Nimrod Squad

by Bard Constantine

  Nearly everyone in the vicinity lit up red in the display. The digital scanner zeroed in on concealed weapons carried by ninety percent of the crowd.

  He snatched the goggles off. "This is useless. Come on; we gotta move." He pulled Annmarie along, hustling through the crowd at the briskest walk he could manage, ignoring the enraged curses and shouts from the people he jostled as they passed.

  Annmarie stumbled, panting from the effort. "Hey, slow down. These extra pounds are killing me."

  "Should have thought of that before you chose a fat man suit." He threw a look over his shoulder. "I got two skulks on my tail. Big, ugly. Black bandannas, facial tattoos. Copy that, Deejay?"

  "Cartel thugs. Get out of there, Cash. Don't use your gun unless you need to. TJPD doesn't approve much."

  "Yeah, well I don't approve of dying. Especially when I'm about to get paid." He shoved Annmarie into a narrow alley. "Keep going. I'll catch up."

  She broke into a wobbling run, going as fast as her ungainly form allowed. Cash grinned as he ducked to the side and slipped cyber-knuckles over his fingers. Don't think you're going too far with all that extra weight.

  The first cartel thug lunged into the alley, looking around with the angry expression of a dimwitted bull. Cash's fist shot out, connecting a sharp jab and discharging fifty-thousand volts of electricity when the knuckles made contact with the man's meaty jaw. He slumped to the ground with a muffled groan, muscles convulsing uncontrollably.

  Cash ducked as the second thug thrust his arm in and fired a sporadic burst of shots into the alley. Grabbing the man by his gun hand, he twisted the wrist until tendons cracked. The thug dropped his weapon, snarling as he seized Cash by the collar with his other hand and slammed him into the alley wall. Cash responded by jamming his fingers into the thug's eyes. The man screamed, staggering backward.

  Cash put his weight behind a vicious kick into the side of the man's knee, buckling it with a cracking sound. He finished the brute by grabbing his head in both hands and smashing it into the wall. The man went limp the second time, but Cash repeated the act just in case.

  Chest heaving, he let the body fall to the ground. "Two down, Deejay. Can you activate the tracker we put in Annmarie's food?"

  "Yep. She's on your holoband's mapping display."

  He quickly pulled it up, glancing at the coordinates. "Got her. Sheesh, she only made it one block. Those extra pounds really are weighing her down."

  He darted across an adjacent alley and cut across to the main street, where a colorful parade marched along. Beautiful women in brightly colored dresses span and danced, mariachi bands played and sang, flag bearers waved the nation's colors, all the while streamers fluttered, rose petals showered down, and people clapped and cheered.

  Cash pushed through the milling revelers, pausing only to seize a startled Annmarie by the arm.

  "You're not safe yet. Come one."

  Her masculine face stared at him in shock. "You put a tracker on me."

  "In you, actually. You ate it this morning with your eggs."

  "You sneaky son of a—"

  The side of her head exploded in a cloud of thick pink mist. Her entire body rocked from the impact, showering the nearby celebrators with gore. It took several seconds for the shocked crowds to register what happened.

  When they did, chaos erupted.

  Screams filled the air as people stampeded, destroying carts and makeshift shops, trampling one another to escape the vicinity. Sirens wailed and enforcer androids spilled from their stations like metallic ants. They scanned the immediate area, set up barricades, and tried to direct the panicked masses to safety.

  Cash was already on the move. He kept his eyes on the rooftops, where a heavily hooded individual was barely visible, leaping from one ledge to the next.

  "Gunman took out Annmarie. Headshot. I got eyes on the shooter. I'm taking him down."

  "Call it off, Cash. We lost. Arresting the killer is a job for the cops. There's nothing in it for us."

  "Yeah, there is. Satisfaction." Cash leaped over a police barricade, ignoring the buzzing from the enforcer android next to it. A line of zip bike rentals were secured against the nearby building. Cash hopped on one, paying the fee with a swipe of his holoband to unlock it. He eased it back, wheeled the nose upward and hit the thrusters, shooting the slim, aerodynamic hover-cycle up the side of the building in a cloud of dust.

