Two hours later, three of the flunkies – who turned out to be gang members, responding to a call for Ashton’s head on a platter – were in the custody of the Imperial City Police, oddly enough. Two were in the hospital with various levels of injury, also in custody. One managed to get away, though not without injury; he was bleeding profusely from a split over one eyebrow, and dizzy from what he suspected was a concussion. It didn’t stop him from checking in with the boss.
“No, Stash,” he told Gorecki in VR, panting as he hid out. “I dunno what you think he is, but that guy had his own set of goons, and they were more and better equipped than us. They beat the shit out of us. They got Gord an’ Pete an’ Bob, outright…”
“Dead?”
“Nah. Leastways, I don’t think so. I dunno what became of ‘em, I just know they got ‘em. Bob was knocked loopy but not unconscious, Pete an’ Gord were kinda trussed up – one o’ Ashton’s minions got ‘em with stunners. Manny an’ Scorch were down an’ out. Scorch was bleedin’ everywhere. I’m not sure he’s gonna make it.”
“And you, Jimmy?”
“Damn, Stash, one of ‘em took a swing at me, so I hit ‘er inna face,” Jimmy said. “I–”
“Wait. ‘Her’?”
“Yeah, there was guys an’ gals in his posse,” Jimmy explained. “An’ damn if the gals didn’t hit as hard as the guys! So I belted one in the face, an’ she staggered back for a second and cussed at me, but before I could even laugh, she turned around and clobbered me in the head. Hard! Twice, even! My jaw feels like it’s half hangin’ off my face, plus I got a split over my left eye where she clocked me, an’ it’s bleedin’ like a stuck pig, so bad I can’t hardly see. But she rang my chimes, an’ I can’t half see straight nohow.”
“Concussion?”
“Prob’ly. I’m dizzy as hell.”
“Where are you?”
“I made it ‘round the corner to Imperial Park South, an’ I’m about eight blocks in, in the alley offa South Fifty-Third, near Eighth Avenue.”
“Right. I’ll send somebody there to come take care of you. Just sit tight.”
“Thanks, Stash,” Jimmy said gratefully. “You’re all right.”
“Sure I am, Jimmy.”
The local ICPD precinct found Jimmy’s body there the next morning.
He had been shot in the back of the head.
Just once.
The next morning, when Ashton arrived – as himself, but he also took the most clandestine routes known only to him and his fellows, and nobody came after him this time – several of the Team members were stiff and achy. Even Colonel Peterson was moving a little slowly.
And Cally had a black eye.
“Hm,” Ashton said, in a knowing yet thoughtful fashion.
Then he ordered several dozen doughnuts for the Investigation division break room, and kitchen-sink pizzas – three – for lunch for the entire Team.
Then he called Adrian Mott and Lee Carter to come over and join them.
When they showed up, both men had facial bruising.
Ashton smiled to himself, content.
“How’d you get the shiner?” Nick asked casually, when Cally came by his place with takeout that night. “You were fine yesterday.”
“Eh, no big thing,” Cally said, avoiding his glance. “I got up in the night last night to go to the bathroom, thought I could do it without turning on the lights, and ran into the door.”
“Ouch,” Nick said. “Did you ice it?”
“Yeah. It’s fine. The nanites are working on it.”
“Good. After we eat, I’ll get out my ice pack and you can lie down on my couch and ice it. I’ll even sit on the end and hold your head in my lap if you want me to.”
“That…might be nice,” Cally admitted.
Nick let it drop then, and set the table for two, as Cally opened the Chinese take-out containers and sat them on the table with serving spoons.
But afterward, he did indeed sit on the couch with her head in his lap, gently stroking her hair, as she let the ice pack rest on her bruised face.
It was two more days before anything else went down, which was fortunate for the Team; they were much more spry and agile by that time. And Cally’s black eye had gone through its darkest phase, and Mott had showed her how to cover it with makeup.
“The latest assignment to come from the Palace is to pick up Gorecki,” Detective Gorski told them, as he, Colonel Peterson, and Nick Ashton debated how best to handle matters. “And I can’t say I blame ‘em. I’ve had enough of that loudmouthed psychopath and his henchmen myself.”
“What about Wilkins? Wasn’t he the next rung up from Whitmore?” Peterson asked.
“He was, but according to our sources, he’s gone missing. Probably into hiding. I’ve already informed the Imperial Guard,” Gorski said. “Based on that information, the Throne wants Gorecki.”
“Mm,” Peterson hummed, thoughtful.
“You know, if we get Gorecki off the damn streets and in custody, I’m probably safer,” Ashton observed. “He’s their head hobgoblin, after all.”
“True,” Gorski agreed. “But it won’t be fun. I’m tellin’ ya, picking up Stanley Gorecki is gonna be trouble. We’ve tangled with him before, more ‘n once, in the dives and alleys of the South End. He is a serious, big-time pain in the ass. Never mind just being an ass.”
“And a complete psycho,” Ashton added. “I think the man enjoys killing.”
“He does, according to Lee,” Peterson averred.
“Shit. Pain in the ass, pain in the neck, pain in the…”
“So?” Peterson interrupted. “Bring plenty of back-up. This has to be done.”
“You want me to lead that team, too?” Ashton asked.
“Oh HELL no!” Peterson and Gorski exclaimed in unison. “No way one of the perp’s targets takes down the perp,” Peterson added.
