Torn From On High: Free City Book 2 (The Free City Series) (16 page)

“I'll
bet a week's pay that he slid the dead man's digit over the interface screen,
it's a gruesome old trick.”

Ryo
tapped out the delivery vehicle's ID number and a flashing red notation popped
up:
Transport found abandon by Registry Bureau 3:28PM. Impounded at
Ballaghaderreen District Lot. Unable to contact owner. Fine Due: 637 Standard
Units.

He
summoned a Forensic Technician to the Impound Lot before looking up at the
Cadet Inspector. “I've got a strange hunch about the creep who apparently
murdered a delivery driver just to sneak into Free City. Let's dash over and
take a look at the abandoned transport and see if we can find out who this guy
is.”

She
nodded eagerly at the new assignment.

“And
the whole time that we were at the Fort of Djaba, we had no idea whether the
Desert Serfs would shoot us or if we would manage to pull the operation off.”
Lev stopped abruptly and stared at Keira.

The
woman had a ghastly look of horror after hearing the twin tales of Lev's rescue
of Ryo and the Lieutenant in New Rome and the efforts to infect the Serfs with
the strange pathogen.

“What
is it, sweetie?” he stoked her cheek.

Her
face slowly shifted from dread to resolve.

“I'm
glad that you haven't been agitating in the streets of New Rome,” she whispered
in an uncharacteristically deep and rumbly tone, “but this spy work that you've
been doing is really dangerous. I should know, Liaison Officers go through the
same training as Intelligence personnel.”

He
laughed nervously at her unexpected response to his recent adventures, “I'm
pretty tough.”

“No;”
she shook her head, “no, you're not. I worked with you and Ryo last year when
we chased the pirates around the Solar System. It's a rough-and-tumble job that
requires years of practice. You're not up to the rigors and riskiness of
espionage and investigation. I see it all of the time in the Liaison Office,
spies and cops live short and brutal lives.”

He
scolded at her harsh assessment.

“If we
are going to marry,” she glanced wishfully towards him, “and I certainly hope
that we do, you need to settle on something that’s safer.”

“Like
Ultra Energy Physics?”

Keira
considered the tall, disheveled mop-top of a man that she had grown to love
over the last year. He was so much more complicated than she had ever imagined.
She had given up on trying to change him into a straitlaced Research Scientist
months ago and recently had rather enjoyed him for who he really was: a
restless and disorganized optimist. Any rigid dictate from her now would likely
end their relationship and cast them both into a chasm of protracted misery.

“It's
up to you,” she finally replied.

• • •

They
had been sequestered together in the tiny safe house for days.

“Are
you excited about attending the parade tomorrow?” Sabra asked.

“Yes.”
Dilma pirouetted around and curtsied. Her face darkened and she added, “Also a
little scared.”

“About
what?”

The
girl smiled nervously, “Sabra, I'm afraid that I'll look silly in front of all
of those people.”

She
was such a dear thing, the woman realized, much more innocent and wide-eyed
about the world than other twelve-year-old girls.

“Sweetie,
everyone will look silly.”

Dilma
thought about that assertion for several seconds. “Will it be OK to laugh at
other people without hurting their feelings?”

Sabra
grinned at the high-minded question, “It may hurt their feelings if you don't
laugh.”

• • •

Hours
later Sabra awoke in the dark and quiet bedroom.

Some
minor inconsistency was fluttering about in her head, but as of yet it hadn't
solidified into a well-defined problem that she'd then be able to solve.

Dilma
whimpered a bit as she slept in the other bed.

Her
young charge seemed to be OK, Sabra realized, so that wasn't the problem.

The
woman tussled for many minutes with the vague feeling that something had been
overlooked as she fidgeted in the little bed.

Perhaps
she should just get up.

She
tiptoed into the hallway and glanced into Ryo's darkened bedroom. It was about
2 AM and her boss had not yet returned from work. Hopefully, for Dilma's sake,
he'd join them for breakfast.

Sabra
sat sleepily at the little dining table and studied the two costumes that took
up a good portion of the surface. She and Dilma had spent much of their time
during the unwanted isolation perfecting the finery for the parade.

