Taking the Highway

THE NEXT MORNING, ANDRE walked to his usual fourthing stop, the parking lot of a bowling alley a kilometer from his apartment. He chucked his empty orange juice bottle into a recycling bin and checked the time. Six forty-five. Early, but not too early. He usually waited no more than ten minutes for a ride, earning the hate of the first-rush leftovers. If he was without a ride at seven, he would go home and pick up his Dodge Raven, speeding past this same fourthing stop on his way to work. Some of the losers would still be standing there, hoping for a car that would never come.

He assessed the five men already waiting. All five dressed well, stood straight, and acted indifferent, as if a ride would be nice, but they didn’t need one. They were perfect, and Andre knew without a doubt that they had been standing here for a long time. Since the Overdrive crash, pickings had been slim. Traffic once again flowed normally on 96, but Andre estimated that overall highway use was down at least twenty percent, maybe thirty.

His datapad vibrated for attention, and his hand automatically dove into his pocket, bumping against the Challenger key. It was funny. The key to the Raven, the car he drove every day, was a flat card tucked away in his wallet. Never touched. He rarely even looked at it. But the key to the Challenger, which he never drove, was always in his pocket, getting in the way of other things. Still, there was no way he was leaving the Challenger key at home. Ever.

He reached past the key, lifted the datapad from his pocket and accessed the display. Damn it, not again. He did an about-face and walked away from the fourthing stop. To miss a possible job was bad, but to be caught with an open datapad while he was supposed to be fronting up for a ride was unthinkable. To ignore a call from his mother? Impossible. When he was far enough away, he answered the call, keeping his back to the other fourths.

“It wouldn’t kill you,” Mom started. “It’s just inconvenient. Of course, you don’t want to be bothered.”

Which obscure relative’s birthday had he forgotten this time? Someone important, since it was barely dawn in Arizona. Mom sat by a window, the soft light making her white hair glow. He raised his eyebrows at her. “I’m sure it wouldn’t kill me, but since I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“Of course you do. Your brother.”

“My brother wouldn’t kill me?”

A dramatic sigh. How did she do it? Mom had lived in America her entire adult life and hadn’t lost a trace of her accent. She even sighed in French. “He wants to kill you, sometimes. That’s what brothers say. But he does not kill you. No. He’s a good son. He calls his mother.”

“I call you.”

“Of course you do, darling. You and Oliver are both such good boys.”

Andre turned his body ninety degrees and scanned the parking lot out of the corner of his eye. Two new guys already in place, eager for rides. Cars slowing, choosing their fourths. He turned back to the pad. “Is this about Oliver’s fundraiser?”

“You say you will go. Then you say you will not. Your brother calls me, hurt.”

“Hey, Mom, how many politicians does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

“What do you mean by this?”

“None. He gets his mother to do it for him.”

“This joke isn’t funny, Andre. Mettre de l’eau dans son vin.”

“No! He’s the one who has to tone it down. I was doing my job, trying to help people, I had a head full of police chatter, and he wouldn’t shut up about his stupid party.”

“Oliver loves you and wants you there.”

“If he really loved me, he’d let me stay home.” Both of the new fourths had accepted rides. The bowling alley’s lot was down to five, the same five that had been standing there when Andre had arrived. He wondered if he should try to get his mother off the phone or just give up and go get the Raven. “No, if he really loved me, he’d invite me to a good party, with people he actually liked, with no agenda other than having fun. How come Oliver never gives that kind of party anymore?”

A new car slowing down, creeping up to the lot. A window lowered, a choice made, and one of the first-rush losers actually got a ride. It was one of those miracles that gave the other leftovers hope. It was the reason they stayed. If Andre got there now—right now—the next ride would belong to him. Five minutes and it would be too late. “Mom, I have to go.”

“Oliver will be so happy.”

“No, I mean I have to disconnect.” It was always this way. His mother—in fact, her whole generation—could talk on the phone for hours. About anything.

“So you will attend the party?” Mom clasped her hands in front of her neck. “Shall I tell him?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“A bientôt.”

“Salut.” Andre cut off the phone and hurried to the lot, slowing his pace at the edge and strolling into it. He didn’t need a ride today, and he wouldn’t act as if he did.

Cars passed. Green, blue, yellow. A white Octave Quartet pulled all the way into the lot and cut its engine. The other fourths shied away, but Andre held his ground. The bowling alley wouldn’t open for hours, and he could make out three passengers in the vehicle. These people needed a fourth, they just didn’t know how to get one. He straightened the license badge on his lapel and approached the car.

