by Brad C Scott
“That’s the one,” she says. “Muirland had at least one associate with him.”
“I thought DOJ was restricting access to forensics.”
“I have a source who leaked me two samples of DNA found by the CSI team. Justice failed to report them. Both strengthen the DSS connection.”
“So we have a blood trail to follow. I’m sensing a catch.”
“I’m getting to that.” She glances down at a holoscreen of data on her end. “Three tours with the army, two with the 75th Rangers; lots of medals, including the service cross; took part in ops for JSOC in Malaysia, Indonesia, and Laos; after that, eight years at DSS, intelligence work by the look of it; the last three years, contract work for Blackhawk.”
“And DOJ decided Muirland was an NDL turncoat.” Three guys approach, drinks in hand, making a beeline for the empty booth next to mine. “A record like that and clean psych evals, all disregarded.” I catch the eye of the alpha male leading them, my expression drawing him up. “A man like that turning traitor, murdering his former comrades for money?” A subtle headshake finishes it – turning, he leads his pack away. “It doesn’t fit.”
“That wasn’t Muirland’s service record.”
“Huh. Go on.”
“Belongs to Randall Conry – DNA found at the crime scene. Conry and Muirland have linked backgrounds: they served together in spec-ops and Enforcement. Both also worked on some of the same overseas security contracts for Blackhawk.”
“Was there an NDL connection with Conry?”
“Exactly the same as Muirland: funds transferred to his account through an NDL shell corp. The one-hundred grand wasn’t there, though, it was withdrawn the day after the attack.”
“He’s alive?” I say. “Do we know where?”
“He’s a ghost in the wind: dead, fled the country, or lying low somewhere in-country.”
“Alright.” A service drone hovers over with a filled whiskey glass. I pull it off and nod across the bar at Joe. He holds up four fingers, nodding at the three guys I warned off – looks like I’ll owe him for the drinks to cover for my belligerence. “I’m still waiting for that catch.”
“It’s in the second set of DNA. Belongs to Christopher Leeds, a former first sentinel registered KIA three years ago.”
“Christopher Leeds – I know that name.” Where have I…? That’s right, Monroe’s friend in the sentinels, his direct report when he was first on-boarded. After Leeds’ death, John let slip some rare praise for the man, gave me the impression of something akin to hero worship. With that sort of connection… Damnit, John, are you neck-deep in all this?
“You knew him?”
“Hmm? No, never met him, but I heard of him, some sort of big deal at DSS.” Until I’m sure, I’d rather not voice my disquieting suspicions about Monroe. Not that I don’t want to nail him to the wall, but he’s a spectator to events, not a participant. Assuming I’m still right about him. “So the reports of his death were faked?”
“DNA doesn’t lie. Leeds’ was found at the substation.”
Following the attack in Red Line Station, the surviving assailants withdrew to an electrical substation bunker located elsewhere in the undercity. Jace followed their trail, but by the time she got to them, it was too late. Most had been gunned down, some execution-style, others in a close-quarters firefight. The death tally: three members of epsilon seven and six constables. Of our twenty-five attackers at Red Line Station, that left only six unaccounted, likely those responsible for gunning down their fellows. By all appearances, the masterminds behind all the violence did some house cleaning to cover their trail.
“I’m assuming we can’t use it as evidence, given how you obtained it.”
She shakes her head at me. “It’s useless unless we find him. My sources all say that Leeds is dead.”
“And what do they say about the NDL connection?”
New Dawn’s fingerprints were on more than just the wire transfers to Muirland and Conry. DOJ turned up documentary evidence – emails, financial receipts, surveillance footage – linking two city aldermen to them, the same ones whose constables attacked us in Red Line Station. Not that it could be corroborated – the two aldermen turned up dead before they could be questioned. FBI also presented evidence that the epsilon seven squad leader had received a payout and instructions from a known NDL operative. Case closed, right? As far as DOJ, FBI, and DSS are concerned, the New Dawn of Liberty was behind everything. And I’d agree with them – hell, I want to agree with them – except it doesn’t add up.
