by Neil Hunter
“Is he the one I shot?” Paris asked.
Janek nodded.
“So he killed Wexler,” Paris remarked. The cybo knelt beside the wounded man. “You hear that? You just killed my partner. The only partner I ever had.”
The perp, hurting from his wounds and nervous at being confronted by the cyborg cop, gazed around with wide eyes.
“Someone hired you for this,” Paris continued. “I need to know who. Very badly.”
“So?”
“So if you believe you’re hurting as bad as you can—think again.”
Paris laid a slender finger over one of the perp’s bullet wounds and pressed gently.
The guy gasped, sweat popping out on his face. “This ain’t legal,” he protested. “I got my rights.”
Paris shook her head. “Fm a Justice marshal. My rulebook says different.”
Before even Janek could do a thing, Paris slammed her clenched fist against the perp’s bloody chest, wrenching a terrified scream from him as his body arched in pain.
“Make or break, you bastard. Now give me a name.”
“Paris!” Janek said, leaning over to grab her arm. “Not this way.”
The cyborg turned to him, face hardened with bitterness, eyes glittering with a ferocity he had never encountered in his kind before.
“Don’t interfere, Janek. Not this time.” Her voice had flattened, losing the gentleness it had held before. It was without warmth or feeling, simply a mechanical tone that betrayed Paris’s birthright.
Returning to the moaning perp, Paris leaned in close, letting him see her bloody fist. “Your memory any better?”
“Ryker,” the perp whispered through clenched teeth. “La Rosa motel on the Malibu Strip. Cabin Eighteen. Now get the fuck away from me, you android bitch.”
Paris stood, smiling gently at Janek. Once again the soft gleam filled her blue eyes and her features had softened.
“Don’t take it to heart, Janek,” she said pleasantly. “All in a day’s work. You know that old saying— ‘Different strokes for different folks.’ And it got us what we wanted, didn’t it?”
Janek watched her walk away, moving to meet the first of the L.A. highway patrol air cruisers as it coasted down. The distant wail of approaching sirens filled the air.
“They breed ‘em tough out here, partner,” Cade said as he fell in beside Janek.
“I don’t believe I like that kind of tough,” Janek said.
“It’s the difference between male and female,” Cade said. ‘Paris just saw her partner killed. Her programming caused her to react from the female perspective. They get very protective where partners of any kind are concerned.”
Janek watched an L.A. County ambulance cruiser sink to the ground. The rear door swung open to allow the med-droids to emerge. They were dressed in spotless white jumpsuits, their chrome skulls polished to a high shine.
“Would you expect me to react that way if you got killed?”
“If I was dead, I wouldn’t give a damn what you did,” Cade said. “This is getting too technical for me. Bring it up next time you have a session with Abby Landers. She’ll explain it better than I can.”
“I’ve called for an unmarked air cruiser,” Paris said as she rejoined them. “I take it you want to hit the motel.”
Cade nodded. “Sooner the better. If Ryker’s on a roll, I want to be close behind him. Right now he’s our only chance of a lead to Brak.”
“That’s true, T.J., he is doing better than we are at the moment,” Janek said.
“Ryker has the advantage of having money, muscle and a direct involvement. It’s his profession and he has to show results. So he uses different ways to get his answers. And he’s known by the people he’s dealing with. Ryker has a bad reputation. He’ll kill just to find out the time of day. People tend to talk under that kind of pressure.”
“I thought we were supposed to be heavy-handed, T.J.?”
“There’s a cutoff point for us, partner. Not for Ryker.”
One of the older motel complexes, La Rosa had sprung up on the Malibu Strip alongside the main highway during the boom just after the war. California had been lucky. No missiles or pollution had reached the West Coast state. Subsequently there had been a heavy influx of immigrants. After a year the Californian authorities clamped down on the steady stream of people trying to enter the state. The ban had slowed the flood but had failed to stop it entirely.
