Taking the Highway

ANDRE TRAMPED CIRCLES AROUND the fountain at Perrien Park. Sofia was late. The evening exodus was all but over and it was long past time when getting a ride would be profitable. Besides, he didn’t have his badge at the moment, since he’d lent it to Jordan Elway this afternoon.

He activated his police implant, then thought better of it. He would look too much like a crazy guy talking to himself. He fished out his datapad instead, turned toward the fountain as if admiring it, scrolled through the directory, and blipped Sofia. [WHERE ARE YOU?]

[KEEP YOUR PANTS ON, I’M COMING.]

[DIFFICULT AROUND YOU. WE HAD A MEETING?]

[STUCK IN A LOSER MOB. FIVE MINUTES.]

Four and a half minutes later, Sofia parked her Banshee next to the fountain and got out. She pecked his cheek. “You drive.” She slid into the passenger seat and smiled at him.

Andre got in and the seat adjusted itself to his taller frame. Sofia fluffed her full skirt around her knees. With the skirt, she was wearing low heels and a button-up blouse. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and she was freshly made-up. “You look good.” He inhaled. “You smell good, too.” He started the ignition. “Where to?”

Sofia programmed their destination into the car’s companel. Once on the highway, Overdrive would alert him before the exit. She leaned over and sniffed his neck. “You smell like the city.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know. Food and people and traffic and money.”

“So, it’s good.”

“You smell busy.”

“I understand busy.”

“Yeah.” She turned and stared at the passing traffic.

Andre drove while watching her out of the corner of his eye. Sofia looked absolutely appropriate and professional, and incredibly hot at the same time. She also looked wrong. The skirt, the heels, the whole package screamed desk job, as if she were someone’s secretary rather than a Downriver cop. No wonder she hadn’t fought to lead the task force. Putting her into management had taken her off the street.

Andre followed the car’s directions to the nearest on-ramp, then looked at their destination again. “Not exactly the venue I had in mind for our meeting. What’s in Clarkston?” Clarkston was far north, the most remote area that still had Overdrive. Beyond that, he’d have to manually control the car himself.

“You’ll see.” Sofia traced the back of his hand with one finger.

Andre relaxed control of the steering wheel and eased off the accelerator as Overdrive took over. “So where are we on the case?”

“The profiler is done with the cross-ref on our dead guys, and it’s weird. All single, ages twenty to twenty-five, all college educated but no attachments. No grieving girlfriends or shocked neighbors. I talked to some of their parents. The most recent contact was three years ago.”

“No connection between them?”

“Carcassi and Ming were friends. We’ve established that much. Still trying to link the others.” Sofia moved her hand up his arm to the back of his neck and played with the hair at his nape. “How are you coming along?”

“A fourth mentioned something that got me thinking,” Andre said. Sofia’s hand strayed down to his lap and caressed him through his pants. What had Nikhil said this morning? Oh, yeah. “He wanted to know why nobody tracks fourths through their badges.”

Sofia’s hand froze on his crotch. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?”

“You’ve been working on this for three days and that’s all you’ve got?”

“I thought if we looked into—”

“You’re supposed to be infiltrating the union.” She opened his coat lapels and snaked her hands into his pockets. “Give me the cash.”

Andre wriggled as she poked his ribs. “What cash?”

“The money you’ve earned fourthing. Give it.”

“No way!” Andre caught her hand and removed it from his body.

“You’ve been robbing the police department. You were supposed to be putting time into the job.”

“I was! I gave you Hugh Ingersol. Have you even looked into his background?”

“Thoroughly. No mafia connections, no history of violence. Ingersol is a boy scout with a big mouth. Now give me the cash.” She reached for his pocket again.

Andre caught her hand and pulled. She ended up half-splayed across his lap and her skirt crept up her thighs.

“I’ve been working my ass off.” Sofia freed one of her hands and went digging into his pants pocket. “Mother Mad has dumped enough paper on my desk to insulate a house. Kosmatka has such a hard-on for the mafia I don’t know if he wants to arrest them or sleep with them, and you don’t even want to know what that econ guy is doing.” She came up empty with the first pocket and started in on the other.

Andre moved the seat back to give her more room, keeping his foot near the brake pedal. She wouldn’t find cash in his pants pocket, but it wasn’t really what she was looking for. Around them, Overdrive kept the maximum distance between cars, and as traffic thinned, they were soon isolated on the road.

Sofia lifted her head and her mouth found his. He kissed her hungrily, but kept his eyes on the road ahead, trying to be in two places at once. He caught his breath as Sofia lowered his zipper. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Sofia freed him from his pants. “You’ve never thought about it?”

Andre looked out the window at the dark and lonely road. “Were you planning this, or did this just come to you?”