“The evidence is real,” says Jace. “Whether it was manufactured is another question.”
“None of this makes sense. New Dawn leaving such a clear evidence trail? They’re never that sloppy. And NDL and DSS working together?” I shake my head. “I’m just not buying it.”
“Strange days,” she agrees. “You know what this means?”
My tail makes his move, stepping up to the jukebox across the pool table from me. With the music playing, he should still be out of range to eavesdrop. Scowling in his direction, I lower my voice and say, “DSS is involved somehow, maybe a splinter group.”
“I’ll send what I have. Leeds is mine. Conry’s yours – he’s got ties your way. It’s time to call in that favor with master tech.”
“Copy that.” The song ends, the voices and laughter from the other sections of the bar amplifying. With good ears, my tail should be able to pick up on what I’m saying now. I take a swallow of whiskey and burn a hole in his back with my eyes. “Got to go – I’ll call you later.” Chest tightening, I climb out of the booth and pocket the commset. Rage rises from my bones, makes my temples throb with the thirst for payback. I’m done dodging these bastards.
I walk over to the jukebox, its holodisplay scrolling past one song after another as my tail jabs the touchscreen. Stepping to the side of him, I cross my arms and give him the twice-over. Young, no more than twenty-five, no visible scars or tattoos. Strong hands and good posture foil the white-collar vibe, that and the ankle holster, judging by the way his slacks fall over his shoe.
He cuts his eyes over. “Hey, I’m almost done here.”
“You are done here,” I grit.
He steps back from the jukebox. “Is there a problem?”
I lower my arms and step forward until only a foot separates us. “You are the problem.”
“Hey, I don’t want any trouble, man.” His expression is innocent enough – a blend of confusion and fear – but it’s the eyes, always the eyes, that give it away.
“Leave. Now.”
“Sir, I don’t even know you –”
“I know what you are. I’m giving you the courtesy of leaving with your dignity intact. Last chance.”
The accumulated bar sounds have fallen off a bit as curious patrons stop what they’re doing to watch what they assume to be a fight forming. I continue to stare my adversary in the eyes, communicating without compromise my violent intent. He stares back, the fear and confusion in his expression morphing to anger.
“Go to hell,” he says.
“Let’s step outside.”
“You want a shot, old man? You do it here.”
“Busting up this place isn’t an option. I take you on in here, it’ll be quick and dirty.”
From the corner of my eye, a figure approaches. A glance confirms my adversary has a friend, another young pup dressed like a desk jockey who moves like an operator. They do like to work in pairs. The newcomer in his beige shirt stops a few meters away.
Seeing his comrade ready to back him, white collar sneers. “Take your shot.”
I smile and say, “Thank you.”
He blinks.
I sucker punch him in the gut. Feels like hitting a wall, but it still leans him forward. Shoulder leading, he pushes me back. I twist away and give him a shove, dodging to avoid having my bell rung as the other’s fist flashes by.
Focusing on beige shirt, I block his other fist and palm-strike his jaw.
It snaps his head up, unbalancing him for the moment I need to connect a solid haymaker. He stumbles back into the wall, head splintering the glass over a picture. Shit, I have to pay for that.
White shirt grabs me from behind, a forearm across my neck. Yanking down on the arm with both hands while twisting, I manage to spin toward him enough to deliver a couple of punches into his side. With his free arm, he returns them with interest. Enough of this – I pull into him while bringing a knee up into his groin. That does it. With a grunt of pain, his hold around my neck slackens enough for me to yank free.
Expecting another attack from behind, I shift sideways, instincts saving me from a loafer to the head. As I step back along the length of the pool table, beige shirt wipes blood from his nose and moves in, stance indicating another kick coming. When it does, I dodge and grab at the extended leg. Surging forward, I tip him back and over, slamming him to the floor. As I let go of his leg, his arms splay wide and his head lolls over – that did it for him.
