Now for the grand finale. He holsters his gun once again and sprints for Archangel. His mech still looks brand new; no one has been inside it for months. Gabe can barely suppress his grin as he makes the jump, hopping up into Archangel's cockpit for the first time since his accident.
The seat is plush and still molded to his body. He hits the controls to power up, savoring the whirr of the system as his dash comes to life. The canopy closes, and Gabe turns Archangel to face the obstacle course, aiming first with his stun gun, then again with his Gatling gun—and the test is over.
Despite his urge to hit Archangel's jets and rekindle their relationship, Gabe shuts down his mech. The canopy swings open and he climbs out, trying hard not to let any fatigue show in his movements. By the time he's on the ground, Burns and Dahl have reached Archangel.
"Chief," Gabe says, proud that he doesn't sound winded.
Burns nods at him. "Good to see you back in action, Dumas. Sergeant?"
Dahl, usually a strict, hard man, doesn't bother hiding his smile. "Four minutes thirty-two seconds, Officer Dumas. Congratulations."
Gabe lets himself grin now that it's over. "Thank you."
Burns reaches out to clap him on the shoulder. "Your dedication has made us all very proud of you. Cortez will be pleased. So will Bennett," she adds wryly. "Go grab a shower and then meet me in my office. Once we get your paperwork sorted out, you'll be back on the beat."
*~*~*
"Amazing." Jed is shaking his head in wonder. His hair has gotten longer since Gabe saw him last. "I can't believe you bounced back from the Diamondback attack."
Gabe quirks an eyebrow at him. "Well, I wouldn't call what I did bouncing. It was more like hobbling back."
Jed barks a laugh and slides a fresh pint across the table to him. "Don't matter what you call it, Gabe. You worked hard, and you're back. We missed you, man."
"Understatement of the century," Dave says, almost too quietly to be heard over the bar's soundtrack.
Jed jerks his head in Dave's direction. "I'm sure Alan was just heartbroken. So, boys, my question is: have you heard the latest Diamondback chatter?"
The answer is obvious, but Gabe says, "No. How did you?"
Jed knocks back the rest of his beer. "Walked by as the conversation started, heard Burns say she was 'sick as shit' of all the Diamondback activity lately. That was before Williams closed the door." He shrugs. "I picked the right time to mosey by with my paperwork for the week, is all. Makes you wonder, though. All that trouble to score some illegal mech tech, and then the scuttlebutt about iced salt runs being made, and now Burns is pissed at Williams?"
Dave mutters something under his breath. "I keep hearing whispers about the iced salt runs hopping districts. Whatever the Diamondbacks have got going on here, they are peddling it across the megacity—hell, maybe even beyond." When Gabe glances at him, he shrugs. "Only rumors, though. Why Burns hasn't organized something is above my pay grade."
"Williams's team must be working on it," Gabe says. "If this is all happening right under her nose and the Chief knows about it, there's no way she'd let it carry on if she didn't have some kind of plan."
Iced salt is an expensive hallucinogen, springing off crystal meth and assorted other drug combinations. It's been the go-to recreational drug for the last decade or two. Side effects include visions, distortions of reality, an overwhelming sense of euphoria, and magnified pleasure from all activities for anywhere from six to twelve hours. Iced salt abusers gradually waste away, even as they sell whatever they can find to fund just one last hit. Iced salt is a problem, but in the way drug trafficking is always a problem. Coupled with what Dave had told him a few months back, Burns and Williams must be working on something big.
"She'd better have a plan," Dave says, standing up. "If we let an iced salt run go down after the rogue mech fiasco last year, the MEDs—hell, the entire NYPD—will be a laughingstock."
*~*~*
As it turns out, Burns does have a plan—and Dave hates it.
"No," he growls through grit teeth. "Not a chance in Hell."
"David," Gabe says, warningly.
Burns waves her hand at Williams, who flips the vertical blinds shut. "I thought you'd want a chance at the Diamondbacks."
"Oh, I do," Dave says, and Gabe can tell he's having trouble staying in his chair. "There's nothing I want more than to smear some Diamondback hide on the streets of New York. But you can't seriously think to ask Gabe to go up against them again."
Burns raises one fine eyebrow. "And you don't think Dumas deserves the same chance to hit them where it hurts?"