The Octave’s window slid down and he made a split-second assessment. Thirtyish woman in front, hair in a ponytail, casual clothes. The man driving—her husband?—also dressed for a day off. Andre peeked into the back seat. A little girl, smiling at him. A gap in front where her baby teeth had fallen out and the new ones hadn’t come in. His proposed fee shot skyward. Nobody brought their kids unless they were desperate. A licensed fourth was perfectly safe, but not something most parents were comfortable putting in the back seat with their child.

“There and back?” he asked.

“Sure!” the driver answered, too quickly, too friendly.

“Three sixty.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Andre hopped into the back seat as the mom dug through her purse. She pulled bills out of an envelope and handed them across the top of the seat.

Nine of the twenties went into his tailored inner pocket. He returned the other nine. “Ma’am? You pay me the other half on the way back.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem. I’m Andre.”

“Pleased to meet ya.” The dad stretched his hand over the bench seat and shook. He turned to his wife. “See? A fourth.” He brandished a pad. “Can I scan your badge?”

Andre offered his badge. A scan would list his full name, eligibility, and clean record. It would also register in the database as a pickup, which meant taxes.

“So, where are you folks from?”

“Chicago.” The dad put the car into gear and exited the parking lot, heading toward the highway. “We’re in town for a week.”

Tourists. Andre had heard of such things, but had never ridden with them himself. Tourists usually stayed in the city, being too well-fed and entertained to want to leave. He’d been hired by out-of-town business people, too cheap to pay downtown hotel rates, but never anyone who stayed in the suburbs for fun. He put on a happy face for them. “You having fun so far?”

“We went to the Jackson Chihuly exhibit at the State Museum yesterday. We had dinner at Losts.”

“You don’t have Losts in Chicago?”

“No! And Lauren loved it!”

Andre had to assume that Lauren was the child, not the wife. None of them had introduced themselves. He wasn’t expecting a business card or an e-handle, but an exchange of first names was customary.

“It took us forever to get to the museum,” the wife added. “We’re staying with my sister out here. So today I insisted we take the highway.”

“We almost didn’t,” the husband said. “After the crash, the glitch or whatever. But they say it’s fixed.” The husband waved one hand above the steering wheel. “I mean, the governor came from Lansing and everything.”

“The monorail would take you right downtown,” Andre said.

“We’re on vacation. We’re in Detroit.”

“Of course.” They were stupid for driving their own car. Too bad he couldn’t tell them that. He had to be what the carpool wanted, even if they didn’t know what that was. He glanced at the kid, who was still staring at him. None of his usual jokes worked at a seven-year-old level. Politics was out. Fashion, sports, music? He could amuse little Lauren very easily by talking about the Town Brothers or doing his Emma Dink impression, but the parents heard that all day. A fourth had to do better.

They entered the highway and a flickering auto-banner admonished them, Pool is the Rule! along with a warning of steep fines for minimum passenger violations. The husband eased off the accelerator and let the car find its cruising speed.

“Where are you headed?” Andre asked.

“We’re going to the Castle,” Lauren said, bouncing in her seat.

Of course. No one could come to Detroit without visiting the Castle. The games alone could occupy a family for the entire day before they even got to the petting zoo or the night market. Some people didn’t bother to pay the admission fee, content to stand outside and watch the exterior holographs change the building’s appearance through a rotating series of famous landmarks—from Himeji to Neuschwanstein.

“You know they open at noon, right?”

“What?” the wife squawked. “They’re not open twenty-four hours?”

“Not after Labor Day.”

She reached over and smacked her husband on the arm. “I told you!”

Lauren closed her eyes and slumped against the door. “You mean we got up early for nothing?”

Andre shrugged. “Lots of places for brunch in the New Center.”

The mom glared at her husband, who kept his eyes on the road, even though the Overdrive system was taking care of that. “We ate a huge breakfast.”

“You could visit the Pier.”

“We did that yesterday.”

“Shopping?”

“Michael hates to shop.”

“You could see the Heidelberg Project.”

“We did that on Monday. We’ve been everywhere.” The mother sighed. “This is our last day in town and we wanted to spend it at the Castle.”

“Mom,” Lauren whined. “What are we going to do?”

