KOP Killer k-3

by Warren Hammond

  Heading into the eye of the storm, I stole a look over my shoulder. My bewildered crew members watched me go. Nobody made a move to stop me. They didn’t care if I got myself killed. I’d be doing them a favor.

  I’d be doing myself a favor.

  My senses were alive, my skin tingling. I felt the winter breeze pull at my hair. I felt the battered pavement under my soles. It was beautiful, really, the way the pits and ripples dipped and arched, like somebody had made a sculpture just for the feet to appreciate. Shattering ceramics sprayed my legs. I turned toward where they exploded. Even in the low light, they looked like starbursts. The last few stragglers stumbled about, some of them bloodied, all of them covering their heads. A brandy bottle exploded nearby, the spray jumping high enough to dot my cheek. I smelled cinnamon and cumin and anise, the flaming spice shop exuding odors like a magnificent stew.

  I closed my eyes, savoring the aroma.

  I reached for the sky, inviting the worst, and waited for the end.

  Three

  April 21, 2789

  A launching spacecraft rattled the windows. My lids peeled open. I was on my sofa, and curiously, I was still alive.

  How long had I been here? The emptiness had hold of me now. It wasn’t so bad, really. I couldn’t feel anything when it held me. I just wanted to sleep. In fact, I should be sleeping right now. I closed my eyes and shut out this godforsaken world.

  My phone jingled. Had to be Maggie. I’d blocked all other calls.

  I wondered if it was day or night. It didn’t much matter, but I was curious. The Big Sleep could really screw with your sense of time.

  I let the phone take a message. Maggie’s holo lit up the room. I could see colors moving through my eyelids.

  “Juno, it’s me. It’s Maggie. Hey, I’m running late for dinner.”

  Nighttime. Definitely nighttime.

  “Listen, can we push it back a half hour? Let me know.”

  Right. Dinner. Forgot about that. Lucky she called or I would’ve been a no-show. I fumbled for the phone, and in order to keep my half-asleep voice under wraps, I texted a response: No problem. And then I unblocked other calls.

  I checked the time. Fuck me. Even with the extra half hour, I didn’t have much time to get ready. I dropped my feet to the floor and stretched my arms up for the ceiling, my muscles aching, my head still swimming with the tail end of a fading buzz.

  I lifted myself off the sofa and stumbled down the hall without looking at the bedroom door. I didn’t go in there anymore. Too much Niki in there-clothes, shoes, jewelry, hairbrushes with long strands of black hair trapped in the bristles, her hair. And the smells, the perfumes and creams and lotions. No, I didn’t go in there anymore. I couldn’t.

  Making it to the can, I watered the mold-lined bowl, then stepped into the shower and started rinsing away the stink of an all-night booze binge. A bandage washed off my bicep. I looked at the gouge on my arm. Not bad. It should heal up nicely if I could keep it clean. Amazing that was the only damage. Deluski and Lumbela were the ones who’d saved me. Lumbela paid the price, his melon taking a hit from what looked like a flying teacup. The resulting spray of shattering ceramic peppered my arm, one shard taking a good slice.

  I remembered them pulling me back to the alley, both of them ducking, me walking upright, lost in a world of my own.

  Upon reaching the alley, I remembered catching a whiff of Maria’s perfume, and it was as if somebody had cracked smelling salts under my nose. Snapped out of my desperate trance, I slowly became aware of my wide-eyed, white-faced crew.

  Stunned and confused, I had no idea how to feel. Happy I’d been saved? Angry they’d interfered? Even now, I still didn’t know what to make of the episode. But standing there in that alley, with flashlights in my eyes, hearing a chorus of “What the hell’s wrong with you,” I’d had to cover quickly. So I made up some shit that made it sound like I’d just put them through some kind of sick-fuck loyalty test.

  Figured it was better than letting them know I was a sick fuck.

  I doubted they bought it, but I told myself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like they could quit and join some other cop clique. They were property. My property.

  I should’ve known they’d come to my rescue. Had I been thinking straight, I would’ve realized they had no choice. I’d told them more than once that if anything ever happened to me, their little hit flick would air for the public.

