“He’s a psycho?!”
“By some definitions, definitely,” Ashton said. “Exactly what it does for him, I got no idea, and I don’t think I want to know. But I expect it factors into the whole hedonism thing, somehow. Maybe an adrenaline rush, maybe something kinkier; I dunno.
“Anyway, after that one con gone wrong, he had to get off Wollaston fast, so he waited for the heat to die down and suspicion to get cast on someone else, then he headed here, to Sintar. He disappeared for a year or so, then showed back up, going by the alias of Joey Bronze. Very sure of himself, very confident. And with more money. I can’t prove it, but it’s my suspicion that he managed to get in with someone who could teach him the ins and outs of professional assassinations. And since he apparently doesn’t do anything by half measures, he got pretty good at it. Because that’s when what I call the ‘double-tap killings’ started. No gunpowder residue, two clean shots to the back of the head with what therefore was likely an airgun, and no other real evidence.”
“How many have there been?”
“In the few years since I’ve been on Sintar? At least half a dozen that I’m aware of. All politically motivated, all people who were trying to help the then-current Empress advance her reforms.”
“So he’s one of the IPD’s trusted assassins.”
“He’s one of the Council’s trusted assassins,” Ashton corrected her. “They just launder it through the IPD.”
“Damn.”
“Exactly,” Ashton agreed. “And he apparently gets paid rather nicely for the work.” He waved a hand at the VR imagery.
“But isn’t he…? I mean, surely he’s putting some aside…”
“Why? Did you read his lips earlier? They’re going to the casino after dinner. He likes to gamble. In fact, he plays it big – he knows his whole life is a gamble. If a series of assassinations go wrong for him, if things don’t work like he wants ‘em to – hell, if even one assassination goes too far south – his bosses will have no compunctions at all about taking him out and finding someone else. Look what happened to the guy who tried to take out Lee Carter, and got himself seen by Carter instead. And, judging by the double-taps, it was Bronsky who did it.” Ashton shook his head. “No, Bronsky knows it’s only a matter of time. He’s just playing it out for all he’s worth now, while he can.”
“‘Eat, drink, and be merry,’ huh?” Compton offered then. “’For tomorrow we may die.’”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Ashton agreed. “What he’s not counting on is for us to stop his roll.”
Bronze was very late returning to his condo – alone – that night. The next day, however, Bronze was up relatively early; his breakfast went up at around nine that morning, and he was out of the condo by ten.
Much to the investigators’ surprise, he headed for a gym.
There, he hit the cardio equipment for a solid half-hour of interval training, then added resistance training to the mix, working his legs heavily.
He worked through the standard lunch rush, then knocked off, headed for the locker room and showered, then dressed and headed for…
…The Fire Water Bar.
A quick, healthy lunch of grilled chicken over pasta with marinara – and no alcohol, just iced water – refueled his body, and the investigators watched as Bronze relaxed and rested, chatting casually with the same bartender.
After a couple of hours, during which he sucked down a quantity of water and fruit juices, Bronze rose and headed out once more.
This time, his destination was an indoor shooting range, where he spent the rest of the afternoon going through the range’s arsenal, practicing with numerous types of handguns and long guns.
Dinner was at a reasonable hour, at an upscale diner near his condo.
Then he headed home.
The lights went out on his floor at eleven that evening.
Evacuate!
In the middle of the surveillance of the Medved assassin team, Jones was headed into the ICPD headquarters building one morning, running late for the morning status briefing, when he saw an odd situation – someone was placing an object near the base of the building on the side alley. Since no notice of maintenance had gone out, he eased his pistol out of his concealed holster, hooked his badge on his lapel, and slipped up behind the man…who was not dressed in a city maintenance coverall.
“What are you doing?” Jones demanded to know.
The man spun, alarmed, saw the badge, and shoved Jones away, then leaped up and ran.
Jones twisted around, bringing his weapon to bear, and fired before the man could get to the opening of the alleyway. He went down with a cry, then lay on the pavement, groaning and clutching his hip.
Jones turned and glanced at the object the perp had been placing at what was, effectively, the top of the headquarters building’s foundation. When he saw the countdown clock attached, his eyes went wide, and he popped an emergency message into channel 911.
“THIS IS LIEUTENANT INVESTIGATOR JONES! EVACUATE! EVACUATE! THERE’S A BOMB ON THE SIDE OF THE BUILDING! EVERYBODY OUT! NOW!!”
Ashton and the other members of the surveillance team had just completed their disguises for the day, including changing hair and eye color, adding facial hair for the men, and changes of clothing suited to the locations where they anticipated observing that day. Colonel Peterson had just entered to announce the morning status meeting in five, when Jones’ emergency call came in through channel 911, annunciating on the building’s speaker system.
“SHIT!” Peterson cried. “OUT! OUT! EVACUATE THE BUILDING! Let’s go, people!”
The Team headed for the nearest exit without question.
As police officers poured out of the headquarters building, Jones took his injured perp