She
fingered the unusual fabric of her costume and it faintly glowed with the
touch. It was made of a new luminescent material that responded to body heat
that she'd found months ago at a specialty shop on Breton Street. The garment
was sure to catch the eyes of many other parade participants.

Dilma's
little getup was much simpler. The girl had painstakingly copied a whimsical
drawing of an ocean denizen that she'd found and the results were remarkably
true to the image.

Sabra
gently spread the girl's outfit out on the table.

The
woman realized that something was missing as she studied the garment.

The
headband and the blue boa!

Dilma
had asked Ryo to retrieve them from their apartment but the overworked
Investigator had failed to do so. It was just a silly little thing, Sabra knew,
but the girl would be especially unhappy if she did not have the items. Dilma
might well hold Ryo accountable for his minor oversight.

That
was the problem that had awakened her, Sabra realized.

But
what to do about it?

She
spent many minutes playing out various scenarios in her head to remedy the
difficulty; all had significant shortcomings. Finally she concluded that she
should sneak back to the apartment and pick up the missing items.

On the
return trip she'd stop at her own abode and retrieve a more appropriate pair of
boots for herself.

Surely
a quick trip across town in the middle of the night would be harmless.

• • •

The
Forensic Technician glanced out of the cab of the abandoned delivery vehicle
when Ryo and Cadet Inspector Helen MacDermish arrived at the Impound Lot.

“Hey
Ryo, what's got you up at this horrible hour?”

The
old Inspector waved to his longtime pal, “Just catching up on some work. What
have you got?”

The
Technician sighed, “Well; there's a dozen or so small drops of blood on the
floor, mainly right around the driver's seat. I just ran some samples through
the Chromosomal Comparator and it came back as Manfred Chong, age 37 from
Dublin.”

Ryo
nodded, “Mr. Chong was the driver assigned to this vehicle.”

He and
Helen studied the cab's interior for several seconds.

Ryo
rubbed his chin, “Manfred Chong was murdered nearly 24 hours ago. I suspect
that you will find his DNA all over the cab. Check the steering wheel and
perhaps the dashboard switches for fresh material from someone else.”

“Already
done.” The Technician held up several swabs, “I just collected these, I'll run
them through the Comparator right now.

While
the machine was analyzing the specimens Ryo tapped out an update of the
investigation for Helga when she returned to the office.

A
pleasant ding from the Comparator announced the completion of the work.

The
Technician read the results, “Herman Kowalski, age 28 from Nairobi. It says
here that he goes by the name 'Bowie.' He has quite a record in EurAfrica. His
current location is listed as unknown but I think that we can surmise that he's
somewhere in Free City.”

“The
last of the Goons is now prowling around town,” Ryo muttered.

Helen
had a look of bewilderment, “Is that the criminal who murdered Manfred Chong?”

“It
would be my guess but that particular investigation is in the hands of the
Dublin Police.” Ryo glowered in silence for a time, “I'm hunting for Herman
'Bowie' Kowalski for the murder of Mr. Nathan Briggs.”

• • •

It was
damp and dreary on the street.

For
two long days Bowie had tried to locate Ryo Trop's kid and her nanny in Free
City.

Fortunately
he had some recent pictures and two pages of fairly good intelligence
information to guide him.

Bowie
studied a photo of the nanny. Her name was Sabra MacFarland and she was rather
attractive. Too bad she was associated with Inspector Trop.

Apparently
the old man had hidden them just after the dagger in the door incident. But no
matter, Bowie thought as he leaned against the wall of a building on Rahara
Street. He'd found out enough about the nanny to know that she shared an
apartment with her sister about half a block down. All he had to do was to
loiter around until she showed up and then trail her until she led him back to
the hideout.

One
way or another he'd murder the kid and the nanny and settle the score with
Inspector Trop.

• • •

The
old Landlady scrutinized the photo before she nodded.

“You're
sure?” Ryo glanced at the gray-haired gal. She was in a grimy pink bathrobe
with a headful of blue curlers. She hadn't objected too much when he knocked on
the door of the boardinghouse at 3:30 AM. Apparently late night visits by the
police were not uncommon.

