Redfern picked up the GPS tracker. If the robot had been in sleep mode, it wasn’t anymore. The blip was now on the move and showed the killer robot was on the loose somewhere on the East side.
He propped the tracker on his dash and eased back into the traffic.
22
It had taken several hours for the Chicago PD along with a couple of members of the Organized Crime division to question Molenski. Finally, they conceded that the Russian seemed to have been the victim in this particular circumstance. From all appearances, his enemies had devised a particularly sophisticated assassination attempt by a robot.
The Russian had cooperated fully with the man in charge, Commander Burlinson, who was in fact on Molenski’s payroll, but it was clear that the case would be referred to the FBI as the AI factor moved it into federal jurisdiction.
When he’d told them about the murderous robot, it was as if he’d shoved a wasp’s nest up their ass with a long stick. A breach of the robotics laws was rare, especially a murder attempt, so what they had initially thought of as a standard mob hit turned into something with far wider ramifications.
Molenski was careful to implicate Ivan. By the time he left, Burlinson was under no illusion that the bodyguard had been in on the whole thing and that Molenski wanted him apprehended before the FBI got their hands on him.
Of course, the Russian didn’t really think that Ivan was involved in the plot. The assassination attempt was the work of the Columbians, of that he had no doubt. No one else had the resources or the motivation. He would deal with them in his own time.
Ivan, though, had let him down badly. Had betrayed him in his moment of need, despite everything that Molenski had done for him.
Still, one good that had come of the whole ordeal was that Ivan had prevented him from finishing Inga with another gunshot. Now that he wasn’t swept up in the emotion of his near-death experience, he saw how much sweeter it would be to deal with the beautiful Inga lookalike in his own sweet time. And he would make Ivan watch.
Molenski was sure he would find the odd couple, but sending the cops on his payroll after them was a backstop in the unlikely event his traitorous employee escaped his reach. If he was apprehended anywhere within the city limits, it would be easy enough to use his connections and grease a few palms to give Ivan and the bitch the welcome home they so richly deserved.
After the cops had quit the estate, the hunt for Ivan and Inga began in earnest. Molenski’s tech experts got busy hacking into the phone company’s systems to trace his phone and searching for the stolen Dodge.
While he was waiting, Molenski watched the surveillance footage of the Dodge speeding up the ramp of the underground parking lot over and over, peering intently at the black and white footage of the two absconders.
After twenty minutes, Molenski was informed that Ivan’s cell phone had last been detected a few suburbs away and hadn’t moved for hours.
“Don’t bother sending anyone; he’s not an idiot. It’s been dumped. What about the car?”
“Better. Courtesy of the vehicle tracking you paid for, we have an exact location…”
“Is it still moving?”
“No sir.”
“How long has it been stationary?”
“Three hours or so Mr. Molenski, at a wrecking yard on Kedzie Avenue.”
“He’s gone,” said Molenski. “But, let us go and find out who has my car and what they might know of our friend and his passenger. Give me your phone…”
Molenski quickly dialed a number.
“Andre, it’s me. I need you; something has come up. Be ready in 20 minutes.”
Molenski took three men and they picked up his lieutenant Andre Chichenko on the way. Now that Ivan had departed the scene, Molenski wouldn’t have admitted it, but he felt a little vulnerable without his constant and very competent shadow.
Andre though had been with him since not long after he arrived in America and was his head of security; he would adequately fill the shoes of the traitor.
Dimitri Molenski was quiet and thoughtful during the drive to Kedzie Avenue. That didn’t make the four men in the car with him relax. If anything, it put them more on edge, even the seasoned Andre.
An angry Molenski in full flight was much more predictable than his quiet alter ego.
23
The deal Stan Lewinski had made for the Dodge that afternoon put him in a good mood. Once the rebirthers paid him, the windfall would fund his betting for a whole month. He decided to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels on the way home, both to celebrate, and to dull the razor-sharp tongue of his wife… for a few hours, at least.
He started to pack up for the evening. These days he usually stretched his workdays for as long as he could - the less time he had to spend with his shrew of a wife in the evening, the better! If he’d been twenty years younger, he might have clawed his way out of their dead marriage. But he wasn’t. He was old and he was tired and pretty much just counting time, socking away as much money as he could for his grandchildren. Besides those kids and the horses, what else was there?
Whistling, he put on his jacket and hat and bent to pick up his briefcase. He stopped halfway and cursed, aware suddenly of the urgent need to take a piss. That’s how it was these days. No warning. Fine one minute and on the verge of wetting his pants like a toddler the next.
He straightened, groaning a little, and was about to head to the John when he heard tires on the gravel driveway.
“Who calls on a man at this time of night?” he asked in disgust.
He stalked to the door, ready to serve the unexpected visitor a warm slice of ‘fuck off’ pie. A long black Mercedes crawled up the drive and pulled up outside his office, lights on and engine running.
The sleek stretch limo looked out of place in his boneyard, and its blackened windows lent it a sinister air. Trying to look braver than he felt, he stomped down the steps and glared at the dark windows.
“I’m closed!” he yelled, in his best crabby old man voice.