  I turned off the water, grabbed a musty towel and walked naked back to the living room. I kept my clothes there now. I found a pair of white pants that almost looked fresh. As for shirts, I saw none that wasn’t balled up, piled up, or left for dead.

  I peeled back the flaps of a box I’d pulled from the bedroom closet before closing the bedroom door for the last time. Old shirts folded and stacked. I chose a pullover-style short-sleeve. Buttons were a bitch with my shaky right. I shook out the folds, and a pair of sunglasses fell free. Strange. I didn’t remember owning any sunglasses.

  They were probably a gift. Niki used to buy me tons of shit I didn’t want. I’d probably never worn them. I’d just stuffed them in some drawer, where she eventually found them and jammed them in this box of forgotten crap. I was such an asshole. She’d gone through all that effort to buy me something nice, something she thought I’d like, and I’d dismissed the gesture. Would it have killed me to wear them a few times?

  She must’ve been confused when she found them. Why hadn’t I put them in the car? Or brought them to work? And then she must’ve realized that I didn’t want them, that I’d rejected her gift. That I’d rejected her.

  My gut was rolling over, my eyes stinging. Fuck this bullshit. I didn’t have time for this sorry-ass crap. Just get the fuck over it already. The mission. Think about the mission.

  I moved into the kitchen and grabbed the empty brandy bottle from the table. It had been three-quarters full last night. No wonder I still felt partly loaded. I put the empty back in its crate with the other empties and set the crate out on the balcony with all the booze crates.

  Exiting out the front, I went down the steps and headed into the courtyard, jungle vines grasping at my ankles. I’d really let the place go to hell. I was tempted to grab my sickle, if I only knew where it was. I’d probably left it leaning against a wall someplace and now even it had been overtaken by the sprawling growth.

  I stomped and kicked my way out to the street. The road was clogged with cars and bikes darting through the gaps. The air tasted of exhaust. This was the only planet I knew of that used fossil fuels. When you can’t afford to import good tech, you do what you can, and that included reviving centuries-old technologies like the internal combustion engine.

  I decided to hoof it so I could walk off the last of my buzz. I didn’t like Maggie seeing me drunk.

  I rounded the corner and spotted a group of kids under a streetlight. Their clothes were filthy, same as their faces. I watched one of the young teens squirt a bead of industrial glue into a plastic bag before holding the bag over her nose and mouth. I walked past as the bag ballooned in and out below her faraway eyes.

  My phone rang.

  Captain Emil Mota.

  I’d intended to pay him a little visit after the riot. He needed to know he’d been replaced. But that riot had really fucked me up. When it was over, I couldn’t have crawled into a bottle any faster.

  Evidently, he’d gotten word another way. “Yeah,” I said into the phone.

  Holo-Mota skimmed alongside me as I walked, and like all the holos used by the phone system, he had this ridiculous, pasted-on, ultra-happy attitude. Phone holos were incapable of matching the speaker’s mood. Nothing but broad smiles and twinkly eyes. One of the crueler jokes played by offworlders on us poor and simple folk.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His sour tone clashed with the sugar-coated holo floating alongside me. Cheap-ass holograms.

  “That alley’s mine again,” I said, matter-of-fact.

  “But yo
u’re not a cop anymore. You can’t do this.” The fact that he was whining instead of demanding was a good sign, a sign that this would be as easy as I’d hoped. This hump was still afraid of me.

  “Don’t fucking tell me what I can’t do.”

  He didn’t respond for a few. Memories must’ve been running through his mind. Memories of him strapped to a chair, me standing over him, my fists pummeling that pretty face of his, his sharp, long-lashed eyes going puffy, that primly refined nose swelling up to double size.

  My stomach twisted under the brutal truth of my enforcer’s past, the guilt ripping me up like it always did. But I had no choice except to forge ahead. I put some extra steel in my voice. “You remember what happens to people who defy me, don’t you?”

  “But protection money is for cops.”

  As if there were a rule written somewhere.

  As if rules mattered on Lagarto.

