Chaser

by J. A. Konrath

  “It’s a doghouse,” Roy said.

  Beyond the doghouse, standing in front of some bright lights, a figure raising and swinging his arm.

  Even though there was no sound and the figure only a silhouette, the motion was obvious.

  He’s hitting something.

  He’s hitting Tom.

  “Target confirmed, we’re going in. Red Five, patio. Diana, side garage door. Han and I are taking the front door. Han, cover me.”

  “You cover me,” Roy said, raising his pistol. “Han shoots first.”

  Fabler nodded. Roy was an ex-cop, he’d know what he was doing.

  “Twenty second countdown, entry on zero, starting… now.”

  HUGO

  This is perfect.

  Decent crowd. No guns. Bright lights and lots of commotion and noise and activity.

  Hugo hadn’t ever been to an amusement park.

  As a child, he and Phin had never been taken anywhere. The only thing Hugo remembered from his childhood was being abused, until he’d grown big enough to become the abuser.

  As an adult, Hugo had no need for frivolities. When he hadn’t been in prison, he’d been living as a criminal, or working for the Order. Rollercoasters weren’t on his to-do list.

  I’m probably too big to fit on them, anyway.

  But though he managed to avoid parks for over four decades, Hugo finds he likes the atmosphere. So much happening at once. So many distractions.

  He feels like a cat at a laser light show.

  Adding to his pleasure is Pasha.

  She’s been a textbook perfect abductee. Minimal resistance, not a single escape attempt, and even though she’s alert and motivated, Pasha sits in the wheelchair and doesn’t make a move, doesn’t speak a peep.

  I don’t even have a gun to her head.

  But, admittedly, what I have is a lot worse.

  He pushes her chair toward the carousel, dropped popcorn crunching under the wheels.

  “Excited to see your ex?”

  Pasha doesn’t reply. Hugo gives the gentlest of tugs on the wooden rake handle, and she whimpers.

  “Yes.”

  “You still love him?”

  “Yes,” she says, and he doesn’t even have to prompt her.

  “Don’t get so excited that you try to go to him when you see him. That would turn out bad for you.”

  “I know.”

  “In position.”

  That’s not for Pasha. That’s for the Cowboy and the Weirdo Twins, listening in on radio.

  “Copy that. Your brother just entered the park. He has three with him, two men and a woman.”

  “His wife?”

  “No. Someone else. The sister of the woman who helped break you out of prison. She’s dangerous.”

  Hugo smiles. “So am I. And I’m betting she can’t deadlift nine hundred pounds.”

  The Cowboy doesn’t reply.

  Hugo waits. He’s good at waiting.

  He’s been waiting for this moment for over ten years.

  When he spots Phin, it’s nearly surreal. Like slow motion. Phin approaches calmly, hands empty, face devoid of expression. When he’s within two meters, Hugo orders him to stop.

  Here we go…

  “You’re looking old, little brother.”

  “You okay?” Phin is talking to Pasha.

  Pasha begins to speak, but Hugo gives the handle a little tug and she yelps.

  “I’ve threaded a guitar string through her triceps. It’s wrapped around a wooden handle, which I’m holding right now. If I tug, it will slice her muscle in half. That will hurt. It will also slice her brachial artery in half. That will kill. How long would it take you to bleed out, Doctor?”

  “Four minutes.” Pasha’s on the verge of tears. “Maybe less.”

  “But it won’t come to that. Because if either of you do anything I don’t like, I’ll snap her neck three seconds after I pull the handle.”

  Hugo puts his free hand on her scalp, palming it like a softball.

  “Let her go,” Phin says. “I’ll go with you.”

  “New plan. You’ll both come with me. I’ll let Pasha go when we’re away from the crowds.”

  “He’s lying,” Pasha blurts out.

  Brave little girl.

  Hugo gives the wire a minor tug, and she whines through clenched teeth.

  “Don’t do that again,” Phin says.

  “Or you’ll do what?”

  “It’s not what I’ll do. It’s what we’ll do.”

