by Neil Hunter
“A few hints, but nothing substantial,” Jordan admitted. “The street’s always buzzing with talk. It’s a busy world out there. We’ve got a big city to cover. L.A. county covers one hell of a chunk of real estate.”
Cade finished reading and dropped the sheets back onto Jordan’s desk, a grunt of annoyance passing his lips. “He’s here somewhere,” he said tautly. “And I want him.”
“I said I’d get someone to work with you,” Jordan said. “I’ve assigned one of my best teams. Wexler and Paris.”
“A local team could help, T.J.,” Janek said pleasantly, sensing Cade’s impatience. “They’ll know the best places to go for information. Save us time.”
Cade didn’t answer. He was gazing around Jordan’s office. It was an attempt to distance himself from the heat of the moment. He knew he was being unreasonable. Jordan had done everything he could. It wasn’t for Cade to judge the man too harshly.
“Wexler, you want to come into my office,” Jordan said into his communicator. He flipped the button and leaned back in his recliner. A quick smile crossed his lips. “How’s New York these days?”
“I’d say rough and messy describes it,” Janek informed him. “It’s starting to go at the seams, but no one’s ready to stand up and say so.”
“L.A. without the smog is all,” Jordan said. “I was in N.Y for six months way back. It was hard then, but it’s still a hell of a town.”
“Hasn’t changed much,” Janek confirmed.
The door opened and Wexler and Paris stepped inside. Wexler was a tall, athletic blonde. His blue eyes and strong white teeth were accentuated by his deep tan. He wore a bright sports shirt and tan slacks. His shoulder rig held a sleek SIG-Sauer 9 mm autopistol.
Janek allowed him a passing glance. He was more interested in his partner.
The moment Paris entered the office, Janek knew she was a cyborg. Paris was Janek’s height, less an inch or so. Built on sleek, shapely lines, the female cyborg had a shaped cap of chestnut-colored hair and deep green eyes. Her flesh tone was a soft, tawny hue that emphasized her flushed, curving lips. Paris wore slim-fit pants and a clinging roll-neck sweater under a tailored jacket.
Jordan made the introductions.
“Call me Jerry,” Wexler said, reaching for Cade’s hand. “I hear you’ve had a hard time on this one.”
“You could say that,” Cade admitted. “I’d be worried if every perp we went after gave up without a struggle.”
Wexler gave a brittle laugh. He sounded a little uptight, as though the idea of a partnership, albeit a short one, didn’t sit too easily on his broad, tanned shoulders.
Paris closed the door, turning smoothly. “I’ve been doing a little checking on my own,” she said. Her voice was low and controlled, with a soft huskiness that made it very appealing. “The main drug organizations in the area are controlled by three racial groups— the Hispanic groups, the Caribbean cartels and the Oriental. Loren Brak doesn’t belong to any of them so he’ll be looking for a minority organization. The fact that he has the formulation for the Thunder Crystals gives him an edge. It puts him in a strong bargaining position.”
“Have you found anything?” Janek asked, failing to keep the admiration out of his voice.
Paris nodded. “Yes. I checked with some of our info peddlers. Early this morning I received a call from one. The word’s going round about an auction among the smaller drug groups. Our peddler seems to think there’s a new man in town with a hot deal.”
“You kept that quiet,” Wexler said tightly.
Paris glanced at him, faintly smiling. “I tried to catch you at your apartment, but you weren’t there. First time I saw you this morning was on the way up to the office.”
“Yeah, well, I had a busy night.” Wexler grinned.
“You live separately?” Janek asked.
Paris nodded. “California passed the Robotics Equality Bill last year,” she said. “It allows for independent existence.”
“That sounds really interesting,” Janek said, nudging Cade in the ribs. “What do you say, T.J.? Can I leave home and get my own place? Pretty please?”
Paris laughed softly at Cade’s scowl.
“I might just take you up on that, Janek,” he said.
“So,” Wexler interrupted, “how do you want to handle this, Cade?”
“We need to get out on the street and do some pushing. Sitting around isn’t going to do it.”