  “Protection money is for protection,” I said. “Where were you last night when that neighborhood burned? You weren’t earning that money so they hired somebody else. You got what you deserved, so quit your bitching and stay the hell out of my territory.”

  I hung up, relieved that I’d managed to stay in don’t-fuck-with-me character for the duration. I couldn’t afford to let attacks of conscience throw me off my game. I had to stay focused. It was all about the mission.

  I owned that alley outright now. Mota wouldn’t fight me. The guy was a political animal, smart as hell, and a real up-and-comer at KOP, but he was also a pretty boy, the kind who shied away from street duty, a born bureaucrat best suited to public relations.

  I’d been surprised from the outset that he’d entered the protection racket. Never would’ve thought a guy like that had the balls for it. Strong-arming wasn’t his style. But as a captain, even a captain of the bullshit PR division, he could order around as many well-hung unis as he wanted.

  I crossed the street, my eyes blinded by headlights, my feet chasing away dozens of geckos feasting on some kind of roadkill. I crossed a makeshift footbridge over lazy canal water flowing underneath.

  No, he wouldn’t call my bluff. I was sure of it. He wouldn’t want to risk another beating. Those memories were still fresh in his mind, probably fresher in his than mine. A decade had passed, but shit like that never goes away.

  Back then, he was a desk jockey working the KOP lockup. Paul Chang had put him in charge of collecting buyouts for petty crimes. You want to get your friend or loved one released before charges are filed with the Koba Office of Justice, you come make an offer. Cash only.

  Smart as he was, Mota had a real knack for scoring maximum coin. So smart that he thought he could skim a little for himself. Who would know? He thought he could stay a step ahead of Paul.

  He couldn’t.

  Enter me and my two fists.

  Phone rang. Mota again. “What?”

  “I won’t let you do this,” he said, like he’d found a spine. “That alley’s mine.” He’d probably spent the last five minutes psyching himself up for this. “I’ll haul your ass in if I have to.”

  I laughed. “You’ll haul me in? What kind of threat is that? You wanna hear a threat? You keep this shit up, and I’ll bash your fucking face in. Again.”

  Holo-Mota stayed silent.

  I needed to keep pushing. His little bout of courage had to be quashed. “The chief used to like you, you know. When he sicced me on you, he told me to go easy. Nobody will be holding me back this time.”

  “You got some nerve mentioning the chief,” he countered. “You ratted him out when he needed you most. You’re nothing but a two-bit snitch.”

  My temples pulsed. My feet picked up their pace, my shoes clomping angrily on the pavement. Holo-Mota stayed on my wing, his apparition floating alongside.

  Snitch. Squealer. Rat. I’d heard the accusations before. I’d been hearing them in my head since the day Paul was murdered.

  Paul’s enemies used me to bring him down. They threatened my wife. They forced me to turn on him. They used me to get him fired. And then they killed him and sold it as a suicide.

  “I’m no rat,” I said through grinding teeth. “I was set up. Everybody knows that.”

  “You caved. All that tough-guy bullshit is just an act.” He was on a roll, his tone getting more confident with every word. “Down deep, you’re just a pussy, and everybody knows it. Cops aren’t afraid of you anymore. They laugh at you. You’re pathetic, you hear me? You’re just a washed-up boozehound. A shaky old man crying over his lost love.”

  I let him finish, my cheeks burning, my temper building. Then I uncaged the enforcer inside me. “You talk to me like that again, I’ll kill you.” I’d stopped walking, my eyes aimed at the sweet smile on Mota’s holo-face.

  As he let seconds tick by, the headlights of a passing car momentarily shined right through him. Then he said, “Fucking try it.”

  Four

  Fucking Mota. I twisted the napkin in my lap, wringing it into a cord, tighter and tighter.

  I was sure he’d back down. No way would he call my bluff. That pretty-boy pencil pusher had no business running a protection racket.

  Fucking Mota.