Andre looked over her head at the passing traffic. All around them, four-adult carpools were laughing, working, listening to music, drinking coffee. How many of the cars contained fourths? How many of the fourths wouldn’t be here at this time next week?

The bitter smell of burning tires wafted through the car as they moved through the last bit of the oh-zone. Something was always burning in the oh-zone. Both sides of the highway were strewn with garbage, dumped there by people who insisted on living someplace uninhabitable.

Then they were through and everything was soft and green and shiny, as if they’d been transported from Kansas to Oz. Trees lined the highway, maples glinting neon orange in the morning sun, surrounded by still-green grass. The buildings grew gradually taller, like stair steps leading to the city center.

Andre returned his attention to the job at hand. There were other things he could suggest. These people hadn’t been everywhere. Not in a week. He walked through a mental map of the city. Eastern Market, The Motown Museum, Autumnland.

Lauren pointed out the window. “There’s a Java Jungle. Can I go play there?”

The wife looked at Andre. “Is it different here?”

He spread his hands. “I have no idea.” Andre usually thrived on shaping his social interactions and a wild, unscripted conversation like this should have given him a thrill. Any other day, and he’d make it a point of honor to deliver the perfect half day of entertainment. He’d make this little family’s whole vacation and they’d go home telling all their friends about their adventures in Detroit.

He shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. Everything was wrong about this carpool. He wasn’t into them and they weren’t into him, and the awkwardness extended far beyond them being tourists, or having a kid along. He didn’t care about their morning plans. He didn’t care if they hired him for the return trip. He didn’t care if they pushed him out the door and drove back to Chicago.

He settled in his seat, and felt the butt of the Guardian dig into his left armpit. It wasn’t the tourist’s fault. It was his. He’d been on the clock from the moment he’d stepped into the bowling alley parking lot. He might as well just flash his shield at this family and demand a ride to police headquarters, where he could hand Captain Evans all the cash he’d earned this morning, because he certainly hadn’t earned it fourthing.

He sat up straight and leaned forward. “Ah, ah, ah. You missed the exit.”

“What do you mean?” The husband pointed to the dashboard navigator. “It’s not for ten more—”

“That’s the exit to the Castle. You have to drop fourths off at the very first Cityheart exit.”

“But how are we supposed to—”

“Surface streets.” Andre spread his hands helplessly, hoping the guy would buy it. What are you going to do? “New regulations. The city council voted on it last week. Let’s see. The next exit is Warren Avenue. Drop me there and I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you.” The husband punched in a new exit number and prepared to take manual control at the end of the ramp.

“Don’t mention it.” And thank you for bringing me right to work. Andre directed him to Perrien Park on Grandy Street. He left the car, then leaned in for a final word. “You’re probably going to stay at the Castle pretty late.”

“Until Lauren collapses,” the wife said.

“There are always strays downtown at night and the later it gets, the cheaper they are. It shouldn’t cost you more than fifty to get back to the suburbs. I’ll find my own way.”

The family drove off and Andre sat on a bench near the fountain, soaking up its ions. He watched two more cars slow and discharge fourths. The first took off walking at a fast clip. The next couldn’t seem to leave the car, the laughter and the “just one more” pulling him back. The fourth finally gained the sidewalk, and the car’s occupants shouted their goodbyes and see-ya-laters.

Andre looked around to make sure that nobody was watching, then flipped open his datapad, cupping it in his hands so no one could see that he was checking the stream. He kept his head up, pointing to the street, and only moved his eyes downward. He skipped over the departmental business, figuring anything truly important would come through his phone implant. He scanned down to the box marked “social.” Wallingham was celebrating his promotion and invited everyone to the Pen tomorrow night. Dubnar wanted sponsors for his 10k run for Slopes disease. Delandra Kelso turned fifty today. Andre made a note to stop by Kensington’s on his way in. Del-Kel loved those muffins they made, the cranberry nut ones bigger than her head.

He opened his other inbox. Blip after blip, most of them a list of locations, fourths telling other fourths where they were. It was a way to meet up with friends, make connections, or just shout into the world that you existed. Andre blipped his own location. He was on his way to work and didn’t have time for a single cup of coffee, but nothing was lonelier than a fourth’s day downtown. If he could ease that for someone, even if it was nothing more than an electronic high-five through the ether, then it was worth broadcasting his whereabouts.

