Prog 2 : Raid
The segmented steel crumpled like tinfoil when the tank crashed through it. The rolling door was torn from its overhead mountings and crushed beneath the tracks' cleats. Inside the cab, Daz and Reynolds jerked slightly in their seats, but were not otherwise inconvenienced.
The tank crunched forward into the warehouse – it was one of several that Calitri owned nearby, all newly-bought since he arrived from sector 24. The evidence Anderson had pulled from the perp's head about the Lucido jewelry heist gave Daz PC – probable cause rather than political correctness. There was nothing politically correct about door-kicking with a drokking tank.
"Hamilton, you got the rear exit?" Daz asked into her helmet mic.
"Two of 'em, Ma'am." Hamilton's voice came back instantly, calm as a parade. "Rookie's on one, I'm covering the other." Daz nodded, sweeping the sensor reports for heavy weapons that might threaten the bikers. Except for panicking perps, the screens were clear. She hit the release button for her restraints and grabbed her shotgun, standing on the seat to open the hatch. "You waiting for an invite, Reynolds?" she asked.
"No, Ma'am!" exclaimed Reynolds, kicking the door opening and leaping out, his own weapon booming. Two scurrying figures went down, twitching, caught in the expanding filament nets of the widowmaker suppressor rounds. "On the floor! Hands on your heads! This is a raid! Move!" Behind the tank, through the hole it had torn in the front of the warehouse, five bikes sped in, Anderson and Taylor in the lead. Stun rounds burst from their lawgivers.
The warehouse was large – a two-story building the size of an areoball field filled with rows and rows of metal rack shelving, stacked with crates and boxes. There were latticework catwalks suspended above, with a prefab office tucked onto a mezzanine floor. There had been workers milling around – some taking inventory or packing up shipments, one or two driving forklift loaders, and a few clustered around a table just inside the door, eating donuts and drinking synthi-caf. Now, that table was crushed, the greasy treats and steaming black tar smeared on the floor and the front of the tank.
Anderson swung her bike around, blocking an aisle and pointing her lawgiver down it. "Hold it, creeps!" she ordered. Two workers assumed almost-comical looks of shock and turned to run, one throwing a box at her as they did. She lifted her gun-arm, knocking it away even as she fishtailed her bike and sped after them. "Hey!" she snapped, coming up behind one and smashing him in the back of the head with the butt of her pistol. "I don't talk for my health!"
The perp crumpled with a cry. Anderson didn't even watch him hit – someone would grab him later. She raced down the aisle, abruptly slamming on the brakes without realizing she wanted to. She skidded to a halt, lurching forward in the saddle, an instant before a forklift truck went speeding past, the tines of the lifter inches from her wheels. "Thank you, mutie powers!" she muttered, shooting the driver as he went past. The stun round shocked him to unconsciousness, the forklift veering to the side and careening into the shelves.
Standing on top of the tank, Daz directed her men from her elevated position. "Fan out!" she shouted. "Find Calitri!" The room was roaring with gunfire and cries of men shocked by stun and suppressor rounds. Most of the workers were just that – laborers hired because robots were too-expensive to buy and couldn't be relied on to have professional bad memories about what really came in with the shipment – and so there was little resistance. Here and there one of Calitri's men decided to be a foolish big-shot and try to have it out with a Judge, with predictable results.
There was an ugly clang and cry of pain from below her; Daz glanced down to see Carter had wrenched a perp into an armlock and slammed him face-first into the side of the tank. She swept the warehouse one final time and then shouldered her shotgun, leaping down to stand next to him. "Your boss," she demanded, "where is he?"
Taylor, still astride Reynolds' bike, looked upwards. Standing on the mezzanine floor, having just come out of the prefab office, was a strikingly beautiful woman with lustrous dark hair and exquisitely made-up eyes. She had a magnificent figure with enough voluptuous curves to make a senior Tutor forget his oath wrapped in a leather miniskirt and chocolate-brown synthi-silk blouse. "Kim Calitri!" he roared, his eyes fixed on her and sending the bike speeding forward. "You're under arrest!"
"Look out!" someone yelled – just in time for the Judge, but not the bike. Taylor turned, frantically leaping out of the saddle, as the lawmaster was broadsided by one of the forklifts. Taylor tumbled clear, his helmet falling off, as the heavy tines punctured the tires and dragged the bike along the ground, crushing it against the wall with a decisively final crash!
"Oh, you didn't . . ." Reynolds muttered despairingly as Taylor, almost sheepishly, rolled to his feet and shot the driver in the back. He didn't hang about, instead running towards the stairs that led to the mezzanine and Kim.