For an answer, she lifted her skirt and placed his hand between her legs. She wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt and he cupped his palm over the neatly trimmed strip of hair, finding slick wetness beneath his fingers. He helped her unbutton her blouse, but he already knew she’d be braless. And he wanted her. Dangerous or not, foolish or not, bad idea or not. He needed her and he would have her, right here, right now. She smelled like heaven. Soap, perfume, and something a lot more musky.

The minimum-passenger notice flashed by in his peripheral vision like an omen he wanted to ignore. The fines for civilians without four passengers on the highway ran to thousands of dollars apiece. He wondered what the fines were for indecent exposure.

“Do you suppose our official exemption covers this too?”

“Why not? Life is hard for the authority figures.”

“Life isn’t the only thing.” He snuck a glance at the companel on the dash. “We’ve got about fifteen minutes of road before Overdrive runs out.”

Sofia licked her lips. “Then we’d better get to it.” She commanded the car to lower his seat so he could see nothing out the windshield but the globes of streetlights over the highway flashing and vanishing. Then she was on him, one leg thrown over his lap, straddling him, kissing his face, his neck, his lips.

“This is a very, very bad idea,” he murmured to her lips.

“I know,” Sofia said “But everybody likes a little kink.”

“This isn’t kinky.”

“No?”

“Kinky is what other people do.”

She smiled and moved against him, rubbing her slickness over him. She wanted him, and he was harder than he could ever remember, dying to have her.

“Sofia,” he breathed, trying to touch her everywhere. Some small, rational part of his brain told him that he was playing a very dangerous game. The car would not crash. Overdrive would not let it. The car might weave, it might decelerate, but it would not crash, no matter what he did or did not do. But things happened. They didn’t happen often and they rarely caused a problem, but what about a power failure or a detour or another malfunction? He needed to be alert to take manual control. Besides, they were in public. Far from the city on a nearly empty road, but public nevertheless.

And then she raised her nipple to his mouth and he couldn’t see and he didn’t want to see anything but her shape flashing with the racing lights, didn’t want to feel anything but himself entering her, pleasuring her. One small movement and he was inside. Sofia gasped and arched. “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, right there.”

He thrust upward as much as he could in the small seat. He reached around her, holding her tiny waist and pulling her onto him as he thrust over and over.

He was vaguely aware of movement outside the window. Had another car passed them? Unlikely. They would have plenty of warning to make their exit. He gave himself over to pleasure.

Sofia had both hands on the seatback and she bounced on his lap, moving for both of them. He was hyper-aware of her breathing, the sweat glistening on her brown skin, the rustling of her hair. The movement of the car and the movement of her body blended into one exquisite sensation. He wanted to explode in her, but more than that, he wanted to make her come. He reached between them, touching her.

Lights. Sirens. Warnings. Sofia stopped moving. The car cut speed and Andre’s eyes snapped open. Their exit already? He looked over Sofia’s shoulder through the front windshield.

Talic’s mint green Mustang was directly in front of Sofia’s Banshee, as close as the Overdrive-capable bumpers could be without touching. Talic had turned completely around in his seat to stare out the back window at them.

“What the hell?” Sofia was trying to twist, trying to see.

“Get off,” he told Sofia. All pleasure was gone and he tried to grip the wheel, tried to feel for the brake. “Get off, get off, get off.”

“I was trying to.”

He grabbed her under the arms and pushed her off of his lap. She landed half on the seat, half on the floor. “Jae Geoffrey Talic.” Andre leaned forward and canceled Overdrive control, grabbing the wheel and checking his blind spot. Exit coming up.

Sofia peeked over the dashboard. “Shit.” She ducked back down.

Andre cut across two lanes of traffic just in time to make the exit. “I take it you didn’t tell him about our meeting.”

“Hell, no.”

A beep as Sofia’s datapad automatically routed itself through the dash. “Don’t answer it!” they said at the same time.

“It’s him.” Andre stopped the car at the foot of the ramp. He checked his rearview. No one behind them.

Sofia pointed at the companel display. “No, it’s not. It’s Mother Madison.” She was back on the seat now, buttoning her blouse.

“Do not answer it.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Andre reached down, tucked himself back in and zipped his pants.

Sofia patted her skirt into place. “Do you think we’ll ever have this-is-a-good-idea sex?”

Andre gently took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I hope so.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the cars on the highway. How had Talic gotten in front of him? How was he always one step ahead? He curled his fingers into fists and pounded the steering wheel. He didn’t believe that Talic was smarter than he was, or had resources that he didn’t. It was a matter of degree. Talic was one part more determined, one part more ruthless.

Andre tromped the accelerator and turned the wheel, steering the car under the highway bridge. Talic was somewhere up there. Waiting.

It was happening again.

