the vacation loan,
He turned, his mind still on the nude figures, as the apartment door clicked and slid open.
“Hey, it’s about time you showed your face.”
It wasn’t Loren Brak.
Villas didn’t recognize the tanned, hard-featured man who stood before him. He was dressed in black. Even his gleaming hair was black, pulled into a ponytail that hung over the collar of his leather jacket. Dark aviator glasses hid his eyes.
But Villas did recognize the Auto Casull. The massive stainless-steel weapon that took .454-caliber loads was leveled at his chest. The fist that held the autopistol was big and powerful.
“Who let you in?” Villas demanded. “This place is secure.”
“Not when you got one of these,” the intruder said. He held up a wafer of plastic that Villas recognized as a door card.
“Where’d you get that?” Villas asked. There were only supposed to be four of them, each held by the partners in the Outfit.
The big man grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant grin.
“Brak gave it to me. He said to tell you hello—and goodbye.”
Realization dawned on Villas. He had been set up by Loren Brak.
The son of a bitch was making his own move. By trying to take over the Outfit.
“No fuckin’ way...” Villas screamed.
He snatched the autopistol holstered under his silk jacket, fingers closing over the cool, checkered butt, twisting sideways to present a slimmer target.
He felt the Beretta slipping free from the holster, curving out from under his jacket.
Then the Casull boomed with the thunder of an autocannon. A sleek bullet spun from the Casull’s yawning muzzle, wreathed in smoke. It slammed into Villas’s chest and exited between his shoulders. A glistening spatter of bloody debris hit the window behind Villas as he stumbled against the shatterproof plas-glass. It bowed under the pressure, pushing him back into the room. Two more slugs knocked him across the carpet. He smashed into the holo-deck, tumbling across the path of the moving images. For a few seconds fantasy and reality blended in an odd mix, the phantom figures of the hologram shimmering over Villas’s rolling, shredded form. Then he crashed to the carpet on the far side, kicking in agony.
The black-clad assassin put three more slugs into the twitching body. He holstered his weapon and reached into a pocket. He rolled some small objects between his fingers, making th
em crack, then slipped them into his mouth. He shook fragments to the floor, turning for the door.
The house droid appeared at that moment, carrying the drink Villas had ordered.
The killer surveyed the droid, noting the tall frosted glass it was holding.
“Won’t Mr. Villas be requiring his drink?” the droid asked, peering at the bloody form on the carpet.
The killer smiled. “What do you think?” he said politely, and left the apartment.
Chapter One
The driver’s window on the department cruiser was jammed half-open. Hot air and the wail of the siren blasted into Cade’s ear as he maneuvered the vehicle along the rutted, trash-strewn street. He was doing over fifty, hurling the heavy cruiser around burned-out wrecks and trying to avoid the deep potholes that broke up the surface. The radio was squawking continuously as the dispatcher tried to pull other available police vehicles into the area, and Janek hadn’t quit grumbling since Cade had dragged him out of the Greenwich Village jazz club. The cyborg—or cybo, as they were popularly known—was a real jazz fan.
“If I wore underpants I’d have changed them three times already,” Janek said solemnly.
Cade ignored his partner’s moans. He was studying the street layout, deciding which turn to take next. This part of the South Bronx, a crumbling back lot of shabby buildings and filthy streets, wasn’t his favorite place at the best of times. It had been a tough section of the city for years. Over the past five it had gotten worse. Very few people lived in this concrete wasteland through choice, and most residents were lucky if they survived more than a few months. The Bronx was a haven for the criminal fraternity. New York’s lowest had adopted the South Bronx for their own, and most people figured it was worth the price to let them stay.
Cade threw the cruiser around a corner, bouncing it off the curb. Janek’s head rapped against the roof. He turned his worst scowl on Cade, but the expression was wasted on the Justice cop. Gripping the wheel, he pulled the cruiser back on the street and floored the gas pedal.
“You got those riot guns loaded and ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” Janek replied testily. He still hadn’t forgiven Cade for pulling him out of the club right in the middle of a local combo’s homage to the twentieth-century jazz great Miles Davis. The cybo had been waiting for weeks to hear the combo. Sitting in the near dark of the club, he had been as close to complete satisfaction as he would ever get.
But his partner, Marshal Thomas Jefferson Cade, also known as T. J., had no appreciation for music, especially for jazz.
Sometimes his lack of appreciation and his habit of poking fun at his cyborg partner’s logical methods annoyed Janek no end. On those occasions, or to get special attention, Janek would rather frostily call him Thomas, which in turn aggravated the rough-and-tumble Cade who did not like formality of any kind.
Although Janek was certainly in the mood to annoy Cade, he stopped himself from saying anything as the car shuddered with another sudden stop-and-go evasion tactic that made his teeth rattle. But at last they were at their destination, and shortly he would be able to escape from the roller-coaster ride.
The street ahead was blocked off with an assortment of police cruisers and SWAT wagons. Air cruisers and choppers flitted back and forth over the area. Uniformed cops, human and droid, had gathered outside the flaking facade of the tenement building they had blocked off.
Cade brought the cruiser to a slithering halt, throwing open his door. He flashed his badge at the first uniformed cop to confront him. “Who’s in charge?”
The cop indicated a bulky man in combat dress and heavy body armor. “Harrigan. Local precinct commander.”
Cade took the SPAS combat shotgun Janek handed him.
“Harrigan, what’s the delay?” Cade asked as he reached the burly cop.
“Who wants to know?” Harrigan growled. Then he recognized Cade. “Should have known.”
