He had a call patched through from Control - it was Garrison. "Dredd, we got the next two DNA matches from the Liz Short body dump. Darryk Fellmore, white male, thirty-two. Lived in Zeta-Jones lux-apts. The other is Ricki Haigle, black female, forty-six, resident of John Malkovich. Both single, no dependants."
"Let me guess, both actors."
"How'd you know?"
"Call it thirty years of Judge's intuition. Listen Garrison, I'm not near a terminal. Can you find out their employment history, see what their jobs were in the months leading up to the point when they were reported missing? If you can't do it through MAC, get a helmet round to their last known addresses or contact the next of kin. I'm heading back to the Grand Hall of Justice, you can contact me there."
"Wilco."
Dredd deliberately failed to mention to her what information he was after. He wanted his suspicions to be confirmed independently. If he was right, then he would have to inform the Chief Judge, who no doubt would be less than happy with his suspicions.
He left the expressway, and turned onto Brassard, weaving his Lawmaster through the traffic. A large truck rumbled past him on the outside and pulled into the middle lane to a chorus of angry horns from the other motorists as they had to decrease speed sharply. Dredd looked for a way round, but discovered they were approaching the mouth of the Naomi Watts underpass and he was going to be stuck behind this thing until he could break clear on the other side. The vehicle was drifting lazily from side to side, the driver seemingly unaware of the build-up he was causing, or perhaps being wilfully obstructive. Either way, the creep was contravening half a dozen highway laws. As they swept into the tunnel, Dredd was just about to give his siren a blast and get the idiot to pull over, when - watching the truck take a wide swing to the left - he realised a split second too late what was going to happen.
The truck slid into the inside lane, as if to allow the other traffic to pass, then slammed on its brakes and slewed itself across the entire width of the road, tyres screeching. Those unfortunate enough to be right behind it had no chance, smashing into its chassis with several thunderous bangs, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass and squealing rubber, all amplified within the confines of the tunnel. The vehicles that followed tried to swerve out of the path of the wreckage, but had nowhere to go. They sideswiped the walls of the underpass or buried themselves into the tangle of metal that now completely blocked the thoroughfare.
Dredd twisted his bike in an effort to stop himself ploughing into those in front, but lost control, the Lawmaster skidding away from him. He let go and tucked himself into a roll, his shoulder pads and helmet taking the worst of the damage as the tarmac reached up to greet him like a fist. The impact winded him, but he couldn't feel any broken bones as he staggered to his feet and, to his frustration, found his bike lying immobile beneath the debris.
The air was filled with the stink of oil, gasoline and burnt rubber, and small fires began to spring up in the ruptured engines of the vehicles twisted out of shape by the collision. Some citizens were emerging from their cars, dazed and nursing injuries, others were slumped forward in the front seats unconscious, or were unable to move because of the debris trapping them in. Dredd couldn't even get to the driver of the truck to see what had caused the pile-up, the cab rendered unreachable by the sheer number of wrecks toppled over on one another. His priority was to call in reinforcements and start cutting the casualties free before the whole tunnel went up.
"Control, this is Dredd. We have a major accident in Watts underpass, med and meat wagons required," he barked into his mike, striding back towards the entrance. "Brassard is now completely blocked. Get helmets down here to redirect the traffic, and we need cutting equipment to free the injured-"
He stopped mid-sentence, momentarily stunned by the audacity of what he was seeing. Nine or ten men in full-face masks and anonymous fatigues were swinging down on ropes lashed to the pedway above the tunnel mouth. They had spit guns and assorted hand weapons - mostly crowbars and axes - strapped to their backs, and they acted quickly and confidently. Once they touched down onto the road surface, they began to move amongst the stationary vehicles, throwing the groaning cits aside.
"Control, this was no accident. We have wreckers working Watts underpass. Repeat, back-up required, wreckers in force in Watts."
"That's a rog. Units will be with you shortly."
