Joe Killian and Michelle Qwan made it down to offices of the FBI at 26 Federal Plaza in no time flat. Just in time to catch a dejected looking Thad Kudlow kick his chair into his desk.
"Hey, partner," Killian said. "Go easy on the furniture!"
"Ahhhhhh... Its the bosslady," Kudlow said. "She won't let me interrogate the two we just brought in! Their lawyers are on the way and it's hands off!"
"Hmmm... that's passing strange," Killian muttered.
"Is she usually so 'by the book'?" Qwan asked.
"Not so you could notice," Killian replied.
"Michelle!!!"
Qwan turned and smiled as Asst. Director in Charge Emma Blackbyrd came up to her with a big smile and a hug.
Damn, girl!" Emma said. "It's so good to seeya! I hear you made DCI awhile back!"
"And you're now ADC of the New York office," Qwan replied.
"So much for alphabet soup!" Emma laughed. "Is Killian taking care of you?"
"He's managing to put up with me," Qwan said. "Now tell me why you won't let any of your people chat up these bad guys they just caught."
"Look, it's Federal policy not to question suspects once their attorneys have been called. We read them their rights and they're not saying diddly squat anyways. End of story."
"Com'n, bosslady," Killian said. "I wish I had a nickel for every perp who got chatty once I pushed the right buttons."
"Yeah," Kudlow said. "And when we were hauling in every Arab in the five boroughs after 9/11 you weren't walking on eggshells."
"I ain't walkin' on eggshells now, Agent Kudlow," Emma replied with an arched eyebrow. "And I'm also not used to having my orders questioned." She looked at both agents. "No Federal agent will say one word to those two until their lawyers arrive. And that's that!"
She smiled again at Qwan. "Good to seeya, Michelle. Call me when you have a free night and I'll show you the town, k?"
"Sure, Emma. Sounds great."
Emma Blackbyrd walked off, slamming the door to her office behind her.
"So where are these two being held?" Qwan asked.
"Com'n!" Kudlow said. "You heard the bosslady."
"Yeah. I heard her say no Federal agents could question them," Killian said with a smile.
Qwan matched his smile. "She didn't say anything about mounties."
***
Linda Hansen was in Interview Room 1, a wood paneled cubicle with a table, two chairs and a wall-length mirror that everybody knew was for playing peek-a-boo on the perp.
Michelle Qwan banged the door open and slammed it shut behind her. She had taken off her coat and was wearing a white sleeveless turtleneck, tight, white knit stirrup pants and tan knee boots. She had left her pistol outside, as was proper procedure.
Linda Hansen took no notice of her. She just sat there. Calm and cool. Blonde and beautiful in tight black leather.
Qwan sat down in the other chair and looked at her.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Michelle Qwan."
No response.
"So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?" Qwan asked.
Linda looked at her. "I never said I wanted to talk to anybody."
"Well, that's why you followed me in from JFK wasn't it? Why you had a GPS tracking device somehow put on a FBI agent's unmarked car?" Qwan said. "You have an interest in me. So what do you want?"
Linda looked at her and smirked.
"I said, what do you want, bitch?. Qwan reached across the table and backhanded her across the face. Linda was knocked backwards, then she surged forward with blood in her eye, but stopped short of retaliating.
Qwan stood her ground. "That's right, cunt. You work for Valerie Corder. You aren't used to women giving you any lip are you? You're used to them doing as their told, or else. Right?"
That's when Qwan saw the bare flicker of fear in her eyes.
Qwan took a step forward so she was right in her face. "Why don't you try that with me, bitch? See what happens."
Linda Hansen locked eyes with her, then sat back down in the chair. "I have nothing to say. I want to see my attorney."
"Yeah, yeah," Qwan said. "Everybody wants to see their attorney. Well, your attorney might save you from me. But who's going to save you from Valerie Corder?"
Linda decided to stare at the top of the table.
"I hear she doesn't take disappointment well," Qwan bent down so she could whisper in her ear. "So when you see her, you tell her that Michelle Qwan knows that she was the one who was behind Cundalini's murder and the deaths of those ten New York cops..."
Linda's eyes flickered about the room.