“Don’t let it cramp your style,” Cade said. He glanced around at the massed array of armed cops. “So why the waiting game?”
“Can’t move until the negotiator gets here,” Harrigan snapped.
“Still playing it by the book, Harrigan?”
“I don’t move until I’m ordered.”
“You know who we’ve got in there?”
“A bunch of drug pushers,” Harrigan said, his eyes shifting nervously.
“You son of a bitch,” Cade said. “What about the three Justice cops and Milt Schuberg?”
Harrigan shrugged, turning away. “They know the rules,” he mumbled.
“Rules?” Cade yelled. He grabbed Harrigan’s thick arm and spun the precinct commander around. Thrusting his Justice badge into Harrigan’s face, he said, “My rules, Harrigan. I’m taking charge. Now move your ass out of my way.”
“You can’t push me around, Cade, fancy badge or not.”
Janek, sensing the precinct commander’s rising anger, quickly stepped in.
“Check your regulations, Harrigan,” the cybo said evenly. “And don’t be rash. You know very well Cade has the authority. Wouldn’t look good on your record that you defied a Justice marshal.”
Harrigan considered the cyborg’s final remark. He was a cop who protected his own interests first and last.
“Okay, Cade, it’s all yours. Official. Whatever happens is on your head.”
“A good decision,” Janek said.
The cybo watched the big man walk away. Harrigan crossed to a parked NYPD cruiser, shrugging out of his body armor before turning to talk to another cop.
Harrigan, I don’t trust you, Janek thought as he stared after the man.
Cade had already collared one of the local street cops.
“How many in there, Frank?”
“We figure four, maybe five. Hard to tell. Milt went in to negotiate soon as he heard the perps had latched on to the three undercover guys. It all happened so damn fast. One minute it was just a drug bust—next thing all hell broke loose and there was a hell of a lot of shooting in there. I wanted to go in and help your guys, but Harrigan wouldn’t let anyone move. You know about your guys in there, T.J.?”
“Only that three of our people infiltrated this bunch a few months back. They were trying to gather enough evidence so we could crack the organization for good.”
The cop pulled off his helmet, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “What can we do to help?” he asked.
“Forget about any negotiator,” Cade said. “I’m not standing back and giving those perps the chance to carve our people up.”
“We’ll back any move you make.”
“You got anyone around back?” Cade asked. The cop nodded. “Get them ready,” Cade instructed. “On my word we go in and get this over with.”
“You got it.” The cop reached for the mobile radio on his belt.
“You’ll need this,” Janek said, holding up the flak jacket he’d brought from the cruiser’s trunk. “T.J., what do you know about Harrigan?”
Cade took off his leather jacket and dumped it on the cruiser’s front seat.
“Not much. What I do know I don’t like. He has funny friends, so the rumor goes. And I wouldn’t feel good about him backing me in a dark alley.”
He removed the shoulder rig that held his .357 Magnum autopistol. Shrugging into the armored jacket, he zipped it up, then put the shoulder rig back on. Pulling the Magnum, he checked the weapon and cocked it. Then he recovered the SPAS shotgun and moved to the line of cruisers blocking the approach to the tenement building.
“How many windows they using?” Cade asked.
A KC-200 android patrolman pointed to a second-story window. “That’s the only one we’ve spotted. We don’t think they have the manpower to cover many more.”
“Frank, I want your guys in there the minute me and Janek hit that front door.”
“You got it, T.J.”
Using the cruisers as cover, Cade and Janek crept to the sidewalk, then flattened against the building. The uneven si
dewalk was strewn with trash, bursting plastic bags and rotting food. They stayed in cover at the bottom of the stone steps leading to the closed front doors.
Peering over his shoulder, Cade signaled to the cop named Frank and saw him raise the radio to his lips. Frank’s sharp command reached Cade’s ears, and he used it as his own signal to move.
He went up the steps at a dead run, shoulders hunched against a possible shot from the upstairs window. Janek appeared on Cade’s right, and they hit the door together. It caved in, slamming back against the inner wall. As Cade went through the door, he felt dust and flaking plaster dropping from the ceiling.
The shadowed hall erupted with gunfire, slugs hammering the wall at chest level.
By this time the Justice cops were flat out on the dirty hall floor, the muzzles of their shotguns rising, seeking targets.
Janek’s sensitive vision gave him an advantage. He spotted movement along the hall, in the shadow of the staircase, and lined up the SPAS on the armed guy leaning out of the darkness. Janek fired once, then a second time. The guy screamed, stumbled into view, his weapon slipping from lifeless hands as he crashed facedown to the floor.
Twisting, Cade picked up the hunched shape of an armed man easing down the stairs. His weapon glinted as he lifted it over the rail, aiming down into the hallway. Cade fired the SPAS, and the rail exploded in a shower of pale splinters, peppering the perp’s face. Cade’s second and third shots took him in the chest, whacking him back against the wall. The guy bounced, leaving a dark smear of blood as he pitched down the stairs.
“I’ll take the stairs,” Janek said, racing forward before Cade could argue.
Running along the hall, Cade heard the crashing sounds of forced entry as the NYPD backed his move.
Another gunman burst into view, throwing scared and angry glances over his shoulder. He’d come from the rear of the building. Too busy checking his back-trail, he failed to notice Cade, which was his mistake. Cade let him step close, then reversed the SPAS and clubbed him across the side of the skull. The perp slumped against the wall, howling in pain, his own weapon forgotten. Cade jabbed the hot muzzle of the combat shotgun against his throat.