Dredd drew his Lawgiver, flattening himself against the wall, thinking that he should've guessed the truck had been used to intentionally block the tunnel. Whilst he'd dealt with plenty of wreckers before - perps that caused carnage by attacking motorists, breaking their way into the vehicles to steal money and valuables - he'd never actually been in the centre of a robbery itself. The creeps had certainly picked the wrong moment to launch an attack, but if they were checking the traffic entering the underpass, they must've seen him going in with it. So why choose now to commence the assault?
Unless...
The perps were splitting up, covering the full expanse of the tunnel. Some of them grabbed rings, wallets and necklaces, smashing car windows and snatching bags from the laps of the barely conscious, but others - while to all intents and purposes appearing to be on crowd control - were scanning the wreckage, looking for something. Or someone.
"Move in," one of them ordered. "Keep searching. We've got five minutes, tops."
This wasn't an ordinary hold-up, Dredd was certain of that now. They wanted it to look like a wrecking job, but they were using it as a cover. The robbing of cars was cursory and indiscriminate, as if that was their secondary goal. They'd staged this huge accident for one objective; to eliminate one of those trapped in the tunnel, but not to make it look like the victim had been singled out and was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dredd had a good idea who that intended victim was.
Well, he wasn't going to make it easy for them. He emerged from the shadows, Lawgiver raised, and shouted: "I'm giving you creeps one chance to drop your weapons and surrender. Hands in the air, now!"
The wrecker Dredd presumed to be the leader pointed the Judge out to the others. "Nail him!"
Dredd ducked down behind a car as he was met by a hail of automatic fire. Bullets ricocheted off the bodywork of the wrecks, shattering windows. Those citizens still trapped in their vehicles were ripped apart, jerking in their seats as they were caught in the onslaught, bodies riddled with ammunition. The wreckers were pouring the fire on, squeezing their spit guns dry, paying little attention to who was in the way. Dredd knew he had to finish this quickly before any more innocent lives were lost, and before a stray round ignited the huge tinderbox they were in the middle of.
The barrage halted. Through the wheel arch of the vehicle he was using for cover, Dredd saw feet approaching in his direction. Crouching, he shot two standard execution rounds through the meathead's lower leg. The wrecker collapsed with a yelp, his eyes meeting Dredd's for a second before the lawman put one more through his open mouth, forcing teeth and skull shards to explode back across the tarmac. The Judge crawled rapidly round to the corpse and snatched his spit gun, reasoning he could do with the extra firepower. He stood and sighted two more of the creeps sneaking in from the right and blew them away before they had a chance to aim.
"There!" came a cry, and Dredd rolled over a car bonnet, bullets popping all around him. He felt one ping off his helmet as he came down two-footed on the road and opened fire, both barrels blazing, his Lawgiver in his right hand, the spit gun in the left. A round from the latter satisfyingly took out two of the creeps at the same time, the ammo blowing through the first one's torso to catch his partner as well, slamming them both against the underpass wall.
Dredd moved before the rest could pin him down, slaloming between vehicles, making sure he kept all of his assailants in plain sight; he didn't want any of them getting behind him. By his reckoning, he'd taken down half their number already, and there were five of the drokkers left. Ideally, he would've liked to have fired off some
heatseekers, but he couldn't be sure they wouldn't catch some of the cits still left alive in the tunnel. Armour-piercing was another matter, though. Dredd saw one of the creeps squatting on the other side of an upturned mo-pad and put several AP rounds through the engine block, catching the guy in the neck and chest. He heard sirens in the background, and so did the remaining gunmen.
"Drokkin' jays comin', man!" one of them cried and made a break for it, heading for the tunnel entrance. The lawman sighted his weapon and shot the escapee through the kneecap, sending him sprawling, his screams echoing back along the underpass.
