“Okay, lemme check in. Damn.”
He pulled up his supervisor in the VR comm. “Colonel Peterson?”
“Maia Peterson. Nick, is that you? I was just getting ready to ping you.”
“Yes ma’am. I don’t have good news to report. We never saw him.”
“I shouldn’t expect you would. I just heard from Detective Gorski, who in turn was contacted by Imperial Guard Major Dunham. It seems that Fairfield figured out what happened from the news reports, got scared, and decided to turn state’s evidence. He snuck out by a different door – likely wearing something to help hide who he was, like a hat or hoodie, though I can’t say for sure, but I would in his shoes, so not even the DoD security might flag him – and went straight to the Palace and turned himself in. He’s already in protective custody.”
“Oh!”
“Exactly. And I assume you had eyes looking for potential assassins?”
“We did, ma’am, but only on the main door.”
“Which makes sense. It’s the only one visitors can enter; everything else requires one of those damn high-level clearances – one thing the damn assassins don’t have. We had active video eyes on the others anyway, with flags on all the, uh, ‘usual’ faces. And I saw where you put flags on him on those same doors. The guy’s scared bad, so he managed to fake everybody out! So pull your team and bring ‘em in. Once you’re here, get your shit together, then come to my office and we’ll work out what needs doing next. I’ll call Gorski and get a status update in the meantime.”
“Yes ma’am.” Ashton sent out the recall notice through VR and turned for ICPD headquarters.
On the way, Ashton filed his report through VR, checked for additional messages, then went straight to his desk. In the weeks since he had been at Imp City headquarters, some of the other detectives and inspectors had become moderately prone to dropping off handwritten notes, as well as the odd piece of ‘evidence’ for him to use for practice; it was known to most of them by now that he had aspirations – and significant talent – in investigation, which was one reason he was being given the task of working with Detective Gorski to round up the Empress’ perps.
There was nothing for him there, and it would have waited in any event, so he headed straight for Maia Peterson’s office.
Peterson had nothing in particular for him, nor were they able to determine a direction for him to go, as yet; it would all depend upon what the forensics people pulled out of what they had. So Ashton went back to his desk and pondered what he knew of the situation.
Just then, his nanites notified him of a call in VR. It was Detective Gorski.
“Hi there, Stefan. What do you need?”
“I’m over at the crime scene, Nick. I’m trying to see if I can squeeze anything else out of it that we might use to help clinch Bronze as the assassin. Unfortunately, I left my forensics kit on my desk. Is there any chance you can grab it and bring it over to me?”
“Sure, Stefan, I can do that. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Did you leave it in the usual place?”
“Yeah, on the third shelf of the bookcase behind my desk.”
“Okay. I’ll go grab it and I’ll be there shortly.”
“Good man.”
Ashton had almost reached the apartment building in which Medved had been killed, the little rolled toolkit in his pocket, when he rounded the corner and found his way blocked.
“There he is,” one of Gorecki’s thugs – Ashton could never remember their names; they all looked alike and were pretty much interchangeable, as far as he could tell – said with a smug expression. “I told you he’d be around this way soon enough.”
“You were right, Jim,” the second agreed.
“Yeah,” the third remarked. “This oughta be easy. Stash said he had a girl for a bodyguard, so he can’t be too tough.”
Evidently Stash didn’t tell ‘em that the ‘girl bodyguard’ mopped up the sidewalk with him, Ashton thought, readying his body for what was coming, and ensuring his pistol was where it should be. It sure would be nice if the odds were a little more even, but hey.
A quick glance around indicated that there were no snipers or other such backup waiting for him, so he subtly flexed his muscles, prepared for whatever came.
Lackey #2 drew a knife and lunged at Ashton.
That’s what comes, he thought.
He sidestepped the thrust and grabbed the goon’s arm in both hands, bending it backward at the elbow until he heard several grisly snapping sounds. The man screamed as the elbow tendons failed and the oleocranon cracked.
A quick flip flung the man into one of his companions, and they both went down.
The third man snarled in annoyance, and reached for a pistol.
Ashton drew faster.
A bloom of red blossomed on the man’s left chest as he gasped and grimaced in pain, then he staggered and collapsed.
Two and a half down, Ashton thought, then spun as the last of Gorecki’s henchmen crawled out from under his remaining live companion, who was sitting on the sidewalk, cradling his maimed arm, and crying like a child. Ashton brought his pistol to bear.
“You want to live?” Ashton snapped, and the shocked and chagrined stooge nodded, pale. “Good. Jones, you there?”
“You saw me?” another man said as he appeared from the nearby alley.
“Yup, about two minutes after I left the building,” Ashton averred. “Take these two into custody and restrain ‘em, and see if that one is still alive. I’ve already called for transport.”
“Glad to,” Jones said, leering at
