by Jaxon Reed
Storm Warning
Jaxon Reed
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Other books by Jaxon Reed
Copyright
Storm Warning
Agents of the Planetary Republic, Book II
Copyright © 2020 Jaxon Reed
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Historical figures are used in fictional settings and dialogues, within fictitious alternate universes. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover by Jacqueline Sweet Design
Editing and formatting by edbok.com
Dedication
For author Jada Ryker and all others supporting this ongoing series, thank you!
1
“She walked into my office like a cool summer breeze. Soft, refreshing, and oh so uplifting.
“She stared around, like a dame who might be out of place but determined to find her way in the world. I hoped she’d find her way into mine . . .”
The attractive blonde looked around the little office with a confused expression on her face. She wore a sky blue dress and black high heels with a matching purse. Her clothes would fit well in an executive suite, or at an after work cocktail party.
Sitting behind a desk, a rather handsome young man in his mid-20s grinned at her.
He had dark hair and a tan face. Under his sports coat he looked like he worked out. Ex-military, if his flattop haircut was any indicator, she thought.
The blonde said, “I’m sorry. Who . . . what was that?”
“You like it? That’s my doorbell. I programmed the subroutine myself, based on sensory input when someone walks in the door. It’s different for a guy.”
She stared at him blankly, trying to process everything he said.
He stood and walked around the desk, sticking his hand out.
“Hi. Jamie Jamieson, Private Investigator. Come in, have a seat. Want something to drink?”
Still confused, the attractive woman walked into the middle of the office. It seemed small and somewhat barren. Only one other chair sat facing the desk. Where the handsome young man could produce drinks from, she had no idea.
Jamieson pulled out the chair for her, then hurried back to his own seat while she sat down.
She said, “So . . . that was a doorbell?”
“Yeah, kinda. I wanted to get that film noir vibe, you know? Like the old detective movies.”
“Oh. I see.”
A look of understanding crossed the woman’s face. To Jamieson’s disappointment, she did not offer any hint of approval.
Instead she said, “I think you must have an odd sense of humor.”
His eyebrows shot up. The comment hurt, a little.
He stifled his feelings by clearing his throat.
“What can I do for you, Miss . . . ?”
“Bainer. Stephanie Bainer. And, I need to hire someone to look into a delicate matter for me. This isn’t the kind of thing I can do an online search for, or anything like that.”
“That’s why PIs exist, ma’am. There’s still a need for discretion in our world. I’m your man.”
“Great!”
The woman sounded genuinely relieved.
“So, what needs looking into?”
“My husband has disappeared.”
“I see. And, have you called the police?”
“Yes, and they’re clueless. I’ve also asked PLAIR, repeatedly, and she is no help. It’s like my husband Holland just fell off the face of the world. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
Jamieson made a motion in the air and the holo on his desk flicked to life.
He said, “PLAIR, please show me what you have on Holland Bainer.”
A man’s face appeared. Brown skin, eyes and hair like most people. Jamieson noted nothing outstanding about his appearance, although he thought the nose seemed a little too large for the face.
The Republic’s artificial intelligence service spoke from a speaker in the ceiling.
“Holland Bainer, age 32. Employed by Republican Shipworks, researcher for the space drive division.”
A string of data scrolled under the man’s image.
Stephanie looked at it, then glanced at Jamieson with a questioning expression.
He said, “I have access to the same databases the police use, with my investigator’s license. PLAIR keeps track of all inquiries to keep us honest.”
She nodded in understanding.
He said, “Where is Mr. Bainer right now, PLAIR?”
“Mr. Bainer’s presence is unknown.”
“How can that be? You know where everybody is.”
“Mr. Bainer’s presence is unknown.”
“You see what I mean?” Stephanie said. “I get nowhere with her.”
“Maybe you just have to ask the right questions. PLAIR, who would know where Mr. Bainer is?”
“His superiors at Republican Shipworks.”
Jamieson’s eyebrows raised.
Stephanie gasped. She said, “That’s not right. I’ve called up there. Nobody knows anything, they say.”
“Who was his boss, do you know?”
“Um, it was a man named Hsu. Dr. Pritchard Hsu is the man in charge of space drive research. Holland worked under him.”
Jamieson leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
“I’m willing to help, if I can, Mrs. Bainer. My fee is a thousand credits a day. I know that may sound steep . . .”
She pulled her purse into her lap and opened it while he talked, extracting a 10,000 credit token and placing it on his desk.
