The suspect grinned, baring bloody teeth. “We both know I’m just a low-level cook. That means I’ll be out on bail by the end of the day.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. See, one of your dipshit homeboys upstairs thought it’d be a good idea to fire an RPG at us. You realize how much shit that puts your ass is in?” The KDCI officer killed the warrant holograph and then leaned in closer to the suspect. “And let me assure you, my friends and I have all types of ruin-your-day shit we’re just itching to use on a couple of Fizz-heads like yourself.” He drew his futuristic-looking sidearm and dangled it loosely in front of the suspects face, allowing the carbon-black muzzle to sway back-and-forth like a pendulum.
“Man, you sure talk a lotta smack for a pig,” the suspect snarled, refusing to be intimidated by the gesture.
“And you sure got a lotta teeth for a Fizz-head who likes to run their mouth. You know what, maybe I’ll just go ahead put a round into that thick skull of yours - just like I did with your bud over there.”
Matt looked over to see exactly who the officer was referring to.
A third cook was slumped in a bloody heap at the end of the hallway. Behind him, some exploded skull fragments had embedded into the wall like shrapnel. This one was still wearing a respirator mask. An antique-looking AK-47 rested a few feet from the body. The dead suspect looked to be no older than eighteen.
What a waste of life, Matt thought as he looked away, gritting his jaw.
The suspect on the floor turned his face upwards to look at the KDCI officer towering over him. “Man, what kind of fucking cop are you?”
The KDCI officer smiled and pinched the suspects cheek before holstering his sidearm and standing. “The worst kind.”
Then, hearing a loud ruckus behind him, Matt spun to see more KDCI officers marching down the three remaining male suspects from upstairs. All three looked dirty and strung-out. Hard-looking fucks with rotten teeth and patchy beards, their gaunt arms and necks, laced with neon-colored tattoos. One was wounded with a gunshot to the upper leg. His Fizz-blasted glare landed on Matt as he limped down the rickety staircase, zip-tied wrists behind his back. Matt took a moment to study the grotesque display of sexualized violence inked across his bare chest. Matt immediately pegged him as a high-ranking member of Odin’s Outlaws. Possibly a General.
Armstrong appeared next to Matt and gently took him aside by the arm. “Listen, I want you and Pearson to secure the basement,” he said in a low voice. “House is a goddamn maze. No way it’s been properly cleared yet. There could be more of them still hiding somewhere on the property. Brand and I will check the barn outside. Unless you run into trouble, stay off comms. The less these knuckleheads know, the better.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt replied. He looked across the room and gave Pearson a knowing nod.
She acknowledged it and moved across the room to join him, pushing through the crush of KDCI officers who were all now high-fiving and congratulating each other over the large stash of Fizz one of them had unearthed from a hidden compartment in the living room floor.
Six
Matt and Pearson secured their rifles and drew their sidearms, slowly descending the narrow staircase that led down into the basement. As soon as they hit the darkness, the flashlights attached to the end of their muzzles automatically switched on.
The squalor seemed to intensify with each new step they took, the rowdy cop voices upstairs fading as they entered the cavernous room. The two flashlight beams cut through the shadows, revealing old and rusted farming equipment scattered everywhere, most of it clad in thick dust and spiderwebs. Above them, an army of moths rattled inside a cracked light fixture that kept blinking on and off, exposed wires sagging from the ceiling.
Matt’s flashlight found a black tarpaulin draped over a crumbling foundation wall across the opposite side of the room. He clicked his fingers at Pearson and pointed to it. They began moving towards it, caterpillar slow, Matt following the muzzle of his gun as he gingerly lifted up a corner of the black material to peer through it.
Yellow sodium lights illuminated the sprawl of a full-scale Fizz lab. A series of benches and tables were littered with scorched mason jars, funnels, waste drums, and gas cylinders. Some of the equipment was scarred with the tell-tale remnants of battery acid, drain cleaner, and other harmful chemicals used to make the insidious drug. To the left side of the room was a huge workstation, occupied with chemical tanks, tubes, beakers, plastic vats and gallons of corrosive solvent.