Nothing. Feeling disquiet, Stan stalked to the front of the car and held a hand up to shade his eyes from the glaring headlights.
“I said, I’m closed!”
The car revved suddenly, and the old man jumped quickly out of the way, clutching his chest. A second later the engine and headlights were switched off. The rear doors opened, and four men got out.
“What are you, wise guys?” he yelled, trying to sound braver than he felt. “You’ll give an old man a heart attack.”
“Forgive my driver,” said the shortest of the men in a heavy Russian accent. “He is still getting used to the new car.”
“Well, I was telling you I’m closed, so if you wouldn’t mind turning your nice big shiny car around, I’ll be going home. You can come back tomorrow.”
Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, Stan could make out the man who had spoken. He was well dressed and smiling. His smile did anything but put the old man at ease.
“I understand Sir, and I won’t keep you any longer than I have to. Please, would you mind stepping back inside your office for a moment?”
Stan was about to argue when one of the other men stepped up close to him. The old man’s eyes widened. Unlike his boss, the man didn’t display any emotion at all, and with his heavy brow and blocky build he looked like a brick with eyes.
“I suppose I can give you five minutes,” he said, looking back to Molenski. “That’s all, though. My wife will shoot me if I’m home too late… you understand?”
The Russian laughed heartily.
“Oh, I understand completely!” the Russian said, placing an arm over Stan’s skinny shoulders and guiding him to the steps. “My own wife, God rest her soul, also had a temper. Come, let us speak inside.”
Stan allowed himself to be ushered back inside his office.
“Please, sit,” said the Russian.
The old man was about to refuse but the big man who was sticking to him like gum to a shoe, pushed a chair in
to the back of his legs. Stan sat heavily on the seat at the small table he’d set up for customers who never queued and folded his arms tightly across his chest. The Russian sat down opposite.
“Please relax, Mister..?”
“Lewinski. Stan Lewinski.”
“Mr. Lewinski, thank you. I am Dimitri Molenski. Now, I’m here about a car…”
“Well, you can come back tomorrow, if you don’t mind, I have to be getting home.”
Stan tried to stand up and found himself shoved back into the chair by the meaty hand of the brick.
“Please, Mr. Lewinski, I really don’t want things to become – shall we say – unpleasant. Andre here has a quick temper. Just allow me a few moments of your time and we can all go home.”
“Fine, fine,” snapped Lewinski. “What car?”
“A gray Dodge Challenger,” said the Russian, watching the old man closely. “A Hellcat.”
The old man’s guts turned to water. He should have trusted his instincts earlier, but his greed had won out.
“What, you want to buy one?” he bluffed. “I don’t have one; you should try the used car dealer down the…”
Molenski slammed his open hand down on the card table. The old man jumped.
“I know you took possession of one today. I know that because it’s mine.” The old man opened his mouth to speak, but Molenski held up his hand. “That’s neither here nor there, Stan –do you mind if I call you Stan? All I need from you is information.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve never bought or sold a Dodge Challenger. In fact I…”
Molenski waved a lazy hand at Andre who seized the old man’s wrist and peeled his hand away from his chest before separating his pinky from his other fingers. Without pause, he snapped it backward. The muffled snap of bones breaking was loud in the small room, but not as loud as the old man’s scream.
Molenski winced sympathetically and nodded his head.
“I know, I know – it must hurt like a bitch. Now Stan, please, just tell me what I need to know and as I said before, we’ll be out of your hair.”
The old man was beside himself; his eyes squeezed shut as he rocked back and forth. He moaned and cradled his damaged hand.
“Stan, please.”
Stan Lewinski ignored the Russian bastard, hoping, like a bad dream, he would just go away. It wasn’t until he felt his hand grabbed again and the finger next to his mangled pinky separated from its fellows that he capitulated.
“All right, all right! Yes, I bought it today! Please! I can give it back… no more… please…”
“Excellent,” said Molenski. “Now we’re making some progress. Tell me, was it a big man with a crew cut?”
“Yes,” said Stan, his voice strained. “Him and his girl, a pretty thing.”
Molenski nodded and leaned ever so slightly forward on his chair.
“Good, now think very carefully, did he say where he was going?”
“No,” said Stan, honestly. He was compliant now, willing to tell the man anything he wanted to know. “He did buy a car from me, though. A Hyundai. I’ll give you the registration details; they’re in my filing cabinet.”
“Excellent. You’re sure he said nothing else?”
“No Sir, it was a quick transaction, just the way I like,” Stan said, smiling ingratiatingly. His broken finger was shrieking louder than his wife in an argument, but finally, he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. He just wanted these people gone so he could go home and see to his finger.
“Good,” said Molenski, standing up. “You’ve been very helpful. Give Andre here the details.”
He headed for the door.
“But what about your car?”
“Keep it,” said Molenski over his shoulder before going through the door.
Stan was confused but relieved to see the back of the Russian, and keeping the car was a bonus. He stood up and shot the thug who had broken his finger a dirty look and headed behind the counter to his filing cabinet. He pulled out the folder with the details for the Hyundai and turned around to find the big man right in front of him. He took a wary step back and held out the folder.