A pale green Mustang slowed, then sped up and continued around the corner. Andre frowned. Hadn’t it passed once before? Come to think of it, he remembered seeing the same car back at the bowling alley.

He sent Jordan Elway a blip, glad his favorite tech was working for the task force. [NEW MUSTANG. PALE GREEN. PERRIEN PARK. ANYONE WE KNOW DRIVING?]

He frowned at his pad and Elway’s almost immediate answer. [YOU KNOW I CAN’T DO THAT.]

Technically he could, but Andre knew that can’t meant won’t. He played a hunch. [LIMITED TO MAYOR’S TASK FORCE MEMBERS?]

[OKAY.]

A list scrolled across his screen, all six members of the newly-formed task force, make and model of any vehicles registered to them, license plate numbers. Halfway down the list, Jae Geoffrey Talic was listed as driving a Ford Mustang. No color mentioned, and the license plate wouldn’t do Andre any good unless he saw the car again.

He clicked in his phone implant and direct-dialed.

“Yeah,” came Talic’s voice.

“Get off me.”

“LaCroix?”

“Quit tailing me.”

“I’m not tailing you.”

“Newish Mustang? Color of one of those mints you get at weddings? I saw it three times. Your lid is off. Go home.”

“What if I’m your backup?”

“No you’re not. Your lid is off.”

“Shut up, man. You think I like this detail? I hate it as much as you do.”

Andre clicked off the phone, pocketed his datapad, and strode away. Whose asinine idea was it to give him backup? Sofia’s? Now he had to ditch Talic before he could get any work done.

He paced to the other side of the fountain, head down, arms swinging, feeling the morning sun on his neck like a spotlight of police scrutiny. Not too long ago, he would have considered Talic’s tail a compliment. Backup used to swell him with pride—proud to give it, and even prouder to need it. Backup meant the officer was doing something important, even dangerous. It would be watched and approved of by a whole team.

But Talic’s actions felt less like approval and more like a test. Andre had tested other cops when he worked Internal Affairs and he didn’t appreciate being on the other side of it now, especially from a self-righteous prick like Talic. He patted the tailored pocket of twenties he’d earned that morning and walked toward Warren Avenue, intending to duck through an alley, but stopped short when his datapad’s alarm signaled a priority blip.

He grabbed it and held it at reading level, heedless of how he looked. He’d programmed his pad to make an audible alarm in only two situations, neither of them good. Either his phone implant was malfunctioning, or somewhere very nearby, a fourth was in trouble.

[FIT. BOB MASTERSON. WHITE BMW. APPROACHING PERRIEN PARK. FIT.]

Andre stowed the datapad. He was obligated to respond to a Fourth In Trouble if he was nearby, and this one was practically on top of him.

The geo coordinates were next, but Andre didn’t need them. He reversed his steps and half walked, half ran back to the fountain. Bob Masterson was more a friend-of-a-friend than someone he actually knew, but he was still shocked that Bob needed help. Bob was the best fourth he’d ever met. The man had regulars. Andre had a hard time imagining a situation so bad that Bob Masterson couldn’t charm his way out of it.

But if Bob wanted witnesses, then he needed them, as many as possible. Who better to apply social pressure than society’s most manners-conscious people?

At the plaza fountain, Andre turned in a slow circle, scanning the street. He didn’t know which direction Bob would be coming from, although the west would be most likely. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two more fourths desperately searching the approaching traffic.

Andre waved to the other fourths. He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then out to positions opposite his own. They nodded and took up points covering the north and south sides of the plaza. Andre took the west. Gray Lexus, Purple Octave, Gray Ford. No white BMW. Where the hell was Bob?

A summoning whistle from the south side of the fountain brought Andre running. He did the geometry in his head, overlapped with a mental map of the city. Commuting in from the south wouldn’t take you anywhere near Perrien Park. The utter wrongness of the situation tightened his breathing and upped his heartbeat.

By the time he got to the car, half a dozen fourths stood in a loose oval around the BMW. All were distance-familiar in the way that fourths were, but Andre didn’t know any of them by name. The odds of this many fourths being close enough to respond were miniscule. He couldn’t imagine the size and power of Bob’s network. But maybe he could. It wasn’t much different from cops responding to an officer down. If he were in trouble on the job, every police officer in the city would try to help.

The fourths loomed but did not threaten. Silent witness. Pressure. Often, that was enough. The driver of the car, a middle-aged woman with severely teased hair and dark eye makeup, took one look at the assembled fourths, threw a few bills over the seat, and pointed to the door.