"You tell her that Michelle Qwan knows she got her new running buddy La Donia Lucrezia Scagnetti to organize those attempts on my life in Montreal." Qwan eased up and headed for the door. "And you tell her that Michelle Qwan knows that she's a slaver who deals in girlflesh... and that before this dance is over, her ass is going to be mine."
"Hey," Linda said. Her voice stopped Qwan at the door. "Maybe you'll have a chance to tell her yourself."
***
"So much for her," Killian said as Qwan joined him in the corridor.
"She's one tough cookie," Qwan admitted.
"What about the strong silent type over there?" Kudlow indicated Interview 2, where the so far nameless driver was waiting.
Qwan shrugged. "You know what they say. 'The bigger they are..."
"'...the harder they hit,'" Killian finished.
***
"Hi there!" Qwan entered the cubicle where Monkey sat. She placed a cold can of Coca Cola before him. "You looked more like a coke drinker than a coffee man. Was I right?"
Monkey shrugged and accepted the cold soft drink, taking a sip.
Qwan didn't sit in the other chair. Instead, she eased on to the table next to him, sitting next to him.
"Tough break losing your voice like that," Qwan said.
Monkey ignored her.
"One of the dangers of working for Valerie Corder I 'spose," Qwan continued. "Tell me, did she take your voice because you talked when you shouldn't have, or did she just do it as an object lesson for the others in her circle?"
Monkey ignored her, but took another sip of Coke. He had taken off his jacket and even rolled up his shirtsleeves so that Qwan saw the corded muscles on his arms.
"Still, you don't seem like the garden variety thug," Qwan said gently. "I mean, your hands are... gentle."
She placed her hands over his massive left mitt. His hands were scarred and misshapen from dozens of brawls and fistfights. Qwan turned his wrist, looking at the palm of his hand.
That's when Monkey lost it. He grabbed Qwan up and slammed her into the wall, grinding his forearm into her throat while she was still stunned.
Killian and Kudlow where there in a New York second. Killian got behind Monkey and used a double choke hold while Kudlow tried to pry Monkey's arm out of Qwan's neck.
They finally slammed him bellydown on the table and yanked his arms behind his back. Killian slapped the cuffs on him while Monkey continued to grunt and struggle.
More agents heard the commotion and assisted Kudlow in taking Monkey back to a holding cell, leaving Qwan and Killian alone in the room.
Killian looked at her. "You okay?"
Qwan nodded, swallowing several times as she tried to get her breath back. "Yeah. Thanks to you."
"What the fuck is goin' on here?"
Emma Blackbyrd was at the door, hands on her hips and looking very pissed.
"What's the matter, Killian? English not your first fuckin' language anymore?" Emma shouted. "I said no one could question those two and..."
"You said no Federal agent could question them," Qwan reminded her. "And I'm not a Fed."
Emma looked at her. "Oh, so now you're going to pull some shit on me? I remind you, Inspector, that you are a guest of this country. If I want, I can ship your ass back to Canada on the next plane."
"Com'n, bosslady," Killian said gently. "It was my idea. Take it out on me if you want."
Emma looked from one to the other. "Both of you get the hell out of here. I'll see you two in my office at 9am sharp... after I've had a chance to gear down."
She walked out. Killian and Qwan looked at each other.
"I guess I blew that big night out on the town," Qwan said.
"Don't worry, I still haven't forgotten how to show a lady a good time," Killian answered.
***
The commotion was finally quieting down out in the main office area, and Kudlow was waiting for two of them by Killian's desk.
They watched Emma stalk back to her office. Again she slammed the door behind her.
"Well?" Kudlow asked Qwan. "You get anything?"
Qwan smiled. "Tell me, what happens when you need to write something down say, a phone number or address and you have a pen, but no piece of paper?"
Killian held up his hand.
"Exactly," Qwan said. "Which is what our man with no name did. I saw that something was written in the palm of his left hand with ink. When I attempted to look at it, he thought it important enough to attempt to kill me."
"So what did it say?" Kudlow asked.
Qwan took out her own pen and scribbled on a piece of paper from Killian's desk. The two FBI agents looked at it;
PU-1145
HAF
G-7
"Well that's as clear as mud," Kudlow remarked.
"Com'n, let's puzzle it out," Killian said. "We're all detectives here. Now, PU-1145..."