“Fine by me,” Wexler said brightly. “Let’s go check out some transport.”
He nodded to Jordan. “See you, boss. Let’s go, folks. We’ve a lot of sights to see.”
In the large elevator on the way down to the basement parking area, Janek stood beside Paris.
“I’m intrigued by this independent living style, Paris,” he said.
The cyborg glanced at him. “I take it you live with Cade?”
“We have an apartment in New York. Works out pretty well. I have my own room. Gives me privacy if I want it, and it allows T.J. his. He has a lady friend.”
Paris smiled warmly. “Human relationships. It’s something unique to them. Something we can’t feel.”
Janek kept his mouth shut. As much as he had taken to Paris, it didn’t seem wise to voice his own personal feelings toward Dr. Abby Landers. He felt safer having told only Cade. His human partner, for all his weird sense of humor, was totally trustworthy.
They reached the basement. Wexler led them to the Justice Department car pool, where a skinny droid came hurrying across. It waved a finger at Wexler.
“No more damaged vehicles, Wexler,” it shrilled. “How do you expect me to keep justifying all the repair work?”
Wexler smiled lamely. “Sorry about this.”
Paris stepped in quickly, smiling sweetly at the droid.
The droid turned to glare at her. “You can quit that, too, Marshal Paris. I’ve fallen for your smooth tongue too many times. The word is no more damage. You think the department is made of money?”
Janek leaned forward to tap the droid on its polished shoulder. “You pay for them yourself, then?” he asked.
The droid stared at him blankly. “Damn stupid question. You know droids don’t get paid.”
“Fine,” Janek said gently. Then he raised his voice. “So get the damn car and quit moaning over something that’s got nothing to do with you!”
The droid scuttled off to pick out a vehicle.
“And make it a good one!” Janek threw at him.
“I’m impressed,” Paris said.
“I’m curious,” Cade said. “Hey, is that what you do with our droid back home?”
Janek gave a lopsided shrug.
The droid returned with an almost brand-new Corvette Lash, a sleek, powerful auto painted brilliant red.
Janek climbed in the back along with Paris, leaving Cade to join Wexler in the front.
“Let’s go,” Janek said breezily. “T.J., I’m starting to like California.”
“Don’t get too thrilled.” Cade told him. “New York is still our beat.” “For now,” Wexler said, “let me show you mine.”
Wexler weaved through the heavy traffic, cutting back and forth between lanes. He drove fast but well, enjoying the power of the Corvette. The day was heating up. Overhead the hazy blue sky, with a few scraps of white cloud, was thick with craft of every shape and size.
“Airspace is becoming a problem,” Wexler said. “Everybody wants their own cruisers now they’re so damn efficient. Trouble is they make a hell of a mess when they crash.”
He flicked on the radio. Janek leaned forward as he caught the tones of a jazz combo.
“You like jazz?” Paris asked.
“He’s a damn nut,” Cade told her. “Listens to it all the time.”
“Cool,” Paris said. “Jazz is very ... very ... ” She peered at Janek, who had turned to watch a helicopter that appeared to be flying parallel with them. “Janek?”
The cyborg raised a hand to silence her, activati
ng his vision enhancer.
Wexler cut the music as the communicator radio crackled into life.
“Call for Marshal Cade.”
Cade picked up the handset. “Cade here.”
“Message from your department in New York, Marshal. Fingerprints found in the helicopter used in the attack at Mid Town belong to Earl Prochek, known merchandiser of illegal goods. Your people tracked him down and put the frighteners on him. He hadn’t realized how deep in he was. Someone promised him a trip to Mars if he didn’t do some talking. He came up with the name of the man to whom he supplied the chopper. Fellow named Ryker. No first name—just Ryker. Mean anything to you?”
“Damn right,” Cade answered. “Ryker is one of the top hired assassins on the Eastern Seaboard. His price is high, too damn high for most. But he’s good. Nothing he won’t do for the right amount of cash.”
“Something else, Marshal,” the dispatcher said. “The service droids checking your helicopter found an electronic tracking device fixed under the body. Looks like someone wanted to keep an eye on you.”