Since then the Malibu Strip had degenerated into a tacky few miles of massage parlors, convenience stores, porno houses and cheap hotels and motels. It had an unsavory reputation but was also fairly resilient to change. It offered a place to stay for those who had little hope of finding anywhere else.
Or for those who wanted somewhere away from prying eyes and questions.
Paris put the unmarked cruiser down on a strip across the three-lane highway from La Rosa. The motel stood back from the highway. It was a collection of dilapidated cabins connected by covered walkways. Near the central office, which also held a store and launderette, was a parking lot and gas station.
“I’ve seen better,” Janek said after casting an eye over the layout.
“The strip is going through hard times,” Paris offered. “Business is bad.”
They climbed from the cruiser. Paris closed the hatch and locked it down. Crossing the highway, they skirted the office and cut through to the first cabin. Paris indicated the numbers painted on its side. “Should be at the far end of this row,” she said.
Cade pulled his Magnum, holding the weapon out of sight against his leg. “ We need information,” he said. “Not dead bodies.”
The cabins had a front entrance only. There were two windows on the front wall, two more on the back.
“Paris, cover the rear. I want you backing me when I go in, Janek.”
“Let’s do it,” Janek said.
Cade eased around the wall, flattening against the frontage. He crouched below the window, waiting by the door until Janek was beside him. Then he quickly moved to the other side of the entrance, turned and kicked the flimsy door open with the sole of his boot. Ducking, he went in fast, breaking to the right, his Magnum thrust out in front of him.
There was sudden movement in the dim room. On one side of the room, a man cursed. On the other side, a chair crashed to the floor. The thunder of a shot filled the room, the muzzle-flash bright in the shadows. The slug tore through the wall behind Cade, allowing a thin shaft of sunlight to penetrate.
Cade dropped to a crouch, searching for a target. He saw the dark outline of the gunman as he turned his powerful handgun toward Cade. The Justice cop triggered a slug into the guy’s leg, knocking him across the room.
On the tail of Cade’s shot a second shot sounded as Janek picked up the room’s other occupant. The man had been reaching for a shotgun when Janek blew a fist-sized hole through his left shoulder. He gave a startled scream and stumbled back, tripping across a low table.
Cade pushed upright, scanning the room.
The shadows were abruptly banished as Janek raised the blinds.
“Shut the door,” Cade ordered. He crossed the room, picking up discarded weapons. Only then did he check out the wounded perps.
“Shall I call in a med-team?” Janek asked.
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“And make it quick,” one of the perps said angrily.
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Janek suggested. “Looks like we got a hard-ass who wants to tough it out. What do you say, T.J.?”
Cade stood over the man Janek had shot in the shoulder. He was a lean brown guy with shoulder-length blond hair and a tattooed face. The perp glared up at Cade, teeth gritted against the pain from his shattered shoulder. His hand was clamped over the ragged wound, and blood was seeping through his fingers.
“Ryker must be down on his luck having to hire you dope-heads.”
“Yeah? Go screw yourself, cop. So you got me and Slick. I’ll piss on your grave when Ryker gets done with
ya.”
“He must be in love with the guy,” Cade said.
Cade turned at the sound of Paris’s voice calling his name. There was something in her tone that brought a chill to his gut.
“Keep an eye on this pair,” he said.
Janek, on the vid-phone, raised a hand in acknowledgment.
Paris had climbed through one of the rear bathroom windows. She was standing at the door to the bathroom.
“In here, Cade. But it isn’t very pleasant.”
Standard for a cheap motel, the bathroom was a tiled room containing a toilet, washbasin and shower unit. The tiles were white, giving the place a cold, clinical feel. Almost like an operating room, Cade thought as he stepped inside, and recoiled at what he saw.
“Jesus Christ!”
The white tiles were splashed with blood. It seemed to be everywhere, especially around the shower, from which the naked, butchered corpse of a man hung. He’d been strung up by a length of electrical cable looped beneath his arms and then secured to the shower fixture, and his face and body had been deliberately and deeply cut and sliced. Someone had tortured the man, killing him slowly and very painfully. Carving him up so that he died in gruesome agony. Pools of blood had congealed in the shower tray below the dangling corpse.
