No one had really expected it to flourish the way it did. Maybe that's why they found it so suspicious.
A small, inconspicuous nightclub built a short walk from the square had boomed the day it opened, attracting thousands of patrons a night with its energetic atmosphere and extravegant prices. Not a night went by where a queue didn't wrap around the whole of the building and beyond, only adding to its prestige as the city's premier evening hangout.
And everyone owed it all to Demtrius Blu, a shrewd businessman whose name was completely unknown until the opening of his creation. Now, it was synonomous with the city's nightlife. He was a relic, a capitalist mogul hovering high above his subjects in his well-furnished office that overlooked the main dance floor. On special occasions he would sometimes grace his public with a short glance through the tinted windows, flashing a suave, attractive grin as if to say "I'm glad you came to visit. Why not stay a while and have a drink?"
It was difficult to tell exactly where the mob of people on the dance floor ended and the rest of the club began. The crowds ebbed and flowed around the premises like the tide across a shoreline, seeping into the VIP areas and tables that dotted the outside walls, splashing up against the long, blacklight bar to grab a quick refreshment, and then receding back into the center as the night's host DJ spun up another record, the rythmic thumps of the bass, crisp percussion and piercing synthetic beats all melding together to create a symphony of energy and bodies. There were no groups, no couples, no "I am yours and you are mine" mentality in this place; everyone belonged to everyone else, check your morals at the door and let it all hang loose.
"A real soma holiday."
"What?"
Flame sighed in disappointment. He knew his partner would have no idea what he was referencing, yet he had mentioned it all the same. Instead of feeling intellectual he felt a sudden urge to punch someone in the face. He stood in silent frustration, sticking his hands into his jean pockets and watching the crowd assimilate into the center as another beat began to bellow through the various hidden speakers in the club. A group of three females, probably no older than nineteen and sporting various piercings along their slender frames were forming into a small circle on the dance floor, their houling laughter hinting at drunkenness as they pulled each other into a three-way kiss, their tongues writhing feverishly with each other, twisting and melting with the continuation of the rhythm. Another group of young guys hooted and howled on the sidelines, exchanging high fives and pats on the back as they admired the unrestrained sexual sideshow that played out before them.
Flame felt a nudge on his shoulder.
"He's here."
As if on cue, a side door just under the main office swung open, and two well-built men, presumably bodyguards of some sort, filed out and took up positions facing the crowd, their broad, muscular shoulders creating a living wall to shield their target from any would-be assailants.
He was young, probably Flame's age, his black fur making it difficult to follow his path acroos the dimly lit club, near impossible if it hadn't been for his very distinct markings. Two red marks on the cheeks under each eye, crimson triangles with their points reaching just low enough on his muzzle to barely touch the edges of his lips, stood out like beacons despite the rather colorful crowd that populated the surroundings.
He and Flint had been trailing this guy for months. The EST had become suspicious of Demtrius's sudden business success and the increase in violence seen by subjects of the program. They were told that this was his right hand man, that he handled all of Demetrius's business ventures on the ground while his boss sat comfortably behind his bullet-proof glass.
"Let's get going," Flint said over the booming music, patting his partner on the back and beginning to push his way through the crowd. Even with the rhythm in full force, it was difficult to navigate through the crowds. The VIP areas had filled, reserved weeks and months in advance, and the rest of the patrons began to clog the walkways. A young, blue hedgehog lit up a cigarette as Flame passed by him, and he realized that if a fire were to suddenly break out, they would either be trampled or suffocated or burned alive or any terrible combination of the three.
Flint reached back through the crowd and latched onto Flame's collar, dragging him a few feet and grumbling at him to pick up the pace. Their target had stopped next to the bar, picking up a casual conversation with the surly bartender as the two brutes stood watch, eyeing the crowd with sharp, untrusting eyes. As he and Flint approached, they made adjustments to block their target from their view.
"What do you want?" the one on the right spat at Flint, who laughed it off, playing the role of a kind patron looking for some recognition.
"Aw come on, man," he said, "Just wanna buy the good man a drink."
"Not going to happen," the one on the left replied.
"The boss doesn't talk to just anyone."
"Just one drink," Flint insisted, "Dammit, if you want one too, I'll get you one."
"Piss off!"
"It's only a drink!"
"I said, 'Piss off!'"
Constable Winterfield cleared his throat. The entire room grew deathly silent, and an awkward tension soon enveloped everyone present as they awaited his response. His face was solemn, like someone visiting the family of a murder victim, a sort of respectful humility rather than true sorrow.
"Yes, that was truly a tragic incident," the Constable said, "Truly tragic. But I think we are all well aware of exactly how delicate that sort of situation was. Everyone involved knew the level of professionalism and attention to protocol that needed to be maintained in order to execute the plan properly."
The woman nodded, touching her pen to her notepad.
"Then how exactly did it happen?"
Adrian leaned up against the bar, motioning for the bartender to come nearer. The older gray hedgehog (or at least he appeared gray under the black lighting) nodded and made his way down the counter.