"He could have died!" Dave does stand up now, visibly agitated. "He's only been back in the field for two weeks, and you want to throw him at the same people who took him down in the first place?"
"I told you this wouldn't go over well," Williams says.
Dave whips his head over to him. "You can just shut right up. It's your fault we got into the last mess."
"Cortez," Burns snaps, "rein it in. Don't make me tell you again."
Gabe rubs his eyes. "Why don't we listen to what Gabe has to say about it?" he suggests, exasperated.
Dave opens his mouth and shuts it again, looking abashed. "I—sorry."
"The Diamondbacks took me out like it was child's play," Gabe says, steepling his fingers. "I'm not proud that they got the drop on us that day. I don't regret taking the shot for Jed, but they had me benched for over a year. So yes, obviously the idea of dismantling their entire iced salt smuggling operation is appealing." He looks over at Detective Williams. "What I want to know is, how come you've come to us again?"
Williams exchanges a look with Burns. "I won't mince words, Dumas. The illegal tech bust wasn't one of our finest moments. Intelligence was faulty, and our main source of evidence—the damaged mech we recovered—was seized by the military the second they got wind of it." He comes to lean on the edge of Burns's desk. "You and Cortez have tangled with the Diamondbacks first-hand."
"So has Jed Tansen," Gabe points out. "And everyone else who responded to the raid that night. Why not them?"
"Oh, they'll be there, too," Burns says. "This raid is going to be all hands on deck. We're hitting five strongholds simultaneously; they won't have time to run or regroup. What we're looking for right now are volunteers to spearhead the operation. Spearheads will go in first, deal with any overt threats while the rest of the team closes the gaps." She leans over, fixing him with a stare. "That's why I asked you, Dumas: you took a bad hit, and Cortez is pissed enough for both of you. Do you want to put those bastards behind bars, or not?"
Williams adds, "You're the only MEDs who've gone up against the cloaking tech."
"Yeah," Dave says with a snort. "Definitely one of our finest moments."
"Dave," Gabe says, "I want to do it. I want to lead one of the teams, if you're willing to join me."
Dave closes his eyes briefly. Gabe can tell he's barely keeping his temper in check. "A stupid question. Of course I'm going to go with you. We're—we're
partners
; I'm supposed to follow you. But damn it, Gabe, after all you've been through—"
"Exactly," Gabe says. "After everything I've been through, I should get to decide how to end it."
Dave simmers in his seat but doesn't argue. He aims a glare at Williams. "But this intel better be good."
"It's the best," Williams assures them. "I've spent the last year preparing for this. My team has eyes and ears in every nook and cranny of Sector Twelve. The Diamondbacks are going down this time."
Burns leans back in her chair. "You'll be briefed in the meeting we're having tomorrow. Dismissed."
*~*~*
To Dave's credit, he manages to keep most of it in until they're peeling off their hardsuits at the end of the day. Gabe can feel him seething while they chuck their t-shirts and shorts. He finally explodes while they're padding to the showers.
"Have you lost your mind?"
Gabe inhales sharply, trying not to snap. He glances over his shoulder to make sure they're alone. "David, remember how we talked about you protecting me a little too valiantly?"
"I do,
Gabriel
. It was about when you told me you were fine never tangling with Diamondbacks again."
"I didn't say that." Gabe turns into the alcove and chooses the shower-head in the far corner. "I said I was going to do my job." He turns the knob, hoping the rush of lukewarm water ends the conversation.
Dave picks the shower next to his and lathers up mechanically, face like a thunderstorm the whole while. Gabe pointedly doesn't look at him. When he's rinsing off, head tipped back, he finds himself shoved out from under the spray and into the cold tiled wall.
"What the
fuck
—"
Dave swallows his question, licking water from his lips. Dave is slippery with soap and smells strongly of shampoo. Gabe kisses him back because he doesn't know how not to—until he remembers where they are.
"Dave, honestly," he says, pushing him away. He looks over Dave's shoulder and makes sure they're still alone.
"Sorry." Dave looks disheveled, soap suds running down his body with the rivulets of water. "Gabe, it's just … you just clawed your way out of the lion's den, and you want to jump right back in."
