EMPIRE: Imperial Police

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Damn,” Peterson said then, keeping her tone low. “Tim, you were right.”

  “Yeah,” Jones said, as the others clustered around Ashton. “Nick, man, that bomb was a fake. It was all to empty the building so the Impies could pick you off.”

  “They tried,” Ashton said. “Apparently they’ve issued a warrant for me for murder – maybe more than one – and they’re likely hoping a regular citizen tips ‘em off where I am.” He paused, then met Colonel Peterson’s eyes. “Fortunately, the ‘Nick Benton’ alias credentials you had made for me, and entered in the system, made for some really nice use, just now.”

  “And that also means that we might not want you running around as you, for the time being, until we can get this shit cleared up,” Peterson replied.

  “Nick, has your landlord given you any problems about the apartment?” Ames wondered then. “If there’s a warrant for murder out for you, I mean, well…”

  The others glanced at each other.

  “She makes an excellent point,” Gorski noted, as Demetrius nodded. “Maia, I think maybe some of us more senior folk need to run over there and make sure his landlord – or at least, the building manager – knows what’s going on, at least to some degree. They need to know that Nick, here, is being framed, and that he’s on good terms with us, else he might find himself unceremoniously evicted.”

  “Possibly straight into the IPD’s hands,” Demetrius added.

  “That…is a very fair point, and a good idea,” Peterson agreed. “Perhaps we three can take care of that while the various teams are surveilling our perps for the big T?” she added an oblique reference to the Throne; they were still on the street.

  “That works,” Demetrius decided. “Stefan?”

  “I’m there, but I need to be at the Palace by noon. I’m meeting with the Major about something.”

  “Right,” Peterson said. “Nick, is your team ready to go?”

  Ashton glanced around; Jones flushed.

  “I can be ready in five, soon as they let us back in the building,” Jones said.

  “Which they’re doing now, so let’s go, and everybody head out in ten,” Peterson decreed. “I didn’t have any real news for the morning briefing anyway.”

  By lunchtime, the three perp teams were on surveillance, Peterson and Demetrius were back in their offices at headquarters, Gorski was at the Palace West entrance, and Ashton’s apartment had been secured.

  Several days, total, of surveillance indicated to the full investigative team that their perps were more or less regular in their habits, at least for the time being – except for Bronze, and even he had a certain pattern to his days.

  “Which makes sense,” Ashton said as they analyzed the activities, after they all reconvened at headquarters, back in their standard office appearance. “They’re not gonna be doing a lot of unusual stuff, or anything to draw attention to ‘em. Not so soon after a major political hit like Medved.”

  “It makes sense to me,” Detective Gorski decided; he had kibitzed on their discussion and analysis. “It sounds like we’re ready to go pick them up and take them into Imperial custody.” He cocked a querying eye at Ashton, who nodded.

  “Tomorrow,” the younger man decreed, “we take ‘em all down.”

  “Good,” Gorski said, and headed off to see what the latest information was from the Imperial Guard.

  “Hm,” Ashton hummed, after Gorski left. “Now to determine exactly how we’re gonna do that. Looks like we might just have a nice area overlap here, and can pick ‘em off one at a time, in quick sequence?”

  “That’s what I’m seeing,” Rassmussen said.

  “Me, too,” Armbrand agreed. “But it might be good if we had a couple people on the others, while we’re taking down the first, and so on. That way if something happens with the others, we know right away. Especially given that Bronsky is a little unpredictable in terms of timing.”

  “Yeah. But if one of ‘em turns into a fighter or something, we’re gonna need more than three or four guys,” Rassmussen observed. “And we don’t have enough on the Team to do all of that. Maybe we need to call in some more folks. Some beat cops would help out nicely, here.”

  “Good point. All right,” Ashton ordered. “Here’s how we’ll do this: The general team will keep the same perp assignments, but Rog, you and Pete grab stunners and tranqs and come with me. I’ll see if Colonel Peterson can assign us some beat cops for extra manpower and to stake out the perimeter. Oh, and somebody be ready to take care of the VR jammer.”

  “I can do that,” Ames said.

  “Good.”