Matt and Pearson had each busted enough addicts and dealers to know exactly what they were looking at. They covered their mouths as they moved through the underground lab, careful not to inhale the toxic air, weapons sweeping left-to-right. Suddenly, Pearson froze in her tracks, a faint mechanical sound drawing her to something behind her.
A droning. Echoed and discordant.
Matt heard it too.
They moved towards a door-sized sheet of plywood that was suspiciously placed across their path, looking as if it were dropped from the sky.
Matt wedged his tactical-gloved fingers underneath a corner of the plywood and dragged it aside, revealing a grave-like hole that had been crudely bored out of rocky clay. Matt estimated it was roughly twelve-feet deep. The loud hum of a power generator emanated from somewhere below, and a faint glow of light could also be seen.
Pearson turned to Matt with a wry grin. “Ladies before gentlemen.”
Matt feigned a smile, took a deep breath, and jumped down into the hole first.
Pearson followed him down.
It was like they had both just been dropped into one of the Viet Cong’s Cu Chi tunnels. Pistols firmly raised to their eye-lines, they started following a series of connected extension cords and feeder cables that snaked along a narrow passageway. At the very end of the tunnel, Matt could see the stark glare of two auxiliary lights. Where the hell was this all leading to? he thought.
Then, a loud popping sound echoed down the tunnel.
Pop!
Pop-pop!
Matt’s immediate thought was that someone had begun setting off fireworks in the tunnel. When he caught a harsh burst of white light in front of him, it took another second for him to realize he was seeing muzzle flash, and that a bullet had punched into the clay wall, inches from his right ear. He dropped low and fired a couple of return shots, still partially dazzled. Then, he spun around to see Pearson collapsed on the ground, sucking for air. “Pearson! Shit!”
“I’m OK,” she gasped, clasping at the vest that just saved her life. “Caught the breast plate. Just go! Stay on the air. I’ll radio Armstrong and Brand for back-up.” Matt watched her roll onto her stomach, struggling to get to her knees as she hacked for air. When Matt went to pull her to her feet she slapped his hand away. “Go! I’m fine!”
Matt gave her stern nod and took off, stalking his unseen prey along the gloomy tunnel.
Matt moved at a brisk, yet cautious pace. He had holstered his sidearm, and now had the scope of his rifle raised firmly to his eye as he pushed deeper through the tunnel. The clammy air stunk of wet earth and diesel.
He reached a fork where one half-collapsed tunnel branched off into pitch-black darkness, and the other was held up by regular intervals of two-by-four bracing. Next to a portable power generator was a large steel platform with wheels, resting on top of some rail tracks. The ceiling of the tunnel was clad in a thin metallic mesh, which reminded Matt of the chicken-wire he would see his father sometimes use around the family farm when he was growing up. However, this particular material was well known to law enforcement. It was military grade material - designed to block out the gamma-ray imaging police drones would often utilize to deep-scan suspected Fizz labs. Upon seeing all this, it was immediately clear to Matt that this tunnel was an elaborate transportation line which the gang was in the process of constructing underneath the property. For all Matt knew, this particular tunnel could have stretched on for miles, possibly crossing into another state altogether.
No sign of backup. He was on his own. For now at least.
He took a deep breath, adjusted the silver shield that was dangling over his vest, and continued on for what seemed like another fifteen minutes or so, hugging the left side of the tracks until they ended and the tunnel opened up into a huge underground space of corrugated iron.
It was part storage facility, part auto chop-shop - easily the size of a small aircraft hangar. There were several rows of parked vehicles and motorbikes. Every shape and size seemed accounted for; Harley choppers, family SUVs, to luxury model coupés and electric sedans. There was even an autonomous self-driving Mack truck. Some of the vehicles had been partly dismantled in order to be retrofitted with hidden smuggling compartments.
In another corner of the room, Matt spotted bricks of Fizz stacked waist-high, wrapped tightly in a special odor-blocking plastic the gangs used to fool sniffer dogs. Next to it towered another packed shipment of Fizz, resting on top of wooden pallets waiting to be transported.