She said, “That’s good for ten days, then. Keep it all if it takes less time. Find him for me, Mr. Jamieson. Bring him home.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do what I can.”
She stood and walked to the door. It swished open and she went out without saying another word.
A voice came down from the ceiling again.
“She was the kinda dame that makes your heart go pitter-pat. And she walked out my door batting eyes sharp enough to cut your heart like a knife . . .”
“Yeah, I’m going to have to change that,” Jamieson said, pocketing the credit token.
He returned his attention to the holo and spent some time reading up on Mr. Bainer.
Half an hour later, he glanced at his implant’s clock and decided it was close enough to quitting time.
One of the nice things about being your own boss, he thought, is the ability to decide for yourself when to leave for the day.
He walk
ed to the door and it swished open.
Thip! Thip! Thip!
Three green bolts sizzled through the air, two of them striking him in the middle.
Jamieson fell to the floor.
He watched the gunman run down the hall while the door swished shut again.
2
Jamieson groaned painfully as he staggered back to his feet.
He looked down at his sports coat and grunted in disdain.
“Ruined. Can’t take this anywhere now.”
He opened it up and looked inside at the Kelvingarb lining.
“Dang thing worked, though. Worth the money. I should charge clients for ruined clothes.”
He pulled out his own blaster from a holster under his left arm, and stood against the wall as the door swished open once more.
He cautiously peeked into the hallway, but no one was there.
“PLAIR, you didn’t happen to get the ID of whoever shot me, did you?”
“I did not, Mr. Jamieson.”
“Can you tell me where he went?”
“I cannot, Mr. Jamieson.”
“Have I told you how useless you are, PLAIR?”
In various ways and in so many words, Jamieson had expressed to the AI that sentiment directly 211 times over the course of his life. But, she gauged the question as rhetorical and did not answer. She also adjusted the count to 212 times.
“Can you follow the guy via his implant?”
“The person was not wearing an identifiable implant, Mr. Jamieson.”
“No, of course not. And there’s too many dang restrictions on you now that the war is over.”
Again, to this the AI deemed no response necessary. She was not programmed for small talk.
“Alright,” Jamieson sighed. “I don’t suppose you could tell me the direction he or she went when they left the building?”
“They took a right on the sidewalk before joining the flow of pedestrians.”
Jamieson considered it some more and wondered if the shooter was worth pursuing. He did not get a good look at them while being shot at, he decided.
“Can you tell me about the perp? Did you pick up anything at all during that incident? You know, the one that just happened where somebody tried to kill me.”
PLAIR said, “I can tell you that the weapon used was a Metzinger LE-42.”
“An LE-42? Who uses that? Law enforcement? Is that a standard issue gun for anybody?”
“The Metzinger LE-42 is the standard issue firearm for the Agency of Justice.”
Jamieson’s eyebrows shot up.
He said, “Anybody else?”
“No, Mr. Jamieson. AOJ is the only entity purchasing LE-42s. They are not available for civilian use at this time. Metzinger Corporation has an exclusive contract with the agency for this particular model.”
“Is that right? How about that. Thanks, PLAIR. Who do I know over there? Has Boggs gotten out of their academy yet?”
“Your former battle buddy Corporal Morton Boggs is now an agent for AOJ. Your former Marine sergeant, Gina Wilcox, is an assistant director.”
His eyebrows raised again.
He thought about it for a moment and accessed his contact list in his mind’s eye. Then he made a connection with Boggs.
-+-
An hour later Jamieson stepped out on the roof of an old building. Were it not for the other three cars parked up here, he would have thought it abandoned. Scrap chunks of metal and other debris littered the roof.
He walked over to the access door and opened it on rusty hinges. Unlike the exterior, the stairwell leading down looked relatively clean.
At the bottom of the steps, a much more modern door waited along with a security camera. He pressed the access pad, activating the doorbell inside and smiled up at the camera.
The door swished open.
“Jamie!”
Boggs got up from a desk. Wilcox was there, too, already standing. An attractive woman stood up from a desk identical to Boggs’s.
Everyone met him the door.
“This is the infamous Corporal Jamie Jamieson,” Boggs said. “Jamie, meet Ethie Collier. She served in the 57th, aboard the William Howard Taft.”
“Hi there,” Jamieson said. “I’ve heard good things about the 57th. They saw a lot of action.”
Collier nodded and said, “We lost a lot of good people.”
For a moment, the four ex-Marines said nothing, remembering friends and battles and the horrors of war.