"Pick up, 11:45!" Qwan said. "It's a time."
"But 11:45 when?" Kudlow asked. "AM or PM? Tomorrow or a week from now?"
"It has to be 11:45 tonight," Qwan said. "Otherwise he would've put AM or PM or even the day of the week."
"Okay, it's a pickup at 11:45 pm tonight." Killian looked at his watch. "That gives us 40 minutes to find out what and where it is."
"So what the hell is HAF?" Qwan asked.
"Hawaiian Air Force?" Kudlow replied.
"Hmmm... let's do this the easy way." Killian clicked on his cellphone and quickcalled the Hacker Queen.
"Yeah, Fed?"
"I need a quickie, HQ," Killian said. "Run a search on the Corder file and see if you come up with the intials H-A-F anywhere."
"Hold yer horses... There. Got something," the Hacker Queen said. "Corder does a lot of business with an outfit called Hermes Air Freight. It's a very ritzy cargo service, specializing in the transport of valuable antiques and delicate irreplaceables. Like if you don't wanna send your Picasso in a cardboard tube via UPS."
"Do they have a hub at any local airport?"
"Yeah... they have cargo gates six through nine at JFK. That's all."
"That's enough. Bye." Killian clicked off and turned to the others. "Okay, this Valerie Corder is expecting a cargo shipment via Hermes Air Frieght which will be arriving at cargo Gate 7 at JFK at 11:45 tonight."
Kudlow shook his head. "Could be, but..."
"No buts," Qwan said. "It's worth a run out there to find out."
"My thoughts exactly," Killian said.
"But look at the time!" Kudlow exclaimed. "You'll never make it from here to JFK in 35 minutes!"
"Wanna bet?" Killian turned to Kudlow. "Thad, stay here and find out everything you can about their lawyers when they get here. Michelle and I are going for a ride."
***
Two minutes later, Qwan and Killian were running down the steps of Federal Plaza to the curb where Killian had parked his unmarked Crown Vic.
"You have a plan?" Qwan shouted as she got in the passenger side and buckled up as Killian revved the engine.
"Take the Brooklyn Bridge to the BQE, then the LI Expressway to the Van Wyck, straight into JFK." Killian replied. He made a squealing U-turn on to Duane Street, the blue lightbar on the dash already strobing away and the siren under the hood howling. "Don't worry, partner! I was a New York cabbie for three years while I was at Fordham! I can find my way to JFK with my eyes shut!"
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Qwan replied.
***
Ebony, Ivory and Jade were in their rather luxurious guest quarters in Clark Reznik's mansion. There was a sunken living area with a couch, chairs and entertainment center, a private bathroom
with a jacuzzi and a very large bed.
This was also where Jessica McClintock was kept under their watchful eyes. She was asleep now in that same bed, having been strait jacketed and gagged for the night.
The three beautiful and dangerous women who had worked for Fiona Jacklin for so many years were sitting about the couch, sipping cups of hot tea. They were all dressed for bed tees and panties--
but none of them felt like sleeping.
"You sure he said that?" Ivory whispered.
"Heard it myself," Ebony replied as Jade nodded too. "That lil freakazoid wants to pump Jessie with god-knows-what so that Fiona can take the cure."
"Christ, I never trusted that asshole West," Jade said. "You two do know he's into some kind of bullshit sorcery 'n shit up at that Miskatonic University where he's dean."
"I know they questioned him hard when the medical school up there lost those cadavers," Ivory said. "I think it was Fiona's money that kept him from being fired."
"I know he's done a lot for her..." Jade began.
"And Mistress Fiona has done a helluva lot for the three of us," Ivory reminded the other two.
The three women looked at each other. The were all three perfection of the human form. Lithe and beautiful, each one complimenting the other two.
"Whatever happens, I want us to stick together," Jade said with a quaver in her voice. "I-I can't exist without the two of you."
"Same here, darling," Ebony whispered, kissing Jade on the lips.
"Don't forget me." Ivory put her arms around then both and joined them for long, deep kisses that lasted most of the night, while the bound Jessica McClintock slept peacefully on the bed.
Clark Reznik had been exhausted after this long but exciting day. Finally, after all these years, his body was beginning to respond once more to his mental commands.