Spinning around, I’m just in time to take one in the face before white shirt plows into me again, trying to bull rush me into the pool table. As before, I twist out of his grasp, only this time managing to turn the tables and get him into my own choke hold. He elbows me in the side. Again. Hurts, but I don’t let go. Now it’s just a matter of a few seconds to choke him out.
He lifts a leg and gropes a hand down for his ankle gun. Stupid. In response, I yank him into position and place my free hand against the back of his head. He gets the gun free. I retract the arm used for the hold and force his head down, smashing it face-first into the edge of the pool table. He collapses to the floor.
The bar is quiet save for murmured conversations, the patrons looking on in wonder. I reach down and check him – he’s still got a pulse. Good for him. I retrieve his ankle gun from the floor and pocket it. From the other guy, too, still conscious but out of it.
Joe comes over, thunder on his face.
“They didn’t give me much of a choice,” I say. “Help me with them, would you?”
“It’s alright, everyone,” booms Joe to the room, “just a fight, all over now. Go back to having fun. And for that, free drinks for everyone, on the house!”
On me, he means. There’s scattered cheering. The bar starts to sound like a bar again.
Between Joe and me, we get them out through the back, propping them against a wall next to a dumpster.
“Do I call them a cab?” asks Joe, frowning down at them.
“Their people will be by. Sorry about the mess – let me know what I owe you.”
“The on-the-house drinks are on you, Malcolm.” He steps back inside and slams the door.
Running a hand over my stubble, I peer up and down the alley at the pools of darkness beyond the lamp-lit back entrance. Dumpsters, mismatched boxes, and refuse piles lurk there, scenting the air with stale beer and the familiar musk of back-alley rot. Why couldn’t I just have left out the front when I had the chance?
The man I knocked cold groans and begins to stir. Interrogation? No, best not, it could head south into torture and madness. Besides, tonight is for self-destruction, and I’ve still a ways to go. It’s been a while, but a few old drinking haunts in the underground exist where even the sentinels fear to tread. I might get mugged.
I sigh and start walking. If only I had that kind of luck.
CHAPTER 13
Even the billboards are getting to me now, the one posted near the expressway across Harold Ickes Drive drawing a scowl. For close to a decade, I’ve seen its like across the country, but never this close to home. The message displayed in five-foot-tall letters is the same familiar refrain: DON’T BE MISTAKEN FOR A TERRORIST! MAKE SURE YOUR ID IS ON AT ALL TIMES! Holoimages of enforcers flank the missive, helmeted heads on swivel. It seems one of them is tracking me, helmet rotating to match my car’s progress. The vague unease it evokes, a new development, does nothing for my hangover headache.
Pulling up at the main gate of our HQ, I lower the windows and nod at the quartet of armored reclaimers standing about. As one checks my creds, a sentry drone hovers over to scan for explosives. It’s good to see the gate tower upgrades completed, the new rail turrets atop them locked onto my sedan. About the only thing that hasn’t changed in fourteen years of reporting here is the signboard posted on a grassy berm – “Welcome to St Elizabeth’s Campus West – Department of Recovery and Reclamation Headquarters – Established 2045.”
Home – for as long as it lasts.
The reinforced gate-arms raise as the car moves ahead, now controlled remotely by campus parking systems. Past the concrete towers, the access road opens to green lawns lined with maples, leaves vibrant with autumn red and gold in the late-morning light. I breathe easier and work the stress out of my jaw. Enforcement won’t send drones or agents to follow me here.
I activate my commset and call Jace back. The call connects and routes to the car’s holoscreen projected above the dash. Her image appears, the shifting grayscale background of the ruins near LAs ground zero framing her face as she walks.
“Kathryn,” I greet, “sorry to cut it short yesterday.”
“More trouble?”
“It follows me around. I reviewed the files you sent over. How are things with DOJ?”