Anderson leaped off her bike, her eyes unfocused, reaching out with her psynses to locate her quarry. She used a ladder to clamber up the shelving, running along the top of the racks, weaving in and out of the boxes, jumping from row to row. She stopped, trusting her instincts, and put her shoulder against a heavy crate, pushing hard.
She winced as it crashed to the floor, a pained cry echoing upwards as it smashed onto the fleeing perp. She closed her eyes, tearing her helmet off and reaching out with her mind. Her hand pressed to her forehead – just for the look of the thing, if the truth be known – she riffled through the chaotic jumble of thought around her. It was delicious anarchy, like being buffeted in the hop-pit at the Bop Shop. "Daz!" she shouted. "Calitri's in the northwest corner. Rookie – he's got a knife!"
At the rear exit Jordan leaped back just in time as the perp who'd 'surrendered' when he saw the exit was guarded whipped a blade clear and slashed. "Thank you, Ma'am!" he said, ducking under the return stroke and bringing up his fist. "Judge assault!" he cried as the perp's chin snapped back. "Five years!"
On the mezzanine floor, Kim slashed her gorgeous eyes towards Anderson, her delectable mouth opening in a knowing snarl. Anderson felt something and turned to face the beautiful brunette, lifting her pistol as she did.
Kim's attention wasn't on her any longer – she'd pulled a derringer from her purse and was pointing it down the stairs at Taylor. The Judge was running towards her, his own gun still holstered, as if he didn't see her weapon or flag her as a threat. "Now, I don't want to hurt you . . ." he was saying. Kim smiled thinly and brought her other hand up, pointing the gun two-handed. Her narrow arms tightened as she braced.
Anderson shot her, the stun round hitting in her in the ribs. She gave a cry and collapsed, her muscles twitching and the derringer going off. The bullet actually hit Taylor, thankfully obliquely and in the armor, bouncing off. He started as if shook awake, catching Kim as she collapsed. She lolled, alluring in his arms, synthi-silk and leather stretching over splendid curves as he marched down the stairs, carrying her like a poolguard who'd saved her from drowning. The stun round had burned a hole in her blouse, the edges still faintly smoldering – but that was nothing compared to the raw heat radiating from the unexpected and impromptu connection between the perp and the Judge.
Anderson glanced around the warehouse; Daz herself had arrested Calitri, frog-marching the cuffed gangboss to the center of the warehouse where Reynolds and Carter were standing guard over kneeling perps. Mitchel and Gomez were methodically sweeping the aisles, taking each turn carefully, professional behind their guns. Anderson sat on the edge of the shelf and dropped the eight-feet to the concrete floor, crouching to take the sting out of the impact. She hurried towards Taylor. "Cuff her!" she ordered, pulling her own restraints. Taylor blinked his pale blue eyes incuriously.
"Don't need to do that, Cassandra," he remarked, actually lifting Kim's limp body up so her beautiful head lolled gently against the eagle on his shoulder, cuddling her to him almost protectively. "She's not going to . . ."
Anderson ignored him, grabbing one dangling wrist and snapping a bracelet on, tightening the ratchet with unnecessary force. "Snap out of it!" she ordered sharply, slapping him across his face with her hand and his mind with her own. "You don't even like girls," she added in a hissing whisper, more to remind than embarrass him.
Taylor jerked as she struck him, dropping Kim. Anderson went down on one knee as the gangboss' daughter hit the concrete. She grunted in pain, the stun round wearing off, as Anderson flipped her over. Slamming a knee into her back, she snapped the other cuff in place, shoving the beauty's face into the floor. "Thought as much," she hissed, probing against a mind tighter and more-toned than the gym-hard bubble-butt pressing against her boot. She jerked her to her feet and spun her face-to-face. "One more trick outta you," she warned, "and the next shot'll be into that pretty little head." Kim's hole-dark eyes were colder than the gaps between stars and didn't even waver. Anderson shoved her backwards – she stumbled into Taylor's arms. "Gun on her," she ordered. "If she so much as twitches, put her down."
Taylor grabbed Kim, clutching her tightly so she couldn't wriggle free. Anderson had done more than slap some sense into him – she'd blasted through the psionic fog the beautiful psi had filled his head with, temporarily imparting a preternatural clarity to his awareness. With that – not to mention the fact his natural inclinations tended towards something other than her honeytrap hourglass curves – she trusted him to resist Kim's charms, both normal and abnormal, more than any of the other Judges. He drew his lawgiver and jammed it under her ribs, the hand on her upper arm tightening and jerking her back as she twitched away from it. He shook his head, puzzled by his recent lack of focus.
"You can't do this!" exclaimed Calitri. He was a handsome, chunky man with a leonine mane of black hair slicked greasily back, a deep leathery tan and signs of obvious biosculpting. "I'm a legitimate businessman! This is harassment!" Daz sighed and shoved him towards Anderson. The psi understood – she caught the gangboss as he stumbled, hauling him upright and holding him in place even as she riffled through his mind.