Bob bent over to pick up the cash, then tumbled out to the sidewalk.

The fourths surrounding the car hadn’t moved, and Andre signaled the ones in front to hold their ground. “You okay, Bob?” he called out.

“Sure, great. Thanks.” Bob’s long, blond bangs had flopped over his face. He pushed them back and slicked his hands along the short sides. He straightened his floral tie, which had gone crooked in whatever dispute they’d had in the car. Even his wingtips were scuffed on the edges and Andre wondered if he’d been kicking the seat. Bob looked at the bills in his hand before frowning, shrugging, and shoving them in his pants pocket.

The frown told Andre that the money wasn’t enough. Probably less than half the amount they’d agreed on. The shrug and casual acceptance said that Bob felt lucky to get even that much.

Setting his expression in its most neutral, pleasant lines, Andre tapped lightly on the window.

The driver lowered it a fraction. The man next to her, slightly older and much fatter, had gone red. The man in the back seat stared at the floor. The driver showed him a smug face. “Yes?”

“Let’s see what we can do to get you out of here as quickly as possible.”

“Would you kindly tell these fourths to move? Taking the surface streets the rest of the way is going to make me late enough without being hung up here too.”

“How much did you contract for?”

“Fifty,” she answered, while the man next to her said, “Two twenty.”

“We paid him fifty,” the driver said. “More than he deserved. This was hardly an entertaining trip.”

“Excuse me?” Andre said. “You’re downtown. He did his job. Two twenty.”

The woman looked at the fourths surrounding her car, frowned at Andre, then tilted her eyes upward with a heavy breath. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She reached into her purse and Andre instinctively shied back, but the driver only pulled out a trio of twenty-dollar bills and fed them through the window. “There! Can we go now?”

“The contract was for two twenty.”

A murmur went through the crowd of fourths. Bob sidled up to Andre. “I think we should leave it alone,” he said softly.

Andre kept his face impassive. Allowing his frustration to crack through would tip the balance in the driver’s favor. He’d made himself the spokesman for this group, but what power did they have? He could solve this in seconds by flashing his police credentials, but there was no way to show his shield to the carpool without showing it to the fourths—fourths he needed for information.

Andre stood his ground. “You owe this man one hundred ten more dollars.”

“Nobody pays in full in the morning. I am not going to pick him up again.”

“If you don’t pay this man, you’re not picking up any of us. Did you notice how fast we all got here? Fourths talk to each other. Pay now, or your little carpool is going to be driving through the oh-zone for a long, long time.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all. I’m just telling you how it is.” Andre motioned for the other fourths to step away from the car. He spread his hands and waited.

“No. This isn’t right.”

“Claire!” the man in the back seat yelped. He reached into his suitcoat, took out a wad of cash and lowered his window. He thrust the money at Bob. “Here. Take it. Can we go now?”

Bob folded his hand around the bills and they disappeared into his pocket. Claire put the BMW into gear and shouted “Whores!” out the window before driving away.

Bob watched her go, then shook Andre’s hand. “Thanks, man.” His grip was firm, but an uncomfortable dampness stuck their palms together. Nervous sweat. They’d really gotten to him.

There were handshakes, pats on the shoulder, and congratulatory wishes from the others. A few of the men spoke to Bob, promising to have lunch soon. Then the fourths dispersed as quickly as they’d arrived. The FIT was over, nothing to see here, time to move along.

Bob shook his head a miniscule fraction, before smiling at Andre and backing off a step. “That is so solid, what you did for me. I didn’t think I’d see a penny. Hell, I wasn’t sure I’d live.”

“What happened?”

“It was smear the queer day.”

“That’s faked.”

“I know, but it was an easy hook to hang a robbery on. If it hadn’t been that, I would have been too tall or too white or they wouldn’t like my tie.” Bob looked out to where the BMW had driven off. “I don’t suppose you got the license plate number?”

“Of course.” It had been the first thing he’d noted. “GBDD2127.”

Bob took out his datapad with an apologetic look.

Andre averted his eyes. “Come on, man. Put it away.”

“I have to try.” Bob cupped it in his hands and keyed in the information.

“I don’t care about the tech, I’m saying it won’t do any good.” A fourth’s database of suspect cars was a great idea, but nobody would whip out a pad and cross-check a car’s tag before accepting a ride. Not if he wanted to keep riding.