“I know this one,” Paris said. “Name of Quinn. Belonged to a drug gang called the Wreckers. On the fringe but always looking for the main chance. Never had the clout or the money to move into the big time.”
“Just the sort of outfit Brak would buy into,” Cade said. “They’d have the local connections. He’d provide cash and the goods. You know where we can find them?”
Paris nodded and followed Cade to the main bedroom, where Janek was guarding the pair of wounded perps.
“Any ID on these two?” Cade asked her.
“That’s Keller. The other is Marchino. Slick Marchino. Local guns for hire. Handy with the violence but low on brain power. One of the perps from the chopper runs with them.”
“Ryker must have picked up some info on the Wreckers tying in with Brak. He snatches Quinn and tortures what he needs to know from the guy.”
Janek viewed the corpse in the bathroom. He came back shaking his head in disgust. “All this, Thomas. And for what? Explain, because I can’t understand the reasoning of a mind that could do such things.”
“Greed, partner. Greed and contempt for his own kind. Brak started the ball rolling back in New York. Ryker is just carrying the play. He’ll do whatever he feels necessary to catch up with Brak.”
Janek glanced at Paris. “I think I owe you an apology, Paris,” he said. “These murderous lowlifes deserve anything that comes their way.”
“Hey,” the perp called Marchino said, “maybe we can cut a deal.”
“Such as?” Janek asked.
“You want Ryker? I can give him to you. I know where he’s gone.”
Janek leaned over the man. “Help yourself by helping us,” the cyborg said persuasively.
“Quinn told him there was a big meet planned for later today. Out at the Wreckers’ place near Pasadena. Brak’s going to be there to put his money and know-how in the pot.”
“I know where that is,” Paris said.
Marchino licked his dry lips as he stared at Janek. “So do we get our deal?”
The cyborg stood upright and moved aside, turning his back on the puzzled gunman.
“Hey, our deal. We gave you the goods. What about our deal?”
Cade turned his gaze on the man. “No deals, Marchino. I’m putting you pair down for the duration. By the time you get off Mars, you won’t remember where you came from.”
“You lousy scumbag!” Marchino raved. “You let me...
Cade smiled coldly. “No, pal. You did all the talking. We just listened. Nobody said anything about dealing except you.”
“What about Ryker?” Keller said bitterly. “He’s in just as deep.”
Cade smiled. “I haven’t forgotten Ryker,” he said. “I’ll find him. And when I do, I’ll deal with him personally.”
Paris crossed to the door and looked outside. “Backup’s on the way,” she said. “Med-cruiser coming in.”
“Let’s get this sorted,” Cade said.
Thirty minutes later they were on the move. The wounded perps were on the way to hospital, under Justice Department guard. Once they were fit to travel, they would be sentenced and put on board the first available flight to Mars. There wouldn’t be any opportunity for appeals or deal cutting. The Justice Department had the authority to make decisions in these cases, removing society’s worst offenders by the most direct means.
Paris, piloting the cruiser, took them to altitude, then placed the craft on auto lock. Tracking a Justice Department air lane, the cruiser slid easily through the hazy blue sky. Paris swiveled her seat so she could face Cade and Janek.
“The Wreckers’ place is in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. Like I said, they’re strictly smalltime. But even small-time traffickers usually have fortunes. The Wreckers are an oddball bunch, representing an assortment of cultures, with plenty of outcasts and misfits from other major drug groups. Maybe they like the idea of pushing the major cartels out of the limelight. The cartels have things pretty well sewn up— they like to run things their way and they resent outsiders. The fact that the Wreckers is comprised of former members of other drug groups doesn’t cut much ice with the cartels. They get pretty touchy over their pedigree.”