"What's happening, boss?"
"How's business going so far, Tyrone?" Adrian spoke gruffly, eyeing the crowd as well as his bodyguards. He hated being out in the open during peak hours. There were too many people and he stood out too well.
"Not too bad, boss," the hedgehog grinned.
"Any word from Lightfoot?"
Tyrone shook his head, his earrings chiming as he did. "I'll make sure to get it straight to you once I do."
Adrian nodded, distracted by the sudden commotion that seemed to be building on the opposite side of the dance floor. "I'll be looking forward to it."
"Hey, why don't you hang out with me and the boys sometime? We could kick back a few beers and catch a flick, you know?"
"Can't," Adrian replied, straining his neck to try and see over the crowds, "You know the rules." The bartender nodded, and with a friendly grin he returned to help the various patrons that had sprung up along the bar. Tyrone was a good guy, maybe too good. Adrian would have to keep a close eye on him from now on.
Suddenly, the music ground to a screeching hault, and everyone in the club simultaneously sprang into a melody of boos, hisses, and houls. Adrian noticed his two bodyguards eyeing the area below the main office where the DJ was stationed, one of them speaking into a small microphone embedded in the cufflink of his finely-pressed suit. The DJ was being ushered off the stage by six uniformed EST soldiers.
Adrian suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
"Oh, shit."
"Naturally, there are certain contingencies that cannot be planned for in advance. As long as life has existed, there has been conflict, and conflict itself is largely unpredictable."
"Is that an excuse?"
Winterfield seemed surprised at Flame's sudden interjection. He waved his hand as if to brush away the insult that hung in front of him like an irritating insect. "I'm simply addressing the situation as objectively and rationally as I can. We took every precaution we could to ensure that collateral damage was minimal. The outcome was purely a result of our target's irrational behavior."
"What's going on, Flint?" Flame muttered under his breath as a squad of EST soldiers armed with submachine guns began to file into the club, the bitter, enraged shouts of the patrons becmoing more reserved and uneasy.
Flame growled. "They'rescrewing up everything."
One of the soldiers, probably a Sergeant, stepped up to the DJ's microphone and tapped it with his hand. "Everyone please remain where you are and stay calm. The situation is under control. Please, remain where you are." Already the tension was building, nervous shrieks eupting every so often from the otherwise silent crowds. Flint watched as a younger soldier stepped up to speak with the Sergeant on the microphone, pointing towards Adrian and his bodyguards. Immediately, the two grunts shifted to block their boss from the three soldiers who advanced on them, shoving the crowds aside like loose baggage.
"I need to speak with Mr. Demtrius Blu," the Sergeant stated in a stern, military voice.
The black echidna with the red markings softly pushed his bodyguards aside to face the soldiers. "I'm Adrian, Mr. Blu's business partner. I can speak on his behalf."
"Negative. I have orders to speak with Mr. Demetrius Blu personally. It's a matter of security, and extremely urgent."
Adrian was calm and composed. Flint could tell that he had had a certain degree of training on how to handle situations like these. Meanwhile, the Sergeant was becoming more aggrivated with every botched attempt at persuading him to submit.
"I'm afraid my boss isn't in at the moment. I have the same legal power as—"
"I don't have time for your bull," the Sergeant spat, "I need to speak with Mr. Demetrius Blu and bring him to EST HQ for questioning now."
"Do you have a warrant?"
The woman seemed confused. "I was under the impression that warrants were mandatory for the arrest of any individual under EST operating protocol."
"Yes, that's correct, unless we have received a signed consent by the governing council for his immediate apprehension. I believe its stated quite clearly under Section Beta 6.1.2 of the SIRI Protocol Amendment Act."
"What other amendments are included with that Act, Constable?"
Winterfield chuckled, as if amused by her ignorance. "Well, I don't want to bog you down with all of the political jargon, but it essentially allows for some legal bypasses to EST protocol with regards to suspects who may be involved with or may be conspiring to commit acts against the governing council as well as any acts that may put the city's well being at risk.
"This is simply a way for the EST to conduct actions against possible threats without having to be bogged down with the politics involved. We must still present the council with probable cause to win their approval, and must always act as professionally as possible."
"Who thehell do you think you are! If I wanna speak to Blu, you'd damn well better lead me to him!"
"You listen! Unless I see a warrant I ain't showing you jack!"
"That's it!" Without a moments hesitation the Sergeant pulled his pistol from its holster and steadied it at Adrian's forehead, "I'm taking you—"
Immediately Adrian's two bodyguards drew pistols from their jacket pockets and aimed them at him, the two accompanying soldiers in turn raising their submachine guns to the two thugs. A fierce argument broke out, each side ordering the other to drop their weapons and surrender, any slight twitch of the body invoking a threatening reaction from the opposition. A shrill shriek from a femal patron broke through their harsh voices, both sides refusing to back down.
"Gene!" The bartender yelled over the commotion. One of the bodyguards turned his head, his eyes widening as if he was in the presence of a ghost. He withdrew his gun and dropped to the floor, the Sergeant looking beyond him with confusion.