He was asleep in his oversize, specially built hospital bed, with his wife Ellen beside him. Tonight they had made love for the first time since the accident that had taken his body from him.
He stirred. The catheter tube had been removed after he had regained bowel and bladder functions that afternoon.
Still half-asleep, Reznik swung his legs over the side of the bed and hopped down. Yawning, he shambled over to the bathroom and pulled aside his pajama bottoms to take a leak.
Ellen Reznik woke up to hear the familar sound of her husband taking a whiz in the middle of the night. Only she hadn't heard that sound for three years.
She hurried out of the bed and stood in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at her husband standing over the toilet and urinating.
"Clark?" she whispered.
"Hmmm?" He turned and saw her, and then for the firt time seemed to realize just what he was doing. He managed to finish his business before he walked to her and then held her tightly.
"Clark!" she cried. "You can walk! It's a miracle put you can walk!"
"Yes..." Clark Reznik kissed her deeply. "It's a miracle called Jessica McClintock! And I'm going to see to it that somehow this miracle is carried on to whoever else in this world needs it!"
Clark and Ellen Reznik kissed again, then he carried his wife to the bed and made love to her like they were newlyweds.
***
Samarkand sat in one of the comfortable, cushioned chairs in the cabin of one of Joe Weskler's fleet of private jets, in this case a Gates Learjet parked on the tarmac at JFK International Airport.
"Okay, we got her cleaned up," Dulcie Darnell said, coming up from the small bathroom with Sue Kaminsky, who sported a shiny black PVC armbinder, a ballgag and little else.
The armbinder and the crossed straps at her shoulders kept her exposed breasts thrusting forward. A steel ring at the base of the armbinder was connected by a slender chain to a ten-inch shackle chain at the ankles.
Seeing Samarkand, Sue hummed hard into the ballgag. Samarkand saw that she was indeed a true redhead.
Dulcie was a pilot for Air Weskler. She had helped transport many an unwilling girl from Point A to Point B. She was a strong, roustabout grrl. Mid-thirties with short, dark hair. Muscular yet pretty, she wore khakis, boots and a leather bomber jacket.
"She okay for the flight?" Samarkand asked. Weskler had been most insistant that this one be delivered in good shape.
"Oh yeah!" Dulcie said. "I basically hosed her down and douched her. But she still stinks worse than a crib girl at a Bangkok brothel!"
"I don't doubt it," Samarkand said. "No telling what bodily fluids the Puma Sisters... ahhh, spilled on her."
Dulcie sat Sue Kaminsky down in the seat facing Samarkand and buckled up the six-point canvas restraints at shoulders, arms and waist.
"You goin' on to Miami too?" Dulcie asked.
"Nope, gotta stay here," Samarkand said. "Not that I wouldn't mind a few days in South Beach."
"Heh! Me too," Dulcie said with a grin. "But I gotta load up the Goose and take this lil bundle on to The Sargasso muy pronto. Mr. Weskler wants her bad. I'm, supposed to be taking another new girl there with her. Their flying her in from California I think."
"Whatever," Samarkand said. He finished his Macademia nuts and his Mai Tai and patted Sue on the head. Her red hair was slick and wild looking, and she looked at him with barely focused eyes.
"Say goodbye to New York, Detective Susan Kaminsky," Samarkand said kindly. "Say goodbye to your life as you knew it. From this moment on you are chattel."
Sue shook her head and bit into the red rubber ball filling her mouth, humming loudly as a string of drool leaked on to her breasts.
"Looks like she still has a little fight left in her," Dulcie observed.
"Doesn't matter," Samarkand said. "In a few days she'll be another one of Weskler's fucktoys."
He left the Learjet, the hatch closing behind him as he walked across the wet tarmac. The Lear's twin Rolls Royce/BMW turbine engines went into pre-flight start up.
Samarkand walked through the brightly lit but deserted terminal where private planes and corporate jets were boarded, and out to the gateway where a rented Ryder van was waiting for him.
Samarkand yawned. He'd had a long day, but it wasn't over yet. He had sent Dr. Device and Ms. Santiago home for the night. He was done working for Weskler as well. Now he was doing a favor for Valerie Corder.
