Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets (23 page)

“One hundred percent with you there, boss,” answers Fido, all happy now.

“Ah, erm, sorry if I was a bit… off-hand with you before. I’m totally wiped out.”

“No worries.” He smiles a satisfied smiles, he’s got his treat. “I’ll go and check out the area surrounding the place we have, so I can get a head start.”

“Good for you, perfect.” I make him wag his tail. “I’ll join you in a bit.”

“Vests and helmets for everyone.” I brief them while the bulletproof vehicle disguised as a TV antenna van, bounces along the pot-holed road.

“There’s no way I’m wearing a helmet, I went to the hairdresser’s yesterday,” protests Reinart.

“Then you can be the lookout, happy with that?”

“No, I’d rather be asleep in bed.”

“Sergeant!”

She huffs, and tries to hide her bulletproof vest under a loose beige coat. The others get ready without any argument. Pharrol checks the chamber of his shotgun with a professional air, then he fixes his knife inside its sheath in his boot. If it weren’t for the emblem of the Guard, we could easily pass for the gangsters, what with our grim faces and the hardware we’re taking with us, more than enough to storm a bank with. Naturally,
I
won’t be wearing a frying pan on my head. Has anyone ever seen the leading man in an action film wearing a helmet? No way. Obviously I’m the main character here, and it is also clear that my virile right arm wants to do the same as me. Our way of being cops involves a sort of mythology which must be respected. It is of utmost importance when you’re psyched up because you’re about to go into action, as high as a kite on Onirò.

“It’s a really easy little job, guys. I bet we won’t even get to shoot one bullet today, but be patient. More entertaining days will come!”

The agents laugh. They’re all hardened veterans. Being with me reassures them, because they all know that I always come out alive, a couple of sexy scratches at most. I’m not some common moron who gets himself killed for four stolen cars. If we’re doing this, it really is because it’s a piss-easy job. I hope to God that’s what it is, that this favour for Screech doesn’t turn into a tragedy. I couldn’t bear another dressing-down from Fingeruphisarse.

The vehicle stops a couple of blocks away to let the Sergeant out, then we start to surround the building in pairs, careful to keep our distance for the moment. Reinart goes up to the entrance of the garage, the shutter is down, she updates us via our earpieces.

“
It seems quiet. Can’t see any guards, they must be at lunch,”
she announces into the tiny microphone hidden inside her disguise. The woman even managed to conceal a pump-action shotgun under there, which triggered a certain brand of locker-room humour amongst the others, all men and all excited by lesbians, just like the stereotype.

“
Arkham, it all seems too quiet to me
.”

Me too. I smell a trap.

“Okay, eyes peeled, guys. Maybe they’re expecting us.”

Screech didn’t ask me to go. He wanted the MP to go. This might not be about getting rid of the competition… or perhaps they got wind of something and have moved everything. Shit, that would not be good. Have you any idea what a fuss they’ll make if I’ve got them out of bed on a Saturday morning for nothing?

“Can you have a look inside without being seen?”

“
No, don’t be silly, I’m just here doing a bit of crochet,”
she answers me. A minute goes by before the next update: “
There’s someone inside, but I can’t see very well. Three at least… or four people. Human, I’d say. Can’t see any weapons.”

“What else?”

“Some cars. Discreet ones, maybe some are luxury cars. These windows are filthy. A lot of cars, it’s big inside. He looks a lot like a mechanic. Sure your informer is legit?”

No, I’m not sure dammit.

“Luxury cars, here? Seventh Level?”

“I can make out a registration plate, wait. So we can check it.”
Her voice is low, as though she’s trying to whisper while performing a physically taxing action. She slowly reels off a couple of plates, the agents in the van confirm the cars are stolen.

“
One of them even belongs to a senator…”

“Great, that’s more like it. Okay, people, a senator will send us a kiss for giving him his trike back, so let’s get on with it and try not to damage the cars. I repeat, do your utmost not to blow any holes in the cars, have I made myself clear? Only fire when you’re sure of your target. The first one who blows off a registration plate gets the drinks in for the next month. We’ll go on my signal.”

