by M. H. Mead
And then she raised her nipple to his mouth and he couldn’t see and he didn’t want to see anything but her shape flashing with the racing lights, didn’t want to feel anything but himself entering her, pleasuring her. One small movement and he was inside. Sofia gasped and arched. “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, right there.”
He thrust upward as much as he could in the small seat. He reached around her, holding her tiny waist and pulling her onto him as he thrust over and over.
He was vaguely aware of movement outside the window. Had another car passed them? Unlikely. They would have plenty of warning to make their exit. He gave himself over to pleasure.
Sofia had both hands on the seatback and she bounced on his lap, moving for both of them. He was hyper-aware of her breathing, the sweat glistening on her brown skin, the rustling of her hair. The movement of the car and the movement of her body blended into one exquisite sensation. He wanted to explode in her, but more than that, he wanted to make her come. He reached between them, touching her.
Lights. Sirens. Warnings. Sofia stopped moving. The car cut speed and Andre’s eyes snapped open. Their exit already? He looked over Sofia’s shoulder through the front windshield.
Talic’s mint green Mustang was directly in front of Sofia’s Banshee, as close as the Overdrive-capable bumpers could be without touching. Talic had turned completely around in his seat to stare out the back window at them.
“What the hell?” Sofia was trying to twist, trying to see.
“Get off,” he told Sofia. All pleasure was gone and he tried to grip the wheel, tried to feel for the brake. “Get off, get off, get off.”
“I was trying to.”
He grabbed her under the arms and pushed her off of his lap. She landed half on the seat, half on the floor. “Jae Geoffrey Talic.” Andre leaned forward and canceled Overdrive control, grabbing the wheel and checking his blind spot. Exit coming up.
Sofia peeked over the dashboard. “Shit.” She ducked back down.
Andre cut across two lanes of traffic just in time to make the exit. “I take it you didn’t tell him about our meeting.”
“Hell, no.”
A beep as Sofia’s datapad automatically routed itself through the dash. “Don’t answer it!” they said at the same time.
“It’s him.” Andre stopped the car at the foot of the ramp. He checked his rearview. No one behind them.
Sofia pointed at the companel display. “No, it’s not. It’s Mother Madison.” She was back on the seat now, buttoning her blouse.
“Do not answer it.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Andre reached down, tucked himself back in and zipped his pants.
Sofia patted her skirt into place. “Do you think we’ll ever have this-is-a-good-idea sex?”
Andre gently took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I hope so.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the cars on the highway. How had Talic gotten in front of him? How was he always one step ahead? He curled his fingers into fists and pounded the steering wheel. He didn’t believe that Talic was smarter than he was, or had resources that he didn’t. It was a matter of degree. Talic was one part more determined, one part more ruthless.
Andre tromped the accelerator and turned the wheel, steering the car under the highway bridge. Talic was somewhere up there. Waiting.
It was happening again.
The last of the day’s sun on his face was unaccountably hot, the heat of a stifling attic, the smell of the zone from the vents just like the smell of that attic. He was brought back to dust, to rot, to the stench of failure. He was brought back to a late summer day three years ago, when carefully-orchestrated events had slipped out of his control.
THE STING HAD TAKEN months to set up. The final preparations had taken weeks, and Andre had been hidden in this attic crawlspace for two hours. Unwilling to sit in a pile of toxic insulation, unable to fully stand without impaling himself on the exposed nails in the beams above, he had to crouch in the airless attic. His legs had gone beyond hurt, beyond cramping, to some sort of transcendent ache that had become a part of him, as if the pain would stay in his body for the rest of his life.
He tried to shake a knot out of his right leg as he half stood and checked the remote feed from the hidden camera. He’d set it up himself after the tech department had ignored all of his requests. He hadn’t figured out how to put a motion detector on the camera, and the view was neither wide nor clear, but the resolution was good enough. From up here, he could watch and record everything that happened at a small but very important slice of property across the street. His camera was focused on the most famous address in the oh-zone, the mansion that belonged to Sufek Reem.