The kid behind the wheel of the van was trying to pick his nose, but his nose ring kept getting in the way. He was a skinny kid of 18 or so, with a blonde buzzcut and a variety of tats and piercing. He wore dirty, loose fitting jeans and a ripped tee shirt emblazened with FUK U!.
Samarkand was still wearing his white ice cream suit, bow tie and fez. They made quite the couple as he got into the passenger side of the van.
"Evening, Slacker," Samarkand said.
Slacker snorted. "So like, where to?"
"Not far," Samarkand replied. "Cargo terminal, Hermes Air Frieght, Gate 7." He looked at his Patek Phillipe watch. It was 11:32 pm. "Better hurry."
***
Jeb Stuart yawned as he walked down the long, white concourse at JFK, a glowing sign above him welcomed him to the wonders of New York City.
It had been three years since the last time he had been here, and then it had been on Agency business. Now he was here on another mission of sorts.
He had tried to get hold of Paige as soon as he had deplaned and could get to his cellphone, but she wasn't picking up. He glanced at his Rolex. 11:33 here meant it was only 8:33 n SF. He quick called his house.
"H'llo?" It was Tess.
"Hey, it's the dad," Jeb said. "Just made it in."
"Kewl."
"What's going on over there?"
"Well, no word on Tai... but she's all over the news. Even CNN! Running her picture and making a big sinking deal that she's an internet bondage model. Dad, I just know she didn't murder that guy!"
"I know it too, hun," Jeb said. "Lemme talk to mom."
"Uhhhhhh... she's next door," Tess' voice became borderline evasive. "Talking to Bud and Lou."
Bud and Lou were the old married gay couple who lived next door. "Trading recipes again?" Jeb asked.
"I 'spose."
"Mmmm... well have her call me when she gets back. The twins okay?"
"Asleep upstairs."
"Good, any probs give me a call."
"Got it."
"Love you, Tess."
"Love you too, dad!"
Jeb clicked off. The curse of being an ex-spook is that you can instantly tell when someone is lying through their teeth at you. Tess had been lying about her mom's whereabouts. Which meant that his beloved Kate was probably gallivanting about SF trying to find Tai Anne Roper.
"Hey, Jeb! Mi amigo!"
Jeb looked up and grinned as he saw his old compadre, Julio Mendoza running to meet him. Julio was about Jeb's age, but short and squat. He was also an ex-patriate Cuban who was ex-CIA.
"Amigo!" Julio hugged Jeb. "It has been too long, si?"
"Si. Way too long!" Jeb replied. It had been four years ago in fact, when Jeb had worked a black bag op in Havana with Julio backing him up.
"Su familia es bueno?"
"Si, mi famila es muy bueno," Jeb replied. Jeb didn't ask about Julio's family only because he knew his wife and seven kids were still in Cuba.
"Well come along then! I have your chariot outside waiting!"
The two friends walked out of the terminal. Taxis and a few cars picking up or dropping off people were parked about with their flashers on. It was also still raining.
Jeb frowned as Julio led him to a ninety-something, white Ford Aerostar panel van that sported a few dents and dings. Painted on the side panel was AeroTech Mechanix and a 212 telephone number.
"This is what you got for me?" Jeb grumbled. "A POS Ford van?"
"Ah compadre, it only looks like a piece of shit!" Julio said. "For starters, I dropped in a 351 small-block V-8 under the hood! Beefed up the suspension too! She has kevlar panels all around the body and solid rubber tires. Plus this..."
Julio took out a remote control no bigger than a credit card and pressed it. Instantly the words painted on the side panel shifted to AAA Heating and Plumbing with an address and phone number in Manhattan under it.
"Okay," Jeb said. "Color me impressed!"
Julio laughed. "Just a little agency trickery, amigo!" He handed the remote to Jeb. "There are sixteen different companies and logos in the memory file.
Even the telephone numbers work! They run right to a dummy answering service. Preety slick, no?"
"Pretty slick, yes," Jeb grinned.
You said you wanted a good surveillance vehicle as well? Get inside."
They got in the van, with Jeb behind the wheel.
"I have all the standard agency surveillance gear set up in the back," Julio said. "State of the art black box.
Wireless digi-cams with zoom lenses and directional mini-mikes that will let you hear a cockroach fart at 500 yards!"
"Julio, where'd you get all this?" Jeb asked.
