Bounty

by J. D. Cunegan

  Deflated, Freeman approached Jill again. He did his best to ignore the cybernetic eye flickering at him, instead studying her right eye. As green as always, forged in a mixture of fear and determination. He shook his head and cursed under his breath. “What do you need?”

  Jill heaved a sigh to calm her nerves. “Call your contacts at the Pentagon.” She gave Freeman a hopeful glance. “See if any of them know what Dr. Roberts was up to recently.”

  “You think whoever killed him knew what he was into.”

  “If you saw what I saw,” Jill shuddered, “you’d think the same thing.”

  “I’ll let you know if I find out anything.” Freeman placed a soft hand on Jill’s shoulder. She flinched, but instantly relaxed. “Do you have any friends at the precinct? Anyone you trust?”

  Jill nodded. “My partner.” She gave her former commander a sad smile. “Ramon’s good people.”

  “Tell him.” His mouth did that not-quite smile thing again when Jill glared at him. “Someone needs to have your back if this goes south… and I can’t guarantee I’ll be there.”

  Jill couldn’t help but feel a bit of concern about hearing that. It wasn’t like Freeman to be cryptic and morbid. She briefly wondered if he knew something and was holding back on her, but the firm hand squeezing her shoulder broke her train of thought. She looked up at the man who was, for all intents and purposes, her mentor, giving him a small, knowing smile.

  “I didn’t know any better,” she shrugged, “I’d say that sounds like a goodbye.”

  “I hope it’s not, kid. But you know me. Always prepared.”

  Chapter 4

  For most people, running in a full sprint for nearly five blocks would leave their lungs burning, their mouths gasping for air, their muscles begging for a reprieve. But Jill wasn't like most people. At this point, she was as fast and as strong as when the chase first started. She was banking on that, wondering when the person she was tracking down would falter. Weaving through pedestrians on the sidewalk was a bit tough -- especially downtown -- and that was the only reason her target had managed to get any separation.

  Passersby gave Jill strange looks, not that she could blame them. It wasn't every day someone decked out in black leather from head to toe roamed the busy streets of Baltimore; it was even more rare when that person had a metal plate over their left eye and a katana strapped to their back. Jill did her best to avoid the onlookers, thankful that her brown hair -- which went to the middle of her back when it wasn't tied up in a ponytail -- offered her some cover. The last thing she needed was someone recognizing her.

  But that was what the eyeplate and the black lipstick were for. She was banking on no one actually knowing who she was, least of all the Baltimore Police Department or her intended target. There were times where the badge and gun were appropriate. This was not one of those times.

  Most of the time, Jill stuck to the rooftops when she was in this getup. They offered her far more cover, particularly at night, when no one on the ground level could get curious enough to look skyward. But chasing leads and suspects only worked but so well from rooftops, so she didn’t have much of a choice this time.

  Her intended was a low-level thug, a Russian immigrant who had already served a three-year sentence for assaulting a convenience store clerk. Rumor had it the man -- who had no given name but went by the nickname Vulture -- was into drug trafficking, and that he had friends in high places. Maybe he had information Jill could use. Maybe he was involved in something else. Either way, Jill was thankful for the momentary reprieve, the chance to ignore her current case.

  The man Jill was chasing ducked into an alley off of Pratt Street, and she said a silent prayer of thanks as she turned into the same alley. There weren't nearly as many people roaming through this part of the city, and with them now in that alley, chances were it'd just be her and her target. Slowing from a sprint to a quiet stalk, she drew the sword from her back and held it in both hands after switching on her infrared sight.

  No sooner did she do that, Jill bent backwards at the waist, avoiding the trash can lid tossed her way. It clanged against the pavement as she drew upright again with a scowl. She approached the man she'd just spent the better part of ten minutes chasing. He was out of breath, out of options, and clearly, out of bravado. His eyes were wide; with every step she took forward, he took a matching step back until he was pressed up against a brick wall.