“Like the old Mafia,” Cade said. “I had to do a paper on them during my department training. They were nothing but a bunch of murdering crooks, but they swaggered around like they were something special and got real snooty if they didn’t like someone.”
“The Wreckers might be considered mongrels by the cartels,” Paris warned, “but don’t let that fool you. Mongrels or not, they’re a hard bunch. You saw what Ryker had to do to Quinn to get anything out of him. Use that as an example, Cade. Whichever way this thing goes down, you’ve got one hell of a fight on your hands. The Wreckers won’t quit. Most of them don’t even understand what the word means. And those who do will just laugh in your face.”
Janek slipped a fresh magazine into his autopistol, cocking the weapon. “Sometimes I ask myself—do I really need all this hassle? Wouldn’t I be happier growing flowers or studying advanced biochemistry?” Paris glanced at him. “Well, would you?” Janek sighed. “Who knows? I’m damned if I do, and that’s the truth.”
Chapter Thirteen
They exchanged the cruiser for an unmarked car, a classic model Cadillac Eldorado, at a local police precinct. The car was equipped with whitewall tires and was painted in a gleaming shade of pink, and the top was down.
“There’s enough chrome plating on the thing to sink a space cruiser,” Janek complained as he completed his tour of the vehicle. “Thomas, are you seriously suggesting we drive around in this thing?”
“Thing,” Cade said. “This is a piece of American history. Part of our culture. Like the classic Coke bottle and apple pie.”
Janek sighed resignedly. “I suppose it has a certain archaic attraction.”
Paris opened the passenger door and slid onto the rear seat. “Drive around California in this and no one will pay us the slightest attention.”
Cade took the wheel and fired up the powerful engine. “Listen to that,” he said, gripping the large steering wheel. “The sound of the American dream.”
“More like one of Freddy Krueger’s nightmares,” Janek grumbled.
“They still showing those on TV?” Paris asked.
“On the old movie channel back in New York. They come around every month.”
“I think they started losing their appeal after number thirteen.”
Cade gunned the engine and took the Cadillac out into the sunlight. He rolled along the wide avenue, following Paris’s directions. “This is the way to travel,” he said.
“Not along Fifth Avenue it wouldn’t be,” Janek replied. “Not in a ca
r this color.”
“You have no romance in you, Janek.”
The cyborg ignored him. He had located the onboard computer, concealed by a sliding panel under the dash. He accessed the unit and tapped into the network. Once the data bank was on-line, he keyed in some digits, then called up some information on the screen.
“This is data I picked up when we were in Kansas,” he told Paris. “Part of it refers to bank account transfers. We figure Loren Brak pulled back payoffs to certain New York financiers dealing with the Outfit. He probably decided while he was snatching everything from his partners he might as well have this cash, as well.”
Paris leaned forward, scanning the screen. “We can check the account numbers through the local Justice Department files,” she said, giving Janek code sequences to key in. The codes provided access to the department data bank. More commands brought up fresh text.
“Interesting,” Paris observed. “The bank is a fairly small operation but it carries extensive funds with a great deal of cash movement.”
“Sounds like you know something we don’t,” Cade said.
“The reason’s simple,” Paris explained. “The Justice Department has had this bank under observation for the past few months because we had suspicions it was dealing in drug money—acting as a laundering broker. That’s why there’s so much cash flowing in and out. On the surface it looks legitimate. Apparently the bank does the payrolling for several large local companies who pay weekly in cash. Again that gives them the facility to push a lot of cash through the bank on a regular basis. Preliminary checks confirmed this. But checking via our computer network showed that there was far more in-going cash than they’d ever need.”
“You haven’t come up with enough evidence to move yet?” Cade asked.
Paris shook her head. “No way. These people are way ahead of us. Their lawyer is one of the best in the business. His client list includes most of the state’s top criminals. He’d have us dancing on our hands within ten minutes if we didn’t have one hundred-and-one-percent hard evidence. No way we could move until we had the whole damn outfit caught in the act. Know how hard that is?”