  A woman threads through the crowd and stops at Phin’s side. Short and blonde, she doesn’t appear especially dangerous.

  To her right, an old man, even shorter than the woman.

  Hugo laughs. “You think a bitch and an old midget can help you?”

  “Absolutely,” Phin says.

  He’s so serious.

  And he doesn’t seem intimidated.

  This isn’t working out like it did in my head.

  “You have a choice, Phineas. Tell your little friends to back off, and you follow me, alone. Or else you watch her die. Then I’ll kill all of you.”

  “Someone is dying today,” Phin says. “But it isn’t Pasha. And it isn’t us.”

  “Third guy, coming up behind you,” the Cowboy whispers in his ear.

  Hugo turns—

  —and then there’s a blur of motion and someone pushes Pasha at the same moment something else hits him in the forehead, hard enough to make him stagger backwards.

  The short guy. He did some sort of cartwheel and hit me between the eyes with an elbow, so fast I didn’t even see it coming.

  Hugo raises his huge hands, and notices the bloody wooden handle still in his palm, the wire loop dripping red.

  Oops.

  Now you did it, little brother.

  You just killed your girlfriend.

  A third man, older and tan, comes at Hugo sideways, ducking under a roundhouse punch and

  pushing away Pasha’s wheelchair while Phin yells after him, “She’s bleeding! Stop the bleeding and get her help!”

  Then the woman is coming at Hugo, and she’s some kind of gymnast like the old guy, because she does a handspring and kicks Hugo in the chin.

  He barely has time to stand there and brace himself, taking the hit, and she rolls away to the left, gracefully bouncing up to her feet, her hands balled up.

  To his right, the gymnast takes off his jacket and has a very impressive physique for someone so old and short.

  In the distance, the guy who snuck up on him, pushing Pasha through the crowd.

  And directly in front of him…

  Phin. A knife in his hand. Murder in his eyes.

  Three attackers are no problem. I’ve taken on more than three.

  Hugo drops the guitar string and balls up his fists.

  Let’s do this.

  Phin advances, nothing fancy in his approach, coming in with his head down like a brawler.

  Hugo waits for him to get close, and executes a push-kick, planting a size 14 boot on his brother’s chest, knocking him back two meters, sending him tumbling to the asphalt.

  The woman darts in, super-quick, and Hugo jabs twice, misses, and she rolls sideways and brings up a leg, kicking at his kneecap.

  She connects, and the pain is substantial. So bad Hugo wonders if she broke his knee.

  Then the gymnast does some gravity-defying crazy leaping spin kick and somehow connects with Hugo’s nose.

  Hugo sees stars. Feels his nose squash. Feels the blood pour down his chin.

  The woman runs at him again, and the old guy attempts a leg sweep, but this time Hugo is ready and he drops down to his good knee, batting the woman aside as she flies at him, then hitting the gymnast with a fist the size of a roasted chicken, right in his old-ass face.

  The short guy rolls with some of the punch, but when he comes up he’s spitting blood and teeth.

  Phin steps around the gymnast, coming at Hugo knife-first, and the Man With Seven Tear
s raises up his palm and takes the jab, the blade punching through the back of his hand. Hugo clenches his fist, pulling the embedded knife away from his brother, and then connecting with a roundhouse, catching Phin on the shoulder, sending him sprawling.

  “Jack isn’t here,” the Cowboy whines in his ear. “You need to take Phin alive.”

  “Change of plan,” Hugo says. “Everybody dies.”

  He tugs the ceramic knife from his palm and grips the bloody handle.

  Time to finish this.

  TOM

  The electricity hurt bad. A burning, seizing sensation that locked his muscles and went on and on and on.

  The belt wasn’t as horrible. But what Cissick lacked in strength he made up for in sheer frenzy, whipping him over and over, so fast that Tom couldn’t grab it; he could only use one hand while he protected his face with the other.

  Five hits. Ten. Then Tom lost count, Cissick wailing the entire time, “Bad dog! Bad dog!”