The last of the day’s sun on his face was unaccountably hot, the heat of a stifling attic, the smell of the zone from the vents just like the smell of that attic. He was brought back to dust, to rot, to the stench of failure. He was brought back to a late summer day three years ago, when carefully-orchestrated events had slipped out of his control.





THE STING HAD TAKEN months to set up. The final preparations had taken weeks, and Andre had been hidden in this attic crawlspace for two hours. Unwilling to sit in a pile of toxic insulation, unable to fully stand without impaling himself on the exposed nails in the beams above, he had to crouch in the airless attic. His legs had gone beyond hurt, beyond cramping, to some sort of transcendent ache that had become a part of him, as if the pain would stay in his body for the rest of his life.

He tried to shake a knot out of his right leg as he half stood and checked the remote feed from the hidden camera. He’d set it up himself after the tech department had ignored all of his requests. He hadn’t figured out how to put a motion detector on the camera, and the view was neither wide nor clear, but the resolution was good enough. From up here, he could watch and record everything that happened at a small but very important slice of property across the street. His camera was focused on the most famous address in the oh-zone, the mansion that belonged to Sufek Reem.

While other houses in the area were mere carcasses, Reem had taken over a six-bedroom manor that was built in 1927 and lovingly restored it to its former glory. The leaded windows, the art deco stained glass, and the gas lights on each fence post were finer than the originals, paid for by the addictions of others.

And when the profits from glaze weren’t enough, Reem had branched out beyond drugs into prostitution, protection schemes and contract killing. He was responsible for eight murders that the public knew of, and probably more that they didn’t. He ruled the Chandler Park section of the zone like a medieval prince, collecting tithes from his peasants, passing out punishments and largesse in equal measure, living above the law because he was the law.

Andre pinched his nose to stifle a sneeze. His eyes watered from the effort and he turned his head to either side, wiping them on the shoulders of his shirt. He caught a tangy whiff of his own nervous sweat, then pulled his head away and inhaled a lungful of dusty air. He checked the camera again. The Vice squad should have been here by now, dragging Reem out of his house with overwhelming force.

Dead air across the street. He couldn’t even see Reem’s security guards. He risked looking away from the camera to check his latest messages. His datapad’s front page showed a stream of old text. Nothing new. Where the hell was Vice?

A crash above his head almost made him drop the pad. Another heavy thump, followed by scraping and under-the-breath swearing. At least two people stood on the roof above his head. The crumbling ruin across from Reem’s house had seemed like the ideal vantage point. But what was ideal for him was also ideal for the Vice squad. Andre turned to the camera and focused on the viewer. Three people in riot gear moved into position around Reem’s house. The flickering gas lights obscured their features and from this distance, he couldn’t discern race, or even gender.

Footfalls boomed into the attic room and Andre prayed the people on the roof wouldn’t crash through the damaged boards and land in his lap. He could hear bags unzipping and mumbled conversation. It sounded like one man and one woman.

[ATTENTION. ATTENTION.] Andre was straining so hard to make out the conversation above his head that it took him a moment to understand that the signal was not coming through his ears, but through his phone implant. Lieutenant Quigg’s voice reached him next. “Where are you?”

Andre lifted a sweaty finger to the point just behind his ear and sent a single pulse. It wasn’t an answer to Quigg’s question, but what could he do? Quigg would have to be satisfied with simple affirmation.

But of course, he wasn’t. “I know you’re in the zone. What do you think you’re doing?”

A double pulse this time. Negative. Andre could hear insistent whispers above his head, which meant the people on the roof could hear him. A single word, a misplaced grunt, even moving around too much would compromise his position.

Through the camera, he saw a black-clad figure scuttle across the lawn and duck into a corner of the low brick wall that marked the boundary of the lawn. The night was still, the house silent. Was Reem even in there?

Quigg’s voice boomed through the implant. “I asked you a question, LaCroix. I expect an answer.”

Andre disconnected the call and took one last look at Reem’s yard, then frowned down at his datapad’s screen. Too bad he couldn’t look through the camera with one eye and focus on his datapad with the other. He sent Quigg a quick blip. [MONITORING A SITUATION.]

Quigg’s return blip was almost immediate. [WHAT KIND?]

[SUFEK REEM.]

[DROP IT. WE DON’T STEP ON VICE’S TOES.]

[ATTENTION. ATTENTION.] Another call came through his implant, the bland computerized voice somehow sounding more insistent, as if Quigg had programmed it for urgency.

Andre cut it off. He sent another blip. [THEY ARE NOT ARRESTING REEM.]

[ORDERS SAY THEY ARE.] Quigg answered.

[PRETENSE FOR AN EXECUTION.]