There was a fierce crack as Tyrone fired his shotgun from his shoulder, striking the Sergeant in the right cheek. His head cocked back from the blow, his body following suit and sliding a few inches across the floor. As if by instinct, one of the other soldiers turned his aim towards the bar and fired a hailstorm of bullets, cutting away at the glasses and mirrors that lined the back wall. Tyrone's body spasmed wildly as the gunfire pinned his body against the back wall, sending spatters of blood every which way. The thug who had dropped to the floor pushed the barrel of his gun at the soldier's ankle, firing off two rounds that nearly tore his foot clean off his leg. The soldier cried out, dropping his submachine gun to grip at what was left of his damaged extremity. Before the third soldier could react, he felt the cold barrel of the other thug's pistol between his eyes. A bright flash of light, a crack of thunder, and the back of his head burst into a fountain of blood.
The woman had filled about two pages of notes thus far. She flipped one of the sheets over and began scribbling on fresh lines as she continued with the interview.
"Do you think that was the reason why the incident occurred?"
"I'm…I'm not sure what you mean by that."
She looked up from her notes, seeming a bit surprised at his response. "The bypass of protocol allowed by the Amendment Act. Essentially it gives the EST unrestrained power to exert their will upon a suspect without due process of law, am I correct? Perhaps it was this absence of restraint that—"
Winterfield interjected, his voice hinting at a building rage. "What exactly are you insinuating? That my men are incapable of controlling themselves? That they are just wild animals who maim and kill on a whim unless they are constantly leashed by bureaucracies and politicians?"
"Well, Constable, it seems obvious that—"
"That what! That my men are barbarians? Burn, rape, and pillage; is that what we do! May I remind you that my men are the ones who secured peace in our city, and that they continue to fight and die in order to sustain that peace!"
The once docile and relatively subdued crowd had now transformed into a screaming, hectic mob at the sound of heavy gunfire. The remaining EST soldiers scrambled to aid their comrades in vain, the force of the masses clawing to escape the firefight preventing their movement. In aggrivation, a soldier let fly a few sporadic bullets into the ceiling to try and restore order, yet succeeding only in making the situation much worse.
Flint and Flame ducked as the first barrage of automatic gunfire came within inches of tearing their heads apart, using their arms to shield their face and head from the shower of glass that fell from the bar.
"He's getting away!" Flint yelled, the deafening wail of the terrified patrons making it all but impossible to communicate, even if they were only a few feet apart. Through the mayhem, Flame managed to catch a glimpse of their target slipping through the door he had entered from. Flint withdrew his Beretta from the front of his jeans, removed the safety and began to give chase.
"Flint, wait!"
A burst of gunfire from across the club ripped into one of the bodyguards, smashing his collarbone and piercing his neck. The thug grasped at his throat, the blood seeping through his fingers, his lips moving as if to speak but creating only a sickening gurgle as more crimson liquid poured from the corner of his mouth. Flint vaulted over the writhing body, peppered gunfire following close behind, kicking up bits of blue carpet and wall. For s split second, Flint seemed to vaguely remember his partner being with him, the thought more of a distant, fading memory than a striking realization. His mind was focused solely on his objective, the chaotic sounds emanating from the club slowly becoming an irritating drone until fading into nothing as the sound of his heartbeat and heavy breathing worked to fill the silent void.
He came to the door his target had ran through and kicked it open, putting his gun at the ready in case of an ambush. The door lead to a small service hall that split in two directions. At the intersection, he noticed one leading to a starway, the other leading to a door that stood ajar, the dark city lights visible just beyond it. He sprinted towards the opening, determined not to let his months of planning get tossed out the window. He pushed the loose door aside, the rush of cold, midnight air pairing poetically with the sudden pang of terror that began searing through his veins.
"Exactly how many people died that day?" The woman asked, her tone revealing that she already knew the answer, but wanted to see Winterfield struggle with the numbers.
He hesitated, his eyes beging to waver as he responded. "Seven dead, sixteen injured, most of the injuries caused by the civilians scrambling to exit through the front doors of the facility."
"And yet all of this could have been avoided had the EST simply stuck to protocol and produced a warrant."
Flame came to an intersection in the hallway, catching a glimpse of his partner as he barreled through the doorway out of the club.
"Dammit." He muttered to himself, pulling his revolver from his jeans and running for the door. He knew trying to stop Flint while he was in the heat of the moment was like trying to stop a speeding freight train, and yet that was the very reason he needed restraining. He burst through the door, the cold night air causing droplets of perspiration to form on his fur. Behind the club there was little lighting, only a few faint spots of illumination created an errie half-darkness. He took a few cautious steps forward, his eyes still adjusting to the low visibility, until he felt his boot strike something on the ground. Bending down to inspect it, he placed his hand on its side, pulling it back to find it covered in blood. A pang of fear shot through him as he violently turned the body over, the face twisted in agony, hands gripping at the chest and stomach with unnatural force, the teeth stained crimson.
"Flint!"