"Heads up, Dreddy," the leader yelled and Dredd had a moment to catch a glimpse of the grenade whistling over in his direction before he was moving again. He leaped onto the roof of a car, twisting away from the rattle of gunfire that followed his movements, and put as much distance as he could before the explosion. Seconds later, the entire structure shuddered as the grenade detonated, blowing vehicles into the air and sending an orange fireball shooting towards the tunnel mouth, incinerating everything in its path. Dredd rolled and found cover, feeling the heat blistering his face as it passed overhead. He had to get out; the fumes and leaking fuel set alight by the blast were going to turn this place into an inferno.
He got to his feet and saw the last three wreckers also charging for the opening. Looking back, most of the vehicles involved in the initial collision were ablaze, and a small chain reaction was going off, spreading to the surrounding remains. Dredd grabbed an injured perp, blackened but still breathing, and tugged him towards the light. Street and Med-Judges were arriving at the scene, leading motorists standing at the tunnel entrance out of the way. As Dredd emerged, he ordered them to get back.
"Move out! The whole tunnel's going to-"
Before he could finish, an eruption inside sent flames spiralling out, the wave of hot air pushed out with it throwing a nearby meat wagon off its wheels and onto its side. Fire licked at the roof and sides of the underpass, the heat forcing the Judges to retreat. A droid fire-fighting crew came forward and attempted to douse the conflagration.
"Some cits still in there," Dredd said, trying not to choke on the black smoke pouring out of the underpass.
"And who's this?" a Judge called Laverne asked, motioning to the semi-conscious perp at Dredd's feet.
"One of those responsible," he answered. "Last three got away. Did you see what happened to them?"
"Nope. Must've escaped the same way they came in." Laverne nodded at the ropes dangling above the tunnel entrance. "If you've got a description, we'll put out an APB."
Dredd shook his head. "Masked. Anyway, they'll have had a change of clothes and are probably headed to another sector by now. We'll just have to hope this creep coughs up some names." He gave the wrecker a gentle kick, getting a soft groan in response.
"Quite a mess," Laverne said, looking up at the smoke and flames. "Guess they didn't figure on holding you up as well."
Dredd didn't reply.
"Have you any idea of the seriousness of what you're suggesting?"
"I'm fully aware of the implications, if my suspicions are proved correct, of course. I don't make a habit of casting wild accusations."
Hershey sat forward at her desk, hands clasped together in front of her. "But you're accusing a major film studio - one with links to Justice Department, I might add - of being instrumental in the kidnap and murder of several citizens?"
Dredd nodded. "Something's rotten at the heart of Catalyst, I'm sure of it. Engels disappears a few weeks after working for the company and Haigle vanishes two months after her first gig there. Fellmore appears in three of their productions before his disappearance a year later."
"I've read the report," Hershey said testily, indicating the papers spread out before her. "It might just be coincidence. If someone's murdering actors, then their places of work are all going to be fairly similar."
"It's the single unifying factor between the victims. They've all got different backgrounds, different ages, different sexes, but they all worked for Catalyst at some point in their lives. They also all seem to be single, with no close family ties."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning someone's profiling them, choosing them because nobody's going to notice they're missing for a while. I looked into their Missing Persons files and Haigle hadn't been registered missing until eighteen months after her probable time of death. Nobody knew anything about Fellmore. Both their apartments had been re-let, the presumption being that, as actors, they'd found work in another part of the city, or left the country altogether."
"But you have no evidence," Hershey reiterated. "Nothing concrete. This is all supposition."
"I know that DuNoye creep lied to me, giving me a false lead to further muddy the waters of the investigation. If he's protecting Rejin, I want to know why. Plus there have now been two attempts on my life. Somebody with a lot of money is behind them if they can afford a Mob Blitzer or hire a wrecking crew to take me out."
"But we've got no names to connect them. The drive-by shooter was identified as some lowlife called Jove Parnell, who has already done time for ARVs and who wasn't even gang-affiliated. And that perp you pulled out of Watts knows nothing. Psi-Div probed him and all they got was that he was hired by a voice on the phone to do a wrecking job."