  They were deep enough into the alley now, cloaked in enough darkness, that all he could see was her red eye. He straightened his posture, pushing as hard into the wall as he could, the sound of her boots crunching against the dirty ground all too loud in his ears. He yelped when he heard the katana whiz by his ear, sticking into the worn brick. She was on him now, not even inches away, her free hand grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and yanking him away from the wall.

  "I know who you work for." Her voice was almost a snarl as she turned on the balls of her feet and tossed him to the ground like he was a balled-up piece of paper. She tugged the blade from the wall and followed him, jamming the sword into the ground between his legs. Every instinct in the man's brain told him to flee, but he remained motionless. His eyes couldn't tear themselves from the mysterious, leather-clad figure before him.

  "But just the same?" She crouched before him, grabbing his right wrist. He cringed when her fingers dug in. "I wanna hear the name for myself."

  The Vulture had a decision to make. Sweat ran from the top of his bald head down his left temple. Nights were chilly in Baltimore this time of year, but he was practically burning up. He stared at his assailant, apparently taking too long to answer before he felt her fingers squeeze painfully against his wrist. He tried to hide the grunt of pain, but it escaped from his lips anyway.

  "Say. The. Name."

  Instead, the man grunted again. It took every bit of strength he had not to scream. Maybe that was what this woman wanted, and he wasn't about to give it to her. She might've extracted the name from him before the night was over, but he was going to keep his dignity.

  "You want name?" His accent was guttural, thick. "You have to use sword."

  A chilling smile crept onto her face before she snapped his wrist at a ninety-degree angle. His painful yelp was so loud, she almost didn't hear the bone snap. Jill released her grip on him, taking perverse pleasure in the way he curled into the fetal position, clutching his broken wrist against his chest. His eyes squeezed shut, cries turning into pained grunts and gasps for air.

  "Don’t think it’ll come to that.” She picked the sword up and placed it back in its sheath. Her combat boot pressed against his right ankle. "Name."

  The man pulled in a deep breath, remaining otherwise silent. The boot pressed down even harder, and he felt the bone starting to crack. Despite his best efforts, he yelped in pain again.

  "Name!"

  "Gregor!" The Vulture wasn't nearly as tough as he liked to think. "David Gregor!"

  That dark smile returned, and Jill crouched beside the broken perp. It was a shame he was bald; tugging violently on his hair until his scalp bled would've been the final indignity of it all. "There, was that so hard?"

  She turned to walk out of the alley, ignoring the pained growl coming from the man still crumpled on the ground.

  "Hey, freak!"

  She stopped, turning on the balls of her feet.

  "Won't be so tough once... once his boys at precinct hear about this."

  Jill couldn't hide the smile tickling at her features. "That so?" She approached the man again, kneeling so she was face-to-face with him. Long strands of hair hid her normal eye, but the infrared was on full display. "And you really think they'll believe him?"

  Uncertainty flashed in the Vulture’s eyes.

  "By all means, tell the cops about the crazy robot lady with the black leather body suit and the Kill Bill sword." She stood again, turning to leave the alley. "Hope you like straitjackets."

  Chapter 5

  In her efforts
to extract information from that Russian miscreant, Jill had almost forgotten she was supposed to meet Ramon at Mick O'Shea's for drinks. The place was probably packed by now, especially now that the Orioles' playoff game had just ended. Oriole Park at Camden Yards was emptying at a dizzying pace, and the revelers clad in orange and black were ready to celebrate a trip to the next round of the playoffs.

  Jill was now among those fans, wearing her vintage Cal Ripken jersey and a backward black ball cap with an orange bill, a black hoodie over the jersey because of the evening chill. She walked in and snaked her way through the commotion before eventually finding her partner at the bar. There were open stools on either side of him, and she gave him a friendly elbow to the side as she claimed the seat to his left. The bartender cracked open a bottle for her as Jill pulled off her hoodie and splayed it out over her lap before she even had to say anything. There was something to be said for being a regular here. The unofficial BPD discount was pretty nice, too.

