by J. N. Chaney
“As many of you know, Detective Brown succumbed to injuries suffered during the initial firefight with cartel members. We are saddened for the Brown family’s loss. Compounding this tragedy, however, is the sad truth that Detective Brown exceeded his authority and, for reasons we may never know, prematurely opened fire on unarmed civilians in the Sunset Street warehouse.”
“That’s not true!” I said defiantly from my position on stage. But my voice was lost among the chaos coming from the audience. Every muscle in my body went rigid as I fought the primal urge to leap across the stage and beat the living shit out of Lessard. My face was beat red, I was sure of it. I could feel my fists shaking, my jaw working back and forth as I brought my will into submission.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Please, calm yourselves!” But the audience wasn’t listening. Shouts for more questions came from the press while reporters spoke into their hovering cameras, conveying the events as they unfolded.
In the heat of the moment, Lessard turned and seemed to double check that his face couldn’t be seen on a holo-monitor to the side of the stage. He adjusted his tie, and then he looked straight at me… and smiled. It was a murderous grin, one that went all the way back to our time at the academy together, when he had bested Devin at a game of staves and won a date with Lisa. She never went with him, of course, but the rivalry had burned deep ever since.
“I’m just getting started,” Lessard said to me, and then turned back to face the audience, his grin replaced with a concerned look of sympathy.
“He’s lying,” Washburn said from behind me. She’d been my command operator for the duration of the whole raid.
“Damn straight he’s lying,” I replied over my shoulder.
“I saw the whole thing. We all did.”
“You have proof?” But I already knew the answer.
“No,” she said, trying to speak over the din in the audience. “All the footage was confiscated for an investigation, one called for by Lessard himself.”
“Of course it was,” I said, feeling a sense of helplessness begin to paralyze my body. So help me, I would reach out and crush Lessard’s neck with my bare hands if he kept going.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please,” he said, trying to rein the crowd back in. But the masses had grown unruly and Lessard was having a hard time regaining control. The monster of his own making now threatened to devour its maker. “Your attention, everyone, your attention, please.”
It took several more attempts for Lessard to bring the audience to heel. When at last he’d regained control, he resumed speaking with a somber tone. “Perhaps the greatest tragedy for the Brown family is the fact that Lisa Brown and her beloved children will not only be without a father, but they will be without financial aid in their greatest time of need.”
What are you doing, Lessard?
The crowd seemed confused by the chief’s new direction, but I could sense it wasn’t lost on any of the SCPD who stood shoulder to shoulder with me. The knot in my gut was beginning to twist and I worried that I was about to lose control…
“When any officer in good standing dies in the line of duty,” Lessard continued, “while upholding our noble and prestigious values, it is in the city’s best interests to reward such valor, such heroism, such distinction with financial compensation for those who are left behind. Such insurance ensures that widows and widowers will never have to work again and that children will have the brightest futures despite losing a parent.
“In the case of Detective Brown, however, it seems that his next of kin will not be eligible to receive due compensation for an officer killed in the line of duty.”
Gasps went up from the audience. My muscles were constricting to the point that I felt like I was about to explode.
Lessard raised a hand. “That is because Brown’s director, Chief Detective Flint Reed, encouraged and even ordered him to disregard standard operating procedures and fire on unarmed civilians just as Reed himself gunned down an unarmed teenager in the alley leading up to the Sunset Street warehouse.”
“You son of a bitch!” I yelled. I bolted from my place on stage and lunged at Lessard. The man must have felt me coming because he turned to look at me right as my fist drove into the center of his face, driven in with all my body’s momentum. The result was a crack that filled the microphone and resonated out into the crowd through the speakers. Lessard’s nose crumpled beneath my knuckles, sending a spray of blood on everyone within a five-meter radius.
Lessard flew backward, back and head slamming against the stage in quick succession. But I was just getting started. My fists started delivering blows one after another like jackhammers, alternating shots to each side of his face as blood splattered across the prickly outdoor carpet.
When I watched the replay of the videos from inside the holding cell that night, I realized that I didn’t remember hearing people in the audience scream or the press run for cover. Several people thought there was a bomb threat, while others thought I was an assassin sent to take out Lessard. But the simple fact was that I was just a grieving man who’d been pushed too far by a bully who thought he could take advantage of others.
In the end, there was no happy ending… no happily ever after like the holo-films.
For my part, I was dismissed from the force without severance or pension. The commissioner called me to say that it had taken an act of the gods to keep me from being prosecuted—something that Lessard had called for. He said my actions on stage were enough to have me fired, but that there wasn’t enough evidence to fully prove Lessard’s statements regarding me or Brown.
In the end, however, it didn’t matter what evidence came to light or how many officers stood up to defend me or Devin. Lessard had held the microphone when it mattered, and the damage was done. The ideas were in the hearts and minds of the people now. It didn’t even matter whether the horde believed the information was true or not. After all, it was never the truth that mattered to the horde, it was just the ideas. That’s because ideas—once germinated—are impossible to take back. They exist forever in the psyche of the collective beast.