“The lawyers won’t quit the station. I’ve been avoiding them by spending more time in the field.” Her dark eyes burn with raptorial ambition. “I want to defenestrate the lot of them. You know what I found out this morning? They’re preparing a brief to revoke our standing.”
“What?”
“I know,” she bites.
“What are their chances?”
As we talk, I’ve got one eye on the passing splendor. Ziggurats and tapered towers of gleaming glass project above the trees flanking the road, the elegant structures sheltered amid copses of oak, hickory, and cedar. Skybridges link some of them, curving glass and steel gleaming above a shifting sea of green and gold.
Jace shrugs armored shoulders. “This is their biggest push yet to sideline us. It’ll slow us down, but stop us?” She raises an eyebrow at me: It won’t stop me, what about you?
“How’s the situation on the ground?”
“A power struggle verging on open war. The casualties…” She tosses her head and looks away.
“How many?”
In the distance, through a break in the tree lines, I spot one of the original buildings from the 1800s, conspicuous for its classic gothic architecture. A handful of such ancient structures dot the campus, renovated after DC was nuked, exemplars of our sacred duty to rebuild.
Jace looks ready to chew steel. “Fifteen of my men KIA since the operation began. Our patrols continue to face resistance from the local gangs, including the Sureños and Solicitantes. Only one explanation fits.”
“A proxy war.”
“Our interrogations confirm it – someone is incentivizing them. No one can tell us who, though.” She stares at something off-screen, distracted. “No one seems to know.”
“DSS.”
Although DSS evaded organizational indictment for LA, one silver lining exists: the appearance of complicity hurt them. Our allies on the Hill pressured the Administration to downgrade DSS to a supporting role there under DRR. Jace is now the ranking commander for all federal forces in the LA Reclamation Zone. The sentinels support her openly – they’ve no choice – but behind the scenes? No wonder she looks so bloody used.
Jace stops moving, focuses back on me. “Mother of hell, Malcolm, I just don’t know. We’ve hit a wall with every lead. Whoever they are, they know how to stay hidden.”
My car pulls up before a vast oval of water bordered by daffodils, its surface rippled by a faint offshore breeze. I reroute the call to my eyeblade and get out, the car driving down a nearby ramp to park underground. Striding up the path to our headquarters, I pull my long coat tight against the chill, nodding at the reclaimers passing opposite.
“Are they still gunning for you?” I ask
.
“Two more attempts this week,” she says.
“Two more! Fuck, Kathryn, what the hell’s going on?”
I mount the steps up to our HQ, an old keep composed of red stone, four stories high with a crenelated rooftop. The structure is about two centuries old, though it’s mostly for show. Beneath it lies an extensive, nuclear-hardened underground. As with all federal facilities rebuilt following the nuclear strikes, we’ve prepared for the eventuality of recurring horror.
“I know,” she says, voice and expression resigned. And bitter. “How times are changing. All seemed like accidents until the last one. A former lover tried to pump me with neurotoxin. Good for me I sleep light. Not so good for her.”
“I’m sorry. You’ve spoken with the Director?”
“I did, he offered reassignment – I refused.” Jace turns her head to stare at something off-screen, expression grim. She motions with an arm, and the dark green blurs of armored reclaimers pass behind her, some sort of action in progress. “I need to go.”
“Good luck, Kathryn.”
“And to you. Watch your back – Enforcement won’t forget you tripped them up.”
The call ends, blade rotating away as the transmit cam retracts.
Entering the lobby, I encounter a group of young tech specialists, their conversation supplanted by respectful nods as I pass. Some visitors in business attire converse before a mural showing the construction of a hydroelectric dam in the 1900s, work done by our predecessor, the Department of the Interior. I stride past a pair of children chasing each other in circles before another mural depicting the construction of a radiation scrubbing facility in St. Louis, mid-2050s. A massive crane assisted by cable-linked helicopters is shown lowering one of its domes into place. I had a firsthand view from the ground that day, one of the scores of reclaimers on hand in case the job went to hell. Which it did, though we got it done. My back was sore for a whole week.