  The Punta de Rio was packed, every table occupied, wait staff making the rounds, a crowd of offworld tourists milling in the lobby. The menu was expensive, but so were Maggie’s tastes. This place was the go-to spot for anybody feeling nostalgic for Lagarto’s brandy era, back when barges carrying brandy fruit used to dock right outside to unload their cargo. The decor was nautical, antique anchors and tow ropes, fishnets and brandy barrels. Windows ran around the circumference, all of them opened wide to let a pleasant breeze float through. Outside, I could see a well-lit derelict riverboat that had been refurbed into a museum.

  I sipped my tea. Maggie was talking, had been for a while now, saying something about her promotion to squad leader. The words entered my ears but not my mind. I couldn’t focus, my buzz now fully dissipated to be replaced by a vicious headache. I needed a hit in a bad way. Every drunk knew the best cure for a hangover was more booze.

  But not in Maggie’s presence. She’d once admitted I was a father figure to her, and a father ought to set a good example.

  “This is already way tougher than I thought.” She swept back the dark hair that had fallen over her emerald eyes. I still wasn’t used to the eyes. They used to be blue, but she’d had them changed out. Rich as she was, she could afford to get them swapped with the seasons. These were her winter eyes, she’d told me.

  “Those guys don’t respect me.” She shook her head.

  Despite missing most of what she’d said these last few minutes, I got the gist with that final statement. “It’s only been a few weeks. You have to give it time. They’ll learn how capable you are. Just like I did.”

  She smiled, her teeth sparkling as bright as her eyes. With a mischievous grin, she said, “Yeah, you were pretty slow to catch on, weren’t you?”

  All I could do was nod. It hadn’t taken me long, though. Not long at all. Her type was rare. Paul Chang was the only person I’d ever known who could match her intensity, drive, and purpose. She was on a mission of her own, a mission to bring order to this city, to make it a place where justice ruled, where people could count on the police for protection. She was determined to make it a place where she wouldn’t have found her father alone on the street in front of their home, blood oozing from a charred wound in his chest.

  She’d be chief one day. I’d see to it that nothing would stop her. Koba needed her.

  Paul Chang and I had already taken our shot at changing this city, but KOP was corrupt, the levers of power smeared with shit. The only way for us to move up was to hold our breath and grab hold. Beat-downs and frame jobs. Cover-ups and payoffs. Forced confessions and back-alley executions. To seize control, we had to outcorrupt the corrupt.

  By the time we reached the top, we’d become no better than those we’d replaced. Fucking classic how it worked out.

&nb
sp; This time would be different. It wasn’t too late for Maggie. She had the capacity to play dirty when she had to. I’d seen it more than once. But her dark side had to stay under wraps. The dirty work had a way of soiling you, rotting you from the inside out. I knew that better than anyone.

  The dirty work was my job, and mine alone.

  The waitress arrived to refill my tea. I was starving. Where was the food?

  I noticed Maggie looking at me funny. “What?” I asked.

  “When were you going to tell me about the sunglasses?”

  “What about them?”

  “You have a black eye under there?”

  “No. They were a gift.”

  She rippled her brows. “You do know it’s dark out, don’t you? No sun for weeks?”

  “I know.” I didn’t elaborate. “Tell me about Wu and Froelich.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject. Are you going to tell me why you’re wearing them or not?”

  “No.” Let Maggie think I had a coon eye. I didn’t care. “Wu and Froelich,” I repeated. “They been behaving?”

  After a reluctant pause, “I guess so.”

  “I told you they would.”

  “They have no choice, Juno.”

  “True. But at least you have two obedient squad members. The rest of hommy will eventually follow their example.”

  She leaned forward, planting her elbows halfway to the table’s centerpiece. “You should’ve turned them in, the whole lot of them. They belong in the Zoo.”

  “What good would that do? They wouldn’t survive a week in prison. This way you have a loyal following.”

  “I don’t want them on my squad.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I can’t have bad eggs stinking up my staff.”

  The food arrived. Grilled fish over rice with two ’guana eggs blanketing the top. The eggs looked overcooked, two slate-colored eyes staring out from a lake of white. It was as if the cook heard Maggie say “bad eggs” and fried some up to order.