by Neil Hunter
That hesitation was Janek’s chance—and he took it without a second thought.
Janek’s arm swung up, striking Brak’s gun hand. The autopistol swung off Janek, and the trafficker’s finger jerked back against the trigger as he lost control of his reflexes.
The roar of the heavy-caliber pistol filled the cabin. The slug erupted from the muzzle, hitting the pilot in the back of the neck at close range. It cored through his throat in a gory mush, then deflected against the edge of the control panel.
Cursing wildly, Loren Brak attempted to hit Janek with his gun hand. Janek swayed to one side, barely noticing the gun barrel as it caught the side of his face, splitting the syntho-flesh. He slipped a hand under Brak’s gun arm, closed his other over the trafficker’s wrist, lifting and pulling. Brak was raised on his toes as the cybo piled on the pressure.
The pistol slipped from numb fingers, clattering to the deck. Janek kicked it aside, then swung Brak around, slamming him face first against the bulkhead. Brak let out a strangled groan, blood streaming from his crushed nose and split lips.
“You bastard. That hurt.”
“It was meant to,” Janek said with feeling.
Despite his injury, Brak stared at the cyborg. “Meant to? You cybos ain’t supposed to get personal.”
Janek registered the trafficker’s words and realized he was right.
Cyborgs were supposed to be above human frailties such as rage and wanting revenge.
“Damned if you’re not correct,” Janek said, a trace of surprise in his tone.
And then he hit Brak again, spinning the trafficker across the cabin and dumping him on the deck.
Janek dragged the dead pilot out of the way, hoping to bring the straying strato-jumper back under control. He slid into the seat, punching the button that jettisoned the rocket pod. As it fell clear, leaving the jumper without power, he tapped into the on-board computer, quickly laying down coordinates for a con-trolled-glide landing. He felt the craft start to tumble, his powerful fingers working the manual controls.
The strato-jumper’s glide fins slid out from the main fuselage, locking into place. Janek became aware of the bumpiness subsiding. He tested the control sensitivity and found it expanding. He peered through the view canopy at the terrain below.
Checking the monitor, Janek identified the landing strip. He eased the controls to bring the craft around. On-screen text detailed distance and height, the computer quickly giving him necessary data for a reasonably safe landing. According to the results, it was going to be a short landing, with no room for error.
“I’ll make it,” Janek said out loud. “I always knew I would.”
He saw the strip coming up, and the sight made him wonder how Cade was getting on with Ryker.
Cade dropped to the ground, rolling beneath the stalled truck. Emerging on the far side, he snatched up the combat rifle dropped by the dead gunner. Ignoring the bloody mush that had been the guy’s chest, Cade located a couple of spare mags for the weapon and jammed them inside his jacket.
He heard the screech of tires as the Chrysler slid to a stop. Peering under the truck, Cade saw feet hit the ground as Ryker and two men piled out.
Making certain the high-powered rifle was cocked, Cade eased to the rear corner of the truck. He took a quick look to pinpoint the position of Ryker and his partners.
One of the hired guns stepped into view. Cade raised the rifle, aimed and fired in one easy movement. The slug took the gunner in the chest, and he fell back against the car’s hood. Cade laid a second shot into him for good measure.
Moving to the front of the truck, Cade heard rapid footsteps as Ryker and the remaining gunner took cover.
Lying flat, Cade scanned the area around the Chrysler. He spotted a pair of feet at the rear of the vehicle. Bringing the rifle to his shoulder, he flipped the fire selector to three-round bursts. He triggered, aiming at the rear of the Chrysler. The slugs punched ragged holes in the bodywork, and some reached the concealed gunner. Cade heard a grunt of pain, then the gunner broke from cover, firing indiscriminately at Cade’s position.
The moment he had a clear shot, Cade emptied the rifle’s magazine. The gunner’s body jerked and twitched as the three-round bursts cored into his flesh.
Propelled by the impact, the dying man stumbled awkwardly, falling.
Cade ejected the spent magazine, snapped in a fresh one. With the weapon cocked and ready he pressed against the cold metal of the truck, ears straining to pick up any sound that might pinpoint Ryker’s position.
