by Cliff Hedley
Chase stepped back and Grange spoke again. “Thank you, Chase. So here’s what’s going to happen. Until we know better, we are going to patrol the streets. Just like Chase would in Afghanistan. We keep moving and keep an eagle eye out for anything at all out of the ordinary. Until we get any kind of leads on this, the best we can do is aim for prevention. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack but it might make a difference. I’ll organise a patrol roster and Chase will ride along with each of you to get you in the swing of things.”
Chase raised his brow. He hadn’t discussed that level of involvement with Grange but he wanted to help and was glad to be part of the action. Sitting on the sidelines in his hospital room would drive him nuts anyway.
“Do you have any questions?” Grange asked. The room stayed silent. “Good. Check your gear, make sure everything you need is ready to go. Introduce yourself to Chase. Then we hit the road.”
***
The patrol roster was broken down into two-hour shifts. By the end of the day Chase had ridden along with five different sets of partners. Each time, they talked tactics, what to look out for and sometimes even stopped to investigate anything suspicious. All in all it was a routine day of building situational awareness, patterns and drilling. It was useful training, in Chase’s opinion and he hoped that it would give the Bomb Squad guys an extra perspective.
The other thing he had learned by the end of the day was that they were very sharp — every bit as good as him in their training, with the obvious difference being a bent towards tactical situations in and around the city. Chase found himself learning just as much from them as they were from him. They seemed to appreciate the input, though. Like him, they believed in humility and learning as good ways to stay alive and succeed in their work. They were also, like his old unit the Roadrunners, a bunch of wise-asses. He knew he was starting to fit in when they starting ripping on him.
“Hey, Robocop.”
“I was wondering how long that would take you guys. But I’m not a cop.”
“You’re one of us now, like it or not,” answered Brannigan, a big, bulky guy with a ruddy complexion. No doubt of Irish descent. He looked like the kind of guy who would be in the middle of a bare-knuckle boxing match — and winning.
“Should I be flattered or worried?”
“In this gig? Both,” Brannigan’s partner interjected from behind the wheel. He was a smaller guy, a Hawaiian they called Duke, after the famous surfer with the statue on Waikiki beach. He was a surfer himself but they mainly called him Duke because they had a hard time pronouncing his surname.
“What I wanted to know is,” Brannigan went on, “how do those things work?”
Chase flexed his hands open and closed and they responded with a little whirr of servo motors. He ran them through the explanation.
“That’s cool,” Duke responded when Chase was done.
“They look cool too,” Brannigan laughed. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but I’m interested in the technology. In this line of work, any one of us could be next in line for a pair of those.”
“I hope not, for your sake. Getting to here has not been easy and they still don’t give me the full range of motion that my real hands had, though I’m pretty pleased to get the kind of use out of them I can. These are only gen-one. They’re working on the next set now.”
Chase rolled them over to check the battery indicator. In the red, two bars left.
Chapter 16
The next attack would be a distraction. Random. Not a strategic target but strategic in its intent. It was designed to sow doubt and fear into the average person, on the average street. It was a small risk to take, exposing himself to set it up. It would not greatly affect his endgame but it would help him control the populace when it counted. With this strike, nobody would feel safe anywhere.
Best of all, because there was no strategic importance to this location, he was unlikely to be disturbed.
Chapter 17
The patrol went on into the evening. It would be Chase’s last of the day. He was looking forward to a shower and recharging his arms, as well as stretching and getting off his backside. He had been sitting most of the day as the Bomb Squad vans rumbled their way around the city. He had been practising well with Duke and Brannigan, both of whom he liked. They had played a version of I-spy that revolved around possible hiding places for explosive devices. They had gotten good.
They rumbled on in silence for a while, when suddenly Duke spoke up. “Two o’clock.” There was tension in his voice. Not part of the game.
Chase and Brannigan followed his gaze as he finished rounding the corner from Seventh Avenue onto West Fourteenth Street and slowed the van. Up ahead in the half-light between streetlights someone was crouched by a fire hydrant. They peered into the gloom and Chase was sure he saw movement of some kind, as though the person was doing something to the base of it. A sudden glimpse of a flashlight confirmed it.
“Call it in. Let’s check it out.” Duke parked the van down the block and killed the headlights.
Brannigan was on the radio to dispatch, advising their position, what they saw and that they were going in to investigate. Good, textbook stuff, Chase thought. He was half-listening, looking dead ahead, focused on the movement. In the bad light he couldn’t make out exactly what was going on but it certainly fit the profile of someone attaching something to the base of the fire hydrant.
Duke slid out the driver’s door and Brannigan was out the passenger side on the footpath as soon as he was done with the radio. Chase slid across the seat, following Brannigan.
“Uh-uh. Sorry Chase, you have to stay here.”
Brannigan flicked open the dome clasp on the holster of his side-arm, as if to reinforce the point. Chase was not armed. Duke meanwhile had moved across the street and was working his way up the other side, trying to get past the shadowy figure, to cut off his escape in the other direction and give Brannigan cover fire from a different angle if he needed it. Chase cracked the window so he could hear what was happening.