  Enough. He’s not hitting me again.

  I’m done with this insanity.

  As Cissick lashed out for the umpteenth time, Tom raised both hands, managing to catch the belt and tear it from the monster’s grasps.

  Cissick, alarmed, reached for his electric prod, but Tom snapped the belt like snapping a towel, thwacking Cissick in the face with the tip.

  Cissick howled.

  Then something began to beep.

  Cissick’s face went from rage to disbelief. He dropped the prod, grabbed his canes, and limped behind the spotlights, into the darkness.

  Something spooked him. Some sort of alarm system?

  Tom focused on the prod, crawling toward it, extending the collar chain to its maximum length, then stretching out his arm… reaching… reaching…

  Too far away.

  But I’m not giving up.

  He folded the belt in half, so it was stiff as a stick, and reached out again—

  —snagging the loop on the end of the prod and pulling it slowly, slowly, toward him.

  He heard a noise.

  Cissick?

  I’m ready for you, you bastard.

  I’m not afraid anymore.

  I’m done being afraid.

  A figure appeared, silhouetted by the lights. Tom got up on one knee, holding the prod out in front of him like a sword.

  “Tom!”

  Is that…

  “Roy!”

  His best friend didn’t rush to him. Gun out, Roy cleared the garage, making sure it was empty before coming to Tom’s side.

  “What took you so long?”

  Tom knew it was lame, but it was all he could come up with. He was about to start sobbing in relief.

  “You ain’t an easy man to find. I had to get help. Hopefully they’re taking down your buddy, Cissick, as we speak.”

  “Police?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Did you bring a bolt cutter?”

  “Of course we brought a bolt cutter. Jesus, Tom. You’re pretty beat up.”

  “I’m feeling okay. Adrenaline, I think.”

  “So your hand don’t hurt?”

  “My hand?”

  Tom lifted up his hands, and noticed his pinky finger jutting out sideways at a ninety degree angle.

  Must have happened when I grabbed the belt.

  That’s going to sting a little.

  The moment he thought it, the pain hit. And with it, a wave of nausea so intense he began to dry-heave.

  Roy touched his own ear. “What do you mean no one has him? Cissick was just here! Where the hell did he go?”

  That son of a bitch got away?

  Oh, no…

  JACK

  Three-quarters of the way to Cissick’s house, Deb Deiter from Traffic Control called me. I put her on speakerphone as I navigated the tight streets of Compton.

  “I called McGlade twice, he didn’t pick up.”

  “Whatcha got, Deb?”

  “I checked all the cameras around the arena, and I think I found your guy. Facial recognition software didn’t ping anyone, so I had to manually scan the recordings. Got a guy wearing a black robe, pushing a man on a gurney, face covered in bandages. Man was under a sheet, and the resolution isn’t the best, but it could have been Tom.”

  “Did you follow them to a vehicle? Get a license plate?”

  “I did. No plate number. Bad angle. But check this out; he wasn’t alone. You and Harry were looking for an ambulance, right?”

  “Right.”

  “There was a guy helping Cissick. And they both pushed Tom into a freaking ambulance.”

  I tried to wrap my head around that.

  “Those are two different cases, Deb. Two different perps. Cissick and Plastic.”

  “Well unless Cissick has a buddy who’s a paramedic, I’d guess your bad guys are working together.

  Son of a bitch. I called it. These nutjobs always find one another.

  “Did you track the ambulance through other lights?”

  “I’m doing that, but each turn makes it exponentially harder, so it’s slow going. Plus I’m still at work, doing the job the county pays me to do. But I’m on it.”

  “Thanks for calling. And if you hear from McGlade, tell him it’s an emergency.”

  “An emergency? Everything okay?”

  Everything was definitely not okay. “Just taking care of business. Keep me posted.”

  I hung up and parked behind Fabler’s Jeep and double-checked that my revolver was loaded.

  Time to do what I do.

  I got out of the car, heading toward Cissick’s house, moving as fast as my robot-assist legs could carry me. The neighborhood was so quiet all I could hear was the whir of my exosuit servos.