What he did hear was the roar of an engine. Tires bit into the earth, scattering debris as Ryker reversed, then knocked the gear into forward. The car lurched toward the rear of the truck, ramming it. The impact shoved it forward a couple of feet, knocking Cade away from the side.
Cade rolled clear and came to his feet, the rifle held at hip level. He could see Ryker’s wildly grinning face behind the starred windshield of the Chrysler. Cade shot into the windshield, and Ryker jerked back, ramming the gas pedal to pull the Chrysler back and forth, using it like a battering ram. He caught the back corner of the truck, pushing the vehicle around. Cade took a headlong dive to stay out of the way. He crashed to the ground on his shoulder, bruising it badly. Aware of the engine’s manic roar, he rolled frantically. Coming over on his back, he saw the vehicle bearing down on him.
He let out a yell as he dug his heels into the earth to gain some leverage and shove himself away from the churning wheels. He only just made it. Peppering him with dirt and dust, the Chrysler rocked by with inches to spare. The car shot ahead, braked savagely, then reversed, its tires throwing up acrid smoke as Ryker jammed the pedal to the floor, the rear end fishtailing.
Cade sat upright, locking the rifle against his hip. He pumped shot after shot into the car’s rear section, blowing the tires to shreds and puncturing the gas tank.
At the last moment he kicked off to the side, feeling the fender brush his shoulder. The impact did more to fuel Cade’s anger than anything else.
Ryker’s snarling features, streaked with blood, showed as a quick blur as the Chrysler slid by.
Up on one knee, Cade blasted the rifle through the side window. Ryker jerked and rolled, still gripping the wheel. But the engine stalled and the car humped to a dead stop.
Pumping from the ruptured tank, raw fuel was pooling under the car’s rear. Cade cut around the Chrysler, reaching into his pocket for the disposable lighter he carried for his cigars. His thumb flicked the button, and a thin tongue of flame shot out. Vapor ignited with a soft whoosh, spreading quickly under the car and to the wide pool on the ground.
As he ran, Cade heard the grinding of the starter as Ryker made an attempt to restart the Chrysler.
There was a deep roar as the flames reached the tank and it blew, flame boiling out in all directions. Cade felt the shock wave reach out and slam him to the ground, the heat of the fireball scorching the back of his jacket.
Up on his feet again, Cade turned to shield his face from the heat. Debris rattled to the ground around him. A thick pall of smoke hung over the blazing vehicle.
Cade was about to turn away when he heard the groan of buckling metal. The driver’s door, its paint peeling under the heat, slowly swung open on protesting hinges.
From the fire-scorched front of the Chrysler a figure half climbed, half stumbled out. It rose to its full height, turning to Cade.
The Justice cop found himself face-to-face with a living nightmare.
It was Ryker, or what was left of him.
Most of his clothing had gone, as had the major part of his flesh. His face, blistered and peeling, was still recognizable, the shriveling flesh shelling off like fish scales. Fluid oozed from the pores. A bright halo of fire encircled his skull as his hair burned away. Where the flesh had parted from the body, Cade could see the gleam of bright metal, sinews and muscle that were fine strands of platinum wire and silicone pads.
Ryker stepped away from the burning wr
eck, his naked feet leaving bloody prints. His right hand, gripping the door for support, shed strips of fatty tissue as he pulled it free.
He advanced slowly, his agony showing in the eyes glaring defiantly from the bony skull.
Cade gripped the combat rifle with sweaty hands. Whatever he might have expected to see, this vision of hell was not it.
Ryker, part man, part machine, was a result of the out-and-out commercial area of bionics that persisted despite the ban years earlier. At isolated clinics biosurgeons took willing human patients and transformed them into the artfully blended hybrids known as bio-freaks.
Anything was possible, from a simple limb replacement to a full body transplant. All it took was one of the maverick doctors and a client with plenty of money. It was as easy as that.