Brannigan spoke first. “NYPD. Stop what you are doing and raise your hands, slowly.”
The figure moved in surprise, then stiffened. Slowly it stood up. Duke was moving in from across the street, covering Brannigan, who had his weapon out and pointed at the figure.
“Whoah. I’m from the fire department. Just routine maintenance here.”
“Show me your ID. Slowly.”
“No problem. It’s in my jacket. I’m going to reach in and get it. Just relax.”
The man carefully reached into his jacket, then drew his hand back slowly. As it reached the edge of his jacket, maybe still inside it, there was a loud crack. A gunshot.
Brannigan reeled backwards, trying to get a shot off of his own. It missed, as did the next shot from Duke, who was moving in from across the street.
The man ducked low behind a parked car, popping up to shoot Duke, who stumbled forward, roaring in agony as he hit the ground.
Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion. It all took place in only a matter of seconds but something in Chase clicked and took over. He hadn’t been paying attention to the unit number that Brannigan gave dispatch but he keyed the mic on the van’s radio. “Dispatch. This is Chase. Duke and Brannigan are down. Send backup to our location.”
He didn’t wait for a response or acknowledgement but was out of the van and on the sidewalk. Moving up the street towards the shooter, who was still there, not yet running, which seemed odd to Chase. Instead he crouched back down in front of the hydrant, furiously working away at something. Moments later, he was done. Chase had used the time to move towards him up the street, staying in the shadows, taking cover behind parked cars.
Now the guy ran. Chase got to Brannigan, who lay sprawled on his back. His gun was lying a few feet away and Chase picked it up, wondering if he would be able
to use it accurately with the prosthetics. He wasn’t sure if Brannigan was still alive but Duke was groaning where he had fallen in the street. The man who shot them was running away, further up the street. Chase sprinted, gun raised, trying to get a clear shot but the guy was too quick. He turned into an alley and Chase rounded the corner, cautiously, a few moments later.
A gunshot rang out, just missing his head and taking a chip out of the brickwork in the corner of the building. Behind the dumpster, half-way up the alley. Chase crouched low, bringing the gun and his head out of cover long enough to get a shot off, aiming for the spot he had seen the muzzle flash, before ducking back to cover. There was no return fire but he heard footsteps running away at speed.
He ducked his head out from behind the corner of the building and moved up the alley. There was a ninety-degree turn at the end of the alley. It must be where the man had run to. He dashed across to the next corner, again poking his head out. This time, two shots in close succession cracked the night air. They were closely grouped, splintering the wood trim above his head. That was closer. This guy is no amateur.
Again, Chase moved to return fire and again the target was on the move. He didn’t take the next shot, because he had heard the footsteps running away again. It occurred to him that the man might have a planned escape route, might have something nasty rigged to aid his retreat. Chase shook the thought off, determined to go after him. He moved up the new stretch of alley, carefully rounding the next corner to see a dead end. There was no cover and no shooter but there was a doorway into an old run-down building. He pushed the door open, then rolled back against the outer wall as two shots fired through the opening. He crouched low, looking for a muzzle flash, firing a shot into the darkness as he caught a glimpse of movement.
Again he heard running, moving up a noisy steel stairway. Shit. Tactical advantage of elevation. He moved slowly up, listening for the clang of footsteps on steel. A shot rang out from above. He pushed himself back against the wall, looking up, gun raised, scanning for movement. A second shot came, making a huge racket as it hit the steel and ricocheted off, embedding in the brick wall of the stairwell. Chase fired back and saw a blur as the man ducked and began running upwards again.
He didn’t like his position. All the guy had to do was get into the right angle to shoot straight down at him from the opposite side of the stairwell. His only saving grace was the dim light and shadows that he could hide in. There were no internal lights, or at least none that were switched on. He had only the glow of the city to go by, which illuminated each turn in the stairwell nearest the row of narrow grime-encrusted safety-glass windows. That was where he was most at risk. He ran up again, making it through the lightest part as quickly as he could, before pausing to look for another shot. Again, he caught a muzzle flash but this time the guy was too slow. He had been waiting to shoot as Chase moved into the lighter section. I’m a fish in a barrel here.
Chase moved again, looking for a clear shot, relying on his ears as much as his eyes to tell him where the shooter was. More footsteps clanged their way up the staircase. Chase moved again, trying to keep himself below the shooter rather than giving him a clear angle. Again a shot just missed him as he moved across the next landing where the light fell. I can’t keep this up. That one was closer.
He moved up again, then waited. The footsteps above him rang out as the steel was thumped underfoot, inside what was effectively a large brick echo-chamber. As the reverberation died, Chase heard a door swing open. He moved up again, through the light on the landing. This time there was no shot and no more footsteps. Moving further up, he found himself at a door. It looked as though it had just been opened — the gas stays were a little tired, so it had closed most of the way but rested on the latch, staying slightly ajar.