"False bottoms in the crates there," she said, indicating the large fiberpress boxes with a flick of her chin. "Half a mil's worth of Colombian pure." Daz grunted in satisfaction and turned, flicking the shot-selector on her widowmaker to the beta magazine and blowing a hole in the base of a crate with a shotgun round. Glittering grains of white powder spilled on the floor. "You're gonna say you had no idea how the sugar got there, right?" Anderson said to Calitri.
"I am as shocked as you are!" he exclaimed. "I merely . . ." He got no further before Daz stepped forward and swung her shotgun, smashing him in the stomach with the butt. He collapsed to his knees at Anderson's feet, coughing and choking.
"Save it for your 'cubemates," she said dismissively. "Mitchel! Gomez!" she called. "Toss the office – get the records." She turned to Kim, looking the fashion-plate woman up and down with the curiosity of revulsion. "Your daddy's into smuggling and the black market," she said. "Jewelry smash-and-grabs seem clumsy – not his speed. But a pretty little thing like you wants her sparklies, right?" she taunted. "Daddy wouldn't give his princess enough toys? You played patty-cake with some of daddy's boys so they'd go shopping for you?" She shook her head. "You airhead bimbos make me sick."
Kim's expression didn't waver, her lovely eyes unreadable, her pursed pout revealing nothing. Anderson shook her head carefully, her psynses sparking off the gang-girl's formidable defenses. "That ain't it," she said slowly. "She's deeper in than that." Now Kim's head snapped towards Anderson, anger clear on her face. Anderson locked eyes with her, but spoke to Daz. "Transfer her to PsiDiv custody," she said firmly. Now she faced Daz. "I can get Council authorization within fifteen minutes if needed," she said – not threatening, not warning, just informing.
Reynolds shook his head, addressing his boss. "C'mon, Chief!" he complained. "She can't do that! Our raid, our op, our collar – cutie's ours." He actually shouldered his widowmaker and beckoned with an open hand. "Give her here, Taylor," the big man said. He looked at Daz. "I'll stick her in the catch-wagon, Chief," he offered.
Daz looked carefully at the psi-Judge. She shook her head. "Anderson's prisoner, Reynolds," she said slowly. "I want full intel, DivChief," she said meaningfully.
Anderson nodded. "You'll have it, SectCom," she promised.
At her feet, Calitri had recovered from his coughing fit and was struggling to his feet – neither Daz nor Anderson had missed that Kim seemed utterly unconcerned about her father's arrest or injury; she was smooth and cool as black ice. But now horror swept over her face and she struggled in Taylor's grasp. "No, daddy!" she shrieked. "It's not worth it!"
Daz and Carter turned to look at Calitri – they saw he'd somehow got his hands out of the cuffs and was holding a heavy pistol. They each saw it leveled at them. Anderson saw exactly the same thing, but hers was a shimmering projection, a translucent image like a reflection in glass overlying the reality of him still cuffed and harmless. "No!" she cried, snatching for her lawgiver as both Daz and Carter aimed their shotguns at Calitri.
It was too late. They both fired. Carter's weapon was chambered with suppressor rounds – Calitri might have survived that – but Daz's buckshot round blew his throat out in a spray of blood. He pitched backwards, dead before he hit.
Anderson cleared her gun and, informed by her screaming psynses and without truly realizing she was doing it, pointed it at Reynolds. The idea Kim might have got to even her made her pause for an instant, sliding her finger off the trigger to lie alongside it – but then precognitive guilt washed over her as she realized her mistake. "No!" she yelled again, struggling to get her finger back on the trigger, as Reynolds swung his shotgun off his shoulder and – switching magazines – blasted Taylor in the head.
The shot knocked him off his feet, his limbs flailing limp and half his brain exiting his skull in a bloody geyser. "Bro . . . ?" he slurred, uncomprehending, as the light faded from his ice-blue eyes.
Anderson fired at the traitor, but Kim – suddenly freed by Reynolds' fratricide – lunged forward, knocking her arm with the soft-firmness of her buxom chest so the shot went wide. Anderson snarled and jabbed with her elbow, catching Kim in the throat and shoving her out of the way. She aimed at Reynolds once again – just as he shot her in the chest.
Her armor held against the buckshot, but she went staggering back, slipping in a puddle of gloopy gore on the floor and falling to one knee. She couldn't get air into her lungs and there were stars dancing in her vision, her chest constricted. She grit her teeth and snap-fired at Reynolds and Kim as they fled towards the back of the warehouse. The girl shrieked and stumbled, blood bursting from her shapely thigh, but Reynolds caught and dragged her around the corner and out of sight.