  Gritting his teeth, he gave the steering controls a sadistic twist, barely righting the bike before it threw him off into space. Setting the bike on HOVER, he spun in a slow circle, trying to get his bearings. Lower Tijuana was a maze of shops, restaurants, bars, and clubs, all clustered together with little breathing room. Perfect for the parkour-style leaps, swings, and vaults of the assassin as he ran and clambered from one rooftop to the next without slowing.

  Orbital probes drifted up from their housings in the buildings, indicating the police had pieced together the chaotic scene below and realized the shot came from above. The probes circled about before locking onto the runner and trailing after. Cash figured it was a matter of seconds before the police showed up on floaters and secured the scene.

  Deejay is right. What are you doing? There's no money in it.

  He ignored the inner logic and hit the thrusters, propelling forward in a blur of movement. It took only a second to catch up the runner. Cash slammed on the reverse thrusters and leaped off the zip bike onto the shooter, bowling him over. They tumbled across the rooftop in a tangle of arms and legs. It hurt a lot worse than Cash thought it would.

  He rolled to his feet and snatched his FN57 handgun out. The gunman spun like a dancer, kicking the weapon out of his hand. A second kick followed, smashing right into Cash's stomach. Groaning, he tried to recover, but the assassin punched him in the face. His head snapped backward, tears blurring his vision. What’s his hand made out of—steel?

  He managed to catch the fist the second time. It was metal, just as he thought. The shooter's entire right arm was bionic. It was also much stronger than his, easily crushing his fingers together and forcing him to his knees. He reached up with his other arm, fingers snagging on the assassin's hooded mask and yanking it off. His eyes widened.

  The assassin was a woman. Her face was chiseled and hard, lined with scars across her right eye and the corners of her mouth, creating a macabre smile of sorts.

  He barely had time to register that before she palmed his face and smashed the back of his head into the rooftop. He winced, moaning as his vision went double; watching twin images of the assassin as she quickly covered her face again and hopped onto his zip bike. She glanced down at him.

  "Nothing personal, bounty hunter. You know how it works."

  Heat washed over him as she took off. Blue and red lights followed, drones and police floaters whirring by as they followed. Cash stayed where he was, covered in dust and bruises, staring upward at the towering buildings glinting in the blazing sunlight. A trail of smoke shot across the sky; another shuttle soaring toward the infinity of space.

  He sighed, finding a cigarillo inside his jacket pocket and placing it between his lips. Too tired to light it, he let it dangle there. His eyes closed.

  "Yep, Deejay. Should've been a shuttle pilot."

  Chapter 2

  Mateo Lonergan glanced up from his handheld game when the rumble of distant thunder rattled the glass. Outside the grime of the nearest window, the sky was bright blue and no clouds were visible. He knew firsthand that didn't mean much. He returned his attention to his game. The target swiveled on the holographic screen as he took out three targets in rapid succession.

  Rex lifted a shaggy eyebrow from where he sat with a massive mug of beer in hand. "Hear that, Mateo? A megastorm is on the way."

  Mateo grinned at his shaggy-haired partner. Rex Maxwell was one of those cool old white dudes, usually walking around in a linen shirt, straw hat, and sunglasses, talking to the natives in fluent Spanish. His long silver hair was pulled back in a pon
ytail. Still pretty fit for his age. Didn't look all that tough, but most people knew he was a Nimrod who pulled in some of the most vicious bounty heads ever posted. They knew because he told anyone within earshot.

  Mateo didn't mind. The nonstop chatter was just one of the side effects of being the partner of a legendary bounty hunter. They were cooling off in the Watering Hole, a ratty old bar unofficially designated for Nimrods and others in related occupations. It was in one of the little border towns outside of the protective shielding of Tijuana. The Watering Hole was neutral ground. No killing was allowed inside its hallowed walls. No grudges. Just shop talk. And boy, did Rex talk.

  He was prone to long speeches about hunting and killing, his favorite topic of conversation. He'd been an assassin at one point and had retired to become a Nimrod. Only a few types were crazy enough to employ themselves in either trade because it was an occupation with a short life expectancy, and no benefits other than a license to kill. The fact that Rex was still working at near sixty years old was a testament to his skill.

  He slapped a meaty palm against his leg. "I can feel the ol' knee swelling up. Always does that when a storm's coming."

