Torn From On High: Free City Book 2 (The Free City Series) (11 page)

“Well
this is definitely it, Boss,” Mixion glanced up at Lieutenant Zmuda. The poor
fellow's face was pockmarked with a dozen or so tiny shrapnel wounds from the
blast in New Rome.

He
stared at her in disbelief, “You're sure?”

She
nodded, “I have good information from two different sources. Commander Frédéric
Rameau of the EurAfrican Imperial Military is definitely responsible for both
the unusual particle weapons and the attack on you and Inspector Trop at the
nightclub.”

“Alright;
I'll let Ryo know what you’ve discovered.” He tapped his fingers on the desktop
for several seconds as he contemplated the news.

“We’re
going to have to put a stop to these efforts by Rameau,” Zmuda muttered as he
turned towards the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours to discuss our next
move.”

Mixion
nodded to the Lieutenant; he almost certainly would come up with some sort of
cleaver plan. “Where are you off to?” she asked.

He had
an odd look of resolve as he stood at the door, “I'm going down to the CRAMP
lab to check over that gun that I smuggled out of the nightclub. Hopefully I
can figure out some way of putting an end to this madness.”

• • •

The
toasted caramel smell of freshly roasted coffee beans filled the air.

Dilma
stood momentarily awestruck just inside the door of the bustling Cafe Bernardi
in the Old Town District.

A
dozen paces ahead, in a thick clump of the noisy and kinetic patrons, Sabra
stood next to a table of five merrily attired friends.

Dilma's
hand had slipped from her nanny's a few seconds earlier when they had entered
the trendy hotspot together. Now the little girl felt strangely cutoff and
isolated amongst the swirling hubbub of grown-ups.

Sabra
smiled flirtatiously at a handsome bearded man at the table. He blew her a kiss
and winked.

The
temporarily forsaken preteen at the door of the Cafe felt a nudge from behind.
Dilma turned around to see what was the source of the prodding. A redheaded
woman with a rather stern expression of displeasure pointed to Sabra.

“Stay
with your baby-sitter, kid!” the woman growled.

The
girl nodded shyly and hurried to the table.

Sabra reached
down and idly stroked Dilma's braided hair as she chatted with her
Enlightenment Crusade pals.

The
little girl glanced timidly back towards the doorway but the mysterious woman
was gone.

• • •

“Of
course I'll take on the assignment,” Keira grinned at Seamus. “This old relic
and I have been through a lot together already.”

“Excellent;”
Mixion commented, “the boss is still recovering from a near-death experience in
New Rome. He should be back in the office later today. I'm sure he'll approve
and by the end of the week we should be able to move Seamus out of Free City
for good.”

The
old man was visibly relieved by the news.

Keira
scribbled a note to herself on a scrap of yellow paper. “I'll inform the
Liaison Superintendent's Office that, until further notice, I will be attending
to Item 87 in the most recent Postings.”

Seamus
beamed with gratitude, “Thank you, my dear.”

“Mmm;”
Mixion tapped her fingertips absently on her forehead as she thought, “the
final nettlesome part of this whole scheme is to find a place to settle him
where no one would ever think to look.”

Seamus
and Keira grinned at each other.

“I
think we may know of just such a place,” the old fellow wryly noted.

• • •

It had
been going on for nearly an hour now, he realized.

“Yes,
Oh Exalted One,” Tariq replied as he cringed under the verbal onslaught of the
tyrannical Warlord.

Daniel
Kufuzu's tirade in the cool, dim cave in the isolated corner of the Sahara
Desert continued unabated.

Tariq
and his workmates stood in tedious tight-lipped silence while the Warlord
ranted about their latest failing: The rice pudding that the madman had
demanded and Qadir had spent two days procuring from a bazaar in Séguedine had
been presented to him at room temperature and not chilled as he had stipulated.

EurAfrican
Serfs had been raised for centuries to quietly endure the periodic scoldings of
their masters, Tariq had certainly weathered many tongue-lashings in the past
from Commander Frédéric Rameau; but this unending mistreatment by Kufuzu was
far too extreme.

The
lightly built Warlord balled up his fist and struck Qadir in the abdomen.

The
stoic Serf silently winced at the punishment.

The
tyrant's diatribe began anew.

Although
it was not his place to question the often-absurd demands of the Warlord, Tariq
was surely forming a strong dislike for the man.

• • •

“Sit
down,” Chief Inspector Helga Bennet said.

Ryo
limped into her dim office and eased himself onto the hard wooden desk chair.

The
irritable head of the Inquisitor's Office shuffled through a thick pile of
papers on her desk. She pulled several sheets from the stack and handed them to
Ryo.