“Yeah
Inspector, that's him.”

“You
said he's not in at the moment;” Ryo continued, “any idea of where he is right
now?”

“He
doesn't seem to have a job,” the Landlady frowned as she thought, “but he did
ask a lot of questions about the Enlightenment Crusade and what those nut bags
might be likely to do.”

“What
did you tell him?”

“Well;
I've got a couple of Crusaders up on the third floor and all they talk about
right now is the Bicentennial Parade tomorrow. He seemed really interested in
that.”

“Thank
you. If he returns, contact me at once.”

She
nodded sleepily before closing the door.

Ryo
stood in grim silence for several seconds: Dilma and Sabra would be at the
parade.

• • •

Bowie
was hunched over like a dozing vagrant, but the big Goon certainly wasn't
asleep.

About
forty minutes earlier he'd spotted an unusually wary young woman wrapped in a
gray cloak skulking down the deserted street. The leery traveler nervously
glanced around before slipping into the apartment building that he'd been
watching.

Bowie
then repositioned himself across the street to afford a better view of the
woman should she reappear. He was fairly certain that it was Sabra MacFarland.

The
glass panes rattled in the ancient wooden lobby doors of the apartment
building.

Bowie
glanced up.

The
jittery woman stood in the dim early morning light studying the empty
thoroughfare for far longer than would be considered normal.

It was
her.

Bowie
grinned malevolently before slumping forward to resume his ruse. He'd found the
nanny.

She
hurried off.

When
she was nearly a block away, the big Goon stood and casually dusted himself off
before following her.

Bowie
patted the bulge in his jacket as he walked down the street; with luck he'd use
the gun for killing today.

The
swirling claptrap of the restless humanity was deafening.

Sabra
stood attired as a luminescent purple and pink jellyfish in the midst of nearly
thirty-five thousand colorfully costumed parade participants.

The
huge group of revelers was stalled again for some reason.

Dilma's
quivery little hand was clamped tightly to hers.

Sabra
smiled at the tremulous twelve-year-old who was elaborately dressed as a
mermaid. The girl was adorned with the hard-won headband and blue boa.

Days
earlier at the safe house Dilma had managed to cajole Ryo into letting her
attend the huge public display that marked the end of the Free City
Bicentennial Exposition. Since returning from New Rome, the old Investigator
had been strangely unwilling to let Dilma dawdle about in the city.

The
recent intimidation involving the dagger in the apartment door had made her
boss even more edgy.

But
Dilma's sparkling charm and endless persistence had eventually worn him down.
Finally he relented with a few stern caveats: She must return to the safe house
by sunset and must never be more than an arms length from Sabra during the
entire outing.

The
girl merrily agreed to his conditions before skipping off to work on her
costume.

Sabra
had noticed afterwards that Ryo watched over the girl as she fabricated her
finery with an inexplicably moody look of foreboding.

But
now it all seemed worth it, Dilma was participating in a once in a lifetime
event that she certainly would relive for decades to come.

• • •

“OK;
what is that?” Dilma pointed to the left at a group of a dozen or so parade
participants in themed costumes.

Sabra
studied the gang for several seconds before answering. “That's quite clever;
it's a good portion of a chess set.”

A man
bedecked as a black rook shuffled forward and bumped a little girl who was
dressed as a white pawn. The girl teetered dramatically before flopping to the ground.
The move produced a booming call of “HUZZAH” from the other group members. The
pieces reset themselves and the stylized sideshow began anew.

“Excuse
me ladies,” a deep male voice grunted.

Sabra
turned to the new arrival.

“Jasper!”
Dilma squealed with delight at the scruffy and imposing red-maned man dressed
as a Neanderthal.

“G'day,
sweetheart!”

Sabra
scowled at the arrival of the unfamiliar man.

Dilma
fingered the faux bearskin that wrapped the burly newcomer, “What are you doing
here?”

He smiled
at the young mermaid, “Ryo mentioned that you might need some company in the
parade so I put on my Sunday best and decided to join you.”

Sabra
tipped her head in confusion, “How do you two know each other?”

“Ah...well...you
see..,” Dilma was uncharacteristically tongue-tied by the question.