Daz dived for Anderson, hauling her upright. "Carter, take charge of the scene!" she ordered. Anderson pushed herself off the older woman, standing on her own and sucking air into her lungs. "Hamilton – stop Reynolds and the perp!" Daz set off after them at a run, Anderson at her heels. "She's psychic?" she asked. "She's controlling him?"
Anderson shook her head, still tasting the intention and connection she kicked herself for not noticing. "She's a psi," she said, "and she's got her claws in, but he's dirty. Transferred from 24 – now we know why!" She darted down a different aisle. "I'm getting my bike!" she shouted. "He's gonna rabbit!"
"Not if I have anything to say about it!" snarled Daz. There was a scuffle from the back of the warehouse, the roar of lawgivers, and then a door banged. Daz skidded around the corner an instant too late. "Oh, Rookie . . ." she moaned.
Anderson skidded to a halt, pulling up beside where Jordan was slumped on the floor, clutching at his abdomen. "I'm good, Ma'am," he gasped – Anderson could tell it was a lie; the dull pulse of pain his mind was screaming with could only come from a punctured kidney. Blood pumped between his fingers too fast and too freely. "Winged him, but . . . I'm sorry, Ma'am." He lifted his wrist and tapped his gauntlet against hers. "Key transfer," he ordered his lawscreen. He flicked his head. "My bike's outside – get the son of a spug." She ignored him, reaching for his medikit. He actually shoved her hands away. "I said go, Ma'am – I'll hold," he whispered, his eyes clouding. He fumbled for the kit himself, shaking and blood-slick fingers slipping on the leather.
Hamilton ran up behind them, drawing his own medikit and sinking to his knee next to his Rookie. "I've got him, Ma'am," he assured her. Daz nodded, leaping to her feet. "Don't die on me, kid," Hamilton muttered. "Corpses can't do the paperwork."
Daz dived outside and jumped onto Jordan's bike, firing the ignition and screaming off after the catch-wagon speeding onto the highway. Anderson roared through the door after her, glancing at the auxiliary lying on the pavement only long enough to confirm he was dead, killed by a headshot. From the blood-splatter, it was likely he'd been hauled out of the van, thrown to the ground and then coldly executed. She leaned into the fairing of her bike. "Anderson to Control," she said grimly. "Code triple-six. Repeat; code triple-six."
"Confirm ident," ordered Control immediately. Anderson's lawscreen scanned and beeped affirmatively even as she spoke.
"Anderson, Cassandra J, PsiDiv," she snarled. She swept onto the highway, a bike-length behind Daz, blues-and-twos screaming and citizens' vehicles getting out of the way as fast as they could. "Code triple-six, Reynolds, sector 119. Trip-six aiding perp, fleeing scene. Anderson and Daz in pursuit."
"Triple-six confirmed, Judge Anderson," said the operator. "SJS informed – ETA is twenty-three minutes."
"Never there when you need them!" Anderson muttered through gritted teeth. The catch-wagon was using its lights and sirens, too, cutting through the traffic with ease. The scattering cits were actually hindering the two pursuing lawmasters as they got out of the way of the trip-six's vehicle.
The operator was a consummate professional. "Do you require backup, Judge Anderson?" was all he asked.
"Am I likely to get it?" she snarled sarcastically. She didn't wait for a response. "Negative, Control," she said. "Negative. Daz and I have got this – we're gonna show this dirty horndog what little girls are made of."
A / n : The reference to "sugar" as "Colombian pure" isn't a euphemism or police / underworld nickname for drugs – it refers to actual sugar. In the comics, sugar was a forbidden, contraband substance. There were lots of references to white power which turned out to be sugar – and completely illegal. I don't know why they did that – perhaps it was difficult to get a kid-friendly rating if you referenced actual drug use, and so sugar was a suitable expy. Today, of course, the "nanny state" tendency for governments to try to regulate sugar intake adds an extra level of humor and satire to it. Anyway – minor issue, just thrown in there for the comic fans.
"Code triple-six" is something I made up – obviously, it refers to a traitor Judge and is inspired by the Biblical "sign of the beast".
Throughout my writing, even though there are a lot of very beautiful female characters (and who are specifically described as beautiful in many cases) – Anderson, Quartermain, Hawkridge, even Harley to a certain degree – I've always shied away from particularly "dwelling" description of them. For Kim Calitri, I've gone quite heavy on that – in order to show she is obvious about her good-looks and also that she is pushing them into people's minds with her psi-powers.
Alright – you've read this far! I know people read my stories – and even read through the multi-chapter ones – but so few reviews? Do you have nothing to say about the stories you come to read? Review box is right there – just tell me what you liked or didn't like. I promise I'll write back and will return the favor.