The assassin known as Ryker had opted for the full transplant. His head was his own, as were the organs encased within a thin steel torso. Everything else was the creation of the biosurgeon who had carved up Ryker’s living flesh and installed the limbs of titanium, silicone and platinum wire. Over all this, organic outer flesh had grown, complete with active veins and circulating blood fed by the still-pumping heart. It had created the most formidable hitman ever. The swift responses of the intricate bionics, merged with a natural brain and internal organs, had produced a being of extreme power and cunning.
But even Ryker was fallible. Despite his above-human reaction time and superb response capabilities, even he had found it impossible to escape the awesome speed and power of man’s most unforgiving adversary—fire. Caught in the raging maelstrom, he had been reduced to a near-skeletal form.
“So it’s you,” Ryker rasped, the words delivered in a voice that was one step from the grave. Superheated air had ravaged his vocal cords, leaving him with little more than a hoarse whisper. He stumbled over the words, forming them with great difficulty and forcing them through shrunken, bleeding, black lips. “But it isn’t over until I rip out your heart!”
Ryker summoned his remaining strength and lunged forward, his titanium-reinforced hands reaching for Cade. The unreasoning wildness in his staring eyes might have unnerved a lesser man.
“You were wrong there, pal,” Cade said. “It’s over—and I mean now!”
His hands activated the combat rifle, leveling it at the monstrous figure bearing down on him.
He pumped shot after shot into Ryker’s naked skull until it burst apart, flesh and bone disintegrating in a burst of pulpy red and gray. Ryker let out a final howl of pure rage and agony, then crashed to the ground a couple of feet from Cade.
The massive figure thrashed in final convulsions, slowing imperceptibly until it gave a last shudder and became still, blood seeping from the shattered head into the thirsty earth.
Cade threw aside the rifle. He turned away and crossed to the wrecked truck. Leaning against it, he pulled a crumpled cigar from his pocket and put it in his mouth. Then he recalled that he’d lost his lighter after setting off the gas leaking from Ryker’s car. He threw the cigar aside. He was starting to ache, and he could feel blood streaming down the side of his face from a bad scrape.
From a distance came the sound of vehicles crossing the field from the landing strip’s control tower. It wouldn’t be long before a police cruiser would come howling up. At that moment Cade couldn’t have cared less.
He was wondering where Janek was.
The strato-jumper appeared then, swooping in from the empty sky, descending at a steep angle.
Too steep, Cade realized as he watched it drop. The jumper hit the end of the strip and bounced wildly, almost overturning. Then it settled, veering as it sped along the strip, metal scraping the concrete and raising great sparks. Chunks of metal broke free. With a loud grating sound the strato-jumper made a final lurch, then skidded off the strip, plowing up earth and grass in a great swath. One fin snapped off as the jumper rolled and spun in a wide arc before coming to rest.
Cade moved to where the strato-jumper lay. Sparks crackled and popped from severed cables exposed by ripped-off panels in the outer skin. As he neared the craft, the hatch slid open with a groan of damaged servos.
Janek’s battered figure appeared in the opening. The cyborg grinned when he took in Cade’s equally shabby appearance.
“You look like hell,” Janek observed. “I take it you managed to deal with Ryker?”
“It was a struggle without you, but I managed.”
“I brought you something back,” Janek said brightly.
He reached down and hauled a limp figure into view. With a heave of his arm the cyborg dumped Loren Brak on the ground at Cade’s feet.
“This is the guy who started all this. So we can finish it with him, as well.”
“Let’s get the cuffs on him before he does another runner onus.”
Janek secured Brak’s hands behind his back, then cuffed the trafficker’s ankles. “Beat that, sucker,” he said cheerfully.
Returning to the strato-jumper, Janek vanished inside. When he climbed out a few minutes later, Cade was in conversation with a uniformed California highway patrol officer. Loren Brak, bloody and silent, was in the rear of the patrol car, a sleek black-and-white FireCruiser.
Close by were an assortment of vehicles, with interested spectators being kept back by a couple of android cops. A med-cruiser came drifting silently over the field.
Janek had a couple of aluminum cases in his hands. He dropped them beside Cade.
