Steel Dragon

by Kevin McLaughlin

  She shouldn’t have these orders. She had done well in the academy, that was true, but she also knew that police work and schoolwork were quite different and that SWAT was another step beyond that. While she tried to rationalize as the man led her ever closer to the captain’s office, she constantly came up against one idea, again and again.

  Did the dragons have something to do with all this? Why had they sent her to that strange testing place? And why had they recommended her for the police academy? She didn’t think it was because they knew she wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps. And if the dragons did have a hand in all this, did that mean the captain would be honored to have her on the force or furious to be jerked around by a race of beings who held themselves above humanity?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Jonesy knocked on the door to the captain’s office. Kristen was a little impressed that he’d actually knocked. He seemed the ‘knock down the door and ask questions later’ type of police officer.

  A voice called out, “Come in.”

  She walked into the office to meet her new boss and honestly felt like she was walking into a dragon’s den.

  Chapter Three

  Despite Detroit’s recent regrowth, there was still much of the city in need of repair. Of course, that was the current line pedaled by the pawns on the city council. John Murray knew better. The city was best as it was—with new money pumping through it but still not enough to clean up every dark alley and abandoned factory.

  There were more police, but despite his profession, he liked them. He really did and often argued their merits to the other members of his gang, the Breaks. For starters, police couldn’t drive half as well as anyone in his gang. As long as the gang members continued to maintain their cars, they could outrace any set of flashing lights and sirens out there. Plus, police made going downtown seem safer for the tourists, which in turn was good for business. But most importantly, they knew their place and followed orders, and that kept them to the newly gentrified parts of the city.

  They left abandoned steel mills to the rats who infested them.

  Murray looked at the inside of the derelict factory their contact had chosen for this meeting. A crumbling incinerator was the centerpiece of the room. Its sooty bricks reached all the way up through the cavernous space and eventually vanished beyond the ceiling. Broken steel molds and smelting buckets big enough to hide bodies lined the other walls. Shattered windows admitted more than enough light, and the aroma of generations of rats fought with the exhaust fumes from the cars idling in the middle of the factory.

  Ahh…to him, these remnants of the once-great metropolis felt like home.

  He decided his gang looked like they belonged in the space. The four men he’d chosen to accompany him to this meeting all wore their very finest ripped denim dotted with spikes and rivets. The Breaks were ostensibly punk rockers, but their clothes served a purpose. It was difficult to stab through rivets and wearing metal made metal detectors basically worthless.

  It was, however, something of a surprise that the two men who stepped from the van across from them had chosen to meet there. They wore black suits and sunglasses despite the fading light and were—undoubtedly—merely tools.

  But that was fine, all things considered. Rich tools tended to have far more money than regular folk and better toys.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t simply fuck ʼem up?” Lemar whispered to him. “We get in our cars now and run ʼem down. No fucking way that van and the asshole inside can escape.”

  He considered the idea. There was something absolutely delicious about running people down in the Motor City, especially with the cars the Breaks used. All were classics and all American with steel parts that didn’t dent from something as brittle as bone. Powder-coat paint jobs that washed clean from even the most incriminating of fluids was another impressive feature.

  “Keep the cars running, but let’s hear what they have to say.”

  Lemar nodded.

  Although Murray liked the idea of keeping their money and getting new toys, there was something about the way the two suits behaved that made him cautious. Something about how carefully they moved around the third man who’d stayed in the van made him hesitate.

  Obviously, the man in the van had all the power. While the other two busied themselves with cargo, the third one had only cracked his window and exhaled a cloud of smoke. The gang leader thought it smelled like a cigar and yet part of him—the part that was still a scared little boy who’d grown up in the projects fighting for his lunch money every damn day—wondered at that smoke. Could it be…a dragon? Had the Breaks finally gotten big enough to be noticed?

  The two suits came to stand in front of the door to the vehicle and framed the mostly rolled-up window. The man inside spoke, his voice deep and arrogant with its richness. He hated dudes who talked like that. “You have followed instructions and had each of your lackeys bring a vehicle. This is good.”

  “You said you had supplies so the boss brought transport. Don’t act like we’re your stupid little dogs or we’ll bite,” Lemar retorted before Murray could reply, his tone a near-growl.

  A deep inhalation from the man inside the van was immediately followed by a great plume of smoke that erupted from the car. It floated through the still air of the factory and surrounded the man’s head and he coughed.

  “Nice trick.” Murray directed a look at his gang, then bowed. He had been right. They had been noticed. It was time to make sure the boys didn’t fuck it up. Fortunately, they all followed his lead and bowed, even Lemar. “Your excellency. Tell us, what brings your business to the Motor City?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s you, Murray of the Breaks.” A smoke ring curled from the van, drifted between the suits, and dissipated lazily against his chest.

  He nodded. “You flatter me, sir.” He hoped he was doing all right but really knew he was out of his league. There must be a dragon in there. The damn things lived insanely long—long enough to explain why anyone in their right mind would call him Murray of the Breaks.