Bob stowed the datapad with a sigh. “I should have known better than to get in that car. There was something about it. The men were too twitchy and the driver never bargained. And women—”

“Always bargain,” Andre finished the sentence with him. “So why’d you do it?”

“It was already late second rush. The lot where I wait was full of guys.” Bob spread his hands and raised his eyebrows.

Andre clapped him on the back in sympathy. “Yeah.” Bad luck could strike even first-rate fourths like Bob. That thought, of Bob’s experience and expertise, led him to another. Bob knew things. More importantly, he knew people. Time for some fishing. “Do you think things would be better if we had a union?”

“That’s what we’re working for.”

“Let me guess, you’re in the movement.”

Bob quirked an eyebrow. “All the way up.”

“Can you get me into the next meeting?”

Bob waved a manicured hand back toward the fountain. “After the way you handled that FIT, there is no way you’re getting out of it. Come to tomorrow’s meeting. You know the Bank of America on Wilson Street? Nine o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.” Here was his chance. Bob had made fourthing a lifestyle. Bob was in the union. If anyone was threatening fourths, Bob would know.

“Can you tell me . . .” Andre trailed off as a green Mustang circled past them, then nosed in at the curb half a block away. “Damn.”

Bob followed his gaze. “What?”

“I have to go. Catch you later.” Andre flipped his middle finger at Talic and rushed through the narrow alley between a Jinwon department store and a bank. He came out the other side, saw a Kensington’s across the street, and dashed through the door. Even if Talic circled the block, he wouldn’t know where to find him.

He patted his pocket to make sure the bulge from his datapad wasn’t visible and smoothed his hair over his ear. Kensington’s was a no-tech zone, and he didn’t want to get kicked out for using a phone implant. He watched out the window for five minutes, and when he didn’t see a green Mustang, he joined the line and ordered a cranberry nut muffin to go. Del-Kel would be pleased.

Outside, he didn’t see a single green car.

Talic was good. He was only seen when he wanted to be seen. For some reason, he wanted Andre to know he had a hot tail. Until Andre knew what the reason was, losing Talic once only meant there would be a next time.





“MOVING TARGETS?”

“Okay.” Andre smoothed the closures on his body armor, wondering how SWAT could stand wearing this stuff all the time. He supposed impact-weave was like anything—do it long enough, you get used to it.

At least he wasn’t wearing a ridiculous kin-cloth suit like Danny Cariatti. The suit acted as light-duty body armor, but man was it ugly. No matter how you tailored it, it had an unmistakable sheen, broadcasting to the world that here stood a cop. If the suit hadn’t given Danny away, the bloated pockets would have. He always said that when you’re training for the street, you dress for the street. So Danny carried all of his police paraphernalia into the target range while Andre looked and felt like a ninja.

Danny punched in his passcode for the second sublevel. The only sense of movement in the lift was the indicator. The stillness was unnerving in contrast to what was about to happen. “Random spacing?”

“All right.”

“Surprise targets?”

“How bad you wanna lose?”

Danny laughed. “I handed you your ass last time.” He punched in his passcode again, this time for the door, and looked up for the retina scan. Lights glowed green and menus appeared. “I guess if you’re not up to it . . .” He hesitated with one stubby finger poised above the screen.

Andre sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

“You did it to yourself, you know. If you’d gotten here last week—”

“I’ve had stuff to do.”

“And I don’t? Some of us have our cases and yours, too.”

“That wasn’t my choice.”

“I finished all the paperwork on that Riverwood killing. You’re welcome. I got myself to the range last week, too. Twice.”

“Fine.” Andre unfastened and refastened the velcro at his collar. “Surprise targets.”

Danny selected the program and waited for the calm voice to direct them to range door seven. Warning signs admonished them to stay behind the yellow safety lines of the chamber. The graphics were frighteningly realistic and training accidents had occurred. The lieutenant took target practice very seriously and his jocular manner vanished as they approached the door. It blurred and writhed and became the entrance to a seedy apartment.

“The usual wager?” Andre asked, his voice intentionally normal.

A terse nod from Danny as he drew his weapon. All business. He tapped the barrel against the peeling wood.

Andre raised an eyebrow. “You should get out more.”

“Concentrate.” Danny made little waggling motions with his gun. “The captain could review this.”