Helga
finally smiled a bit in almost a motherly way, “How are the injuries?”

Ryo
nodded distractedly as he read over the reports, “Much better now that the
metal shards have been removed from my thick hide.”

“Since
we will soon be short an Investigator,” she revealed, “I need you to be in good
health.”

He set
down the paperwork and tipped his head at her comment.

“When
your investigation wraps up,” Helga stared at him with her steely gray eyes, “I
plan to recall Inspector Second Class Zara Kamchatka from East Africa due to
her unforgivably bad judgment of late.”

Ryo
frowned; 'recall' meant only one thing, Zara was finished at the Inquisitor's
Office.

Precluding
any further discussion of the indiscretion, Helga tapped at the top sheet of
Ryo's stack, “The Coroner has ruled that Nate Briggs was murdered by persons
unknown. His wounds and the damage to the neck area of his spacesuit are nearly
indistinguishable from those that were found on the mass murder victims onboard
the
Billikin.
”

“Dreadful
but not unexpected,” Ryo noted.

Helga
smirked at his reply before continuing, “Using your recent lead regarding the
misdeeds of the Goons, Inspector Heinkel down in Records has identified the
deceased assailant of Mr. Seamus Nelson.”

He
grinned at the break in the case.

“The
dead punk's name is Bertrum Hubert Schleim. He was most recently arrested in
the company of Fritzi Reginald Wolfe and Herman “Bowie” Kowalski last February
in Tunis for Drunk and Disorderly Conduct. They each served twelve hours and
were released. You will note that on his arrest record Mr. Kowalski has some
sort of military training.”

Helga
handed him the mugshots of the trio.

“I
certainly recognize Wolfe and Schleim,” Ryo noted as he studied the photos.
“Now three of the four Goons are dead but I suspect that this Bowie character
will be the toughest to tangle with.”

“And
the hardest to find,” Helga added.

• • •

The
Lieutenant stood at the workbench in the secret CRAMP lab and studied the
internal components of the gun that he had spirited away from the crime scene
in New Rome.

It was
remarkably similar to the rudimentary drawings that he'd obtained from an
operative in Tunis several months ago.

He
gently pried aside the metal shielding to reveal the workings. Below was a tiny
particle accelerator barely larger than his index finger coupled to a
high-powered Rutherford Neutron generator.

Zmuda
scribbled some notes about the markings on the components. Later he would
attempt to track down more data about the unusual parts.

He
continued to probe the interior of the little weapon.

The
label on the power cell read
Matter/Antimatter Power Conversion Unit 90
volts -- 400 Kilowatt/ seconds.
It was a staggering amount of energy for
such a small package.

If
there was any sort of exploitable weakness in the firearm, Zmuda realized with
a smile, it was surely the ultra high-powered energy source in the handgrip.

• • •

Good
; Commander Frédéric Rameau
thought to himself as he scrutinized the overnight commodities prices: Both
titanium and aluminum futures were at an all-time high on the Warlord Syndicate
Futures Market.

As he
read the reports, he idly fingered the nearly depleted weapon that Bowie had
left behind on his desk.

Frédéric
snickered at the exorbitant numbers; his protracted efforts at intimidation
were certainly paying off.

Ryo
had spent the better part of the day hunched over one of the interface screens
in the Records Room in the Inquisitor's Office basement. Most of the files that
he had blearily examined contained raw data or information that was obtained
through questionable means.

Due to
the complex and sensitive nature of the material, it could not be accessed
elsewhere.

Over
many hours he had managed to track a single payoff made to Bertrum Hubert
Schleim, apparently know to many as 'Slime,' back through several
intermediaries to a slave merchant in Carthage Heights on the coast of North
Africa.

The
trail had ended there, but the merchant
had
received several large
payments in the last few months from a Tunisian named Fred Bough. Through a
lucky chance, Ryo had just discovered that Mr. Bough was actually Frédéric
Rameau, the Commander of Covert Operations at the EurAfrican Imperial Military
Base in Tunis.

Zmuda
had confided earlier in the day that he had some still highly classified
evidence that Commander Rameau was ultimately to blame for the many misdeeds of
the Goons and that had been confirmed by Ryo’s latest findings.

Ryo
straightened up and flexed his aching muscles. He was well aware that there was
a strong circumstantial link between the murders of Nate Briggs and the gang of
Goons because of the use of the unique particle beam weapons, but he still
lacked a motive for the slaughter.

Commander
Frédéric Rameau certainly seemed to be the key.

Ryo
stood stiffly and finally decided to go home for the night. He would try to
resolve the final inconsistencies over the next few days.

The
Zmuda had been right about Rameau, Ryo realized as he turned off the lights,
locked the door and shuffled down the dark hallway. The Lieutenant had assured
him that the CRAMP was poised to somehow alleviate the Rameau problem.