  "Jill." Ramon's face visibly brightened when he saw his partner.

  She returned his smile and glanced up at the television hanging over the back of the bar. Highlights of the game -- a 7-4 win over those blasted Yankees -- were playing. Taking a swig of beer, Jill placed an order of Old Bay fries with the bartender, which elicited a mocking look of disgust from Ramon.

  "Hey." She took another swig. "Don't blame me if you still haven't gotten on-board with the whole crabs-and-Old-Bay thing."

  "But on french fries?"

  Ramon was a Southern California kid; he and Juanita had grown up just north of Los Angeles. He'd only been in Baltimore since joining the force a few months back, becoming one of the city’s youngest detectives, whereas this city was Jill's lifelong home. Her only time away was when she served four years in the Army, including two tours in Iraq.

  "Oh, I forgot," she teased. "Cali boy won't eat it if it doesn't have kale on it."

  They shared a laugh, both stopping to sip their beers. Ramon was a good cop -- a little green (especially when it came to dealing with dead bodies), but his instincts were sharp and he had a knack for asking the right question at the right time. She enjoyed having him under her wing, able to use her three years' worth of experience on the force to show him the proverbial ropes, including the fact that sometimes, going off-book was the way to go.

  It helped that they both hated the Yankees.

  Once Jill's food arrived -- and she ignored the feigned disgust from her partner -- they partook in one of their favorite pastimes: precinct gossip.

  "So," Jill munched on a handful of fries and washed them down with a swig of beer, "what's the scoop in HR?"

  Ramon smirked. "McDermott in Narcotics thinks we're boning."

  Jill coughed, almost choking on a lump of crab meat. She shouldn't have been surprised by that sort of talk; she'd dealt with it in one form or another since she signed up for the academy. Truth be told, she dealt with it back when she was in the Army, too. Police work was still a male-dominated field, and she had learned over the years to develop a bit of a thick skin because of this particular side effect of all that testosterone. It helped that her father had been a cop; Paul had also worked Homicide in his day, and Jill already knew some of what to expect from observing his work.

  Still, that wasn't cool.

  "Well, Rich will never be mistaken for a great detective." She finished off her beer before motioning to the bartender for another. Side effect of her enhanced constitution: it took far more to get her drunk than most people. She used to be such a lightweight, but now she could drink Ramon out onto the street if she really wanted.

  Ramon scoffed and finished off his beer. "Especially since he met Jorge last week."

  Jill smiled at the mention of Ramon's fiancé. Jorge was also a California lifer, and they both moved east together after Ramon decided to move from officer to detective. While Ramon worked on getting acclimated to the Eastern Time Zone, and the reality of coming to work in street clothes, Jorge enrolled in a Master's program at Towson University. Jorge had an apartment across the street from the campus -- which was great for Jorge, but Ramon had to live closer to downtown with his older sister Juanita, because the traffic to get from Towson to the precinct was so bad at rush hour that Ramon would never be on time.

  The two were set to marry in the coming summer. Jill had been named Best Man... or Best Woman... or whatever the hell the title was.

  Ramon leaned in with a wry smile as the bartender cracked open two more beers for them. "Don't get me wrong... you can be quite fetching in that t-shirt-and-jeans look. Just... my heart and loins belong to another."

  Jill laughed so hard, she almost spit beer all over the bar. "Did you seriously just use the word 'loins'?"

  Ramon joined her in their boisterous laugh, pausing just long enough to polish off half of his second beer. Jill finished off her plate, side-eyeing her partner. On more than one occasion, she had nearly told him her secret, but she'd always chickened out at the last minute. Now, with the case they were working on, she was again thinking about telling him. After all, she was afraid her secret was going to get out one way or another, and she much rather he heard that sort of thing from her.

  Besides, Ramon might be able to help run interference on Captain Richards or other higher-ups. She wasn't sure if she wanted to saddle him with that sort of responsibility, but Jill probably wouldn’t have any other choice if things got as sideways as she feared.