  "Yeah, I bet." Mateo kept one eye on his game. "Old-timers always say stuff like that."

  "Old-timer, eh?" Rex barked a laugh as another beer was expertly poured by Bolts, the slim, slightly rusty android barkeeper. "Watch your mouth, kid. Just because I'm drinking don't mean I won't pull my iron."

  "No killing in the Water Hold, Rex. Better stop while you're ahead."

  “I stopped once already. Retired hitman, remember?"

  "I can't forget. You tell me every five minutes."

  Rex ignored the barb, tilting his head back in reflection. "Killing wasn't such a bad occupation, all things considered. I mean, let’s face it, a lot of people are better off dead, ya know?”

  It was around nine in the evening. Rex was at it early, but work was slow, and leads were cold. Thankfully, so was the beer. Or in Mateo's case, root beer. He didn’t see why people drank the other kind.

  The place was vacant, the windows rattling from the wind brewing outside. The bar itself wasn't much to brag about. The lights were dim, the air dank and moldy smelling, and the whole place creaked like it was about to collapse. The mugs and glasses were cloudy and chipped, but that was okay. Most customers drank straight from the bottle, anyway.

  Rex continued his slightly inebriated deliberation. “Think about it. People will go on and on about how killing is a sin and how bad it is. But say you join the RCE or HSSC, or any other organization with acronyms for names. The first thing they do is put a gun in your hands, tell you to point it at another human being, and pull the trigger. And why? Because he’s the enemy. You see? That makes it ok.” He laughed until he choked. “So it ain't the killing that's wrong. It's unauthorized killing that folks won't stand for."

  Mateo glanced outside the window again. Thunderclouds formed on the horizon as if by magic, massing together like a war between darkness and light. A megastorm would be the inevitable result, and heaven help anyone caught outside when it broke. He saw vehicle lights in the distance. A red hovercar approached fast. Probably trying to beat the storm.

  Rex stared at the bottom of his beer mug. "Life is cheap, my boy. No one knows that more than me. That’s why I had to stop killing people. Depreciation, you see. Just like a car. I've heard that life had more value back in the day. Got that from a few Defrosts I've run into. The ones who went into hibernation before the Cataclysm and woke up in our time. Helluva thing, to go through that. You could see it in their eyes. They were lost. No idea what to do with their lives when everyone they ever knew was long dead. Dust and ashes.

  "But a few of the ones I talked to said that in their time it was still a shock when someone you knew was killed. It was a horrible thing. When someone important, like a president or senator died, the whole damn country mourned. Like that last president—what was his name? The one right before the Cataclysm."

  "Alexander Blackwell."

  "Yeah, him. Got killed by his best friend. I saw a documentary about it. Should’ve seen it. People were in the streets crying and carrying on. And most of them didn’t even like the man! Wasn’t the point. Lives mattered, in those days. But now…hell, if someone killed a United Havens president, life would go on like nothing."

  "Didn't someone assassinate the president a few years ago?"

  "Yeah, sure did. Got that new one now. Anderson. Forgot about that. You see—that's the point. No one cares. Depreciation. The value just ain't there anymore. In places like this, it’s even worse. I could walk out this bar right now and shoot some vagrant in the head, and there probably wouldn’t even be an investigation. Who cares? So why do people pretend to make such a big deal about killing? It’s a living, isn’t it?”

  “Did you cry?”

  Rex glanced up. “What?”

  “Did you cry when the UH president was killed?”

  Rex looked gave Mateo a keen stare. “Yeah, I cried.” He leaned back, a smile creasing his face. “I cried because I turned that job down.” He burst out laughing.

  The door buzzed, admitting a dark-haired man of around forty, hair and goatee dark, jawline unshaven, eyes flicking back and forth with the caution of a man used to unpleasant surprises. Satisfied, he relaxed and sauntered toward the bar.

  Rex gave the man a friendly nod. "Hell, if it ain't Cash Murdock, scourge of uncivilization. Haven't seen you in a dog's age."

  Cash took a seat next to Rex. "Been working, old man. Can't just sit and let the bounties come to me like you do."

  Rex threw back his head and guffawed. "Ha! It's like that, eh? I just make it look easy, is all. How's your ALP buddy? What's her name—Honeybee? No, um…Bunny Hons?"

