* * * *
Facil and Turkovich took the elevator up, watching the floor numbers pass in silence. Facil eyed the AGPS, which had zoomed-in to an aerial view of the building. As they neared the top, he spoke calmly, matter-of-fact. “You should get your gun out.”
Turkovich turned, still no clue what was going on. “You
think?
” he quipped.
“
I
would,” Facil shrugged.
Turkovich shook his head, drew his gun. The car stopped and Facil pulled the gate. The place was ransacked, drawers emptied, furniture overturned, everything strewn everywhere. They steeled themselves and went in, Turkovich covering. They turned to the bathroom at the same time. It looked empty, door open, light on. Turkovich took the lead. “
Police,
anybody there?” Silence. He looked in, saw the blood, eyed Facil. “You want to tell me what the
hell’s
going on?” Facil saw the bloody scalpel on the sink, looked around, moved to the toilet, saw the pinkish water. “What the fuck
is
this, LeTour?” Facil rolled up his sleeve, reached into the bowl, fished around. Turkovich sighed, shaking his head. Facil found the VeriChip implant. Turkovich stepped closer. “A
tracking chip
?” he asked. Facil nodded. Turkovich eyed it. “So much for
that
. Who’s
Scarla?
”
Facil paused. “Someone I used to know.” He threw the chip in the toilet, flushed it.
* * * *
She came through the revolving glass doors and strode through the lobby like she belonged, heading for the elevators with her chin up, shades masking darting eyes. The desk cops studied her, letting her pass without a word.
Suckers.
She pushed the button and waited for a car, standing alone, trying to remember the six-digit code Facil had recited in his rushed message. She was cursed with
half
a photographic memory, if there was such a thing, and knew the first three numbers were 561. The rest was lost in the ether, without being able to hear the message again. The bell sounded, the doors opened, a stern-faced couple marched out, and Scarla stepped aside. As the doors closed, she imagined breaking both their necks on the spot. She stared at the call numbers, hoping the code would come. It didn’t. But she knew where to find Rattan. She hit eleven and the elevator started to climb.
Turkovich sat at the red light, left turn signal blinking. In the distance, black smoke was billowing into the sky. Facil checked Scarla’s phone to see if she’d played his message. She had. “Somebody’s going up in smoke,” Turkovich remarked.
Facil looked up, saw the smoke, wondered about it. “Dom, do you still have that lake house up north?”
Turkovich raised a brow. “Yeah, why? Need a vacation?”
Facil thought about it. “Something like that.” Faint sirens grew louder. The light turned and they hung a left, then a quick right into the city impound lot. Facil spotted his car, pointed. Turkovich hit the brakes and Facil climbed out, wincing as pain shot through his ribs, handing his driver’s license and credit card to the attendant. “The Grand National, charge it,” he spat, turning back to Turkovich. “I’ll get your money later.”
Turkovich held eye contact. “You do that. And remember. You almost cost me my pension with that IA bullshit, and I
still
bailed your ass out. Like you said, you
owe
me.” He paused. “Can you drive with that eye?” Facil nodded. Turkovich kept looking. “You look like shit, don’t call me ’til you get some sleep.”
Facil smirked.
Not likely.
Turkovich pulled back onto the street. The attendant returned with the paperwork, hesitant. “It’s, uh, four hundred twenty dollars, Lieutenant.” Facil snatched the clipboard, signed the form.
* * * *
Rattan sat at his desk, absently squeezing a Digiflex hand exerciser, unfocused eyes on the horizon outside. Jenn’s disembodied purr snapped him out of it.
Tommy to see you, it’s
urgent.
He didn’t answer right away, imagining her saying something else entirely. “Send him in.” The door opened so fast, Delmones must have already been on his way in.
He was out of breath. “Two of the boys were caught in a drive-by at 42nd and Broad. Units are on the scene. Darrin …” He choked on the words.
“
…
they didn’t make it.”
And they weren’t supposed to. The perils of peeking behind the curtain. Rattan stood up, steely-eyed, playing the role. “What about the shooter?” he asked.
Delmones pulled himself together. “Eyewitnesses gave a vehicle description, we’re canvassing the area now.”
They’d never find it. He always used the same guys. They were already ghosts. Rattan nodded, jaw clenched. “Who did we lose?”
Delmones crumbled again.
“Carmichael and DiCenzo.”
