Torn From On High: Free City Book 2 (The Free City Series)

by S F Chapman

  Finally in Nairobi; persons unknown have repeated vandalized the statues in the Panoply of Modern Heroes. The secretive mutilators have spared no statue bearing the name of Kufuzu. The representations of all four of the Warlords that have reigned over our beloved Fiefdom have been smashed, defaced or molested. Some inconclusive evidence for the crimes points to local Serfs and Enlightenment Crusade agitators from Free City.

  The Curator of the Garden grumbled loudly that the Panoply of Modern Heroes might have to be closed unless the vandalism ceases. The treasures it contains would then be out of reach of all.

  In all three of these cases, troublemakers from outside of our once great land have been largely to blame for the decline of the Supreme Imperial Fiefdom of EurAfrica.

  34. Herman “Bowie” Kowalski

  “Tell me about it again, Shayna.”

  The temporarily unemployed waitress from the Hissing Serpent flirtatiously kissed his cheek, “OK Bowie, one more time but then you gotta hand over the twenty-five Units that you promised me.” She stroked his well-muscled arm, “A girl's got to pay her rent, you know.”

  The only surviving member of the Goons nodded, “Sure baby.”

  “Well there was these two guys from Free City,” she started, “they were sitting in one of the back booths when I was working the evening shift.”

  Bowie downed the whiskey on the rocks as he listened.

  “Your two pals; what were their names?”

  The big man sneered a bit at the half-witted waitress, “I told you ten times already, Wolfe and Rollo!”

  “Yeah; that's right Wolfe and Rollo, they were sitting on either side of this third guy that they kept calling Macaroni, but I don't think that was really his name.”

  “Damn it!” Bowie slammed the empty glass onto the table, “Come on Shayna; get to the part just before the explosion!”

  “OK, OK. There was a bet about who could drink what without puking. The old man sitting with them went to the bar and ordered a Dragon's Breath Rum. It's real nasty stuff. When he got back to the table there was some kind of argument and Wolfe pulled out this strange gun that he had. Then the old man flung the rum into Wolfe's eyes and cracked his gun hand on the table. The Free City jerks ran off like cowards with some young guy who was drinking at the bar. The next thing I know there was an explosion and I was out of a job.”

  “Did the gun look like this?” Bowie drew the last of the three weapons from his black jacket.

  The dull-witted woman examined the side arm, “Yeah; just like that.”

  He slipped it back into his jacket. Bowie had to be particularly careful with the gun; the power indicator said that it had only enough energy for three more shots. With luck, that would be just right.

  Bowie retrieved a payment interface and transferred the money to Shayna's account, “Not a word about this to anyone.”

  She nodded.

  He produced a picture, “Was this the guy who roughed up Wolfe?”

  “Sure; that's him,” she finally answered after studying the image for several seconds. “What you gonna do about it, Bowie?”

  The big man slipped the photo back into his jacket, “I'm going to make that bastard Ryo Trop pay for killing Wolfe and Rollo.”

  • • •

  “Ah; this is it!” Ryo grinned.

  He'd struggled mightily for weeks to discover a motive for the murder of Nate Briggs.

  When criminal inquiries stalled Investigators were forced to go over mountains of minutia for new clues and that's exactly what he'd been doing.

  Zmuda had sent over dozens of new documents from the CRAMP Headquarters that detailed the highly convoluted financial deals of the Kufuzu family since the death of Warlord Daniel Kufuzu.

  Amongst other accounting shenanigans, he had traced several large payments to members of the Goons Gang back through a complex smoke screen of money laundering and double-dealing to EurAfrican Consolidated Metals and Mining.

  The Warlord Syndicate had recently asked the Free City Inquisitor's Office to investigate allegations that Consolidated Metals was manipulating the prices of titanium and aluminum.

  Both metals had recently experienced exorbitant run-ups in prices, all of which highly benefited EurAfrican Consolidated Metals and the Kufuzu family as its chief stakeholders.