He was right. Andre unholstered his Smith & Wesson Guardian and checked the load indicator. It was full—thirty Trufly rounds. He tapped the laser sight on and the red dot appeared on the floor. He tapped it off. Danny never used the dot-sight during range practice. It was one of the few pieces of tech he disdained, saying that it was one thing to let a computer ease your way, quite another to let it make decisions for you. Andre bookended the thought with a matching irony. The smart-fire feature of the Guardian was something Andre liked but, when he shot with Danny—which was most of the time—he did without.

“You ever clean that thing?” Danny asked.

“My weapon,” Andre answered, “is freshly cleaned and spotless.”

“Try not to shoot me with it. I might catch something.” Danny kicked open the door, went low through the opening and angled right with a smooth grace he rarely displayed in any other situation.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Andre clucked. He slid through the door and went left.

The room looked larger than Andre knew it to be, with too many deep shadows. The subsonics that the range used to create the tension and unease of reality hovered on the threshold of consciousness, amping up their nerves. While the descending elevator had conveyed the illusion of motionlessness, the range was the antithesis of stillness. Everything seemed in motion, malleable, changeable. The safety line pulsed across the walls and floor.

He and Danny were usually well-matched. Maybe Andre could distract him. “Did I tell you Talic is on the task force?”

“Talic from Specials?” A figure appeared from the well of darkness in the corner, holding a shotgun raised in Danny’s direction. The glint of bared teeth on the face of the man, a tight smile. A duet of pings as they both shot at him. The shotgun was supposed to be an older model—louder than their service weapons. It jerked up and spat fire at the ceiling. Andre focused his concentration as two more figures appeared, darting to either side as if to flank them.

Danny chose to crossfire. Andre dropped to one knee to emulate him, but not before his own target got off a single burst of automated fire. He watched the target fold and collapse to the floor, and waited for the flash of red that would indicate he’d been hit. Nothing. The computer had missed.

“Lucky,” he breathed and raised his voice. “So what do I do?”

“About Talic?” Danny led them off down a simulated corridor, peering ahead into the flickering light.

Andre covered him and followed. “I don’t trust him.”

“You still holding onto that Internal Affairs thing? It’s been what, three years? If Talic was still pulling shit like that, someone would have nailed him.” The doorframe ahead showed someone looking and ducking. Danny trained his weapon low, waiting. “You fix what you can fix, everything else you let go. You had no evidence.”

The targets came out of doors both right and left. Andre tagged the left in the shoulder and it spun into the hall. Danny one-shot his target and then finished Andre’s.

“Hey, get your own!”

“I did.”

Andre nudged him aside. “If someone higher up wants to close a case, I can usually let it go like a fart in the wind. But something like this—”

They were suddenly busy. Figures with evil smiles and the oily glint of half-glimpsed weapons boiled out of the shadows. He missed. Danny hit. He hit. Danny missed the figure at the far end and Andre nailed it.

The corridor was clean. “I’m telling you,” Andre heard breathlessness in his voice and forced himself to take a slow inhale and let it out evenly. “Talic has someone covering his ass. You don’t think it’s strange that I blow a big case and then get promoted to Homicide? Even you said it was sketchy at the time.”

Danny’s eyes didn’t leave the target area. He elbowed Andre. “You can’t have it, you know.”

“Have what?”

“A replay. You can’t undo what happened three years ago.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Andre’s finger twitched against his trigger guard. He scanned the corridor. Where were all the goddamn targets?

“Listen,” Danny said. “You can let that hair lay across your ass sideways forever or you can forget about it, but you can’t undo it.”

“This is not about the Sufek Reem case, okay? This is not about before. This is about right now. I’m trying to interview an informant this morning and I see Talic, playing shadow.”

“You requested backup?”

“What do you think?” An official Request for Backup could be very routine, but it was always well-documented. Only Internal Affairs could covertly surveil another officer without reprimand. “Talic tried to play it off like I was the one blowing cover.”

“He talked to you while you were in position?” Danny’s still searched the shadows restlessly, but he was chewing at his upper lip. “Did you file a Breach?”

“You’re the only one I’ve told.” A Breach of Protocol form was serious. Maybe more serious than he wanted to handle. One form filed and the cold war between Andre and Talic would immediately go hot.

Danny inclined two fingers at Andre, then waved them ahead.

It was Andre’s turn to lead off and he took another deep breath. Calm. Calm and keep it quick. The next corner opened out in both directions and Andre caught Danny’s nod out of the corner of his eye.