• • •

“Welcome
to the team,” Jasper smiled to Lev as they bumped along together in the back
seat.

“Thanks,
I think.” The lanky young man stared with growing misgivings out of the creaky
open-air off-road carriage at the dry and forbidding vastness of the southern
Sahara Desert.

From
the driver's seat Mixion smirked at the novice spy.

“Ryo
talked me into it,” Lev mentioned to his new cohorts. “After he rescued my
mother from the pirates, I'd do pretty much anything for him.”

Mixion's
head bobbed up and down in agreement. “It's really going to help us to put an
end to the misdeeds of the EurAfrican racketeers and terrorists.”

When
Lev didn't seem to understand the unusually spiteful tone of the generally
well-mannered woman, Jasper leaned over and whispered an explanation; “When she
was only two, her mum was killed by thugs in Australia. It was really
traumatic.”

Lev
nodded sympathetically, “I nearly lost
my
mom to the pirates.”

Mixion
silently studied the two men in the rear view mirror as she drove.

“Originally,
Zmuda was supposed to be the third member on this little road trip out to the
desert ruins.” Jasper grinned at the woman and straightened up, “Since the
Lieutenant was banged up a bit during the attack at the nightclub and we're
still not entirely sure if the EurAfrican Military people really know who he
is, Ryo recommended that you fill-in for the Lieutenant.”

“Lucky
me,” Lev cringed.

• • •

The
slave stared in surprise at the tattered note tucked between two folded pairs
of trousers in his tiny room at the Domestic Servitude Housing Block.

He
discreetly palmed the paper and casually checked the hallway and then the
courtyard just beyond his window for others.

No one
seemed to be lurking about in the Housing Block.

It had
been agreed upon long ago that his CRAMP cohorts would only send him messages
in the most dire of situations. Now he quivered with dread at actually
receiving one. The contents could not be good.

The
chance discovery of the note by the perpetually suspicious EurAfrican Military
personnel who poked around relentlessly at the Base would certainly result in
his swift execution.

For
many minutes he busied himself brushing a thin accumulation of dust off of the
wide windowsill. The man had never entirely satisfied himself that his room was
free of surveillance devices. In the hyper-paranoid world of spies, one could
never be too careful.

He
finally decided that he would curl up on his cot with the secret note and
pretend to doze off.

With
great effort he began to count his heartbeats as he lay nearly motionless. At
an estimated 70 beats per minutes his goal was to wait until he'd tallied 1,400
beats, which would take around twenty minutes.

At 357
beats an old song from his past crept into his head. The task became much less
monotonous with the ethereal musical accompaniment.

Oh,
Rhonda you look so fine and I know it wouldn't take much time

For
you to help me Rhonda, help me get her out of my heart...

He ran
through the old surfer's tune many times.

When
at last he'd reached 1,400 beats, he twisted around still feigning sleep and
draped the hand that contained the now sweat-soaked message in front of his
face.

He
opened his eyes just enough to read the message.

Annoyingly,
the note was upside-down but he was still able to make out the words.

It was
handwritten in an unusual euphemistic version of Street Spanish from the
mid-Twenty-first century that he knew quite well from his childhood in
Magdalena, New Mexico.

He
carefully reread it many times, parsing each word and memorizing the exact phrasing
for later analysis.

When
he was satisfied that he would not forget any detail or nuance of the
communiqué that had undoubtedly been delivered to him at great risk to the
messenger, he slid his hand sleepily over his mouth and ingested the tattered
paper.

He
rolled over and considered the words, translated into English it worked out to
this:
Your snarling dog bites too much! The cops want him put down!

Before
he'd left Free City, when he still had full use of his vocal cords, they'd
discussed many scenarios and schemes in the CRAMP headquarters. This was one of
the most daunting and dangerous directives that had been put forth. He knew
that Zmuda would not have ordered it without compelling reasons.

He was
to kill Commander Rameau at
any
cost.

• • •

“There
it is, boys!” Mixion called out from the driver's seat.

Just
ahead on a flat stone outcropping in the blazing midday heat was the ancient
mud brick ruins of the Fort of Djaba. The long-ago desiccated remains of what
had likely been a lush oasis surrounded the derelict outpost.

“I
don't see our Desert Serfs,” Jasper noted.

Mixion
parked the vehicle conspicuously in the middle of a wide, flat wash, “I'm sure
they will find us soon enough.”

Lev
gathered the camera and clipboard.

“Remember,”
Mixion cautioned the men, “we’re just 'grad students' doing some research.” She
sternly added, “We
must
all leave here alive within the next few hours.”