“Thanks for the info,” Cade said. He replaced the handset. “You hear that, partner?” he asked.
“Affirmative,” Janek said. “Wexler, can you get us to some kind of cover?”
“Cover? What cover?”
“Wexler, just get us off this damn freeway!” Paris yelled. She had picked up on Janek’s unease. “I think we have an airborne tail.”
Cade twisted around in his seat, following Janek’s gaze.
“There,” Janek said. “And he isn’t waiting to be invited.”
The distant chopper suddenly dropped, curving down in a long dive, angling across the hazy sky.
Wexler swung the Corvette across the lanes of moving traffic toward the nearest off ramp. Leaving a trail of screeching tires as drivers braked, the Corvette hit the ramp at a rising fifty. The car bounced wildly, fishtailing for long yards as Wexler hung on to the wheel.
The hostile chopper came streaking across the empty sky, rocking slightly as the pilot settled his craft for its hit.
“The mother!” Cade mouthed as he thrust a hand under his jacket, closing his fist around the butt of his Magnum.
“Heads down,” Janek suggested, spotting the brief flash of a launching missile as he yanked out his auto-pistol.
The rocket whizzed over the Corvette and buried itself in the embankment slope running alongside the off ramp. The explosion sent a boiling sphere of fire and smoke lashing back at the Corvette. The heat wave seared the car’s paintwork. The racket of the explosion washed over the car’s occupants.
For a few seconds Wexler lost control. But he forced himself to haul in on the wheel, pulling the Corvette back on line. He jammed his foot down, sending the car surging up the ramp.
“Too damn open,” Cade yelled. “We’re still exposed.”
The chopper let go a second and third missile moments before it overflew them and banked sharply to the crackle of Janek’s handgun.
The final rocket hit the off ramp by the rear fender. The blast lifted the vehicle off its rear wheels and slammed it against the embankment. The car bounced as it struck, still pushing forward until the nose buried itself in the soft earth, then it shuddered to a groaning halt, throwing the occupants from their seats.
Janek kicked open the door, reaching across to grab Cade by the collar and haul him out.
Wexler had already rolled out his own sprung door, landing hard. He scrambled to his feet, Paris on his heels, following Janek and Cade along the ramp.
“I smell gas,” Janek warned.
A moment later the Corvette was enveloped in a rolling mass of flame as the spilled fuel ignited, streaking for the ruptured tank and blowing it wide open. The blast slammed them all to the ground, heat washing over them.
“He’s on his way back,” Paris called out, pulling her handgun from its hip holster under her jacket.
The attack chopper had completed its curve and had leveled out, sweeping up the ramp no more than a few feet from the surface.
As it loomed ever larger, bearing down on the group of Justice cops, the underslung rapid-fire cannon opened up again, laying down a deadly stream of howling shells.
Chapter Twelve
“Damn it to hell!”
Cade’s anger blasted from his lips. He gripped his powerful Magnum autopistol in both hands and leveled it at the chopper, shimmering through the haze of cannon fire shredding the road.
“Thomas, get your ass out of there!” Janek yelled.
“I’ve had it with these scumbags!” Cade screamed.
He triggered a volley of steady shots at the canopy of the chopper as it zoomed up the off ramp. He never did know whether he made any hits. Janek struck him in a flying tackle seconds before the chopper reached him. The pair crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust and flying stone chips, the roar of the chopper drowning Cade’s wild yell of frustration.
“Shit, Janek, I had the bastard in my sights!” Cade raged as he struggled to his feet, streaked with dust. “When are you going to stop interfering?”
Knocking the dust from his clothing, Janek raised his head. “When you quit playing around like a damn rookie.”
“Me?”
“I’m not talking to anyone else, Thomas. And quit shouting. I’m not deaf.”
“Dumb is what you are.”
Cade scanned the hazy sky for the chopper. It had circled in a wide curve, and Cade watched it slip lazily back down through the empty void on a return run.
“The son of a bitch is coming back. So how do we get out of this one, super cop?”
