but those are pretty rare these days.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing else. We’re runnin’ on nothin’ but gut feelings.” Sinclair wiped his brow. Sweat was beading on his forehead, even though the place was freezing now that the doors were open to the November air. “Keep this on the DL, ’specially now. When it comes to the Automatic trade, things pick up in December. People try to smuggle shit in from China during the Christmas confusion. Talk to Robins. This is fresh news, and I need to hide their buzzers before the other boys outside start spreadin’ shit …”

Sinclair didn’t get the chance to finish his thought. Tires screeched, doors slammed, and Constable Hoyte was heard trying to assert his authority. Whoever had arrived must have superseded him, however, and their approaching footsteps told me that they meant business. I bent down over the dead Automatic and reached behind its head as I searched for its serial number, something Sinclair wouldn’t have thought to look for. Whoever had programmed the Red-eye had stupidly left it on. A quick pull ripped it from the metal, and I stuffed it into my pocket.

Through the open doors of the speakeasy came a small collective of men and women in black suits. They spread out through the area, covering every possible angle and corner. A man who looked more important than the rest approached me and Sinclair. He was tall and quite lanky, with a receding hairline and stubble on his chin. Dark glasses were a nice touch — an attempt to look imposing, I guessed.

“Officers, please remove yourselves from the area. This crime scene is now under the jurisdiction of the Automatic Crimes Unit of the FBI, as denoted in section six, subsection four of the Automatic Rights Charter.”

Sinclair and I weren’t convinced. My friend was still puffing on his dart, and I readied my stance a bit. The G-man’s blank face made him seem almost as dead as the stiffs on the floor.

Sinclair spoke first, dropping his dart and crushing it with the toe of his shoe. “You got a name, boy?”

“Agent Masters.” I snickered, and he snapped his head around to look at me. “Need I repeat myself, officers?”

“No, sir,” I snarled, putting my hand on Sinclair’s shoulder to urge him forward. I could have stayed and flexed some muscle, but Robins would have had my head if I pissed off any Black Hats. I followed Sinclair out, with Agent Masters’s glasses still tracking me as I exited the speakeasy onto the cold street.

“If it weren’t a Night Call before, it would be now,” I said.

Sinclair rounded up his officers, yelling to them to pack up and get out of the Black Hats’ way. “Hope you got some ideas, Roche. We’re runnin’ on borrowed time now,” he said.

“I got a plan,” I said. “It’s stupid, but it might pay off.” He didn’t need to know any more than that lest the G-men “question” him and try to pull information he wouldn’t give willingly. This way, both our asses were covered. “I’ve got to see Robins first.”

“Get this news to him quick, before he gets blind-sided by it. Be safe out there, Roche.” Sinclair started toward his unit, grinding his teeth.

“Paddy, one last thing.” He turned back to me with a look of impatience. “The Swinger model Red-eye had enough trigger discipline to shoot only one target, then let another machine cover its escape with .45-calibre bullets. Regular Red-eyes ain’t this precise. They’d have filled Coons through with holes. This was some top-notch police programming it had to put holes that clean into two targets.”

“Police programming is pretty good these days, El. What else do you want me to say?”

“No, it isn’t this good. This is custom … I know this programming.”

Sinclair looked up at me, his gaze lingering, trying to draw my eyes to meet his own. “El … he’s dead.”

“I’m not so sure, given the evidence.”

I decided to make myself scarce after that.

Dodging the gaze of the other officers on scene, I slid into my car. I stabbed the key in and turned it, and the engine roared to life, crying in anguish. I felt eyes on my back, but not Sinclair’s. No, I felt watched. I hadn’t had dead cops on my plate for years — two years, to be exact — and I’d rather it had stayed that way. Something about this gave me the chills. Maybe it was the pressure, or maybe the hangover. That evidence didn’t calm my mind, either.

I couldn’t get it out of my head: a gut shot and a secondary one up higher. Perfect double tap, something only implemented by old police programming. Swinger model, too. The Automatic I was thinking about had died a while ago — I knew that for a fact — but tech was improving every day. Its body was probably long gone, but the Neural-Interface could have been saved, along with the programming that I myself had made sure was in there. But, hell, if that dead machine at the scene was any indication, Automatics didn’t need Neural-Interfaces to kill anymore. That wasn’t a pretty thought.

Could it be him?

It, I mean. Not him.

Sinclair gave me a wave as I punched the car into gear and ran it down the street. The Talbot was purring, but creaking as well. It sounded like it was struggling to survive, just like me, or my career. I’d have to check the car, maybe do some repairs.

Eventually.

CHAPTER 3

WHOEVER HAD SENT THOSE RED-EYES to tear up that speakeasy was either brave and stupid, or smart enough to know that they could get away with it if they played it close to the precinct. After all, the 5th was only a stone’s throw from ground zero. The precinct had gotten under the skin of quite a few organizations — especially the Mob — which made nearly anyone in southern Manhattan a suspect. Still, while too many people had it out for us, far fewer had the means

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