  “You’re the boss on this one,” Rassmussen said. “You’re doin’ a great job, Nick. Me an’ Rog are damn impressed. We may outrank you for the time being, but you’re gonna make detective in no time, at this rate.”

  “If you say so. I feel…odd…about it,” Ashton admitted with a sigh. “Especially after that encounter with Gorecki’s henchmen the other day. I’m a lot more comfortable here than I ever was over at IPD, but…I still feel like an add-on, somehow. At least sometimes. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know what you’re saying,” Rassmussen averred. “You know it’s not true, though, right? We all claim you. You’re one of us, man.”

  “I know. It’s only…I dunno.” Ashton shook his head. “Maybe ducking and dodging Gorecki and his goons is getting to me.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll worry about all that mess later, man,” Armbrand decreed. “And we got your back on it in the meanwhile. Don’t worry, Nick; we’ll help you figure all of it out another time. Right now, we got three jobs to do. So we need to get with it.”

  “Yup,” Ashton agreed. “Let’s go.”

  Busting Asses

  Ashton and Smith, in departmental uniform per a request from Imperial Guard Major Dunham, waited casually outside the Waffle Stomper diner about mid-morning, confident the rest of the team was ready. Kaplan, who made the bulk of her living in the “galaxy’s oldest profession,” tended to keep late nights, then go to bed in the wee small hours and break the fast late in the morning as a result.

  The pair could see Susan Kaplan inside, through the diner windows, tucking away a fairly substantial but healthy breakfast, just like usual. When they saw her expression go blank while she paid her tab in VR, Ashton tensed.

  “Get ready,” he told the others over their private VR channel. “Here she comes. We want to get her out of the way fast and without causing a ruckus if we can. We don’t want word getting back to the other two. Jam VR now.”

  “Roger, affirm,” came back the responses.

  Kaplan emerged from the front door of the Waffle Stomper. Ashton allowed her to clear the door by some twenty or twenty-five meters, preventing congestion in the doorway – or unwanted backup arriving from within the diner. Then he moved forward, Smith at his side.

  But as soon as Kaplan saw the two uniforms making a beeline for her, she spun and sprinted for the nearest alley, intent on getting out the other side and losing them. Ashton broke into a sprint as well, Smith close behind.

  “Stun her!” he ordered. “And make sure you’ve jammed her VR so she can’t call for help! Then block the alley on both ends! We don’t need any complications from bystanders, let alone eyewitnesses that can carry the story back to her associates!”

  “Did it five minutes ago!” Ames yelled.

  “Already on it!” came the responses from Rassmussen and Weyand.

  A stun dart zipped from Rassmussen’s concealed position, driving unerringly into Kaplan’s right glute. She stumbled with a cry of pain, then fell, her right leg collapsing under her as the dart discharged, negating her nervous system response below the dart’s location. Smith and Ashton, who had dropped back slightly to allow for the dart, moved instantly to her side.

  “You’re under arrest, ma’am,” Ashton declared, as Smith bent over her with a pair of hand cuffs, intent on restraining her. “Please come with us–”

  “The h
ell you say!” Kaplan snapped, lashing out. She caught Smith with her long, sharp fingernails, raking them viciously across his face and drawing blood. Simultaneously, she kicked at Ashton with her good leg, missing his crotch with her foot only because Ashton, farther away than Smith, saw it coming and turned, catching the blow with the side of his hip.

  But when she kept on trying to kick and scratch – missing both of them, because Ashton and Smith had both quickly gotten out of range – Ashton had had enough.

  “OW! Damn! Back off, back off, John!” he ordered, then added, “TRANQ HER! And get that containment set, people!”

  Two college students wandered past the far end of the alley and heard screams and shouts emerging from it, as well as the sounds of flesh hitting flesh.

  “What the hell?!” one of them said. “Jaime, there’s a mugging going on in there!”

  “Think we oughta go help, Manolo?” Jaime wondered.

  “I dunno, I–”

  “Everything is under control,” an Imperial City Police officer said, stepping out from the shadows of the building and barring their way. “I’d advise moving along.”

  “But what’s going on?” Manolo wondered.