While other houses in the area were mere carcasses, Reem had taken over a six-bedroom manor that was built in 1927 and lovingly restored it to its former glory. The leaded windows, the art deco stained glass, and the gas lights on each fence post were finer than the originals, paid for by the addictions of others.
And when the profits from glaze weren’t enough, Reem had branched out beyond drugs into prostitution, protection schemes and contract killing. He was responsible for eight murders that the public knew of, and probably more that they didn’t. He ruled the Chandler Park section of the zone like a medieval prince, collecting tithes from his peasants, passing out punishments and largesse in equal measure, living above the law because he was the law.
Andre pinched his nose to stifle a sneeze. His eyes watered from the effort and he turned his head to either side, wiping them on the shoulders of his shirt. He caught a tangy whiff of his own nervous sweat, then pulled his head away and inhaled a lungful of dusty air. He checked the camera again. The Vice squad should have been here by now, dragging Reem out of his house with overwhelming force.
Dead air across the street. He couldn’t even see Reem’s security guards. He risked looking away from the camera to check his latest messages. His datapad’s front page showed a stream of old text. Nothing new. Where the hell was Vice?
A crash above his head almost made him drop the pad. Another heavy thump, followed by scraping and under-the-breath swearing. At least two people stood on the roof above his head. The crumbling ruin across from Reem’s house had seemed like the ideal vantage point. But what was ideal for him was also ideal for the Vice squad. Andre turned to the camera and focused on the viewer. Three people in riot gear moved into position around Reem’s house. The flickering gas lights obscured their features and from this distance, he couldn’t discern race, or even gender.
Footfalls boomed into the attic room and Andre prayed the people on the roof wouldn’t crash through the damaged boards and land in his lap. He could hear bags unzipping and mumbled conversation. It sounded like one man and one woman.
[ATTENTION. ATTENTION.] Andre was straining so hard to make out the conversation above his head that it took him a moment to understand that the signal was not coming through his ears, but through his phone implant. Lieutenant Quigg’s voice reached him next. “Where are you?”
Andre lifted a sweaty finger to the point just behind his ear and sent a single pulse. It wasn’t an answer to Quigg’s question, but what could he do? Quigg would have to be satisfied with simple affirmation.
But of course, he wasn’t. “I know you’re in the zone. What do you think you’re doing?”
A double pulse this time. Negative. Andre could hear insistent whispers above his head, which meant the people on the roof could hear him. A single word, a misplaced grunt, even moving around too much would compromise his position.
Through the camera, he saw a black-clad figure scuttle across the lawn and duck into a corner of the low brick wall that marked the boundary of the lawn. The night was still, the house silent. Was Reem even in there?
Quigg’s voice boomed through the implant. “I asked you a question, LaCroix. I expect an answer.”
Andre disconnected the call and took one last look at Reem’s yard, then frowned dow
n at his datapad’s screen. Too bad he couldn’t look through the camera with one eye and focus on his datapad with the other. He sent Quigg a quick blip. [MONITORING A SITUATION.]
Quigg’s return blip was almost immediate. [WHAT KIND?]
[SUFEK REEM.]
[DROP IT. WE DON’T STEP ON VICE’S TOES.]
[ATTENTION. ATTENTION.] Another call came through his implant, the bland computerized voice somehow sounding more insistent, as if Quigg had programmed it for urgency.
Andre cut it off. He sent another blip. [THEY ARE NOT ARRESTING REEM.]
[ORDERS SAY THEY ARE.] Quigg answered.
[PRETENSE FOR AN EXECUTION.]
A longer pause. Stillness across the street, silence above his head. The hot, airless attic felt like a tomb. He figured Quigg was considering his words, forming a response. Six months ago, he’d probably say that Andre was off his rocker and call him in for a disciplinary hearing. But that was before drug kingpin Amos Farrad had died in a stand-off with police, before the incident just two months ago, when another dealer had killed himself while in custody.