Janek ignored the jibe. “We make a tactical withdrawal,” he said. “In your words, Thomas, we run like our asses are alight.”
“Sounds good to me,” Wexler said.
They turned and struck out along the embankment, angling toward the crest. The chopping crackle of cannon fire reached their ears before they were halfway there. Gouts of earth flew into the air from the cannon shells.
“Scatter!” Cade yelled above the racket. “Spread out!”
Each of the four moved in a different direction.
The thunder of the cannon fire and the roar of the chopper’s powerful engine drowned out every other sound. Dust and shredded grass swirled around them, buffeted by the rotor wash. The wind tugged at their clothing and physically pushed them across the slope as the chopper swung in low, the hatches in the fuselage sliding open to expose the gunners waiting to fire.
Janek, swinging around, his autopistol gripped two-handed, triggered fast shots at one of the gunners. The volley cut ragged holes in his upper body, twisting him around. As he fell, the gunner’s skull smacked against the edge of the open hatch. His body dangling by the safety belt anchoring him to the chopper’s frame, his auto rifle slipped from his dead fingers.
Hearing the sharp crackle of small-caliber auto fire, Wexler glanced over his shoulder, spotting the gunner on his side. The Justice cop threw up his handgun, triggering a rapid trio of shots that clanged against the chopper’s outer skin, close to the open hatch. Pulling back, the gunner braced himself and returned fire.
Wexler gave a hoarse grunt as several slugs tore into his chest. He fell over backward, losing his weapon, and slithered down the slope.
Paris saw him go down. She crossed over to him and knelt beside him, protecting his body with her own, tracking the swaying chopper with her autopistol. The cyborg triggered fast, accurate shots, laying a tight grouping over the gunner’s chest. The guy’s body exploded with pain. Blood began to blossom across his chest as he slumped to the floor of the chopper.
Crouching, Cade fixed his Magnum on the chopper’s canopy. His eyes narrowed against the flying dust, he gripped the weapon with both hands and held steady. He picked up the rising pitch in the chopper’s engine as the pilot poured on the power for a getaway.
“No way, pal,” Cade murmured, and opened fire. He triggered carefully, holding down the Magnum’s recoil, putting eac
h shot through the canopy where he figured the pilot was sitting.
Several of the high-velocity slugs penetrated the plas-glass and found their intended target. The chopper suddenly side slipped, losing power. It swung in a lazy half circle before the underbelly ploughed into the embankment. The chopper hit the earth with a solid crunch. As it tilted to one side, the whirling rotors sliced into the dirt, stalling the engine and bringing the machine to a final, shuddering halt. Broken shards of the rotor blades whirled through the air. Curls of white vapor seeped through the vent holes over the engine compartment.
“Look after Wexler,” Cade called to Paris, and took off after his partner.
Janek was leaning through the open hatch, unclip-ping the safety belt of the gunner Paris had shot. The guy was moaning, eyes rolling as Janek picked him up and carried him out.
“Stay back, T.J., that chopper’s going to blow,” Janek warned.
They moved down the slope. Paris was ahead of them, carrying Wexler’s limp form.
“That was good shooting, T.J.,” Janek said.
“Yeah. I know.”
Janek shook his head. “My partner. Modest to the last.”
The chopper exploded with a huge noise, sending a swirl of flame skyward. It engulfed the chopper in an instant.
By the time they reached her, Paris was talking into a compact walkie-talkie, requesting backup and medical assistance. She was kneeling beside Wexler. The Justice cop lay still, his eyes closed. Paris rose, turning to face Cade and Janek.
“He’s dead,” she said calmly. “I tried to help, but the bullets had done too much damage. Wasn’t anything I could do.”
“Damn,” Cade said wearily. He turned away, searching his pockets for a cigar. The one he found was crushed, but he lit it anyway. He sat down on the embankment and waited for the backup to arrive.
Paris watched Janek place the wounded perp on the grass. The guy had opened his eyes. He stared at the impassive cyborgs and reminded himself they were only machines, without feelings. The more he thought about that, the less secure he felt.