  “Some of our investigators are apprehending a dangerous criminal,” the officer replied. “Involved in a murder. Unfortunately, the criminal is fighting back, so we’ve established a perimeter to ensure no civilians are injured.”

  “Oh,” Jaime said then, uncertain. “Um, maybe we need to just leave, Manolo.”

  “Uh…I think that sounds good, Jaime,” Manolo agreed with a shiver, as a banshee scream emerged from the alleyway.

  “That is, indeed, a good plan, gentlemen,” the officer said.

  They went.

  “BASTARDS! You damn sons of bitches!” Kaplan snarled, twisting onto her right side and slashing her nails in Ashton’s direction again. “I’ll tear you apart before I ‘come with you’! You don’t get–”

  The tranquilizer dart caught her in her other glute, and she screamed in a blend of pain, surprise, and rage, continuing to fight.

  “SHIT!” she shouted. “THAT HURT, DAMMIT! Let me alone, you shithead assholes!”

  When she couldn’t crawl because of her stunned leg, Kaplan pulled herself toward the investigators with her arms and remaining leg, trying to reach them with her clawed fingernails. But not being idiots, Smith and Ashton had immediately backed off, out of the way of the tranq dart, and remained out of her reach. The pair just kept backing away as she crawled, waiting for the tranquilizer drug to take effect.

  “I ain’t done nothin’!” Kaplan continued to scream, kicking, punching, and scratching. “You don’t have a damn thing on me!”

  “The hell you say,” Ashton said. “We have you dead to rights.”

  “NO! I don’t – d-don’t…I don’t…you don’t have any… anyth-thing…” Abruptly her head wobbled badly, and her left leg went limp. “Oh d-damn…I don’ f-feel too go-good…” She tried to pull herself toward Ashton with her arms, but they were starting to get shaky, too. She fought the sensation with all her strength, but there was no overcoming the tranquilizer used in police dart guns. At last she slumped to the pavement and lay still.

  “Whoo…” Smith sighed. “Finally.”

  “No shit. Whole damn lotta that,” Ashton agreed. “Damn, I thought that tranq would never kick in! Johnny, are you okay, pal? She nailed your face but good, man.”

  “Pun intended,” Smith said with a rueful chuckle, as he drew the back of his hand across his face. It came away covered in blood, as more blood dripped from his nose and chin onto his uniform tunic. “Ow. Shit, that stings! I hate head wounds. They bleed like crazy.” He paused, then looked up at Ashton. “She kicked you pretty good there, too. You okay?”

  “Aw, I’m fine. I’ll have a bruise on my ass, but I’m okay – I’ve had worse from a fall down a flight of stairs. She’s not that big, an’ she didn’t have good leverage or angles anyway, on the ground like that.”

  “That’s good. We need our leader to finish off his strategy and bring these turds in.”

  “Yeah. But she’d shaped her nails into points, so she could carve people up, and I’m worried about that face of yours. Hey, any of you guys rated for first aid? Johnny needs some patching up, here, before he bleeds out or something.” Ashton went through his pockets, looking for anything that could be used to mop the blood that still dripped from Smith’s face.

  “Yep,” Armbrand said through VR, as Ames released the jamming. “I see it.”

  “Kinda hard to miss, what with all that blood,” Rassmussen commented, and everyone snorted to stifle laughter. It broke the tension nicely, and everyone relaxed a little.

  “Shut up, you,” Armbrand said, his grin audible. “Lemme get the kit outta the transport and I’ll be right over to tend ‘im, Nick.”

  “I’ll go with, and grab the stretcher for the perp,” Weyand noted. “Get the spitfire handcuffed, just in case, guys. Damn, but she was fightin’ the tranq. We do not need her throwing it off and waking up!”

  “Good point. Nick?” Smith said, holding out the cuffs he’d tried to use earlier. “Can you get that? I got so much blood in my eyes, I can’t really see to do it.”

  “She didn’t get an eye with those nails, did she?” Ashton worried, accepting the cuffs and restraining their perp.

  “Nah. The brow bone deflected ‘er, but that’s the place that’s bleeding into my eyes. It’s just some nasty scratches. I’ve had worse from Colonel Peterson’s cat; it’s just, it’s my face, so it’s all bleeding like crazy. You know?”