Both incidents were easy to explain, both came complete with witnesses and ballistics tests and probable cause and other things DAs liked. Would anyone really miss a piece-of-shit dealer from the oh-zone? But from where Andre stood, it looked like the Vice squad had made the easiest of all possible leaps—from wanting glaze dealers off the streets to wanting them dead.
Vice had made Sufek Reem a priority because his influence was leaking out of the zone and into the suburbs, even the city. What happened in the zone stayed in the zone—or else. Andre wondered which was the worst of Reem’s crimes, dealing drugs, or not knowing his place?
A new blip from Quigg. [WHY DIDN’T YOU REPORT THIS?]
Andre ran his hand down the side of the datapad, leaving a shiny streak of sweat. He wanted to talk to Quigg, see his face, hear the tone of his voice. If he knew exactly how pissed his boss was, he’d know exactly how much to grovel, exactly what to say to get Quigg on his side. He’d never broken the chain of command before. He hoped it was worth it.
Worth it or not, he had to do it. Someone on Vice had been desperate enough to come to Internal Affairs, to rat out fellow officers, to do the right thing. Someone so scared that he stayed anonymous. Andre couldn’t let that person down. His informant knew Andre was here, knew he was recording. He wouldn’t let them kill Sufek Reem. Not today.
A soft step above his head, and the sliding noise of something being dragged. No movement across the street. Maybe they were they still setting up. He looked down at his pad and blipped Quigg. [I HAVE AN INFORMANT.]
[WHO?]
[CAN’T SAY.]
[DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO IT IS?]
Andre reached for his implant, then dropped his hand. Quigg was too far away to help him. If he spoke, he’d be revealing his position for nothing. Maybe it was all for nothing anyway. The word of one Internal Affairs cop against an entire Vice Squad, all on the back of a nameless informant. But above his head, in the yard, they were gearing up for something big. He had to stop them. [MY GUT SAYS THIS INFO IS GOOD.]
An even longer pause from Quigg. [DO YOU TRUST YOUR GUT?]
[YES.]
[GO.]
Andre exhaled a noisy breath and then jerked his head upward, listening. Silence. They hadn’t heard him. He shoved the datapad in his pocket and looked through the camera.
Across the yard, under the archway that framed the wide porch, the mansion’s front door stood open. Two black-clad officers disappeared inside, while two more took up positions on either corner of the house.
One person turned and looked across the street, his face glowing in a corner spotlight. Talic. He had two first names, neither of which Andre could recall. Talic circled his arm above his head and tapped fingertips to the top of it in the long-range signal for “I’m okay.” If asked, he could say he was alerting the snipers on the roof, although he had no reason to wave. They could see him just fine.
It wasn’t the snipers he was signaling.
So, Talic was the informant. Interesting, since Talic himself was under investigation for the Farrad murder. Andre would think about that later. Right now, he needed to be sure that Sufek Reem got out of his house alive. Talic’s anonymous blips had promised that they’d arrest Reem in his front yard, in full view of the camera. That was the deal—everything witnessed, everything recorded.
The officers returned, shuffling out the door as they maneuvered their captive through it. Reem’s graying dreadlocks fell across his face as he shuffled along, head down, back bowed. Andre felt his cheeks lift as a grin spread across his face. Somehow, they’d gotten past the bodyguards, past the alarms, and had convinced Reem to surrender peacefully.
The party reached the edge of the porch, and Talic joined them. Reem was still cooperating, still allowing them to steer him along. The DA would be thrilled—she’d been itching to work her way up the glaze-dealer food chain, and Reem was as good a start as any, better than most.
Andre turned away from the camera and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees. Finally, he’d get out of this crypt and stand upright on the ground. He hesitated, then rushed back to the camera.