  The Goons had been paid off from a secret slush fund brazenly called “Salvage Intimidation.”

  Ryo tapped out an information request on his interface screen: Quantity details of metals salvaged from Low Earth Orbit in the last six months.

  Several graphs appeared showing a steep decline in output beginning about four months ago. It was just about the same time that Nate had been killed, Ryo noted.

  Along with the use and possession of the unusual weapons, the financial information meant that he had sufficient circumstantial evidence now to charge Bowie with Nate Briggs' murder.

  Ryo summoned the All-Points Bulletin for Herman “Bowie” Kowalski to the screen and added several details: Detain at all costs! Considered armed and extremely dangerous. If apprehended, contact Inspector First Class Ryo Trop IMMEDIATELY under the authority of Edict 343 and authorization of the Free City High Court.

  He posted the amended bulletin.

  Hopefully Bowie would be found before anyone else died.

  • • •

  The big cargo transport was parked just down the Dublin street awaiting the return of the driver.

  Bowie stood over the body of the dead deliveryman in the dark alley next to the man’s most recent stop. His dagger was embedded to the hilt in the poor slobs chest. A river of ruby red blood gushed from the wound and pooled up on the pavement around the corpse.

  He'd finally found the perfect victim. The deliveryman looked fairly similar to him, and more importantly, his route took him into Free City.

  Bowie wrestled the dagger free and used it to methodically saw off the dead man's left index finger. He wrapped the bloody end with a rag and then carefully bound the spare digit between his own index and middle fingers.

  With luck, this trick would get him past the border guards and into Free City.

  Hours later in Free City, Bowie scowled as he stood in front of the beat up door of apartment 392. This was where the bastard lived.

  He glanced up and down the long, dim hallway. No one was around; it was perfect for some strong-arm intimidation.

  Bowie retrieved the bloodstained dagger that he'd used earlier in the day and, in one swift move, pounded it into the flimsy surface of the old door.

  The tip of the dagger had splintered the thin veneer and penetrated most of the way through the door.

  He smiled as he studied his work; it would surely scare the crap out of the old Investigator.

  Bowie turned and sauntered off leaving his knife behind.

  In a few days he'd start killing off the members of Ryo Trop's cozy little household.

  • • •

  The girl frowned.

  “Goodnight Daddy; I miss you,” Dilma stared at him in consternation from the screen of his communication device, “come home soon.”

  “OK sweetie. Be good for Sabra and I'll see you in the morning.”

  The connection terminated and Ryo was left alone in the gloomy workroom at the Inquisitor's Office.

  It had been an unsettling several days for his little family and this late night work session wasn't making things any easier.

  Time was running out and he had to locate Herman 'Bowie' Kowalski and put an end to the disturbing case.

  Three days ago his landlord had called him in a panic at work. Someone had driven a bloodstained dagger into the door of his apartment. Undoubtedly, Ryo had surmised, Bowie had been responsible for the act of vandalism.

  Fortunately no one was at home during the misdeed.

  Ryo then promptly sent several plain clothes Investigators out to the Connaught School to keep an eye out for trouble. He'd personally sprinted over to the University and located Sabra in the Ceramic
s Workshop.

  The nanny was perplexed by his unexpected appearance.

  In hushed tones he explained to her that, due to some difficulties of a current investigation, she and Dilma were to immediately take several days off and move into a safe house in the Eire District.

  When Sabra bemoaned that she would miss an important examination in her Alternative Lifestyles class, Ryo tersely cut her off.

  After several seconds of silent pouting, she seemed to finally understand the severity of the situation.

  Now in the dark office, Ryo rubbed his forehead in dread as he shuffled through the paperwork on the desk. Bowie was trying to get to him and he had managed to find the only personal soft spot that the old Investigator had allowed himself in over thirty-five years: His feelings for Dilma.

  • • •

  The mysterious redheaded woman stared at the message that slowly flashed on her communications device; it was a new assignment from Lieutenant Zmuda.