Rattan bowed his head, pounded the desk with his fists. Fresh out of the academy. Bright futures ahead. Not bright enough to get there. Something caught Delmones’ eye and he went to the window. Black smoke was spewing from a flaming high-rise across town. He turned to see Rattan paying no attention. Nero fiddled while Rome burned.
* * * *
The intersection at 42nd and Broad was blocked with POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape from pole-to-pole, preserving the bullet-riddled squad car and its two rotting occupants. People lined the sidewalks for a glimpse, while two hapless officers struggled to corral them on the curbs. Five o’clock traffic was hopelessly gridlocked on the outer blocks, everyone jockeying and inching to their alternate routes, simmering behind the wheels of their metal coffins. A forensics girl diligently circled the myriad of shell casings littering the street in white chalk. Other squad cars, SWAT trucks, and ambulances surrounded the crime scene, effectively closing down four whole blocks to through-traffic. Officers and personnel milled about, wan, stunned, angry.
Turkovich emerged from the sea of faces, flashed his badge, ducked under the tape. He strolled to the car alone, surveyed the damage, eyed the dead rookies. He’d never met them, but remembered them from headquarters, talking in the hallways, ready to tackle the world. They’d stay like that for all time, eternal fresh faces, good guys carved in bronze. He knew the plaques would go up soon in the same halls where he overheard their naive excitement, replacing the men themselves and their fluctuating bravado with the inspirational caricatures of The Perfect Heroes they’d never be, but would forever embody for every cop coming through the door. Death, the great preserver. History rewriter. Bug collector. He saw the flies starting to gather on their faces, darting in and out of their mouths. He swatted one from his neck and stepped aside, letting the police photographer do her job.
Rattan stood grimly at the window, surveying his city as it crumbled around him. Streams of black smoke slashed the downtown sky from a slew of burning buildings, creating the air of a war zone for the day’s 9-to-5 drive home. Behind him, the office door opened unannounced. He assumed it was Jenn and kept watching the fire engines, ambulances, and squad cars as they raced down the avenues and alleyways. The door closed.
Girl’s just
asking
for it.
He spoke without turning. “Let me guess. You want to do some overtime and avoid the shit storm out there. Done. I’m staying late myself.”
The voice that answered was unexpected. It had been a few months since he last heard it. It sounded deeper, harsher,
scarier.
“Good, I was hoping we could talk.”
He turned and froze, shocked by her appearance. She looked years older than the last time he saw her. Still hot as the fucking sun, but the sun was dying all the time, and so was she. So was everything.
He cleared his throat, stone-faced. “How did you get in here?”
She arched a brow. “You’re pretty easy to find.” Then, jabbing a thumb at the door. “And she’s nice to look at, but not much of a guard dog.”
He eyed the door, alarmed. She got a kick out of it.
“Don’t worry, she’s just taking a nap.”
He side-stepped, putting the desk between them. “I know about your little stunt at the hospital. You’re a fugitive. I can have you taken into custody right now.”
“But it’s been so
long.
I thought we could catch up.”
He wasn’t amused. “You think this is a
game
?”
She wasn’t either. “A
game?
No, this isn’t a game, Chief.”
They stood in silence, eye-to-eye.
“What do you want?” he asked, begrudgingly.
She stared hard. “I want a refill.”
He blinked, seething. “Then go find a pharmacy. Your services are no longer required by this department.”
She paused, letting the words sink in. “My
services
—,” leaning on his desk, feeling the stitches strain in her arms, “—are no longer
required
.”
“That’s what I said. Consider it a
gift.
Now get the fuck out of my office. And if you ever show your face here again—,” sticking his chin out for emphasis, “—you’ll wish you’d gotten it right the
first
time, you rotten little cunt.”
Well, then. Somebody’s off the Christmas list.
She paused, weighing her options. Clearly, he didn’t see her as an immediate threat. But one way or another, she was going to the lab.
Would it be the easy way, or the hard way?
“Let’s go by the lab, then I’ll be on my way. And don’t worry, you’ll never see me again.”
He scoffed. “Fuck yourself.”
One hard way, coming up.
She stuck the .38 in his face.
He froze, instinctively raising his hands. “Think it through, lady. Think it through.”
It was so amusing to watch him squirm. “I
have
, that’s why I’m here. Now I’m gonna put this away, and we’re gonna take a ride downstairs. Try anything on the way and I’ll break your fucking neck. I’ve got nothing to lose, it’s your call.”