  Then, out of the darkness, a cloaked figure.

  Erinyes.

  I had a bad moment of pure rage, thinking about what this bastard had done to my friend, Tom, and I raised the gun and sighted on his head.

  My trigger finger almost made the choice for me, but I held off.

  I aimed lower, at his legs.

  But that still had too much risk. If Cissick really was working with Plastic, I needed to take him alive and get him to talk.

  So instead of shoot, I did the one thing I hadn’t done in forever.

  I tried to run.

  The exosuit’s computer was smart and fast, adjusting to my awkward movements as I jerked one foot in front of the other, trying to get some momentum going.

  A brisk walk became a slow jog.

  Then a slow jog became a fast jog.

  And then, like some Tiny Tim Christmas miracle, I was running, gaining on Cissick, coming up fast and then sticking out an arm and clotheslining him from the side, hooking his neck and pulling him to the pavement and my legs flipped out ahead of me and I landed hard on top of him.

  He was ugly. Scarred and gnarled as bad as I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen bad.

  “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me! I’m just a homeless man!”

  My ass. “You’re Walter Cissick.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “You’re live streaming on Usher House.”

  “You can’t prove anything. I’m innocent. I know my rights. I want my lawyer. I have the right to remain silent.”

  So he thinks we’re cops. I could roll with that. “Tell me about Plastic.”

  “You know Plastic?” He grinned, toothless, his infected gums maroon in the moonlight. “So do I.”

  I placed my gun against his head. “Tell me where he is.”

  “Plastic would do worse things to me if I told. Horrible, beautiful things.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s currently indisposed. Doing some work on a new patient.”

  I felt a slow wave of nausea coarse through me. Because I had a really bad feeling I knew who Plastic had.

  “Is it Harry McGlade?”

  Cissick grinned wide. “How did you know?”

  I spoke slowly, teeth clenched. “Where is he?”

&
nbsp; “Now? I’m guessing he’s in recovery. Your friend is going to be a whole new man. Or a man without a hole.”

  That made no sense.

  “Jack?”

  I looked toward the voice, saw Presley jogging up to me. “We found a hidden door in the garage. Blended right into the outdoor siding. He got away from us.”

  “He didn’t get away from me.” I managed to get onto my knees. Been a while since I could do that. “Plastic has Harry. This son of a bitch knows where he is.”

  “I want to make a deal,” Cissick told us.

  And I wanted to pistol whip him until I saw bone. But to get information, I had to keep my cool. I’d been a cop a long time. You didn’t get someone to talk through empty threats, and I’d seen cases get overturned because some of my fellow officers were overzealous in forcing a confession.

  I needed honey. Not vinegar.

  No matter how much I hated this sack of human garbage.

  I blew out a deep breath, trying to shake off the adrenaline. “Okay. We can make a deal. You take us to Plastic, we’ll let you go.”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  “I got legal advice right here for you, you piece of shit.” Grim had joined the party, and had his rifle in Cissick’s face. “How about I make you suck on some habeas corpus.”

  Cissick didn’t seem happy about that. His eyes shot over to me.

  “You can get a lawyer,” I explained, keeping my voice conversational. “But this offer depends on you getting us to McGlade before he’s harmed. If he’s hurt, no deal.”

  “I want it in writing.”

  “How about I write it in your brains, all over the street, you sick piece of—”

  “Red Five, stand down.” Fabler came up behind Grim, and Grim lowered his weapon.

  “I completely understand,” I told Cissick. “We can write it on the way there. Will that work for you?”

  “Yes. You’re nice. I like your face.”

  “Can you ride with me, in the back seat?” I asked Presley. “Make sure he stays nice and calm?”

  Presley glanced at Fabler, who nodded.

  “And Tom?”

  “Being taken to the hospital,” Fabler answered. “He’s fine, but his hand is broken. We’ll be right behind you, maintaining radio contact. Holler if you need us.”

  I managed to get to my feet without falling over.