I get busy with the lock on the back door. We’ve got a handy portable drill for these easy locks, but this way I keep my hand in and occasionally shock some kid from Frosgaarde, which always flatters the ego. I open the back entrance in record time and along with the group we go into the garage, as quiet as snakes. The plan, arranged in ten minutes by me and Reinart based on the blueprints of the building, is that we secure the secondary rooms before the direct attack. One after another, the rooms are checked and we move on until suddenly Pharrol and I are forced to stop near the toilets when we hear the sound of a toilet flushing.

A man comes out, pulling up his fly, completely unaware that around the corner, less than a metre away, there are five feds ready to double his weight with as much lead as it takes. And he would have made it out alive if Pharrol hadn’t been by my side ahead of the others. While I’m flattening myself against the wall to hide myself as much as I can without losing sight of the man, Ezy darts round the corner.

I’m convinced that anyone seeing Pharrol walk down the street in civvies, who doesn’t know him, would be led to believe that he were a harmless greengrocer or something involving a stall, and who does sport as a hobby. Hair receding at the temples, soft features, a round face. A hearty laugh, warm. In actual fact, since he came under my command, this individual has been the leading player in a crescendo of cruelty which is verging on the embarassing. I have discovered that he absolutely
adores
killing people. Now, I’m not saying that he’s a psychopathic serial killer or loose cannon or anything; in simple terms he’s aware that during the action, the line between what is legal and what isn’t becomes very thin indeed, and the difference between murder and legitimate use of force turns into a philosophical debate rather than a matter for the disciplinary committee. So, let’s just say that he allows himself a certain amount of… freedom. Maybe he’s a tad excessive, but at the end of the day, what can you do? He’s a good part of the team.

I’m not exactly sure when my man slung his rifle over his shoulder to grab his knife, yet obviously it must have happened at some point, because when Pharrol immobilises the suspect by clamping a hand over his mouth, the blade is already glinting in the semi-darkness. At this point in the proceedings the police manual says that you’re supposed to drag him away where your colleagues can cuff him and remove him from the scene of action. Instead, he rams a few centimetres of stainless steel in the man’s abdomen just underneath his ribcage. He holds him for a few seconds more, just long enough for the convulsions of death to fade, then he gently deposits him inside the bathroom.

“Was that really necessary?!” I ask in that kind of shouted whisper that you use when you need to tell someone off quietly, so no-one else can hear you.

Pharrol looks at me questioningly, as though I’ve just asked him a completely inappropriate riddle. “He was leaving!”

Ezy shrugs his shoulders. In the end, I let it go, as usual. At least he’s learned not to slit people’s throats. It’s much easier to explain to the disciplinary committee that you had no choice, if it’s not obvious that you killed him from behind.

The group continues to deploy without any further hitches, and we finally reach our designated positions. The baddies are sitting politely at a table in an area of the garage which is well away from the stolen goods. They’re all human, typical clothes of the dregs of the Seventh. Several of them have got small hand guns tucked into their trousers, like real hard men. They look like a gang of kids doing their first serious job. I actually feel slightly sorry for them, they are decidedly unlucky. Generally, this kind of thing doesn’t interest the law enforcement agencies in the slightest, never mind an entire team from the Guard.

“Okay,” I whisper into the microphone, “we’ve got four armed men and three unarmed. They don’t suspect a thing, they look like they’re still wet behind the ears. This would explain why there aren’t any guards. Are you ready there at the front?”

“
Yes, for fuck’s sake, let’s get on with it, we’re getting bored,”
snaps the sergeant.

“Let’s screw them then.”

Reinart and her crew burst in yelling the usual “On the ground, Federal Guard” topped off with a nice gunshot into the air.

The uncertain attempt at a reaction by a couple of armed men is immediately nipped in the bud when we jump out behind them and Walfo pumps three bullets into the thigh of the one who jumps to his feet first. Surrounded and intimidated by our
decidedly
bigger hardware, they have no choice but to surrender, kneel down with their hands behind their heads and be forced to lie down with a choice kick in the back, professionally and enthusiastically delivered by the Sergeant. She could just order them to lie down, but abusing suspects gives her such pleasure that denying her that would be like stealing a teddy bear from a little girl. I don’t have a heart of stone, even though it pains me to admit it.

