The Archangel Drones (32 page)

Gabe was having trouble getting a good angle on the roving cop, the combination of trees, buildings, and homes making a clear view of the ground difficult.

He inhaled sharply when he spotted the second image presented on the display. Another person with a gun was on a collision course with the cop. They were going to meet where the two fences formed a corner.

Switching quickly to the regular cameras, Gabe realized it had gotten very dark outside. He could see the policeman’s flashlight working the underbrush and weeds, the cop making his way slowly toward what would surely be a surprise encounter at the corner.

Gabe then ordered the G-2 back to infrared, finding the scene more clearly defined. He zoomed in on the other armed individual, his mind wondering who was going to win the inevitable shootout.

Something odd caught Gabe’s attention, the weapon held by the stalking suspect showing up a different color than the policeman’s drawn pistol.

That observation increased Gabe’s scrutiny, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he adjusted the Gripen’s sensors. Infrared still provided the most detailed view; the gun looked just plain weird.

It then occurred to him that the guy getting ready to run right into the cop was very small. Using the cedar privacy fence as a guide, Gabe took a haphazard measurement of the unknown person, and then moved the G-2 slightly in order to compare it to the height of the still advancing policeman.

The non-cop was either a midget or a child. Gabe’s logical mind immediately calculated the statistical probability of each option and assumed the person was probably very young. From there, his mind leapt to an assumption about the weapon directed at the officer. Its plastic surface would perfectly explain why this pistol appeared so different from the cop’s metal firearm in the infrared setting.

“Holy shit!” Gabe exclaimed, “That cop has no way of knowing that ‘firearm’ is a toy. It’s dark. Both figures are moving like they’re scared. That officer is going to kill that kid.”

For a brief moment, Gabe pined for some sort of speaker on his robot. If he could speak to the officer, he could warn him of the quickly approaching encounter. But the Gripen was mute by design.

Five steps separated the two outlines on his monitor.

He considered buzzing the cop, distracting him in hope of avoiding an encounter that was sure to result in another child’s death. But that maneuver, in the dark, over unknown terrain, would be difficult at best. Would the cop pay any attention?

Four steps.

Gabe sat urgently trying to figure out a solution, watching in horror as the two human images on his screen continued toward the fence lines’ intersection, each second bringing them closer and closer together at the corner.

Three steps.

When both of their outlines filled his screen, Gabe was even more convinced the smaller figure was a kid. The movements matched, the body motions more juvenile than adult. And just like Jacob, Gabe felt powerless to do anything.

Two steps.

The Gripen’s controller stopped breathing when the two shapes were mere feet apart, still unable to anticipate each other due to the tall planks of the fence. The cop clearly heard something, his pistol moving to point directly at the corner.

Gabe had a fleeting idea. “I could kamikaze the cop,” he suggested to the lonely control room. “I could ram the Gripen into his gun. I’d lose the drone, might even give the cops some hint as to who’s been spying on their asses, but I would save the kid.”

One step.

Kirkpatrick heard a twig snap, most likely due to someone’s footfall. The undergrowth was thicker here, saplings and thorny bushes making his sweep even slower than before. And now he was sure someone was lurking around the corner.

Not wanting to make himself an illuminated target, he switched off his flashlight and halted. There was another footfall… somebody was definitely around the corner.

He clicked off his safety, ready to drop the hammer if one of the crooks came into view.

Dole spied movement, the dim outline of a shape appearing just beyond where the fence switched direction. He flicked on his flashlight, the warning, “Police officer! Freeze!” forming in his throat. In the torch’s blink, he spotted the outline of the gun and the extended hand that was wielding it.

His trigger finger began to squeeze, his brain calculating where the target’s body would be in proportion to the weapon and arm, adjusting his own aim for a center-mass shot.

The officer felt the trigger break just as something slammed into his wrist. His weapon discharged, the bright muzzle flash and roar of the .40 caliber weapon illuminating the landscape.

His training called for a follow-on shot, but harsh bolts of pain throbbing through his limb made controlling his muscles difficult. Somebody screamed; the flashlight hit the ground, and there were blurs of movement throughout his confused field of vision.

It took a few moments before his stunned, aching arm would respond, another second before he got control of the flashlight’s beam. Assuming an armed criminal was surely taking aim at his chest, Dole pointed his torch where he’d spotted the offending weapon.

“Holy shit!” he barked, the scared, wide-eyed image of a young boy squinting from the flashlight’s glare. “Get on the ground! Now!” the cop ordered, still not sure of what was going on, his bewildered mind resorting to the most basic training stored within its memory cells.

“Get on the ground!” he shouted, control of his pistol arm finally returning.

Finally, the kid did as he was ordered to do, hot tears streaming down his cheeks from fear and the shock of a gunshot that had blasted right by his head.

Dole then spied the toy gun, lying on the ground where the freaked out kid had dropped it. He picked it up to double check, a thunderstorm of emotions erupting when he realized he’d almost killed a child.

