Rogue-ARC (14 page)

The responses varied from totally ignoring me, to telling me “Soon,” to telling me, “I don’t have a file on you.” Clearly, he did. He’d called my name. He was continually lying to me. As a professional, he was not.

I finally called Silver around 1600, with a hefty five pound charge to her phone. I told her I’d likely be there another day, and she said, “The Department says court runs until twenty-one.” I wasn’t hopeful. It might run until 2100, but the regulars were sure no one got called after 1600.

More prisoners came in, and there were no more mattresses. Another exchange took place, and in perfect Nazi or Stalinist fashion, the departing prisoners were required to remove the mattresses from the cell, even though there were those inside who had none. Repeated requests of, “Sir, we need some mattresses,” were met with the standard, “Soon,” but no mattresses. They were left outside the bars as a taunt. I couldn’t have set it up better myself as a means to psychologically break people. Except they weren’t interrogating anyone for intel, had laws against it, and was from sheer idiocy rather than intent. It amused and disgusted me. It didn’t intimidate me.

After shift change, we had two other guards, one young man, and a slender elderly lady with curly hair. These two people deserve thanks, promotions, and praise from the city, because they acted and treated us like human beings. They were genuinely embarrassed by the petty bullies around them, kept apologizing for them, and did their best to help us.

Let me reiterate: they did their jobs as required. That was unusual and worthy of note.

On missed court calls, they took names and made inquiries. They got no answers, but they did ask. The man who needed his medication, who had previously been told that the medics were “gone for the day,” was scheduled for sick call. They gave us the time. They explained procedures. They got us mattresses. They were treated exactly as they treated us—politely, and every request was complied with without hassle.

Eventually I was called for interrogation.

“Scholl! Is Scholl here?”

“That’s me,” I called loudly, and stood from my rack.

“Follow me.”

I was prepared for a lot of shouting, some shoving, threats, food deprivation, low-key harassment, which was illegal but probably SOP.

I was pleasantly surprised.

The guard led me through a dingy corridor, locking us through gates via the control center, to a room, directed me in and closed the door. I could see one camera, deduced where the others must be, and assumed they were recording already. Two floods lit the seats enough for visibility without being excessive. This seemed to be legit. I took the one facing the door. It was hard but adequately shaped, and fixed to the floor.

A few moments later, a man in his Caledonian thirties walked in and sat down. He wore a badge on his shirt.

“Good evening, sir. I’m Investigator Mead. May I have your name, please?”

“Andrew Scholl,” I said, making us both liars. He already had that ID, of course.

A sealed, transparent evidence box appeared in a window on one wall, illuminated and secure.

“So where’d you get this gun?” he asked.

I gave the only reply I could. “I brought it in my luggage.”

“The number says it was stolen here.”

I shrugged. “I brought it in my luggage.”

He sighed and looked annoyed.

“I’m trying to help you,” he said. “I know you’re a Freeholder. Have you military ID? If you do, we can clear any weapon charges and just return it to the owner.”

Technically, that was illegal. They did do favors for military, though. He was lying about the latter. They’d chop it up for “analysis.”

“No,” I said.

He looked me up and down. He knew I was military, and was probably starting to figure I was clandestine. That could be problematic.

“Sir . . . ”

I stayed uncommunicative. “Sorry.”

A beep on his phone caught his attention.

“It seems bail’s been posted.” He sighed again. “You’ll be given a sheet with reporting instructions and bonding rules. You must obey them, and may not leave the system in the meantime. We’ll see you in court.”

“Very well, sir. Good day,” I said. I waited until he indicated I should stand and leave.

I wasn’t released, though. I was shoved back into the cage. I figured out afterward it was just bureaucratic idiocy. At the time, it seemed like a clumsy interrogation technique.

At 1800, we were brought dinner. You guessed it-fake ham and soggy bread with stale cheese and corn chips and nasty cookies and orange juice. The man trying to exchange his sandwich for a drink had no luck again.