  "Deejay." Cash glanced at the barkeep, motioning for a beer. "And she's not an Artificial Life Partner."

  Rex shrugged. "None of my business, anyhow. Hey, speaking of partners, meet Mateo. Just joined my crew."

  Cash gave him an indifferent nod. "Hey."

  Mateo grinned. "What's up, man?"

  "Not you, kid." Cash looked back at Rex. "You still taking on partners? Does this guy know all your other ones got killed?"

  "Quiet, you'll scare him off. You in town towing a bounty?"

  "I was. Until that happened." Cash jerked a thumb at the flickering picjector in the corner, where the faulty hologram feed displayed the disaster on the evening news.

  "That was you? Man, how'd it go south like that?"

  "You tell me. Bounty head was hotter than I figured. Guess pissing off the Shadow Syndicate is pretty hazardous to your health. I caught a glimpse of the assassin. Female. Bionic arm. Scarred face."

  Rex paused in the act of lifting his mug to his lips. "Huh. Scars around her mouth like a Glasgow smile?"

  "Yeah, I think so. You know her?"

  "Heard of her. Goes by the name of Happy."

  "Happy?"

  "Yeah. Must be because of the smile. One of the HSSC's fallen angels from what I hear."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. From the Brat Pack."

  "That's the nickname for the program they ran for a while, right? Took kids off the streets and trained them to be spies and infiltrators."

  "Yeah, and cold-blooded assassins. Happy is up there with names like Icepick, Hunter, Blackjack, Kilgore, and the like. Those pure killers. That's all in the past, though. HSSC is trying to clean up their act. Put on a civilized front and leave that cloak and dagger stuff in the rearview. That includes closing doors and scrubbing floors."

  "Leaving the operators in the wind."

  "You called it. Part of the reason why the game is so tight right now. Too many hired guns, not enough targets."

  "Well, she sure took out one of mine today."

  "Been there. You know how it is in this business. But hey—there's always the next one, right?"

  "I'll drink to that, compadre."

  The door banged open.

  Mateo's
hand dropped to his holstered arcsaber by reflex. The person that entered in a gust of dust and howling wind was a woman, but that made no difference to him. He knew from experience that gender made no difference when it came to being deadly.

  The woman was young, probably a few years older than his seventeen years. Pretty face, cocoa skin just a shade darker than his. Her curly hair was styled in an unapologetic Afro. She was short with a curvaceous figure. Her expression was cool but guarded as she looked around. It was the look of someone used to being on the run. The yellow-tinted jumpsuit she wore was military-grade, made of armored flex fabric under the transparent jacket she wore to ward off the rain.

  Mateo waved. "Hi. Are you in the business? This is sort of a private establishment."

  "The business?" She jerked a thumb at the door. "There's a megastorm on the way. You don't mind if I hunker down here until it blows over, do you? I'll leave right after."

  The storm alarms blared, red lights blinked in the corners of the bar. Metal shades lowered outside, covering the windows in six inches of alloyed steel. The entire bar shook when a violent gust of wind slammed into the building.

  Mateo glanced at Rex, who shook his head with a severe scowl. "No exceptions. Guess you better make your back into that violent, death-dealing storm outside."

  Mateo grinned. "You heard the man. Out you go."

  The woman's mouth dropped open. Rex held his stern expression for only a second longer before he broke into a gurgling laugh. "Ha! You see her face? I'm just kidding, sweetheart. Pull up a stool. You're welcome to ride out the storm here. Safest place in the city."

  Mateo glanced up as dust rained down from the ceiling from another powerful gust of wind that made the building groan in protest. He wondered how much Rex had been drinking.

  The woman sat down at the bar a few seats away from the rest of them. She nodded to Bolts. "Gin and tonic."

  Thunder reverberated like a bomb detonation outside, followed by a succession of repeated booms. Outside, the surrounding area was engulfed in lightning strikes, gale-force winds, and flooding rain. The chances of survival without the proper shielding were pretty much nonexistent. Mateo glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice that the building seemed about to collapse on top of them. Cash ordered a whiskey. Rex kept talking, looking at the newcomer over the foamy rim of his mug.