“Shots fired due to misidentification,” he breathed into his shoulder mounted radio, not sure what the proper terminology or code words were… and really not caring. “I’m okay, but I could use some backup over here,” he finished.

“What the hell were you doing out here, kid?” he snapped at the weeping child at his feet. “You damn near got us both in hot water. Jesus Henry Milton Roosevelt Christ – that was close.”

In the distance, Dole could see other squad cars pulling up beside his still idling cruiser. Two new flashlight beams began bouncing along the terrain, brother officers on their way in support.

When the field supervisor arrived, he listened intently to Kirkpatrick’s explanation, watching as the young patrolman reenacted what had just occurred.

The kid was still there, sitting against the fence, hugging his knees, and watching the cops go about their routine with frightened, darting eyes.

When Dole had finally finished his report, the older officer shook his head. “How in God’s name did you miss him?” he asked. “You must have had an angel on your shoulder, Kirkpatrick. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

“He did have an angel,” sounded another officer’s nearby voice, his beam searching the weeds around the area. “He had an Archangel, and here it is,” he proclaimed, lifting the now bent and useless body of the Gripen from the ground.

“Do we run?” Chip asked, looking at the video playback of the kamikaze drone-strike over Gabe’s shoulder.

“No, I’m not sure they can trace the Gripen back to us. I’ve tried to be very, very careful. Even if they did, running wouldn’t do any good. I’ve got plenty of money, but they would instantly freeze my accounts. Any place I’d care to live has a pretty tight extradition treaty.”

“What do you think they’ll charge us with?”

Gabe shook his head, his eyes never leaving the last frame of the now-ended recording. “I don’t think they can legitimately charge us with anything. Oh, they’ll try to cook up something; I’m sure. My attorney says in the long run, after significant expense, they’ll have to drop any bogus charges. At least that’s what he thinks would happen.”

Chip groaned at the last part of the dialogue, hating that his future was dependent on what someone “thought,” especially an ambulance chaser.

Gabe understood his friend’s reaction, his low voice saying, “I’m sorry I got you into this, Chip. You know I didn’t have any choice. I’d be as guilty as Marwick if I had let that kid die.”

Patting his new boss on the shoulder, Chip nodded. “I would have done the same thing. I’m not upset with you, just pissed this had to happen on the first good job I’ve had.”

The two men sat in silence for a bit, both minds speeding rapidly, but down different tracks. Chip was trying to figure out how he was going to explain his deception to Amanda, uttering the occasional small prayer that she would understand, and not take Manny… and his life… away from him.

Gabe was trying to figure out technically what the cops could determine once they’d dissected his drone.

He’d been careful, filing off the serial number from any component. But that wasn’t foolproof. He hadn’t, for example, disassembled the tiny electric motor to see if it were stamped with any sort of internal identification.

The police would now know what frequency he was using to communicate with his robots. That again wasn’t particularly damning, the bandwidth of the Gripen’s receiver within a commonly used range of airwaves. Besides, he’d leased antenna time through JI, as did hundreds of corporations throughout the Houston area.

He wouldn’t put it past the authorities to start monitoring the G-2’s programmed frequency, but that wasn’t a showstopper either. It was a few minutes work to switch to another band.

He wondered about fingerprints. He’d assembled the drone personally, never wearing gloves or taking any precautions. Yes, the drones were kept very clean in order to maximize their battery time, but Gabe was sure that somewhere his unique digit-marks still soiled the robot’s surface.

What did that mean? He thought hard, trying to remember ever being fingerprinted. Sandy had gone through the experience some years ago, her volunteering at Jacob’s elementary school requiring the intrusive process before they’d let her step foot inside the door. No, he concluded, his fingerprints shouldn’t be in any database. If he were arrested, then the proof would be evident, but until then, the coppers wouldn’t be able to hunt him down. At least not from fingerprints.

“I don’t think we have to change anything but the radio frequencies,” he announced to the still-worried looking Chip. “Unless you touched the drone before you launched it, they shouldn’t have anything to go on.”

“No, I didn’t touch it. But what about the autopilot’s coordinates to return home?”

Gabe had already considered that. “Didn’t you launch it from the car wash? It would automatically return there unless overridden. I’ll reprogram the frequencies, and we’ll watch our backs for a couple of days. I think we should concentrate our efforts on Officer Marwick’s precinct and shifts. If they are going to shut us down, I’d feel a whole lot better if we had taken care of that asshole first.”

Nodding his agreement, Chip added, “Any news on the DA pressing charges?”

“No. They’re obviously stalling, which I’ve found out isn’t unusual. Stupid me, I thought when the grand jury recommended prosecution, that was that. Who the hell knew they could keep playing games until the cows came home? If we can catch Marwick red-handed, then they won’t have much choice. We’ll lay low with the exception of his beat, and hope he fucks up before they figure out who we are.”

“You’re the boss,” Chip stated with a sly grin. “By the way, can I have the bottom bunk in our prison cell, Mr. Boss-man, sir?”