I stayed with my form. I ate leftover chips to keep up my strength, poured a bag of water to keep myself hydrated. Nodded to conversation but said nothing. Stayed with my bunk so my mattress wouldn’t be stolen, though no one seemed disposed to fight.

About 22 hours, some fool who had smuggled marijuana and matches in past their search lit up. The guards made no attempt to find out who had done so, they simply shut off the phone again. People who had been brought in at the same time I had, just now getting up to the cell after 22 hours, came in and had no way to call.

They still had no way to call when I left at midnight.

Someone called my name again, on a list, and I was first at the bars, having moved my mattress to a front bunk during an earlier lull. I lied and said I didn’t have a mattress, so someone else would have the use of it.

We were marched downstairs, lined up, processed out in ten minutes. I was never actually told that my charges were dropped. We weren’t actually told we were being processed out until another prisoner asked and was answered. They scanned me again, loaded a bag with my possessions minus the gun, the glasses, invoice and the coding tools, but I did have the pocket knife, phone and pieces I’d picked up. A bored overweight woman handed me the bag through a grille and said, “Don’t open that until you’re outside.”

They opened the locked steel door, told me to go up to the first floor and through the door. I did so, and was in the lobby of the police department. No warning, no nothing. Through that door and out of our hair, you. To be fair, the guards on this last leg were fairly decent, probably because they knew we were being released.

Even though I’d known I was safe, seeing Silver was a great relief. I was pretty fatigued, too. There wasn’t much time for that, though.

Once we were outside and in the car I fished the sliver out of the bag.

“Chameleon,” I said.

“Novaja Rossia,” she said, that fast.

“Good. Does that help?”

“It will. Right now we need to follow up. I think they’ve cordoned him.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

She shrugged. “Activity, radio traffic, some media presence.”

“Ah, hell, we don’t need a circus.”

I was emotionally beat and physically wiped out, but we had a job to do.

CHAPTER 8

We hit the room,
I showered and cleaned up, washing several cubic meters of grit and grime away, dressed in business combat wear—suit and shoes designed for maneuvers and wrestling—and went out on the hunt.

They’d tightened communication protocols and Silver couldn’t bust their signal in time. We blocked the city on map and drove, using traffic analysis. Lots of signals came from the north central. I tracked the news to rule out other incidents. We found signals only to have them fade, then find tantalizing taunts that went nowhere. We located other incidents including a vehicle crash that made the news about the time we arrived. Then there was a report of a police cordon on the RumorNet node. It did not show up on any official press. That was promising.

Randall apparently really wanted his target. There must be a time limit, which was useful information and bore more research. We finally had enough data to zero in on a cheap apartment block. About 1100 local, we identified which unit. It was the one with all the cops outside.

That suggested to me that he wasn’t here, and this was a setup. If I knew I was being tracked, I’d have left a lot of false trails. One very clear trail was a trap. They didn’t know who they were dealing with, and they were between me and him.

I gestured. Silver was already parking as I did so. I climbed out, put on my public spook façade and checked for the right ID. I sought the largest gathering of uniforms, blocking the walkways from the adjoining park.

I strode up quickly, pushed politely through the gawkers and slowed as I approached, stepped over the official tape, picked one sergeant out by eye and said, “I need to talk to the scene commander.”

“That’s nice. Just move outside the cordon, please, and—”

Cops really piss me off. They need to stick to serving and protecting and not trying to be epic heroes.

I interrupted him by grabbing his arm and shoved an ID in his face. I deliberately didn’t raise my voice, just spoke clearly. “I am Captain Anders. I have pursued that suspect from outsystem, and I have important information about him. I need to speak to the scene commander.”

“Okay, sir. Please come with me.” He pointed at the two approaching officers and then at the cordon. “Jasta, Lanning, take over here.” They looked surprised, but diverted from slamming me to cordon control. The sergeant seemed very embarrassed, but realized his best bet was to bump me up higher. Good enough.

We walked over to the commander at a trot. Others had seen our interaction, and followed me suspiciously. I eyed him as we approached. Gray, slightly overweight but with good tone. He seemed competent and not too standoffish or grandstandish, if that’s a word.