Gabe brushes past him to finish rinsing off. "That's why I want to do it. No one messes with Sector Twelve on my watch. And no one messes with Archangel." He glances back at Dave, hoping he doesn't look as nervous as he feels. "I just, I need you to be on the same page as me. I need to know you've got my back."
"Always," Dave says. "Always." He wipes shampoo from his forehead. "If we're going up against the Diamondbacks, we'll be doing it together. I wouldn't have it any other way."
*~*~*
The raid is one of the largest operations ever planned that didn't involve stations from other sectors. Of the five safehouses they are planning to hit tonight, two of them are going to be the epicenter of one of the largest drug trafficking busts in recent memory. According to Williams's intel, the iced salt in production at these houses is meant to be trafficked to several other sectors and sold to the highest bidder in Sector Seventeen. Officers quickly start referring to this assignment as the Manhattan Raid, even though Sector Seventeen hasn't been Manhattan, or even comprised the entirety of Manhattan, in many years.
Williams hadn't been over-selling his team; the amount of intel they've collected is substantial. Gabe doesn't doubt any of it, simply because it's far too thorough. They've got the five locations pinpointed and details on each house. They're all buildings right in the middle of the sector, hiding in plain sight. Two of them are even under bars.
The briefing is short and concise. Burns explains that on her signal, all teams will move in at once. While the spearheads move in and disrupt operations, the rest of the team will make sure that no one escapes. If things get hairy, both MED and the officers on foot will be ready to handle it.
Gabe and Dave end up assigned to the warehouse not far from the eastern docks. On the books, it's a modest company that produces nuts and bolts. According to Williams's team, it's making more than screws and washers. It has huge bay doors for trucks to pull in and out, so mechs fit inside.
It's a blistering summer night in New York, and Gabe is grateful that his thermostat it working. The only thing worse than spending an evening fighting Diamondbacks is doing it while sweating bullets. He feels an acute sense of deja vu, standing here in Archangel across the street from an enemy stronghold, waiting for a signal to risk his life.
Ha. Dave's right; I am crazy.
"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Dave asks, reading his mind. "Nearly getting killed once is more than enough for most men."
"You're not helping my morale," Gabe says, even though the bantering is doing exactly that. "I'll be fine so long as you remember how to shoot that Gatling gun."
"You wound me. You're the one who was benched for a year, not me."
The comm blips, a connection opening across their squad.
"Officers,"
Burns says,
"I want to thank each and every one of you, once again, for your commitment to this operation. What we're about to do is take back part of our city. The Diamondbacks embarrassed us once—and I think I speak for all of us when I say it was for the last time. It is now 3:47 a.m. Officers: begin the Manhattan Raid."
Gabe hits his thrusters, tearing across the street past a startled, drunken pedestrian. He's aware of Dave just behind him, ready to follow him into the darkness. He knows that there are three more MEDs are circling the joint, along with a squadron of officers. This knowledge keeps his hands steady while he has Archangel bend and lift the bay door.
And then there's pandemonium. The Diamondbacks holed up around the assembly line scatter. Some go for guns, others go for the door. The semi-automatic weapons glance off Archangel's torso. Gabe takes a quick look around the warehouse, spying bubbling vats, some kind of ventilation system, and a black Enforcer parked up against the wall. Then he notices one of the Diamondbacks climbing the mech.
Gabe sees red. He gets Archangel running, heedless of the men on foot scrambling to leap out of his way. He lets Dave concentrate on crowd control, and he focuses solely on the black mech. It's powering up by the time he gets close enough, limbs shifting as the systems go online.
"Oh, no, you don't," Gabe growls, throwing Archangel into the rogue mech.
He gets it pinned to the wall. He tries to bring up Archangel's arm to smash through its canopy, but the rogue Enforcer gets a hold of Archangel instead. They push and pull, metal creaking as they grapple. Gabe can see the other man now, greasy hair slicked back and hard scars across his face. He bares his teeth at Gabe, hitting random buttons on his dash.
"Fuck," Gabe swears, when the mech shimmers out of sight. He keeps Archangel's hold on the Enforcer tight. It's invisible, sure, but it's still pinned.
"Gabe?" Dave asks. "Gabe—argh, Jesus, someone get these annoying insects off my flank!"