“Damn.”
“You still up for this? We can keep you out of sight and send some of the others.”
“Nah, I wanna be in on this if I can.”
“Good man. You game for us putting you in some sort of disguise to do this? Maybe even a wig and makeup? We can call in Adrian to help. It might throw ‘em and they wouldn’t recognize you…”
“That’s…a definite option, Stefan. Yeah, we can do that.”
“Good. Just…keep your head down, okay? It’s a good one, and it needs to stay on your shoulders.”
“Will do, sir.”
Adrian Mott arrived in the Investigations office ten minutes later with a large duffel bag, and it was obviously crammed full of gear.
“What’s that for?” Cally Ames wondered, wandering over as Mott put the bag down beside Ashton’s desk.
“Nick got made at the Bronze bust,” Mott explained. “But there’s more work for him to do, so we’re putting him in a deep disguise.”
“What did you have in mind, Adrian?” Ashton wondered, as Gorski came up to watch, as well.
“Wig, makeup, and beard,” Mott decreed. “And a change of wardrobe style.”
“Aw,” Ames grumbled. “I don’t like beards. They scratch.”
Ashton flushed, but the others laughed.
“Well, Ms. Ames,” Mott declared, “you have the choice of a scratchy kiss from Nick, or a dead Nick. Which would you prefer?”
“Scratchy kiss,” she said without hesitation.
“I thought so. you’ll just have to get used to it for a while, at least.”
“Okay. I’ll deal.”
And Mott set to work.
As Mott worked, he pulled this or that out of his duffel, occasionally having to rearrange things to get to what he wanted. Most of it was obvious to Ashton, but when the undercover expert pulled out a pile of stretchy black cloth in a heavy weight, he raised an eyebrow.
“What’s that?” Ashton asked, curious.
“This?” Mott waved the wad of black cloth. “Oh, it’s no big deal. It’s a special suit for nighttime surveillance. It’s matte black so it blends into shadows and doesn’t gleam in the light, and it’s got a lining that’s essentially knife-proof. It isn’t bulletproof unless you put some special shock plates in, though. But it does pretty damn good.”
Ashton noted that Mott avoided meeting Gorski’s eyes, and wondered.
Then Cally quickly averted her glance, and he wondered a lot more.
When Mott was done, even Cally barely recognized Nick.
He had long, curly, dark-red hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, a full beard that matched the ponytail, a ginger complexion with freckles, and blue-green eyes. He wore blown-out sneakers, ratty, ripped blue jeans with one back pocket torn off, a wrinkled, stained green tee, and a threadbare gray fleece hoodie over all.
“Wow,” Armbrand said, wandering up. “You cut quite the different figure from the casual-dapper Nick I’m used to seeing, there, Ashton.”
“That’s the idea,” Gorski said. “If you didn’t know him, would you know him?”
“I…don’t think so.”
“Cally?” Gorski pressed.
“Um…” Ames began, uncertain. Then she looked Ashton in the eyes. “Yeah. His eyes. Even with the different color, they’re still Nick’s eyes. But I doubt any of the Imperial Police are gonna be gazing into his eyes.”
“Point,” Mott said with a grin, even as Ashton flushed again. “So I think we have something, here.”
“I’d say so. Oh, and nobody call him Nick or Ashton when you’re in the field with him. What’s your middle name again, son?” Gorski asked, pulling out a physical badge and handing it to Ashton. “Here; use this again. Xavier, isn’t it? Your middle name?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Everybody call him Xav.” Gorski clapped his hands. “Round up the Team and go get ‘em, Xav.”
“Who is it this time?” Rassmussen wondered as they waited.
“Todd Whitmore,” the disguised Ashton noted. “Director of Acquisitions Testing for the Defense Department. He was involved in passing on the identity of the murdered woman, Medved. Um, Vasilisa Medved.”
“Ah, I remember. Right.”
Just then, Whitmore stepped out of the entrance façade of his condo building in Imperial Park East. Without making a scene, Rassmussen and Ashton approached him, Rassmussen in an ICPD beat cop uniform; Ashton was in his full disguise, which made him look somewhere between a homeless person and a bum. Rather than pushing his credentials to Whitmore in VR, he flashed the badge that Gorski had given him. Not only did it allow for the VR suppressor to be used sooner, it kept his exact identity hidden.
“Todd Whitmore?” Ashton asked.
“Yes, I’m Todd Whitmore,” the man responded, somewhat puzzled.
“You’re under arrest, sir,” Ashton said, as Rassmussen eased around to Whitmore’s other side. “If you would come with me, please.”
Whitmore stared at them, in shock. Obviously whatever he had expected, that answer wasn’t it.
“May I ask the charge, Officer?” he asked then.
“Accessory to murder. Come this way, sir,” Ashton said, then turned.
They led their prisoner to a nearby arcade cart, where they quietly put cuffs on him before loading him into the rear and belting him into his seat. Then Rassmussen climbed into the driver’s seat and Ashton got in beside him. Rassmussen released the brake on the cart, and they went through the arcade level to a police transporter. There, they loaded Whitmore into the back of the transporter; Rassmussen knocked on the side of the transport, and it shifted into gear and trundled off.
“And that takes care of that,” Ashton decided.
“Now let’s get you back outta sight…fast,” Rassmussen decreed.
But before they could get back to ICPD headquarters, and in despite of Ashton’s disguise, he was recognized.
A sudden crack! from the building façade close at hand sprayed him with masonry chips, cutting his cheek, even