The
big man grinned pleasantly, “I helped her out of some difficulties about a year
ago and eventually delivered her to Ryo.”

“Yeah;
that's it!” the girl quickly nodded in agreement.

Sabra
frowned at the obviously over simplified explanation, up to this point everyone
had been quite forthright in matters regarding the girl.

The
parade lurched forward and the woman reluctantly set her leeriness aside.

• • •

Just
to their right, an odd little Dixieland band was playing “When The Saints Go
Marching In” with homemade scrap heap instruments.

The
crowd had managed to move three blocks before the merry procession had stopped
again.

It was
especially festive, Sabra beamed.

After
several minutes of awkwardness with the arrival of Jasper, Dilma had grasped
his big hand and had shuffled proudly along between both of the adults.

The
girl seemed quite comfortable with the big caveman, Sabra concluded.

WHACK!

The
sickening sound of bones cracking interrupted the high-spirited procession.

“HEY!”
Jasper recoiled from punch. “WHAT THE...”

Dilma
screamed.

Sabra
turned to see a sneering thug in a black jacket, his hand still clenched up and
bloody.

“BASTARD!”
Jasper regained his footing and turned to the attacker. “I've got five years of
bar brawls in Blackall,” his fist slammed into the man's face, “and I've
swatted bigger flies than you!”

The
punk lurched back from the punch.

The
crowd bolted away from the battling men.

Sabra
instinctively jerked Dilma out of the way of the fracas.

“You're
just in the wrong place at the wrong time!” the goon growled at Jasper. He
produced an unusual gun and leveled it at the big Australian's head.

“NO!”
Dilma lunged at the gunman just as he fired.

The
punk was thrown off balance by the tiny attacker.

A
weird purplish beam crackled from the weapon and struck Jasper just above the
right collarbone. A good-sized chunk of his shoulder blade was blasted away as
the beam exited. Blood was everywhere. Jasper wobbled dizzily before he collapsed.

With
spiteful satisfaction, the brute watched the big Aussie fall before he swung
around towards Dilma, “NOW YOU!”

The
twelve-year-old snarled defiantly as she slowly backed away from the man.

The
assassin lined the gun up on the girl and pressed at the trigger.

In a
blur of furious motion, the keen edge of a silver-gray broadsword struck the
gunman across the small of the back.

“AHHH!”
The bruiser winced in agony. His weapon clattered to the pavement.

The
sword-wielder walloped him again behind the knees and produced a gaping wound.
He crumpled to the ground.

The
guardian angel pressed the razor-tipped broadsword between the thug's ribs
should additional struggle require that he should be dispatched.

Three
beat cops subdued the bloody man.

Several
bystanders rushed in and tended to Jasper.

Dilma
stared in awe of the small woman who had brought down the burly punk.

It was
the mysterious redheaded woman that had prodded her to stay close to Sabra at
the coffeehouse.

“IT'S
YOU!” Sabra exclaimed as she studied their protector. “You loaned me money and
introduced me to Ryo!”

“That's
right, sweetie,” she grinned enigmatically. “Someone named Zmuda had me keep an
eye on you two from the beginning.”

“Who's
Zmuda?” Sabra wondered.

“Ah;”
Dilma smiled, “he's my godfather!”

One of
the cops withdrew a communications device from his belt, “We got him, Inspector
Trop. We're over on Knutsford Street. Yes; it is definitely Bowie. Your kid and
the nanny are fine but we need an ambulance for the assailant and a big chap
named Jasper.”

“Thank
you,” Sabra whispered to the mysterious woman.

The
girl was still shaking from the violent altercation.

“I
like this,” Dilma nervously fingered the elaborate costume of their savor,
“what are you?”

“I'm a
Valkyrie. They're the death angels that carry slain Norse warriors away to
Valhalla,” she grinned at the wide-eyed kid, “or in this case, protect little
girls from street punks.”

The
officer turned to the Valkyrie, “I'm going to need some personal details for
the report.”

She
smiled curtly at the cop, “Edict 343 says you don't.”

He
nodded reluctantly and the redheaded death angel ambled off into the crowd with
her bloodstained broadsword still in hand.