Andre reached out with one of his long arms, but instead of taking the folder he grasped Stan Lewinski’s wrist and pulled him into a bear hug, his free hand snaking up behind the old man’s head and pulling his face into his chest.
The move was unexpected and done in such a way that at first, Stan thought the man was comforting him, perhaps sorry for his broken finger. With his face pressed into the fabric of the thug’s well-tailored sports coat, he hugged him back - he just wanted the fucker to leave with as little fuss as possible.
It was only when he tried to break away from the awkward hug that he found that it wasn’t a hug at all.
The hand on the back of his head pushed his face harder into the man’s chest, and Stan struggled to breathe. He dropped the folder and punched and clawed at the strong arms restraining him.
He tried to bite, but his mouth was so tight against the other man’s chest that he couldn’t open it wide enough.
Finally, he tried to scream but couldn’t.
What a fucking way to go! Hugged to death by a Russian!
Just before death took him, Stan Lewinski performed the one act of defiance still available to him and as the struggling of the old man weakened, Andre felt an unpleasant warmth spread over the front of his pants. Cursing, he stayed focused on the task at hand, holding him in the deadly embrace until a full minute had passed.
When it was done, Molenski’s man picked up the body and dumped it unceremoniously in the old office chair behind the counter. As the chair spun lazily into the wall, Stan Lewinski’s unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling, the small smile on his blue lips as unmistakable as the dark piss stain on his killer’s pants.
Andre, his face a thundercloud and the front of his wet pants clinging to his legs, bent and picked up the folder before walking out of the office with an awkward, bowlegged gait.
Molenski’s eyes reflected the burning garage at the back of the lot as his man climbed back into the Mercedes.
“Andre, get in touch with our contact in Traffic Control right now,” he said without taking his eyes off the tall flames. “Give them the details of that car; I want Ivan and the robot bitch in the Red Room by daybreak. And what the fuck is that smell?”
24
After Ivan had eaten the meal provided by Babic, beef stroganoff on a bed of mashed potato, he left the empty plate on the counter.
Inga finished her diagnostic scan a few minutes after he sat back down.
“Come, we should go now,” he said to her.
They had only just left the room when Ivan stopped suddenly, reeling as he suffered another bout of déjà vu on the landing. Inga put her hand out and steadied him.
“Are you alright, Myfriend?”
“Yes, yes. Just… a little dizzy,” he said, before continuing down the stairs.
The déjà vu was apparently another side effect of his trauma. Before the ambush, he had only experienced the feeling once or twice in his life, but since he had woken from the induced coma, it was a frequent and increasingly disorienting visitor in his life.
Inga waited outside as he went into the restaurant and said goodbye to Babic, who was acting as the maître d' in the absence of his head waiter.
Back in the Hyundai, they headed to the lower west side. On the way, he asked Inga for the results of her scan.
“My system scan returned over 100 errors and corrupt files, indicating severe damage to disk 2. Would you like me to detail them?”
“No, it’s okay. When you say ‘critical,' what do you mean?”
“Critical errors if not rectified may lead to malfunction, inoperability of software and possible involuntary shutdown.”
“I see. We will try and get them fixed once we are safely abroad.”
Ivan easily remembered the way to Dr. Vlad’s; he had been there many times in the
past when he worked for Babic, both for injuries he had suffered in the ‘line of duty’ and when accompanying co-workers. While he had never suffered anything more serious than a broken hand during that time, he thought highly of the doctor. He had seen him expertly treat more severe wounds many times.
Dr. Vlad was a grizzled former army medic. He specialized in bullet and stab wounds and was an invaluable provider to numerous nefarious individuals and gangs, but as far as Ivan knew, had little to do with Molenski’s organization. They had their own man.
The doctor worked out of a small apartment at the rear of a laundromat. It was accessible only by a dark alley that it shared with a rundown, less than busy, Chinese restaurant.
Ivan backed the Hyundai all the way down the alley, coming to a stop right in front of the door.
“Come, Inga; we will see the doctor.”
“Doctor – a person who is skilled in the science of medicine: a person who is trained and licensed to treat sick and injured people,” Inga recited, turning to face him. “I am not ‘people,' Myfriend. Will he treat me?”
“Well,” he said, laughing gently. “Just between you and me, he’s not a licensed doctor either.”
His humor was lost on Inga, who stared at him with a straight face.
“Don’t worry, you will see, he’ll fix you right up.”
“I am not worried, Myfriend.”
“Good, good, let’s go.”
The scuffed and dented door of Dr. Vlad’s ‘surgery’ opened seconds after Ivan rapped three times.
“Ivan, long time no see, come in…” said the doctor, squinting around his shoulder at Inga. “This is her?”
“Da,” said Ivan, stepping past the doctor.
“Wow, what a beauty,” the doctor said, peering over his glasses at the robot as she followed Ivan into the dingy building. “The craftsmanship is amazing, with the naked eye it’s almost impossible to tell she’s synthetic. Come, sit over here.”
Apex Risen Page 10