As I approached, he said, “Chief Malcolm. District Seven. You are?”

“Captain Anders. Appointed by the Freehold Council.”

He looked at my ID at length. It was good. Silver had copied it with a real diplomatic blank. Officially, the military doesn’t get those, for this exact reason—accusations of espionage. In actuality, Operatives steal them, use them for patterns, and destroy them.

He said, “Interesting. I didn’t know they did that.”

“Not often, no. This merits it, though.”

“Very well. So who is he?”

“He’s one of our Blazer troops, or used to be. He’s had some mental trouble. Aftereffects of the War. He’s very dangerous, but I can talk to him. We served together. I can get him out without violence to anyone, if I can see him. If you go in, it’s going to be messy and there are going to be multiple casualties.”

Actually, I was going to fucking kill him and make any excuse, or not make any excuse, as needed. I liked having the dialog, though. This could work.

Malcolm gave me this squint that foreshadowed a negative. Dammit.

First, he wanted to believe he could control this situation. Second, he didn’t like intruders, and I don’t blame him. Third, there was the political issue of him letting an outsider resolve it. Fourth, he didn’t know me, or what my actual credentials were. Fifth, I just
might
be a distraction or accomplice.

“Then you can remain here, and talk to him after we bring him out.”

There was absolutely no argument I could offer under the circumstances, and fighting him wouldn’t help. Well, I could probably distract them enough to keep them alive, but then Randall would escape, and we’d start over.

I just nodded, because I wasn’t going to try to speak.

“We’ll be fine,” he assured me in a deep, confident voice. “My team has the latest training and equipment. One traumatized veteran is no problem.”

I stood back, and hoped for an opening where I could inject some reason and wisdom. The problem is, a lot of these units like to kick in doors. Everyone wants to do their job, but these are people who have a bit of an ego trip. Sometimes, a lot of one.

They had a murderer, an assassin, so they were going to wade in and bring him out, hold him up as an object lesson.

I, of course, have developed a theory about object lessons . . .

The team looked competent and fit. I had no doubt under any normal circumstances they’d do a bang-up job, from the flash bang to the hauling of the subdued perp.

That’s the second problem. They come in en masse, with lots of noise and firepower, and maintain the upper hand. That’s great on whacked-out druggies, middle age money handlers, disturbed abusers and ganger kids. They were up against a professional, trained to do the same thing they were about to attempt, and do it better. If I could actually tell them who I was, as I’d led a raid to rescue their Princess, now Queen, some years before. . . . But there was no time, and the lives of a few cops wasn’t important in the big picture. I had to keep my cover.

Part of me screamed to do something. This was a legitimate raid, well-intentioned, and these fifteen men and three women were going to die. Their families were going to suffer massive anguish. I knew exactly what was going to happen, what it was going to look like, how dreadful it would be to them. Heck, I’d done it myself once, while carrying a baby.

Malcolm said, “Proceed,” and they swarmed the building.

I did not find an opening in which to suggest further caution. I forced myself to remain still.

The tac team got placed fast. They were quiet, efficient and enthusiastic. I looked at their placement and dispersal and cringed. It was literally textbook, as I’d done it twelve years before. They’d learned from the best. Us.

Then the explosions started. A flashbang, some cutting charges. Some shots. Malcolm looked very pleased and comfortable.

Then the shooting continued, interspersed with shrieking screams of agony, gouts of smoke, and more explosions, including one that ripped the side off a floor above. It rained down onto the ground in drumming thumps of debris.

Malcolm gave me a sideways glance, angry and tense, then headed in himself.

I couldn’t fault his courage.

Four very worried officers with carbines followed him. I brought up the rear, not asking, just acting as if I belonged. They didn’t question me, but I think they didn’t notice me.

Power and lights were out in the building. Once that was determined, I followed them up the stairs. Four floors, each of them seeming farther away and with thinner air. I was having emotional flashbacks, traumatic stress pummeling me. Dammit.