  She studied the particulars, it would require about a day of careful preparation to pull off with the personal flair that she felt was fitting for her participation.

  The woman made some quick decisions about what would be required and concluded that she would accept the assignment.

  She pressed the “Acknowledge” button and set about making arrangements.

  • • •

  It was just past one in the morning when the door to Ryo's workroom at the Inquisitor's Office creaked open.

  The old Investigator set aside the routine banking records.

  A rather mousy-looking young woman peeked in, “Excuse me Mr. Trop, I was looking for the Chief Inspector but she's nowhere to be found.”

  It was Cadet Helen MacDermish.

  Ryo waved her in. “Ah; let me check the roster.” He tapped on his interface screen. “She seems to have gone home for the evening, which I guess puts an end to the recent rumor that the Chief Inspector never sleeps.”

  Helen smiled at his quip.

  “Maybe I can help you,” Ryo volunteered.

  “Well I don't know if it is important or not,” she hedged, “but I've been checking over the routine paperwork regarding border crossings.”

  “Go on.”

  She nervously twisted the collection of papers that she was holding, “I had gone over the two hundred and twelve crossings from earlier in the week and cross-referenced them with both the Inquisitor's Office and EurAfrican All-Points databases and everything seemed to be normal.”

  The rookie produced a single sheet from her hoard.

  Ryo studied the document. It was the standard printout detailing that a EurAfrican delivery driver named Manfred Chong crossed into the Free City Autonomous Zone at the rarely used Ballyshannon East Gate at 10:32AM yesterday morning. His cargo was mostly machine parts from Dublin.

  Ryo set the paper aside, “What seems to be the problem, Ms MacDermish?”

  “At first I thought it was a mistake, perhaps just a mix up with the names, but the more that I checked, the scarier it got.” She handed him a second sheet.

  It was a rather bloody crime scene photo. The date stamp indicated that a beat cop in Dublin had taken it at 4:13AM on the previous day.

  Ryo stared at the young woman for several seconds, “I don't understand.”

  She quivered with pent-up agitation, “That is Manfred Chong, the delivery man. He'd been dead for over six hours when he supposedly crossed the border.”

  Ryo glanced at the macabre image, “Excellent work Helen. I will surely note your superb efforts to the Chief Inspector.”

  She had an odd look of confusion, “I'm sorry Mr. Trop, but I don't understand what's happened.”

  “Call me Ryo,” he chuckled gleefully. “Let's dig into this anomaly together. Perhaps you have uncovered a significant lead.”

  She pulled up a chair and sat next to him at the ancient oak desk.

  Ryo retrieved an antique magnifying glass from a side drawer and examined the crime scene photo. After several seconds of careful scrutiny, he handed the image back to her and pointed to the victim's left hand. “There; do you notice anything unusual?”

  The woman frowned as she studied indicated spot, “Oh; one finger is missing!” She stared at him, “How does that figure into this, Ryo?”

  “I'll let you know in a minute.”

  The old Investigator tapped away at his interface screen and scrolled through several grainy video clips before settled on one. “The time stamp is 10:32. This was taken at the Ballyshannon East Gate, although I'm afraid that the quality is not very good.”

  Helen craned her neck to study the video.

  “OK, here we go,” Ryo froze the video and slowly advanced through one frame at a time.

  From high above the inspection area and a good five meters away, the border guard handed an interface device through the window of the vehicle to the delivery driver. The man swiped his left index finger over the screen and passed the device back to the guard before being waved through the gate.

  Ryo toggled back and forth between several frames. He zoomed in on the driver's left hand. The image was especially grainy. “What do you notice about this?”

  Helen bit her lip as she scrutinized the picture. “That's strange, he's got six fingers on his left hand.”

  “I'll bet a week's pay that he slid the dead man's digit over the interface screen, it's a gruesome old trick.”

  Ryo tapped out the delivery vehicle's ID number and a flashing red notation popped up: Transport found abandon by Registry Bureau 3:28PM. Impounded at Ballaghaderreen District Lot. Unable to contact owner. Fine Due: 637 Standard Units.