"They're the soldiers. They're not going to be told anything if it means we can use that info to get at the creeps at the top. We're looking at systematic murder here. If we're gonna break the organisation open, we gotta get at the brains behind it."
Hershey sighed. "Erik Rejin is a staunch supporter of this office and he makes many welcome contributions to our funds. If you're wrong about this, Dredd, it could prove very costly."
"I'll stake my reputation on it," Dredd replied flatly.
The Chief Judge sat back in her chair, thinking. Finally, she said: "What are you proposing?"
"We put someone inside Catalyst."
EIGHT
"Wake him up," says a voice even my mind, floating out on the ether, tells me I recognise. My embattled memory tries to put a name to it, but it's frustratingly sluggish. Seconds later, sharp pain lances through the haze of disorientation and consciousness rushes up to drag me out of the blackness. My heavy eyes open slowly and my body takes several moments to realise the situation: I'm being held upright, two pairs of arms supporting my weight. The room is darkened, with no distinguishing features that I can make out, other than the floor feels smooth and cold beneath my feet, like it's bare stone. There is a man standing before me, his features shadowy until he steps into the circle of light I'm in. Must be a spotlight directly above me.
"Is he awake?" the speaker asks, and now I know where I've heard that cultured voice before. His words echo slightly and I get the impression we're in a fairly large, high-ceilinged room, but even as my eyes become accustomed to the darkness I can see nothing beyond my captors.
One of the figures to my side enters my field of vision - it's one of the creeps from Tommy's bathroom - and slaps me hard. I can't help but cry out, my yelp descending into a snivelling cough as I taste the blood filling my mouth. "Looks like it," the meathead replies.
With the return to consciousness, my senses start reporting every injury demanding my attention. My face feels like tenderised munce. Blood's dribbling down my cheek from the cut bisecting the bridge of my nose where creep number two caught me with his ring when he drove his fist into it. I'm guessing it's broken, the cartilage mashed into the walls of my nostrils. I can't breathe out of it and the razor-edged gasps that emerge from my mouth sound like wretched sobs, drawn from the harsh pit of my chest. Each swallow feels like a shuggy ball is being lodged behind my tonsils.
My head lolls forward as bloody drool spills from between my lips and creep number one wrenches me back upright, smacking me forcefully a couple of times against my temples. "C'mon," he mutters. "You ain't dead yet."
The man I know must be Conrad stands there looking for all the world like thi
s is happening on his Tri-D set. He wears a blank expression on his handsome, middle-aged, but curiously unlined face, as if this physical, ugly element of criminal activity is happening to some creature far below on the evolutionary scale; like it's feeding time at the zoo.
My aching, drug bleary mind makes a couple of snap judgements about him: firstly, he is remorseless and incapable of feeling empathy, but at the same time he's not a regular con, but rather someone put in charge of a couple of thugs. Secondly, he's not the arch-perp behind all this, but an errand boy, a gofer acting on his master's bidding. A barely functioning, cogent part of my brain realises that while he could order me dead without a moment's hesitation and wouldn't think twice about it, he's still an employee and answers to his boss. I gotta tip the advantage my way and make myself indispensable, otherwise he'll get his goons to chop me into pieces and flush me down the pan.
"Who are you, Mr Trager?" Conrad asks evenly, flattening down his thousand-cred haircut.
"Just... answered your own... question," I manage to spit out.
He continues as if he hasn't heard me. "You carry no ID, you have nothing to verify that you are indeed who you say you are. True to your word, you have brought the merchandise," he taps the bundle of torture devices that they snatched off me the moment they pounced, "for which I am grateful. But the methods by which you obtained them still vexes me. All attempts by my people to contact the Dansky brothers have been fruitless."
"T-that's 'cause they're... lying at the bottom of the... Black Atlantic," I say, wincing, short of breath. "I told you... there's been a... h-hostile takeover."
"You expect me to believe that you wiped out the Dansky gang single-handed?"
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