  “He’s civil enough,” the voice said to one of the suits, who nodded. “Let’s see if we can change all that.”

  Before he could say anything—truthfully, he didn’t know what to make of that—the henchmen opened the van.

  In that moment, he forgot about the stranger smoking in the passenger seat. He forgot about the derelict factory and its crumbling incinerator and even forgot to close his mouth while he stared. Inside the vehicle—lining its interior on classy little racks, in fact—was more firepower than he or anyone else in the Breaks had ever seen in their entire lives.

  There was everything a man who knew the value of force and the worthlessness of pacifism could want—assault rifles, handguns, shotguns, enough body armor for the whole gang, plus a few crates that were tantalizingly labeled explosive.

  Murray wished he could have said something cool or even had remained standing in stoic silence but instead, he blurted, “Holy shit,” and took a step toward the armory.

  The suits made no effort to stop him.

  “Please, handle the merchandise,” the voice drawled from the front seat.

  He needed no second invitation and reached for an assault rifle. Although he stole a glance toward the front as he did so, it was walled off and its occupant hidden. Not that he was surprised, of course.

  To his surprise, the weapon was loaded. He raised the assault rifle, took aim at one of the last few unbroken windows, and pulled the trigger. The sound of gunfire echoed through the cavernous space and the glass shattered. He grinned.

  Temptation loomed and he glanced at the two suits while he made some quick mental calculations. Maybe the gang could take them. It was a bad idea if the guy inside was a dragon, but if he was merely an asshole who liked to smoke it would be doable. The windows might be bullet-proof but still, it was doable.

  “A fine shot, Mr Murray,” the voice stated, and he felt his plan slipping away l
ike a bad dream upon waking. Why had he thought they could attack these men? They hadn’t even flinched when he’d fired the weapon.

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll…uh…we’ll take five of these for the boys here, some of those pistols for the rest, and all the body armor you have. Lemar, get the cash.”

  The other man moved toward one of their cars but stopped when the voice spoke again.

  “I’m not interested in cash, Murray of the Breaks. Not yet, anyway.”

  Murray was confused. They didn’t have the cash for more and he didn’t know what the men wanted. Then it occurred to him. “We…uh… I guess we could trade a car for those guns then.”

  “Fuck no, Murray,” one of the boys complained. He made a note to make sure it was his car they traded.

  “You’d have to trade all five for the contents of this van and then what would you transport them all in?”

  He replaced the assault rifle quickly. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you expected, but you should’ve told me you had merchandise like this. I could’ve had the boys call in some debts.”

  “I’m not interested in your petty debts. They represent the past. What I’m interested in is your future. Do you know what represents the future, Murray of the Breaks?”

  “Uh…no?” he stammered.

  “Credit. That is what represents the future. I will supply the contents of this van to you and your gang on credit.”

  “You’re uh…very generous, sir, but my old lady’s swimming in credit card debt. What’s the catch?”

  “There is no catch. However, you are correct in enquiring about the payments for this credit. I am—first and foremost—a businessman, so I expect to be compensated, of course.” Another plume of smoke issued from the van.

  “Uh-huh.” Murray nodded and waited for the catch.

  “I believe that by providing your organization with these assets, my investment will prove itself. We could dither about the price and set up a timetable with interest payments and penalties for defaults and all that nonsense. However, it would be difficult for you to fully understand the effort it took to bring these weapons here, as I’m sure it will be difficult for me to understand how exactly you might decide to use them.”

  “Sir, you can bet your ass that however we decide to use these tools, our business has nothing to do with you.” Was that what the man behind the glass wanted? Plausible deniability? He could promise that. After all, promises were free, but that couldn’t be it.

  “Indeed.” The man paused as he inhaled more smoke. “It seems you understand business very well, Murray of the Breaks. And I’m pleased to hear that you know the first rule of business is to mind your own.”

  “But what do you want?” Lemar took a step toward the van. The suits blocked him. “There’s obviously something in it for you. What is it?”

  “A man who understands the importance of time. I respect that as well. What I want is simple—to see you in action. I tire of these petty operations you’ve worked so hard at. Robbing liquor stores. Laundering stolen cars. This has got you to where you are today, but it can’t sustain your growth in the future. I want to watch you grow like the roots of an oak tree that cracks through the foundation of this city.”

  “Bullshit.” Lemar spat derisively. “No one gives weapons away like this. Do you expect us to think you’re the fucking Red Cross?”

  Murray’s heart dropped into his stomach. This was it then. He knew he should’ve run Lemar over. The asshole was smart but he had a fat mouth. Now, it would get them all killed at the hands of someone who could change their lives and make the Breaks into something great.

  For a long moment, no one said a word. The suits didn’t step toward Lemar but none of the gang came to his defense either.

  Finally, a long exhalation of smoke wafted from the van. “He’s right, of course. This isn’t charity. I want to see you grow because I want a piece of the action.”

  “How much?” Lemar asked.

  “Tsk, tsk, Murray of the Breaks. Once, they chopped out the tongues of those who didn’t know when it was their time to speak. Now, we must settle for more humane treatments.”