“And this is what it was all about, T.J. Cash. Drug formula. Enough Thunder Crystals to feed a city for six months.”
“Anything else in there?”
Janek nodded. “Every name you ever wanted to hear. The information in here will shut down a dozen operations between here and New York.”
“What about our city money men?”
Janek nodded. “Confirmation of the names we picked up. Locations. Dates. Amounts paid. Almost makes it too easy for us.”
“I could use a little easy time, partner,” Cade said. “The sooner we get back to New York, the better I’ll feel. Then we can go and shut down these money men.”
Janek nodded his approval. “That’ll do for me, T.J.,” he said.
And he meant it.
Epilogue
New York City
“Can’t you make better time than this?” Randolph asked impatiently. Agitated and nervous, he was sweating profusely, despite the fact that it was raining heavily outside the motionless limousine.
The vehicle, like many others, was stalled on the crowded approach to the Holland Tunnel, locked in a mass of cars on a late afternoon in a torrential downpour from a darkening sky.
Beside Randolph on the limo’s spacious rear seat sat Mennard, the bodyguard he had hired a week or so back. The man was large and solid, seemingly unaffected by any situation. As Randolph posed the question, Mennard leaned forward to peer through the rain-streaked windshield.
“Not a great deal we can do, Mr. Randolph,” he said evenly. ‘Traffic looks pretty well locked in.”
“Damn!”
Randolph slumped back in the plush seat. For once he was unable to derive his usual pleasure from the limo’s luxurious surroundings. In better times he reveled in the vehicle’s customized decadence. Right now it was taking on the ambience of a costly jail cell.
Mennard tapped the driver on the shoulder, leaning close to pass a message to the man.
“What?” Randolph asked, unsettled by the whispered conversation. “Mennard?”
“Relax, Mr. Randolph,” the bodyguard said. “It’s all taken care of. I’ve got it fixed to get you out of here.”
The financier stared out through the limo’s tinted window. The traffic lanes on either side were choked with idling vehicles. The lines stretched into the distance both ahead and behind. As far as Randolph could see, there was no way out.
“Mennard, I don’t wish to appear negative, but how the hell do we get out of this mess?” Randolph indicated the traffic snarl. “You’ve seen what
’s out there?”
“Easy to see you’re not a religious man, Mr. Randolph,” Mennard said, smiling thinly.
Randolph scowled, causing Mennard to smile even more.
“No faith,” the bodyguard explained. “You have no faith.”
Randolph allowed himself a dry chuckle. “In what? Miracles? Is that what you mean? Fucking miracles dropping down from the sky?”
“Yes, sir,” Mennard replied. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Puzzled, Randolph watched as the bodyguard opened his door and stepped into the downpour. The financier stared at the man, convinced he was going crazy. He was about to voice his opinion when Mennard stuck his head back inside. Rainwater was dripping from his face, and his expensive suit was sodden.
“Shall we get our asses into gear, Mr. Randolph, sir?” he said respectfully.
Sliding his plump form along the leather seat, Randolph peered out into the rain and saw a sleek executive air cruiser hovering just above the level of the limo’s roofline. An alloy ladder had been extended to within a foot of the ground.
“What’s this?” Randolph asked as he pushed himself out of the limo. The drenching rain went unnoticed as Randolph reached for the ladder and freedom.
“My backup,” Mennard said. “A precaution against anything going wrong. I had a feeling we might hit heavy traffic, this being a weekend.”
“Which is why I chose to leave,” Randolph insisted as he climbed the ladder. “The best time to slip away from under the noses of those damn Justice cops.”
He hauled himself up the ladder, the effort winding him. His fingers ached as he gripped the rungs. The discomfort was worth it, he decided, because he had fooled the bastard called T. J. Cade.
And that was worth a lot in Randolph’s book.
During the past few days Cade had been busy hauling in Randolph’s associates, his partners in crime. And while that had been happening, Randolph, always a man who looked to the future, had put into operation his own survival plan.
One of his steps had been to hire a personal chauffeur and bodyguard. Mennard had been paid for by Randolph alone, and the investment was already paying off, because the others were behind bars while he was free.