"Ahhhh... I might be retired like you, but the agency still thinks they own me," Julio said. "I own a big garage in Brooklyn and I have half a dozen company cars stored there. Believe me, they aren't going to miss one for a few days!"
Jeb started the van up, hearing the deep rumble of the 351 V-8.
"Gracias, Julio," Jeb said.
"De nada, campadre! But do you think you could drop me off at my house in Canarsie?"
"Sure thing." Jeb pulled out and then had to stand on the brakes to narrowly avoid getting hit by a speeding blue Ford sedan the didn't even bother to slow down.
"Cabrones!!!" Julio hollered at the car.
***
"That was close!" Michelle Qwan said.
"Yeah, yeah," Killian answered. "Time?"
"11:39."
"We're gonna make it!" Killian ignored a red light and narrowly avoided being T-boned by an airport shuttle bus. He had cut the lightbar and siren as soon as they had arrived at JFK so the perps if there were any wouldn't get hinky.
They were closing fast on the airport's huge cargo terminal. Driving past the big hubs where outfits like UPS, FedEx and DHL had their operations to the smaller companies like Hermes Air Freight.
They arrived at Gate 7 with two minutes to spare. Just in time to see a Ryder Rentals van drive up a concrete ramp and into the loading dock of Hermes Air Frieght. Killian steered the Ford up the same ramp and parked right behind the van.
He and Qwan silently got out. Both pulled their pistols but kept them down by their sides.
Samarkand and Slacker had already exited the van and were talking to a tough looking security guard in a dark blue uniform who seemed to be running the cavernous holding facilty for cargo of all shapes and sizes set for both departure and pick up.
Killian noticed the guard had a billy club and mace but no gun. Part and parcel of the post 9/11 airport codes. He also noticed the guard's shoulder patch. ISIS. Imperial Security Investigative Services. The same outfit Linda Hansen supposedly worked for.
The hub facilty itself was two stories tall, with boxes and crates piled in neat rows. A little Kobota forklift was heading towards them, carrying a large, orange plastic cannister with CAUTION - BIOHAZARD emblazened on the side.
"Just sign for it right there, sir..." the guard was saying to Samarkand. Neither one spotted Killian til he was almost on top of them.
"Hey, cocksucker!" The security guard turned on Killian, who noticed a brass nameplate on his uniform that said SPURLOCK. "Authorized personnel only! Beat it!"
"Federal Agent." Killian flipped his ID with his left hand. "What's in that cannister, Mr. Spurlock?"
"Fuck you, show me a warrant."
"This is an airport, dumbfuck," Killian replied. "Under the Homeland Security Act, a Federal agent don't need no stinkin' warrant. Now let me see the paperwork before I make a phone call and make your life a fucking nightmare."
During this little confab, Samarkand grinned and started to back off towards the van when he heard a familar female voice from behind.
"Hello, Sam. We meet again."
Samarkand winced and turned. Michelle Qwan had snuck around the other side of the van and had her Glock aimed right at his nose.
He sighed. When last they had met, just two days ago in San Franciso, Qwan had beat the shit out of him.
"Inspector," He nodded. "You look well."
"Yeah, right. Hands up," Qwan said. "You too, punk."
Slacker correctly guessed she was talking to him and raised his hands as well.
The security guard went for his handie talkie. But stopped when Killian brought his Sig/Sauer .45 up to his face.
"Don't touch that dial," Killian warned.
He looked at the two Qwan had covered. "I thought that was Samarkand. That red fez is kinda unique."
"Oh, he's Mr. Inconspicious," Qwan added. "What about that cannister?"
Killian kept his gun on Spurlock as he looked it over. "No point of of origin. Supposed to be delivered to Corder Corp. in Bridgeport. 'Time sensitive item' it says. Also has some kind of... air pump or... respirator attached."
"You're the one playing delivery boy, Samarkand," Qwan said. "What's in there?"
"Hell if I know," Samarkand replied. "Don't I get a phone call?"
"Oh shut up." Qwan looked to Killian. "Since we do have an international felon captured on the premises, can we get some backup now?"
"In a New York minute." Killian was reaching for his cellphone when a short burst of automatic weapons fire echoed throughout the building and bullets sparked off the concrete at Killian's feet.