Wilcox broke their reverie.
She said, “So what brings you to our neck of the woods, Corporal? Aren’t you a private investigator now?”
“That I am, Sarge. And I took on a client this morning. But upon leaving the office, somebody shot me. The only thing PLAIR could give me was the make of the gun, a Metzinger LE-42. Evidently this is the kind AOJ uses. And I thought, who do I know at AOJ?”
“Well, I didn’t shoot you,” Boggs said. “Although, truth to tell, you deserve to be shot.”
Jamieson smiled at him and said, “I bought these blaster-proof outfits after I got my PI license. They’re the bee’s knees.”
He opened his sport coat, revealing the Kelvingarb lining.
“Sarge gave us some overcoats that do the same thing.”
Jamieson’s eyebrows shot up.
He said, “Overcoats. Now there’s an idea. You don’t always have to change clothes. Might get hot in the summer, though.”
“Maybe I can help find your shooter,” Wilcox said. “PLAIR, have any AOJ personnel been in the vicinity of Private Investigator Jamieson today, before his arrival here?”
PLAIR’s voice came down from the ceiling.
“Not that I am aware of, Detective Wilcox.”
Wilcox said, “Huh. I see what you mean, Jamie. That’s an odd response. It’s usually yes or no.
“Okay, PLAIR. Have any guns belonging to AOJ been near PI Jamieson today?”
A slight pause.
“Yes, Detective Wilcox. One AOJ gun has been in the same building Mr. Jamieson was in earlier today.”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. Who was the gun assigned to, PLAIR?”
“The gun has serial number 5148. It is assigned to Agent Morton Boggs.”
3
“That’s not possible. I mean, I’ve had the gun right here all day.”
Boggs opened his suit coat and pulled out the weapon. He placed it carefully on the desk, aiming it away from everybody.
He said, “PLAIR, please confirm this weapon has not left my side all day.”
“I can confirm, Agent Boggs. Your Agency issued weapon has been on your person all day.”
“And please confirm it was not used in the shooting on Private Investigator Jamieson earlier today.”
“I cannot confirm that, Agent Boggs. Your weapon was in fact used in the shooting.”
Boggs threw up his arms in frustration.
He said, “How? You just said it never left my side.”
No answer.
“Did I shoot him, PLAIR?”
No answer.
Boggs looked at the women and said, “You two have been with me all morning. I mean, you know I didn’t leave this building. And I know the gun didn’t, either. So how did this happen? How did this gun, that’s been in its holster all day right here with me, get used to shoot Jamie?”
“I can see a way,” Collier said. Everyone looked at her.
She said, “Somebody is duplicating serial numbers. We’ve seen a lot of trouble with those implants . . . what are they called again?”
“The Quenton implants,” Wilcox said. “They hit the black market a while back. You might be right. Something odd is going on. What was this case about that you were hired to investigate, Jamie?”
“Oh, that. Well, some dame, I mean a lady, came into my office asking me to check into her missing husband. Cops won’t say anything. PLAIR’s got nothing. Nobody knows anything. She gave me 10K up front to poke around and try to find him. Then I
opened my door and got shot.”
Wilcox said, “Alright. Since you were shot with an Agency weapon—”
“I didn’t do it!” Boggs said.
“Or at least, one with an Agency serial number, we’ll help out. You can use AOJ resources in the course of your investigation. Maybe things are connected to us somehow.”
“Thanks, Sarge! I’ll take whatever help I can get.”
“Do we get a share of your 10K?” Boggs said.
“Draw your own salary, buddy.”
Wilcox said, “No private honorariums, Boggs. Help out, but follow the regs. Unless, you know, they get in the way of nabbing the perp or something.”
“I think without additional money, that might get in the way of nabbing the perp,” Boggs said.
Wilcox shook her head.
She said, “I know you’re kidding, but we’ve got to stay squeaky clean. The department is suffering from a bad enough reputation as it is. No extra fees, kickbacks, spare credit tokens or anything. Let’s stay on the up and up, all the way. Before it’s over, we’ll probably have to finger some of our own as being dirty. I don’t want you two to have any taint of corruption if that happens.”
“Well, shucks,” Boggs said. “Maybe I’ll get to cuff a bad guy or something and experience one of those ‘intrinsic rewards’ they told us about at the Academy.”
“If you two want to accompany me to Republican Shipworks,” Jamieson said, “a couple of AOJ badges would help to at least get me in the door.”