Chase swung the door open, crouching low against the wall as a shot whistled above his head. A brief glimpse in the dim glow of the city’s lights told him it was the exit onto the building’s roof. Muzzle flash at one o’clock from behind the AC vent. He was pinned down. The guy could shoot almost straight into the doorway from his cover position. He had no choice but to come out guns blazing and hope to pin the man down. He pulled the door open again, this time moving to the other side of the stairwell, against the steel railing in the centre. A shot rang out and whistled past, embedding itself in the musty brickwork. It wasn’t as close as the last one. The gloom of the stairwell was working for him. Relative to the rooftop, there was less light, so the shooter couldn’t easily pick him out.
He took a breath, knowing that he had to go after the guy. If he didn’t, other people would die. He hoped like hell that he would make it out of the doorway before he took a bullet. He flung the door open and again a shot rang out. Somewhere in the back of the stairwell there was a clink as it hit the brick wall but this time Chase was moving as fast as he could. He returned fire to the one o’clock position, hitting the AC duct. He figured that would buy him a split-second as the shooter ducked for cover. Before the door could creak its way closed again, he dashed out and onto the roof, keeping low.
Another shot hit the outside of the building, barely missing him as he found his next cover. To his left was another AC unit. He raced towards it and dropped behind it as a shot pinged off the metalwork. It seemed to be coming from the same spot, the other AC vent. Apart from the vents, there wasn’t a lot of cover. There were other buildings around and he wondered what the guy’s plan was. Shoot his way out? Jump to another rooftop? Climb down a fire escape? Lure me onto a mine?
Somewhere in the distance police sirens were blaring. They were getting closer, so he figured he just had to contain the situation until he had backup. He wasn’t sure how much ammo he had left. He hadn’t had time to look for a spare clip but he also didn’t know if the other guy had more with him. I just need to contain him.
Footsteps. Moving fast and away from him. Shit. Not contained. Chase peered out from behind the vent and saw a figure dashing off across the rooftop. He couldn’t get a shot off before the man disappeared into the darkness on the far side of the roof.
He started running himself. First, he moved to the next vent, the one that the shooter had been using as cover. Nothing there and nothing rigged to explode. He breathed a brief sigh of relief until he heard the clanging of metal. There was a fire escape on the far side of the roof and it was being used.
The sirens were getting closer but it would take them time to find him. He was half a block away on a rooftop. At least it would be good news for Duke and Brannigan — an ambulance would be rolling in for them along with half of NYPD’s finest. There would be plenty of help responding to an officer down. For now, though, Chase was on his own.
He sprinted to the edge of the rooftop and made out the fire escape. This time, he had the advantage of elevation but the way the stairwell turned back on itself obscured his shot. The fire escape opened out into a dark alley and he could see the man fleeing downwards, running his way back into the cover of darkness. Chase grabbed at the railing with his left hand, flinging himself around each corner as he raced downward, taking the steps as fast he could without tripping. He held the gun tight in his right hand, or what he thought was tight, looking for an opportunity to shoot. None came.
As he neared the bottom of the fire escape, he slowed, listening for footsteps in the alley. Nothing. He caught a glimpse of a small blinking red light on his right arm as he held the gun up in front of him, scanning across any hiding places. Dammit, batteries, don’t run out on me now. He took the last step to the end of the fire escape, swinging himself down onto the dank concrete landing. The warning light on his left arm was blinking too. He continued to scan the scene, gun up and ready to shoot, slowly moving left to right.
From behind a stack of crates, the man slipped out, gun raised. He was close. He was on Chase’s left and had the drop on him. He stepped out only long enough to get his shot off, right at Chase’s heart.
&
nbsp; Chase instinctively raised his left arm to protect his head. The shooter’s bullet found him, hitting him hard and knocking him to the ground. His own gun fell helplessly away under a dumpster as he cracked his head on the concrete. He gasped for breath, fighting to shake off the pain and regain control of himself.
The man stepped forward. Chase rolled onto his back, fighting for air as the man stood over him, his face still in shadow. Chase lashed out with his left leg, finding the side of the guy’s knee as he stepped in. The man yelped in pain, recoiling.
It wasn’t just luck. Chase had practised ground fighting from this position hundreds of times but never in bad light with a gun pointing at him. It was an excellent motivator. He swung his body around so he could hook the guy’s leg with his left foot and again drove hard at his knee, this time with his right leg.
Another shot rang out but this one missed. The man crashed onto the concrete, falling awkwardly. Chase sucked in a breath as he rolled onto him, looking to pin him down. The guy had been stunned for a moment as he hit the ground, his arms sprawling back to break his fall, though he regained his composure quickly, bringing the gun back toward Chase — but Chase was too quick and this time he had the advantage.
Chase blocked the man’s right arm, the one holding the gun and smashed his own right arm downwards onto the man’s face. He was still struggling, so Chase raised his arm again, looking for the man’s throat. He smashed downwards and was caught slightly off-guard as his opponent brought his own left arm up to block. Whoever he was, he was strong and quick. He’d also had some kind of training, because he wasn’t going down easy.
Chase raised his arm again to strike and felt his weight shift beneath him. The guy had twisted sideways and pushed himself out from underneath, narrowly avoiding a savage blow from Chase’s right, which bounced off the concrete with a clink. Chase felt that one in his stump. The shock worked its way up into his shoulder. He sprang to his feet, spinning to face the man who was pulling himself up as well. The gun was coming up too.