For Devin’s part, however, things were much worse. And I was glad he wasn’t around to see what happened to his family. Lisa never recovered from his death. No matter how many times we dropped by to check on her or the children, dark circles clung to her eyes. She smiled through the pain, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. Especially the kids. When the money ran out, she moved back in with her parents. Then, about nine months after the raid, we got a call from Lisa’s mother.
“She passed away last night,” Gretchen said, voice shaking. “I just thought you’d want to know.”
I thanked her, suddenly unsure how I’d break the news to Heather. We’d known Lisa had been admitted twice for drug overdoses. She was battling acute depression, the doctors had said, which felt like an understatement. But the fact that Lisa was willing to make her children orphans revealed just how much heart-numbing pain she had been in. I thought about telling Heather that this final overdose was really just a drunk driver or an aneurism, but I knew she’d see right through me. I might have been a good detective, but there were times when she was a better one.
Heather wept for a week. She was inconsolable. I just let her stay in our room and gave her all the space and time she needed. But, truth be told, something was broken in her after that. Something had died, and she was never the same. I was never the same. Where before Heather had used language asking me to fight for her and fight for our marriage, that all stopped. She became quieter, more reserved. Her interests seemed elsewhere, like she was distant and never present in the moment. Ironically, it was the same thing she’d accused me of.
My fellow officers wished me well, but in the end, there was nothing they could do for me. I knew that. They knew that. They had to go on being cops and I had to find other work. The only thing we had in common was that we were slaves to the people at the top, the ones who wrote and re-wrote the rules according to the
ir own terms. For in the end, he who writes the narrative wins.
The most contact I would have with those who ran the Sunset Street raid with me was buying one another beers at our regular watering hole—the one where Lessard and his ilk would be shot if they ever showed their faces. It was Washburn who eventually found work for me. Didn’t take her long either. Within three weeks of being let go from the force, she had a lead.
“Here,” she said, sliding me a piece of paper with a name and number written on it.
“What’s this?” I asked, pushing my beer aside so I could see better in the bar’s low lighting.
“It’s my cousin. Works security. Says they’re hiring.”
“Oh yeah? They interested in washed up cops with a violent past?”
“Not as much as I am,” she said with a wink. “But, yeah. He didn’t seem to think it would be a problem. Everyone already knows who you are anyway.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yeah. The way he sees it, the guys who actually walk a beat say you’re their hero. No one will come out and say that yet—says the brass will fire them on the spot for mentioning your name.”
“Huh, well what d’ya know.”
“Anyway, he thinks you’re a shoo-in if you want the job.”
“What’s his name?” I could hardly read her handwriting. “Polanski?”
“Polski,” she corrected. “My mom’s sister’s son. Nice kid.”
“Polski,” I repeated, then took another swig of my beer and stuffed the paper in my pocket. “I look forward to meeting him.”
“Just go easy on him, okay? He’s kinda scrawny and gets picked on a lot.”
“Picked on, huh?” I finished off the beer and decided it was time to catch a cab home. I needed some scotch anyway. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Washburn. Anyone picks on that cousin of yours, they’re gonna answer to me.”
23
The lights faded in Oragga’s office until I stood alone in the dark. A breeze blew across my sweat-covered face as the door opened in front of me, exposing me to the hangar bay. Fortunately, my side of the space was in shadow, so I emerged from the office undetected and found cover behind a large workbench.
I looked over the table, getting my first glance at Heather since seeing her yesterday in our kitchen. Little did I know she’d probably recorded the divorce message as soon as I’d left the house. But this wasn’t the time to be pissed at her. Unless everything went according to plan, she was going to die, and it was up to me to save her.
The thieves were exactly as I’d seen them minutes before in the holo-feed, each prepping their equipment for a leap off the complex and into the clouds below. They each wore breathing masks, perched on top of their heads ready to be pulled down—that was, all but Oubrick. He seemed too preoccupied with watching the various entrances… waiting for me. He held a pistol in his hand and kept it pointed at Heather.
“Hit it, Lars,” I whispered.
“Right away, sir.”
Suddenly, the hangar lights began to dim. The thieves took notice and looked around. Then a red strobe light began to flash, followed by an extremely annoying klaxon, the likes of which I’d never heard before.
“Holy hells, that sounds terrible,” I said, fighting an urge to plug my ears.
“You said to be as garish as possible,” Lars protested.
“I never used that word. I don’t even know what that word means. I said make it sound like something bad is happening.”
“And does it not sound like something bad is happening?” Lars asked.
“Dammit, Lars! Just move on with the show.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The klaxon stopped, replaced by the sound of female automated voice. But in reality, it was still Lars. He’d informed me that no such voice could be employed because the building’s systems were shutting down. So he improvised.
“Warning, warning. Flammable gasses detected in the hangar bay. I repeat, flammable gasses detected in the hangar bay. All personnel, be advised, explosion threat detected.”
I peered at the criminals, who were looking between one another. But they still weren’t putting their guns down.
“Next phase, Lars,” I said.
“Proceeding,” Lars replied.