Everybody froze. The area was well lit and the nearest cover was twenty feet away. In a word, they we're screwed.
"Okay, you two drop those guns!" A tough voice shouted from the second story catwalk above them.
"We're Federal agents!" Killian shouted back while keeping his pistol trained on Spurlock.
Another rattle from a machine gun came from another direction and more rounds howled off the concrete, this time causing everybody to jump back a few steps.
"You think we give a shit?" another voice shouted. "Drop yer roscoes or we'll swiss cheese both of youse!"
"Roscoes?" Killian asked.
"That'd be Andy," Spurlock the guard informed them. "He watches too many old movies. But he means it. Drop your guns or both of you are dead meat."
Killian and Qwan looked around. The catwalks extended around the entire interior of the building. Qwan had seen the muzzzleflash of the second shooter at the north end of the building about twenty meters away, but had no idea where the first one was.
"Do it fast or we kill ya both!" the first shooter hollered.
Killian and Qwan looked at each other. Both were thinking the same thing. The second rule a cop any cop is taught their first day at the academy firing range.
The first rule is, never point a gun at anything or anyone you don't want to kill. The second rule is, never give up your gun.
Even if a bad guy has the drop on you, run for it and take the shot, because dropping your piece on the floor never improves the situation. It just makes for dead cops.
That's when Killian saw the red laser dot appear on Michelle Qwan's forehead. It meant one of the shooters had a scoped laser-lok and was homed in on her. And from the way she was looking at him, he had acquired one too.
"Last chance, piggies!" Andy, the second shooter shouted.
"Better do it," Killian said to Qwan.
Michelle Qwan had never given up her gun in 18 years as a cop. But the red dot on the side of Joe Killian's head made up her mind for her.
Killian and Qwan both dropped their pistols on to the concrete and raised their hands.
Spurlock grinned and scooped up Killian's .45, aiming for his head. "Goddamn... I've always wanted to off a fuckin' fed!"
"Not so fast!" Samarkand snatched up Qwan's Glock and aimed it at her. "I have a feeling that the lady I work for wll want these two very much alive."
"And what lady is that, Sam?" Qwan asked. "La Donia Scagnetti? Or Valerie Corder?"
"And does Joey Weskler know that you're moonlighting?" Killian added.
"Shut the fuck up," Spurlock growled. He spoke to Samarkand. "Look, you want these two alive? Fine. Cover me while I frisk 'em and cuff 'em."
"No!!!" Samarkand said quickly. "I don't know about the fed," he nodded at Killian, "But Qwan here is a certified lethal weapon..."
"Who me?" Qwan gasped.
"Okay, then we do it the hard way." Spurlock keyed the receiver on his handie talkie. "Spurlock here. Everybody, move in."
From the darkness and from behind crates and boxes, more security guards wearing the ISIS uniform appeared. And even though their uniforms where clean and pressed and they all had their ties on straight, they all looked more like thugs, goons and legbreakers.
Qwan counted nine of them, all swinging billy clubs or steel prybars. She and Killian edged closer together until they were back to back. The goon squad encircled them, moving in close enough for the two shooters to have to give up their target locks.
"Joe, the snipers..." Qwan whispered.
"I noticed," Killian hissed back.
"Okay, crew," Spurlock said. "You can mess 'em up, but don't kill'em."
"Can we fuck the slope cunt?" A bald-headed man-mountain in a uniform wondered aloud.
Spurlock looked at Samarkand. "Well?"
"You can give it a try!" Samarkand laughed as he stepped back with Slacker to enjoy the show. "I am sorry, Inspector..." He shrugged, still pointing her own pistol at her, "Fortunes of war!"
"I'm jealous," Killian said to Qwan. "Nobody wants to pork me..."
"Don't worry," Qwan answered. "They'll probably get tired of waiting in line for me."
"So, you really a lethal weapon like he said?" Killian asked Qwan over his shoulder.
The circle of goons closed even tighter.
"Wing Chun School of Kung Fu, third dan black belt," Qwan answered. "How about you?"
"When I was a kid in Brooklyn, I spent alot of weekends in a boxing gym," Killian said. "Sweeping up mostly."
"Well that makes me feel better," Qwan replied. "I was worried there for a second."
***