When the bastard with the holes in his leg finally passes out and stops his annoying snivelling, things calm down considerably. With her shotgun resting on her shoulder, the Sergeant inspects the prisoners with a self-satisfied smile, while the others high-five each other. In the meantime I check out the vehicles, all intact. My good little shooters.

“We’ve saved one hundred percent of the hostages. The leather heads can kiss our collective arse.”

“You know as far as you’re concerned, they’d be prepared to even pay, Bella…”

“Fuck, don’t
dick around
with
me
, Arkham.” She has a sudden change of mood, puts her snarling face an inch away from mine. “We have a deal. If you don’t behave, I’ll start calling you by your first name, too, got it?”

“Come on, nobody heard me. Then it’s not as if nobody knows…”

“Arkham, I’ll cut your nuts off and give them back to you in a pickle jar. No, I’ll completely castrate you, so you can finally be a lesbian, too.”

You have to see her to realise that she’s not exaggerating, but I like to tease her from time to time.

“In that case, would you let me give you one?”

“If you continue, we’ll find out.”

“I’ll pass this time. Listen, I’ve got somehing to do now. Why don’t you take the credit for the tactical operation?”

“Okay, Chief, you’re forgiven.”

“Ah, by the way, Pharrol’s taken one out round the back…” I tell her as I’m backing away.

“You bastard son of a… you’ve fucked me over?!”

I blow her a kiss from too far away to hear the colourful epithets she has found to describe me with this time. Oh what the hell, she always complains, but at the end of the day the operation was a success, and she’ll get over it and be happy. I, on the other hand, don’t think I can stand another piece of paperwork. Anyway, I’m the boss. And it’s my job to get other people to do the crap stuff… no, I mean,
distribute the workload
, yeah. What’s more, now I’ve got to deal with Cohl, so I’m not going to exactly enjoy myself. Strange but true, I work much harder than the lot of them. Recently.

One of the patrol vehicles which arrived after the operation ferries me back to the station, where I left my car. I have made a virtue of necessity by getting used to dozing in the car when I get a lift from someone. I missed the two hours of daylight today, and that doesn’t help with trying to stay awake. In my sleepy state my banged up old car looks even sadder and neglected, on closer inspection I discover with horror that there’s new damage to the boot, presumably caused by that altercation on the motorway. Two damaged cars in the space of a few hours makes me feel like a manic depressive with a shiny new razor.

I give myself a moment to massage my eyelids in the company of the steering wheel, covered in real well-worn leather. Even the simple action of lighting a cigarette feels like too much to bear right now. Will I be the first person to die from the diabolic combination of magical contract and Onirò? Wait, how does it go, “die, sleep…”
A promise with certain appeal, all things considered.

A swishing sound in the passenger seat triggers an instinctive nervous reaction, the Altra jumps into my hand to come beteen me and a hypothetical threat before I’ve even focused on it.

Pale, red eyes, white kimono, on the verge of tears.

“What the fuck are you doing in my car?”

The Banshee doesn’t answer me. Actually, the fact that these creatures can’t talk in a normal way reminds me of my youth. She hands me a card.

“The senator thanks you, the debt has been paid, Screech,” I read out loud, as though simultaneously using my mouth, eyes and ears could help me fix the words onto the wall of deprived sleep that separates me from full awareness. The spectre nods and attempts a weird kind of polite smile, as though she feels she ought to do it but doesn’t quite how to go about it.

“Erm… okay, thanks.”

The un-dead nods again and vanishes into thin air together with the note I was holding a moment ago. I shoo away a shiver with a choice blasphemous expression of gratitude, happy in the knowledge that at least something has ended with no loose ends. Now, turning to another mortal endeavour, I dig around in all the available pockets until I find my mobile.
Beep beep
,
you have one new message
. Crap, forgot all about it. It’s Saturday and lardarse has sent me the usual blank message from the secret number for the week. Procedure dictates that I call him from a public phone to get the details. Naturally, it’s dangerous for guards and thieves to exchange compromising texts. I haven't got time for that now however, so the fat man’s urgent business will have to wait a bit longer.