Andre duck-looked left, back to wait, duck-looked right—target!—back. There was a shot and the flash of a holographic bullet a few centimeters from his head. He flinched and Danny spun around the corner and dropped the gunman. Andre shook his head to clear it and followed. The distance spacing was supposed to be random, but so many of these were up in his face before he knew it. He wondered if Danny, knowing Andre was better at the long-shot, had fiddled with it. He dismissed the idea at once. Danny, cheat? Not likely. Targets loomed out of every shadow of this new and crowded room and after missing once—losing another to Danny, he caught himself aiming.

No. Don’t aim at a target. Look at the whole room. See it all. The target is part of the whole. He fired, pivoted, fired again, the Guardian taking one target after another as cold certainty swallowed the adrenaline panic of his nerves. The chaos of the room resolved into a slow-motion dance where the targets seemed to appear wherever he happened to be pointing his weapon. Brass casings showered onto the floor with a barely registered chiming and Andre’s feet slid forward in a trained shuffle to keep from stepping on them. The holographics were gruesome, but even the spatters of immaterial gore and piercing cries of brief pain made his stomach churn only in a remote area of his consciousness. The tiny numerals below his gunsight counted down. 15. 14. 13. 12.

Motion from the corner—”Safe!” Andre cried, jerking his gun at the ceiling. The figure was an old woman with a cat cradled in her arms. Her eyes widened behind gold-rimmed spectacles and she darted back into her simulated apartment.

More targets. More gunfire. More death. 3. 2. 1.

The single remaining target grinned at them from behind the figure of a teenage boy with wide and eloquently frightened eyes holding out his hands in a plea. Andre caught a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision—Danny flanking to the left. The figure clutching the hostage shifted ever so slightly as if to keep his eyes on Danny, and the curve of his head was silhouetted.

Andre fired his last shot into the shadow space above the killing grin. When the head snapped back in reaction, Danny fired into the torso, leaving the hostage figure standing clear and unscathed. It waved cheerily and vanished. The safety line expanded to fill the room and a disembodied voice spoke around them. “Reload to continue program.”

Danny raised his eyebrows. “Nice finale, partner. Another set?”

Andre let out a deeply held breath. The chill calm that had settled over his mind had burned away in the abrupt cessation and he became aware of the sweat soaking his skin beneath the impact-weave. His stomach knotted with deferred tension and his wrist ached from fighting the recoil of the Guardian. He leaned against the wall and sank to his haunches. He safed his weapon and returned it to the holster against his ribs.

Danny secured his own gun and squatted beside him, his brow furrowed. “You okay?”

“I just need a break.” Andre stood and turned for the door while Danny checked the scores.

“Sonofabitch.”

Andre swung back and looked at the board. He had won by seventeen points.

“I owe you a dollar.” Danny pointed to the breakdown. “You scored bonus on that ‘safe’ call.”

“I should give it to Talic,” Andre said.

“Talic?”

“See the whole.” Andre found a laugh. “He was on my mind and I was remembering a lecture I heard him give during weapons training. ‘Don’t aim,’ he said. ‘See it all.’“

“Good advice,” Danny said cautiously.

“You mean, you think I’m not seeing it all.”

Danny held up a hand. “Hey, I didn’t say that. But maybe Talic was ordered to tail you by someone with more juice. Who did you say was running your task force?”

“Sofia wouldn’t—”

“Yes, she would, if she thought you needed babysitting. It’s the same action either way, but since you hate Talic and you like Gao—”

“I don’t like her! She’s . . .” Andre shook his head, unwilling to continue. He unholstered his weapon again and pulled the spent clip.

“She’s what? Hot? Smart? Too good for you?”

“Annoying.” Andre slid the second clip into the Guardian and watched the display scramble back up to thirty. “She’s the most by-the-book cop I’ve seen. She makes you look like a slacker. Plus, she thinks that being a Downriver cop makes her tough.”

“Is she?”

“Is she what?”

“Tough.”

“I doubt it.”

Danny gestured to Andre’s weapon and cocked his head toward the now-closed door. “You sure you don’t want to go another round? Work out your shit?”

Andre weighed the gun in his hand against the sweat sticking to his back and the swirling confusion in his brain. “F*ck that.” He shoved the Guardian back in its holster and jumped into the elevator, casting a last look at the target range door. “My shit is worked. If I ever need to kill more people than that at one time, I quit.”