  He summoned a Forensic Technician to the Impound Lot before looking up at the Cadet Inspector. “I've got a strange hunch about the creep who apparently murdered a delivery driver just to sneak into Free City. Let's dash over and take a look at the abandoned transport and see if we can find out who this guy is.”

  She nodded eagerly at the new assignment.

  35. Slip-ups

  “And the whole time that we were at the Fort of Djaba, we had no idea whether the Desert Serfs would shoot us or if we would manage to pull the operation off.” Lev stopped abruptly and stared at Keira.

  The woman had a ghastly look of horror after hearing the twin tales of Lev's rescue of Ryo and the Lieutenant in New Rome and the efforts to infect the Serfs with the strange pathogen.

  “What is it, sweetie?” he stoked her cheek.

  Her face slowly shifted from dread to resolve.

  “I'm glad that you haven't been agitating in the streets of New Rome,” she whispered in an uncharacteristically deep and rumbly tone, “but this spy work that you've been doing is really dangerous. I should know, Liaison Officers go through the same training as Intelligence personnel.”

  He laughed nervously at her unexpected response to his recent adventures, “I'm pretty tough.”

  “No;” she shook her head, “no, you're not. I worked with you and Ryo last year when we chased the pirates around the Solar System. It's a rough-and-tumble job that requires years of practice. You're not up to the rigors and riskiness of espionage and investigation. I see it all of the time in the Liaison Office, spies and cops live short and brutal lives.”

  He scolded at her harsh assessment.

  “If we are going to marry,” she glanced wishfully towards him, “and I certainly hope that we do, you need to settle on something that’s safer.”

  “Like Ultra Energy Physics?”

  Keira considered the tall, disheveled mop-top of a man that she had grown to love over the last year. He was so much more complicated than she had ever imagined. She had given up on trying to change him into a straitlaced Research Scientist months ago and recently had rather enjoyed him for who he really was: a restless and disorganized optimist. Any rigid dictate from her now would likely end their relationship and cast them both into a chasm of protracted misery.

  “It's up to you,” she finally replied.

  • •
•

  They had been sequestered together in the tiny safe house for days.

  “Are you excited about attending the parade tomorrow?” Sabra asked.

  “Yes.” Dilma pirouetted around and curtsied. Her face darkened and she added, “Also a little scared.”

  “About what?”

  The girl smiled nervously, “Sabra, I'm afraid that I'll look silly in front of all of those people.”

  She was such a dear thing, the woman realized, much more innocent and wide-eyed about the world than other twelve-year-old girls.

  “Sweetie, everyone will look silly.”

  Dilma thought about that assertion for several seconds. “Will it be OK to laugh at other people without hurting their feelings?”

  Sabra grinned at the high-minded question, “It may hurt their feelings if you don't laugh.”

  • • •

  Hours later Sabra awoke in the dark and quiet bedroom.

  Some minor inconsistency was fluttering about in her head, but as of yet it hadn't solidified into a well-defined problem that she'd then be able to solve.

  Dilma whimpered a bit as she slept in the other bed.

  Her young charge seemed to be OK, Sabra realized, so that wasn't the problem.

  The woman tussled for many minutes with the vague feeling that something had been overlooked as she fidgeted in the little bed.

  Perhaps she should just get up.

  She tiptoed into the hallway and glanced into Ryo's darkened bedroom. It was about 2 AM and her boss had not yet returned from work. Hopefully, for Dilma's sake, he'd join them for breakfast.

  Sabra sat sleepily at the little dining table and studied the two costumes that took up a good portion of the surface. She and Dilma had spent much of their time during the unwanted isolation perfecting the finery for the parade.

  She fingered the unusual fabric of her costume and it faintly glowed with the touch. It was made of a new luminescent material that responded to body heat that she'd found months ago at a specialty shop on Breton Street. The garment was sure to catch the eyes of many other parade participants.