"You sure you want to start a war on top of everything else you have on your plate?"
A hard grin slid across my face. "Definitely."
Chapter 7: Hitting the Mattresses
Maxine's tires skidded when they hit another darkened street corner, splashing water over the curb. Thankfully there wasn't anyone on the sidewalk. With the attack Downtown, anyone with good sense was huddling indoors, eyes glued to their picjectors in paralyzed horror, watching the events play out in their living rooms with holographic clarity. They would wonder if another attack was imminent, and if so: where? When? Families would gather, folks would check in on their loved ones, fear would spread like a virus, circulating quickly from one person to the next. Even in a city like New Haven, a single act of unexpected violence could bring the populace to their knees. Rich or poor, the same terror infected tenement buildings and plush penthouse suites alike. For a brief, agonizing moment, everyone was the same.
Since police cruisers and floaters were all over the place and I didn't wanna get pulled over, I had Maxine in undercover mode. Any scans or pings by law enforcement drones and cameras would read her as a police unit, registered to Detective Tribble, 66th Precinct. He didn't exist, of course, but Flask let me borrow a badge once and I never returned it. Instead, I ran it by a hacker by the name of Lord Troll, who made sure to tie it permanently into the system, making me a ghost in the police network.
I called him up via Maxine's private line. "LT, I need a favor."
Lord Troll's face appeared on the console monitor, light glinting from the numerous spiked piercings across his brow and nose. Oversized goggles covered his eyes, glowing like fluorescent lanterns. "Pig's arse, Mick. You give orders, not ask for favors."
"That's right, LT. But at least the pay is good."
"That it is, mate. What can I do you for this time?"
"Need to get into the police department's system."
"That bloody all? Figured you'd at least make it a challenge. I left a back door last time I was in, so it's no prob to regain access." The sound of insanely fast keyboard clicking followed. "And piece of piss: I'm back in. What are we looking at?"
"Flask has his people tracking a unique energy signature."
"Lemme guess: it's the slager that blew up Power Central."
"Points to you, LT. I figure their best will still be a step behind. That's where you come in."
"You want me to run the data and see if I can figure out where this bloody ratbag is hiding out, that it?"
"You got it."
"All right, I'll crunch the numbers, jack the surveillance systems, and get back with you. Might take a while 'cause these signals aren't worth a zack unless the hoon can teleport across town."
"You'd be surprised. I'll send the file on the guy. Get back to me when you get something."
"No worries."
Poddar gave me an unreadable glance as the console went dark. "Didn't you and Benny take that guy down a while back?"
"Yeah, back when the HSSC was paying him to help Natalie track me."
"And now he's working for you."
"He's more freelance, but he knows to answer when I call."
Poddar sat in silence for a moment. "Is there anyone that doesn't answer when you call?"
"Yeah — you, for one. But if you're asking if I'm some sort of Mafioso boss, the answer is: it's complicated. I'm made moves — some unconsciously — that I'm just now coming to grips with. If I've been suffering from dissociative identity disorder, then I've been doing things as Hunter that Mick Trubble had no memory of. Figuring it all out hasn't been simple, or easy to swallow."
"So, what do I call you, anyway? All this back and forth is hard to keep up with."
My fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "Mike Trudo. Everything else is an alias at this point. If I'm gonna take ownership of everything I've done, I gotta start with accepting who I am. Michael Trudo: orphaned gutter rat turned HSSC agent turned amnesiac Troubleshooter."
"And what now?"
"Now I'm my own man trying to stop a maniac from destroying the Haven. That's all I can focus on right now. Anything else is a distraction I can't afford to focus on."
"Fine. Where are we headed?"
"Playing a hunch. Lemme make a call."
I tapped a contact on the console. Ben the Bear's broad face flashed on the monitor, looking decidedly stressed.
"Mick. I was just about to call you."
"Great timing, kid. Did you do what I asked?"
"Yeah, but I gotta tell you — my uncle didn't like it one bit."
"I don't give a damn what your uncle Flacco likes. He got the other families together?"
Benny winced at my tone. "Yeah, they're all here. Well, most of them, anyway."
"Someone pull a no-show?"
"Yeah — the Goryachevas. Not really a big deal, 'cause the Russians are always late to sit-downs. Figure they'll show up any minute now."
"I don't think so, Benny. They must have thought about the timing: a meeting right after a high-profile terrorist attack? They figured it for a setup."
"Why would they think that, Mick?"
"'Cause they're guilty of dealing the explosives to Kilgore, that's why. And since that's now a fact, they're holed up in their most secure safe-house, hoping the extra security and hired thugs will scare off anyone that comes asking questions. Too bad for them."
"That's a pretty loaded accusation, Mick. I don’t think any of the other families are gonna go to war unless you got some proof."
"They don't need to. Me and Poddar are handling that wetwork ourselves. You just keep everyone else occupied until we're through."
Benny's face nearly crumpled. "You're going after the Goryachevas by yourselves? What am I gonna tell my uncle? I got five families all looking crossways at each other, trying to figure out what's going on."
"You're a smart lug — think of something. Meantime, I got work to do." I shut the call down, cutting off the view of Benny's worried face.
I glanced at Poddar. "Last chance to jump ship before the storm hits."
He barked a laugh. "I'm pretty sure you'd be dead in fifteen seconds if I'm not there to back you up."
I grinned. "Didn’t know you cared."
Maxine plowed through the massive metal gate as if it was plastic, careening down the long driveway toward the Goryacheva stronghold: a stately manor of columns, turrets, and blue, slate-tiled roofing with walls of granite, solid as a fortress. Sentry guns attached to the lampposts opened fire, ricocheting off Maxine's armored alloy. The sound was nearly deafening and didn’t do Maxine's paint job any favors. Already in auto-defense mode, she spun, sliding across the wet asphalt in a complete circle with her newly-installed headlight gatlings blazing and targeted missiles firing from the side housing. Her superior firepower quickly outmatched the Russian's defenses, taking out their sentry guns, pockmarking the mansion walls, and shattering stained-glass windows. When Maxine skidded to a halt in front of the manor doors, we dove out, shrouded by the considerable smoke created by the exchange.
Poddar took a few steps and jumped as if rockets fired from his shoes, leaping to the second-story terrace where guards emerged to respond to the intrusion. I heard the sounds of close-quarters combat as I charged forward, ramming the heavily ornamented double doors and smashing them inward. The impact barely registered against the enhancer skin I wore that operated as a second set of reinforced muscle. The exodermis constricted and relaxed, doubling my strength and speed. I didn't even feel hampered by the armored vest protecting my torso.
Thrown off-balance by the ease of my break-in, I tumbled inside and slid across the slick ceramic tiles, spying three lugs running from a side room where a card game was abandoned on the table. The brutes could have been brothers with similar bulky builds, broad foreheads, and cheap suits. Another factor in common was the Thompson machine guns they all toted. Mech-enhanced to fire plasma rounds for substantial damage, they made a lot of noise when unloading. Lights on my vest flashed, triggered by threat detection to disorient and draw fire to the armor instead of any unprotected parts. Most of the shots missed, tearing up furniture and shredding expensive wallpaper. A few rounds pinged off the vest, feeling like featherweight punches I shrugged off as I regained my footing.