What had he just seen? By now, the arresting officers had reached the middle of the lawn, shadows surrounded by shadows. He scanned the yard, the fence, the house. There—coming out the front door. Two young men, t-shirts straining across their muscled chests, weapons at the ready. Andre almost shouted, warning the snipers on the roof. Before he could, Talic’s team had surrounded the bodyguards, disarmed them, and were hustling them away.
The officers moved everyone to the side of the house. Odd, since they hadn’t cuffed anyone yet. Odder still since he was sure their vehicles were parked in the opposite direction. Did they really trust their captives not to bolt? Could the snipers even see from that angle? He moved closer to the camera and tried to adjust the focus, straining to see around the corner.
He heard it all at once, in stereo, from above and below. Movement on the roof, shouts from Reem’s yard, shots and footsteps and screams of pain. He couldn’t see any of it.
He scrambled to the trapdoor and flung it open. He slid down the ladder and fell hard on his backside. His numb legs wouldn’t hold him. He beat his fists on his thighs, trying to get feeling back into them. Sharp pins pricked his skin as his legs woke up.
He tried to stand. Failed. He crawled through the second floor hall and scooted down the stairs to the first floor on his ass. His legs were still rubber, but by the time he reached the door, he could at least remain upright. He opened the front door a crack and slithered through it.
Across the street, they’d shot out half the spotlights, and the yard was ribboned in shadows. Andre pulled his Guardian from the holster and eased himself onto Reem’s property in a patch of darkness. He circled to the side yard, crouched behind the waist-high wall and peered over the top.
It was over. He was too late. Reem lay on the ground, bleeding, not moving, probably dead. Two more bodies slumped in the grass. The bodyguards seemed even younger up close. Were they Reem’s sons? His nephews? The three Vice cops plus the two snipers all stood in a loose semi-circle, weapons at their sides, breathing heavily, looking out into the street. Waiting.
Reem twitched and moaned. Nobody moved to help him.
Andre vaulted the wall and rushed forward, only to be tackled from behind. He went to his knees, sprawling forward and sliding across the grass. The Guardian flew from his hand. He found himself face down on the ground, chewing dirt, an armored body on top of him.
Talic’s voice was a harsh whisper in his ear. “You don’t think I have friends in tech? They told me what you wanted. They told me they wouldn’t do it. You don’t put cameras on cops.”
Andre spat out dirt and caught his breath. He hunched his shoulders, trying to twist out from under Talic. “Get the fuck off me!”
He could hear murmurs and footsteps as the other armed officers g
athered around them. Andre pressed his face into the cool grass. His resolve bled out and disappeared.
Talic must have felt him relax because he moved off and stood. “Sorry about that, man,” Talic said, loud enough for his fellow officers to hear. “I thought you were a local.” He held out his hand to help Andre up.
Andre rolled to his back and got to his feet, ignoring Talic’s outstretched hand. He took two unsteady steps and retrieved his Guardian from the lawn. He glared at Talic while jamming it back into its holster.
He twisted his head to look at Sufek Reem, who had long since fallen silent. No movement, no breath. His eyes were open and glassy, staring at nothing.
Talic lifted his rifle and secured the strap across his shoulder. “You want some advice?”
“From you? No.”
“I wouldn’t be asking tech for favors anytime soon.”
Andre shook his head. Like anyone in IA could ask for favors. Most of the guys he’d graduated from the academy with had stopped talking to him.
The cops still stood in a circle, two of them with their weapons trained on Reem and his bodyguards, as if they would suddenly stand up and start fighting. Andre traced the length of Reem’s body with his eyes, taking in his sandals, his diamond ring, his bloated face. He hoped for some pity, something to mix into the anger he felt at Talic, at the Vice squad, at himself. But it felt hollow. One less glaze dealer. One less zoner. He wondered if he’d feel differently if Reem were a citizen. That thought bothered him more than Reem’s death. Being a cop was hard enough. He didn’t want to live in a world where he was judge and jury too.
He spat out another mouthful of grit. “You could have arrested him, made him give up his suppliers. Your case was tight. He’d never walk.”