She lowered the gun. He reached for his desk drawer and she raised it again. He froze. “I need to get the
code
. The sublevel is security clearance only.”
She didn’t trust him, rounded the desk. “I’ll get it for you.” She opened the drawer. A gun was inside. She eyed him.
He smirked. “Good call, Fragran. Don’t bother with the code, I know it by heart. And since you’ll never get down there without me, go ahead and drop yours in, too.”
She watched him, wishing she could just pull the trigger.
Safety vs. the fix. The choice all addicts come to, sooner or later.
She set the .38 inside, slammed the drawer, fixed him with an icy stare.
“Let’s go.”
Facil sat stalled on the boulevard, caught in the traffic glut that was paralyzing all of downtown. He didn’t know the exact cause of the chaos, and didn’t need to. He could feel the city coming apart at the seams, doom permeating its already polluted air. He laid his head back and took a careful deep breath, ignoring the pain. A shrill scream got his attention. He looked around. Ric’s was a corner dive bar that had been around as long as anyone could recall. It changed hands several times over the years, but never shed its ghetto appeal. It was ground floor to a brothel in the ’70s, the three-story hotel upstairs turning out quite a profit, and more than a few young lives. Business fell off in the ’80s, when gentrification pulled the nightlife west—the action always went west—but the underbelly rose again.
From where he sat mid-block, Facil could see the guy dangling upside down from the top floor window, naked, bloody, screaming. Motorists and pedestrians stared, some in horror, some in amusement. Not everyone wanted to save the world, after all. Some were content to watch it go to hell. The girl holding the guy’s ankles was barely out of her teens, sacred heart tattooed across her chest, big tits swinging freely over a tightly-cinched leather corset. She looked too tiny to be holding a grown man by his feet. With traffic at a standstill, Facil got out of the car to get a better look. The guy was crying, slashed and bitten from head-to-toe, raining blood on the corner below. Even if she didn’t drop him, he’d die from blood loss within minutes. The girl let loose a primal howl, long dark hair lashing her face, and though he couldn’t see it clearly, Facil swore her mouth was too big, too wide.
Like a shark’s mouth. “You
go
, girl! Teach the goddamn no-good mothafucka a lesson!”
yelled a fat chick in cornrows, waddling down the sidewalk with too many shopping bags. She reached the corner, saw the guy’s puddling blood, looked up and caught a mouthful. She dropped her bags and ran screaming off the curb, twisting her ankle and crashing facedown between two parked cars, skull bouncing off the concrete. She lay still. A wide-eyed kid jumped out of a nearby car to photograph her with his cellphone, then aimed up at the hotel window.
Lookout, Facebook.
Facil left his car in the street, headed for Ric’s Bar. The SUV behind him laid on its horn.
Ric’s was a dimly-lit hole in the wall, yellowed posters on wood paneled walls, the same faces on the same stools telling the same stories, all of them inching ever closer to that last shot. Facil’s silhouette came through the door, late day sun blasting over his shoulder. He eyed the bartender, a grizzled vet with lazy eyes and blotchy forearm tats, perusing last week’s paper on the bar. “Got some trouble upstairs, Harry.” Harry grunted unintelligibly, didn’t budge.
Facil ducked back outside. Traffic had moved about five feet. The SUV driver behind his Grand National was going ballistic on the horn. He saw people in the surrounding vehicles suddenly cringe and cover their eyes, spun in time to see the guy hit the concrete and splatter like a blood balloon. The kid with the phone cam snapped away, paused to puke, kept on snapping.
“Move your carrr!”
the SUV driver screeched at the top of his lungs, gesturing wildly. Facil eyed the fat chick on the concrete. She was breathing. He went back to the car.
“Come onnn!”
howled the SUV driver, seemingly oblivious to everything but his own advancement. Facil smiled, got behind the wheel, threw it in reverse and tapped the guy’s bumper.
“Hey!”
the douchebag wailed, jumping out with his eyes bugged.
“You just
hit
me, you asshole!”
Facil cut the wheel, drove up onto the sidewalk. The guy stalked after him, red-faced.
“I want your insurance information right now, you
hit
me!”
Facil got out, popped the trunk, raised a pistol-grip pump action shotgun. The guy froze, color draining from his face. He ran back to his vehicle, locked the doors and ducked. Facil eyed the upstairs window. The girl was gone, but screams were coming from inside. There was trouble up there and he’d been sworn to protect.
Right.
Truth was, he couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to the action and it looked nasty, so up he went.