Matt paused, giving himself a moment to absorb the implications of what he had just discovered. While the farmhouse was indeed a full-scale lab, down here was the true heart of their operation. This gang had dug deep into the earth and built their very own transportation port. The full extent of it was yet to be known. Matt still had no idea how any of these vehicles reached the surface.
Keeping to the inky shadows, he approached a wooden staircase that led up to the pre-fab office cubicle which overlooked the garage. He was certain the suspect was hiding in there.
Once Matt reached the top of the staircase, he dropped to his knees and slowly turned the door handle.
The door creaked open. Matt quietly entered the narrow, carpeted hallway before him.
It was dark and the air was stuffy, but he could make out two small rooms on each side. He crept low along to the first room, peering in to see a small work desk with a swivel chair. The slim tower of a holo-computer console sat on the desk, surrounded by a mountain of receipt binders. Matt knew from prior briefings this gang had a legitimate transportation business it used as a front. This office was most likely where it was run from.
Suddenly, there was a loud commotion in the next room along - like the frantic clack of someone sifting through a set of plastic keys. Matt slowly edged along to the next room and readied himself to rush in and subdue the suspect. But as he shifted his weight onto his front foot, the wooden floorboard underneath him creaked loudly.
Matt froze.
The keys stopped clacking.
Still crouched low against the wall, Matt tried to take in shallow breaths, even though it felt like his heart was about to burst through his chest.
Matt mentally cursed himself. The suspect knows I’m here. Aside from an all-out firefight, his only option now was to try and plead with this guy. “You can’t just drive outta here, man. The entire property is surrounded. They’ve got dragonfly drones all over the place looking for you.”
No response.
Matt continued to press. “And you shot my partner back there. That was incredibly stupid of you.”
More silence.
“Look, we both know if I don’t take you in, those task-force cowboys are gonna catch you and rip you apart. Believe me, you’d much rather it be me who arrests you. Come on. It’s over. Let’s just call it a day—”
Matt jolted as three bullets suddenly exploded through the drywall next to his head, pocking the adjacent wall. He dropped to the ground, rolled onto his side and returned fire into the room. He then sprung to his feet and bashed through the door to see the suspects trainers scissoring wildly as he wiggled up into a hole in the ceiling. He had removed some of the polystyrene paneling.
Matt dived for the pair of flailing legs and wrenched them back down by the ankles. But the suspect managed to hold on, twisting one leg free. He stomp-kicked Matt square in the nose.
The blow sent Matt crumbling to the ground, the side of his head connecting with the corner of a steel-framed office desk. By the time he recovered, the suspect had already vanished into the ceiling. Matt could hear him scurrying above like a rat.
Ignoring his bleeding nose and throbbing skull, Matt got back to his feet and vaulted up through the hole to pursue the fleeing suspect. The time for being reasonable had well and truly passed. One way or another, Matt was going to take this guy into custody.
Seven
Matt moved awkwardly through the crawlspace, climbing over the rows of wooden support beams.
Up ahead, he could see the suspect kicking a small grille set low in a panel of drywall. He was attempting to escape into the air duct system. Although his full features were still shrouded in shadow, Matt could tell he was young by the way he moved. Not a teenager, but perhaps somewhere in his early twenties.
“Don’t do it!” Matt yelled. “Drop the weapon and turn around!”
In a brazen move of defiance, the suspect spun around and fired off a rattle of shots at Matt.
Matt ducked as a peppering of bullets cracked into a wooden beam above him. That’s twice now this kid had fired at him and barely missed. There would not be a third time. Matt took aim with his sidearm and returned fire.
Pop-pop-pop!
Matt’s rounds punched into the drywall, but the suspect had already managed to open the grille and disappear into the air duct.
“Shit! Matt fired another shot for good measure and continued his pursuit.
When he reached the exposed duct, he could see from the flashlight beam of his sidearm that it sharply curved upwards. Almost vertically. It was going to be a tight fit.