  She decided right then: she'd tell him. Just not in a rowdy bar packed with O's fans.

  "Well," she finished off her second beer, "my heart belongs to no one right now. And my..." Jill put her arms up to make mocking air quotes, "... loins are permanently off-limits."

  Ramon smiled and raised his empty bottle. "Cheers."

  Silence hung over the duo for what felt like minutes. The bartender gave them each another beer, and they nursed their drinks in silence. She watched Ramon fish his phone out of his pocket, smirking when he looked at the screen -- something questionable from Jorge, if she had to guess -- before his fingers tapped in a quick reply. The TV behind the bar had moved on to previewing the coming weekend's Ravens game. She never got as invested in the city's football team as she did in its baseball club, but the purple and black's twice-annual showdown with that team from Pittsburgh always had the city on-edge.

  Suddenly eager to ditch the crowd, she finished off her beer and tossed a couple of twenties onto the bar. She leaned in and nudged Ramon on the shoulder. "Hey, got a few?" She smiled a little when he nodded. "Come on, I gotta show you something."

  Chapter 6

  Jill didn't live downtown, but her apartment was close enough that she and Ramon were able to walk from O'Shea's. They weaved their way up seven flights of stairs -- no thanks to the elevator being out of commission -- before winding up at her door. She had been fine up until this point, but as she went to unlock the door, her fingers were shaky; the key almost missed the doorknob. Jill managed to get the door open without arousing too much suspicion, but as they crossed into her living room -- which was surprisingly organized, considering it was inhabited by someone who worked long, sleepless hours -- she could feel the tension building.

  Her shoulders hunched and her knees were going weak. Jill cast a sideways glance at Ramon as he wandered the living room, making a mental note of the James Patterson novel on the coffee table and the Xbox controller resting on the brown carpet. He then turned his attention to Jill, frowning when she saw her staring at her fingers, which were busy fiddling with the strings dangling from the top of her hoodie.

  "Jill?"

  Snapped out of her apparent trance, Jill gave her partner a half-hearted smile before crossing into the kitchen -- which wasn't a room so much as an alcove tucked into the corner of the living room. She squeezed her way between the counter and the refrigerator, opening it to grab two beers. She popped the tops, handing one to Ramon before throwing back almost half of her own. Setting down her beer, Jill took off her hoodie and
tossed it into a nearby chair.

  "Jill." Ramon set down his beer without taking a sip, maneuvering until he was in front of his partner, face-to-face with her. "Hey... what's going on? You've got me kinda freaked."

  She looked at her partner and half-smiled again before setting down her beer. She drew in a ragged breath, running her fingers through her hair when she finally released it. Too late to back out now. She had to tell him. Whatever happened after that, she couldn't keep this from him anymore. Jill mulled over Freeman's advice that she had to tell someone, anyone, at the precinct about her secret. It had surprised her. She didn't think he would argue such a thing. But Freeman always had managed to surprise her.

  "I," she paused, swallowing hard and trying to ignore the crease in her partner's forehead. "I'm gonna tell you something, and I need you to keep it quiet."

  "Of course." Ramon put his hand on Jill's shoulder, and she finally forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were resolute, unwavering.

  "Promise?"

  "Jill, whatever you have to tell me..." Ramon pointed at the door behind him. "... stays in here. I swear."

  Her smile was genuine this time. Jill was grateful to have a partner who unequivocally supported her. Then again, he didn't know what she was about to tell him; there was still the possibility that he would turn on her the second she revealed herself. And if he did, she couldn't blame him for it. What Jill was doing was illegal, and if it was in any way related to Dr. Roberts' murder -- she couldn't see any way that it wasn't -- then at best, she was suffering from a conflict of interest.

  Still, Ramon hadn't yet given her a reason not to trust him, so she decided to press forward.

  "You've heard the stories, right?" She raised her brow. "About the vigilante?"