  One of the suits brought a fist up and the gang member dodged, only to take a knee in his crotch from the other man. He crumpled and moaned pitifully.

  Murray glanced at him. The man writhed in pain but was still conscious. He’d live. For a moment, he wished otherwise.

  He turned his attention to the vehicle. How odd it was to have this conversation with cigar smoke and his own reflection. “How much of the action are we talking here? Ten percent?”

  The man behind the glass laughed at that. “No! No, no, no. I would like to make my investment back within the next century, so obviously, ten percent is much too low. I want fifty.”

  “I knew he was fucking crazy.” One of the Breaks laughed. “Ain’t no gang in the Midwest that can pay fifty percent.”

  “Indeed. Gentlemen, it seems our demonstration went unnoticed. If you will.”

  On the command from their hidden leader, the two suits marched toward the man who’d laughed.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Murray held his arms up placatingly. “We get the message loud and fucking clear. Ain’t no reason to come to blows over a little negotiating between bosses.” He snarled the last words at the scowling Breaks. “Now, it seems to me fifty percent is a tad high, but you’re right in that ten’s too low. Let’s meet somewhere in the middle. Say twenty-five. See, twenty-five percent of profits will give us enough liquidity to continue to operate our various schemes, grow our organization, and operate at the high level of efficiency that earned your attention.”

  “Fifty percent,” the voice said in a voice that chilled him to the very bone.

  He looked at his gang, who all attempted to look tough behind him. It was easy to tell from their faces what he knew in his heart—they were hopelessly outclassed by these guys. Whoever was in there knew who they were and what they could do, while he didn’t know a thing about him. Suddenly, letting them choose the meeting place seemed like a bad idea. Still…fifty percent?

  “We can do forty, but that’s as high as—”

  “Fifty. Percent.” In that moment, the sun either slipped behind a cloud or below the horizon because the room plunged into shadow and all he could see was the red ember of the cigar smoldering in the van. He suddenly felt very, very cold.

  “Right. Right then. Fifty percent sounds fine,” Murray muttered.

  Apparently, it had been only a cloud that had blocked the sun as the room brightened once again, although to him, the chill didn’t go away.

  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Murray of the Breaks, and remember—I’ll be watching. Credit only functions when you work to pay it off. I expect to hear much of your organization in the future.”

  Before he could respond—not that he had a clue what to say—the window rolled up to seal the man inside with his cloud of smoke.

  “Let us give you a hand with all that,” he said to one of the suits, but the man didn’t even bother to respond. He simply glared at him and went about unloading the arsenal.

  Rack after rack of weapons came from the vehicle.

  Murray pulled the semi-recovered gang member to his feet and rejoined his men. Despite the discomfort he’d felt when talking to the man behind the glass, he couldn’t help but be excited at the prospect of the arsenal before them.

  “What’s the plan, boss?” Lemar wheezed, still reeling from being kneed in the crotch.

  “The plan? With weapons like these, we won’t need a plan unless they call in the fucking National Guard to stop us.”

  “Come on, boss, that’s not like you,” one the Breaks said. “John Murray always has something in mind.”

  He snorted at that. It was true enough, after all. “It’s time to think bigger, boys. Plans were when we lived from paycheck to paycheck. Now, we’ve gone and got ourselves a proper salaried position. It’s time we got ourselves a goal.”
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br />   “So what’s your fucking goal?” Lemar said. He apparently now felt good enough to talk shit, then. Murray supposed that was good, although part of him still wanted to run the shit-talker over. But that could happen in time.

  “My goal is for the Motor City to quake at the sound of my bannermens’ engines. I want to be a goddamn king, and you’ll be my princes. From now on, The Breaks make the fucking rules.”

  Chapter Four

  Captain Juanita Hansen barely had time to shove the file she was looking at into her desk before Jonesy entered her office and all but dragged the new recruit—Hall, that was her name—behind him.

  She considered giving the man an earful for practically barging into her office—she had no doubt he would have if she hadn’t responded immediately to his knock—but decided against it. Despite her inclination, she thought it better for the recruit to see her captain do something besides chew out one of her new teammates before they had even worked together. That tended to not do much for team morale. Not that she would put his reprimand off the table. Sergeant Jones was more than capable of earning an earful, but she’d give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

  So, instead of ripping into him, she gave the new recruit a moment to take in her surroundings.

  Juanita had never furnished her office with fancy chairs or unusual art. She didn’t go in for expensive things, but her office wasn’t barren either. Instead of worldly pretensions, she simply let her work speak for itself.

  On the walls were pictures of her working her way up through the force. There she was, smiling after chasing down her first runner. She’d fallen and broken a tooth and had always thought the blood on her face in that photo was charming in an understated kind of way. In another, she grinned from ear to ear immediately after she’d lit a thousand pounds of confiscated cocaine on fire. That little stunt had earned her a promotion and revealed the priorities of a few of the less scrupulous members of the force. Others showed her with the mayor, with her state representative, and with one of Michigan’s two senators.