Jasper
nodded off-handedly but Lev cringed at the warning.

For
twenty minutes the trio kept up their ruse as they photographed and surveyed
the long forsaken site.

All
three were certain that someone was watching them from the dense dry cover of
the surrounding brush.

“Alright;
let's get a few pictures of the north side of the watchtower,” Mixion told the
men.

The
unmistakable metallic click of rifle bolts being engaged echoed around the
ruins.

“YOU!”

Two
gun-toting Desert Serfs emerged from the parched vegetation.

“No
one is allowed here!”

Both
Lev and Jasper bowed subserviently to the white-robed guards.

The
diminutive Mixion stood her ground and stared with an ever-widening grin at the
well-armed men, “Well; good morning!”

The
surly sentinels faltered a bit at the sight of the gregarious young woman.

“What
are you doing here?” demanded one of the Serfs.

“We're
from the School of Anthropology at Free City University,” Mixion produced a
dog-eared certificate attesting to their identities. “We are doing a
preliminary survey of historical sites in the northeastern District of Agadez.
I have traveling papers signed by the District Minister himself.”

She
handed the documents to the man who was obviously in charge.

“It's
quite a lovely day,” the woman noted as the Serfs studied the credentials.

Jasper
nodded innocently along with the woman.

The
subordinate guard whispered something about killing the intruders. His
companion scowled and shook his head.

“Can
we get a photo of you two in front of the Fort?” the woman coaxed. “I'd love
show the District Minister that a couple of strapping locals are protecting the
site.”

Lev
finally relaxed, Mixion's irresistible charm seemed to be slowly winning over
the gun-toting Serfs.

“One
picture only,” the headman handed the paperwork back to her with a salacious
grin. “I must insist that you leave straight away afterwards.”

“Certainly,”
Mixion purred.

With
near perfect showmanship, she directed the two men to pose with their ancient
long rifles in front of the dilapidated Fort.

Jasper
snapped a single photo as Lev diligently scribbled a few notes on the clipboard.

Mixion
grinned at the sentinels, “Thank you so much, gentlemen. We should be heading
back this way in a day or so, perhaps we will stop by and visit again.” She
innocently offered her hand to the headman.

After
several seconds of uncertainty, he finally clasped it with no small amount of
lasciviousness.

“I
look forward to your return.”

Mixion,
Lev and Jasper ambled back to their vehicle, all quite aware that a volley of
gunfire might yet dispatch them.

“You
drive;” Mixion whispered to Lev, “slow and friendly. We don't want to blow it
in the last few minutes.”

Lev
climbed in to the driver's seat. Jasper stowed the camera and clipboard and he
and Mixion slid into to the back seat with exaggerated caution.

Jasper
waved amiably to the two Serfs as they puttered away.

The
off-road vehicle stopped nearly a kilometer from the Fort.

Lev
nervously glanced back and forth between the surrounding desert and his two
companions in the backseat.

Mixion
had been holding her right arm awkwardly upward, well away from anything else
since just after they'd left the ruins.

Jasper
retrieved a pair of green surgical gloves and a roll of clingy plastic wrap
from under the seat.

“Hurry,
Jasp!” the woman uncharacteristically barked.

The
big Australian deftly encased her now trembling hand and arm in several
protective layers of the flimsy material.

When
the wrapping was secured in place with several strips of white adhesive tape
she finally relaxed a bit.

“I
really didn't think that we'd be able to pull off that charade,” she sighed
with visible relief.

Jasper
kissed her on the cheek. “You were great, sweetheart.”

“So
were you two,” a huge grin erupted on her face.

Jasper
nodded, “Let's get the hell out of here.”

• • •

Undoubtedly
his cohorts back at the CRAMP headquarters had uncovered some compelling reason
to justify the nearly impossible task. It certainly wasn't going to be easy;
the slave ruminated as he scrubbed down the sweat-stained seat cushions in
Commander Rameau's office.

Somehow
he was going have to kill the EurAfrican Commander of Covert Operations,
apparently the sooner the better. This was a military base filled with
well-armed soldiers and suspicious intelligence officers and he was merely a
General Facilities slave, which was about as harmless and expendable as they
come.

Still,
the man fretted, there had to be some way to dispatch the Commander without
casting blame onto himself.

He was
particularly interested in surviving the effort to murder Rameau.

Before
he'd left Free City, Lieutenant Zmuda had assured him that several schemes were
afoot to safely extract him from the Base in Tunis when his mission was
completed.

He
dearly hoped that he'd be extracted alive.

Earlier
in the day, he'd considered poisoning Rameau's morning coffee but that seemed
far too amateurish. In short order someone would likely trace the tainted
beverage back to him. His execution would undoubtedly follow.