The lights lowered and a massive holo-image appeared in the middle of the room. Lars’s automated voice continued as a bar graph appeared, displaying high levels of multiple flammable gasses. “Warning, warning. Close all electrical panels and abort use of powered tools.”
“Don’t forget something about weapons,” I hissed.
“If you are holding an assault rifle—”
“Too specific!”
“—Or any other firearm or open flame, desist immediately. Warning, explosion imminent.”
“Not imminent! We don’t want them jumping yet!”
“Explosion threat at one hundred percent.”
I watched as the punks looked at their weapons and then to one another. That was when the lights in the hangar dimmed, save for a circle of light where the men stood. Oubrick was on his feet now, concern written across his face. Lars began playing footage he found on the Gal-net of people dying in accidental explosions. The word WARNING blinked across the screen in capital red letters.
That was my cue. I pulled the syringe from my pocket that Lars had given me, uncapped it, and then drove the needle into my thigh. Truth be told, it hurt less than the broken ribs I was suffering from—but it still hurt like a bitch. I activated the plunger and several cc’s of Lars’s performance enhancer shot into my blood stream. The effect was almost immediate as I felt a surge of energy wash outward from the injection point. Not only that, but all my pain seemed to fade away. This was great! The AI had healed me with a single dose of… whatever this was.
“Moving out,” I said, feeling like I was brand new. I dodged my way between crates and moved toward the enforcers, a renewed spring in my step. I ran indiscriminately, hidden by the darkness, my movements masked by the hideous videos and Lars’s voice repeating everything he’d said before—minus the statements I’d corrected.
Within seconds, I arrived at the closest thief. He held his weapon loosely at his side, chin tipped back as he stared up at the holo-feed. I swung my spear out and around his neck, and then yanked him out of the circle of light with the shaft with a powerful jerk. His head hit the ground hard, but Lars’s audio was so loud, no one seemed to notice. I flipped my spear and, just as the man struggled to get up, drove one of the two bladed ends into his neck. Blood shot across my feet. He gurgled, clutching at his neck, so I jabbed again and again until his body went limp. Then I reached down and dragged his corpse further from the circle.
Energized, I moved toward the next closest thug, this one standing beside the large black crates that held whatever Oubrick had stolen. He had let go of his weapon, perhaps convinced by Lars’s warnings, and placed it on top of a crate. He played absent-mindedly with the crate’s backpack parachute, staring at the images.
I edged close enough that I could smell the man’s aftershave—applied way too heavily—and then hooked him around the neck with my spear’s shaft. I jerked him back with all my strength, and he, too, fell backward, head slamming to the ground.
“Hey!” shouted Oubrick’s only remaining thug. “Where are Williams and Steranko?”
I knelt and drew a spear blade across the second man’s neck. It sliced him, but not as deeply as I would have liked. Now fully alert, the man rolled over and yelled at me, drawing Oubrick’s and the third enforcer’s attention. I backed away as the third man looked like he might fire.
“Don’t shoot, you idiot!” Oubrick hollered.
“You’re going to blow us all sky high, Mier!” the second punk hollered from outside the circle. He crawled back into the light, holding his neck with one hand. “Didn’t you see the warning?”
“Well, at least I didn’t cut myself, Steranko,” Mier said.
“I didn’t do that! So
meone else did!” Steranko insisted.
“Where’s Whitey?” Mier asked.
“How should I know? Probably the same guy that sliced me up.”
“He’s here,” Oubrick said, still shouting over Lars’s audio.
“Who’s here, boss?” Mier asked.
“Our lonesome security guard,” replied Oubrick. “Back to rescue his wife. Or should I say ex-wife.” Oubrick reached down and yanked Heather to her feet. She screamed beneath her gag, arms wrenched behind her back at a painful angle. Oubrick holstered his sidearm and unsnapped a knife from a chest sheath. The weapon looked brand new and deadly sharp. “Mier, put your weapon away,” Oubrick ordered. “Knives only.”
“Copy that, sir.” Mier stowed his rifle among their stuff and pulled out his Nova Ten combat knife, spinning it in his hand. Steranko, too, produced a knife and peered into the inky blackness.
“Come on out, Mr. Reed!” Oubrick yelled. He dragged Heather into the middle of the circle. His eyes searched beyond the perimeter of light. “Come out or I slit her throat. Your fifteen minutes are up anyway, so maybe I should just execute her now.”
I didn’t doubt that Oubrick would kill Heather, but the moment he did, he’d lose his final piece of leverage. No, he’d keep her alive long enough to draw me out, which meant—until then—I was free to deal with his remaining two thugs.
Oubrick growled. He reached into a duffle bag on one of the crates and felt for something, never taking his knife away from Heather’s neck. The tip accidentally pierced her skin, drawing blood. She screamed and tried to pull away, but he yanked her back and continued searching for something in the duffle bag. Finally, he produced a flashlight and flicked it on. Its narrow beam pierced the darkness, cutting across the room.
Steranko crossed the circle, holding his neck with one hand and his knife with another. He edged toward me as I crouched beside one of their black cases, waiting to snag him out of the circle. Just one more step.