Matt squeezed into the claustrophobic space and began to caterpillar-crawl along on his stomach until he reached an intersection with a ledge that curved up into another connecting duct. There was enough room in this shaft for a low crouch. Using his upper-body, he climbed into it and began to crouch-walk along, the back of his ballistic vest scrapping the ceiling, the thin metal booming and creasing around him. It was a maze in here. He passed smaller side ducts covered by grilles and vertical shafts that dropped down into lower levels. It did not take long for the air in this new shaft to become less stale. Matt could also feel the soft kiss of a breeze against his face.
He cleared a sharp corner, catching a shaft of sunlight washing the tunnel walls. He could also hear a loud, metallic banging up ahead. He knew exactly what that sound was.
As Matt drew closer, he could see the suspect had kicked out another, much larger ventilation grill at the opposite end of the duct with the heel of his shoe.
Metal creased as Matt stopped and took aim.
The suspect heard the muffled boom of metal and spun around to see Matt aiming right at him. With the speed of a panther, he turned and leaped out of the open vent as Matt fired off a single shot.
Pop!
But again, he was too fast for Matt.
The second the suspect vanished, sunlight flooded the tunnel, causing Matt to shield his eyes. He continued his pursuit and scurried to the end of the vent, the hot sun hitting his face like a brick.
Wherever he had emerged, it was a long way from the farmhouse.
The air duct was protruding from the base of a small mountain. Below the vent was a ten-foot drop into a dusty scrap yard. It was an ocean of used tires and rusted auto junk. There was a grimy trailer parked in one corner, with an old, beat-to-shit Tesla coupé parked in front of it.
Matt knew this yard was still part of the gang’s territory. It was also possible the entrance to the storage facility below was somewhere here too - most likely hidden in plain sight. Beyond the barbed-wire fencing that surrounded the yard, he could see an open gate that connected to a narrow dirt road, which snaked alongside a col
umn of dense scrub.
Matt pivoted his body, dangling his legs out first, then leaped down into the yard, breaking his fall with a hard roll.
He took in the dusty yard before him. There didn’t seem to be a soul around. Only a few faint dog barks punching through the silence. The suspect was nowhere to be seen. He had either jumped the barb-wire fence and continued his escape on foot. Or, he was holed up inside the trailer.
Matt checked to see the car was empty, then slowly approached the trailer perched at the far corner of the yard, weaving between columns of old tires and engine parts. His eyes darted around the yard as he moved, the hairs on the back of his neck stiffening as he drew closer. Sidearm raised, he slowly reached for the trailer’s door handle, twisted it, and pulled it open.
From inside, there was a quick flash of movement. Suddenly, a steel-colored pit-bull launched out of the trailer like a hellfire missile. Sixty-pounds of muscle collided with Matt’s ballistic vest, plowing him back across the yard into the dirt. His sidearm flew out of his grip, skittering across the dusty ground.
No time to lunge for it, or correct the rifle strap now awkwardly twisted around his neck, Matt had no choice but to smash his gloved-fist into the dog’s snout.
It didn’t flinch a whisker.
It was at that moment Matt caught fleeting glimpses of macabre augmentations protruding from its skull and neck. This thing wasn’t entirely canine. It was a Mutie-Mutt - an unholy cross between a pit-bull and illegal black market tech that had been surgically affixed to the poor animal’s body. Muti-Mutts were designed purely for the cruel purpose of underground dog fighting.
Knowing this animal would not stop until one of them was dead, Matt had no choice but to grapple for the small tactical-knife sheathed around his ankle. But holding the writhing dog at bay was like trying to fend off a wrecking ball made of steel and knotted muscle. It was impossible for Matt to hold it off with one arm, so with is free arm, he began to repeatedly slam his elbow hard into the side of the dog’s head. After the third blow, it was visibly dazed. Then, with every ounce of strength Matt had left, he threw the crazed thing off him and scurried onto his feet, clearing some much-needed distance between them. This would give Matt enough time to recover the rifle strap twisted around his neck.
The Invasion Page 3