  “Yeah. Good. It doesn’t sound that serious, then. Keep it clean, close it up, and it prob’ly won’t even scar,” Ashton decided. “Somebody bring the car around, and we’ll deliver the damn she-cat to the Imperial Guard.”

  Moments later, Kaplan was loaded into the back of the transport, and two of the beat cops assigned to their operation were hauling her away, in the general direction of the Palace.

  “Okay, that’s as much as I know how to do, at this point,” Armbrand said, sitting back and studying Smith’s bandage-patched face. “At least I got it stopped bleeding, cleaned out, and cleaned up.” He shrugged. “Rich, take John off to IUH for some medical attention, please. There’s some places in that mess that really need stitches, and I’m sure he could use an antipathogen, there. No telling what was under her nails.”

  “Right,” Ashton affirmed, as Weyand took one of the arcade carts and headed off with Smith beside him. “The rest of us, let’s get reset. Beckham arrives for lunch in a couple hours.”

  Derek Beckham was due to arrive at the Waffle Stomper diner for lunch around noon, or about two hours after Kaplan had left it…though, unbeknownst to Beckham, only about an hour and a half after she was unceremoniously carried away, unconscious and in custody. Based on the team’s undercover reconnoiter, it seemed he wasn’t such a great cook; he ate out for at least ninety percent of his meals except breakfast, was seen purchasing cold cereal and milk in a grocery for that, and the Waffle Stomper was one of his favorite haunts, despite his expensive tastes. It was cheap, it was quick, it was reasonably good food, and it was long on safety for people who lived on the wrong side of the law.

  “Okay, he’s on the way,” Ashton told the others through the team’s VR channel, after getting the message through the separate reconnoiter channel. “Weaver and Compton just checked in.”

  “They’re trailing, right?” Rassmussen asked. “With Rich and John gone, we need them for backup on this guy. If he fights the way Kaplan did, we’re in trouble – he’s a helluva lot bigger than she was.”

  “No shit, and no argument,” Ashton said, “and yes, they are. Alan is gonna be my arrest partner once he ditches the hoodie jacket he’s using to hide his face and uniform tunic, and Hugo is gonna handle the VR jammer.” He paused, then asked, “Any other questions?”

  “Nope,” came multiple replies. “We’re good, Nick,” Armbrand added.

&n
bsp; “Good. Remember, we grab him just around the corner as he’s headed inbound, so hopefully we’ll be out of sight of anybody who might rat on us. Especially after takin’ down the banshee.”

  Beckham was looking forward to lunch. The Waffle Stomper had been where he had first met Susan Kaplan, nearly ten years ago; she was as much of a looker now as she had been then, and he had become one of her best and most regular clients. They had soon become good friends, and that was why he had brought her in on Joey Bronze’s little operation. Sometimes the pair met at the diner for what she called brunch, though it was anything but what the upscale restaurants served as such. But for some reason, his recent cons had not panned out as he had expected, and he was a little short on cash for those upscale restaurants as a consequence, so the old standby diner would do.

  He didn’t expect to see SuzieQ at the Waffle Stomper today, though; they had made the considered decision to avoid being seen in public together for a few weeks, to allow any activity around the assassination to die down, and avoid any accidental recognition. He had come somewhat later than his usual time for lunch as a consequence, though not by much.

  So he wasn’t really expecting what came next.

  Beckham was right around the corner from the diner when he was suddenly accosted by two uniformed police officers.

  “Come with us, Mr. Beckham,” said the tall, dark-haired cop. “Put your hands behind your back, please. You’re under arrest.”

  “I think there’s been a little misunderstanding, guys,” Beckham said with an ingratiating smile, even as he attempted to raise help via VR. It was blocked, to his dismay. As the brunet cop pulled one of Beckham’s forearms behind his back, the ginger cop enclosed that wrist in handcuffs, quickly capturing Beckham’s other wrist in the restraint, as well. “I’m on your side.”

  “Look closer,” the ginger-haired cop snapped.

  “Huh?” Beckham responded, badly confused by this point. He had expected the Imperial Police to leave him alone, all things considered.