A longer pause. Stillness across the street, silence above his head. The hot, airless attic felt like a tomb. He figured Quigg was considering his words, forming a response. Six months ago, he’d probably say that Andre was off his rocker and call him in for a disciplinary hearing. But that was before drug kingpin Amos Farrad had died in a stand-off with police, before the incident just two months ago, when another dealer had killed himself while in custody.

Both incidents were easy to explain, both came complete with witnesses and ballistics tests and probable cause and other things DAs liked. Would anyone really miss a piece-of-shit dealer from the oh-zone? But from where Andre stood, it looked like the Vice squad had made the easiest of all possible leaps—from wanting glaze dealers off the streets to wanting them dead.

Vice had made Sufek Reem a priority because his influence was leaking out of the zone and into the suburbs, even the city. What happened in the zone stayed in the zone—or else. Andre wondered which was the worst of Reem’s crimes, dealing drugs, or not knowing his place?

A new blip from Quigg. [WHY DIDN’T YOU REPORT THIS?]

Andre ran his hand down the side of the datapad, leaving a shiny streak of sweat. He wanted to talk to Quigg, see his face, hear the tone of his voice. If he knew exactly how pissed his boss was, he’d know exactly how much to grovel, exactly what to say to get Quigg on his side. He’d never broken the chain of command before. He hoped it was worth it.

Worth it or not, he had to do it. Someone on Vice had been desperate enough to come to Internal Affairs, to rat out fellow officers, to do the right thing. Someone so scared that he stayed anonymous. Andre couldn’t let that person down. His informant knew Andre was here, knew he was recording. He wouldn’t let them kill Sufek Reem. Not today.

A soft step above his head, and the sliding noise of something being dragged. No movement across the street. Maybe they were they still setting up. He looked down at his pad and blipped Quigg. [I HAVE AN INFORMANT.]

[WHO?]

[CAN’T SAY.]

[DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO IT IS?]

Andre reached for his implant, then dropped his hand. Quigg was too far away to help him. If he spoke, he’d be revealing his position for nothing. Maybe it was all for nothing anyway. The word of one Internal Affairs cop against an entire Vice Squad, all on the back of a nameless informant. But above his head, in the yard, they were gearing up for something big. He had to stop them. [MY GUT SAYS THIS INFO IS GOOD.]

An even longer pause from Quigg. [DO YOU TRUST YOUR GUT?]

[YES.]

[GO.]

Andre exhaled a noisy breath and then jerked his head upward, listening. Silence. They hadn’t heard him. He shoved the datapad in his pocket and looked through the camera.

Across the yard, under the archway that framed the wide porch, the mansion’s front door stood open. Two black-clad officers disappeared inside, while two more took up positions on either corner of the house.

One person turned and looked across the street, his face glowing in a corner spotlight. Talic. He had two first names, neither of which Andre could recall. Talic circled his arm above his head and tapped fingertips to the top of it in the long-range signal for “I’m okay.” If asked, he could say he was alerting the snipers on the roof, although he had no reason to wave. They could see him just fine.

It wasn’t the snipers he was signaling.

So, Talic was the informant. Interesting, since Talic himself was under investigation for the Farrad murder. Andre would think about that later. Right now, he needed to be sure that Sufek Reem got out of his house alive. Talic’s anonymous blips had promised that they’d arrest Reem in his front yard, in full view of the camera. That was the deal—everything witnessed, everything recorded.

The officers returned, shuffling out the door as they maneuvered their captive through it. Reem’s graying dreadlocks fell across his face as he shuffled along, head down, back bowed. Andre felt his cheeks lift as a grin spread across his face. Somehow, they’d gotten past the bodyguards, past the alarms, and had convinced Reem to surrender peacefully.

The party reached the edge of the porch, and Talic joined them. Reem was still cooperating, still allowing them to steer him along. The DA would be thrilled—she’d been itching to work her way up the glaze-dealer food chain, and Reem was as good a start as any, better than most.

Andre turned away from the camera and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees. Finally, he’d get out of this crypt and stand upright on the ground. He hesitated, then rushed back to the camera.

What had he just seen? By now, the arresting officers had reached the middle of the lawn, shadows surrounded by shadows. He scanned the yard, the fence, the house. There—coming out the front door. Two young men, t-shirts straining across their muscled chests, weapons at the ready. Andre almost shouted, warning the snipers on the roof. Before he could, Talic’s team had surrounded the bodyguards, disarmed them, and were hustling them away.

The officers moved everyone to the side of the house. Odd, since they hadn’t cuffed anyone yet. Odder still since he was sure their vehicles were parked in the opposite direction. Did they really trust their captives not to bolt? Could the snipers even see from that angle? He moved closer to the camera and tried to adjust the focus, straining to see around the corner.

He heard it all at once, in stereo, from above and below. Movement on the roof, shouts from Reem’s yard, shots and footsteps and screams of pain. He couldn’t see any of it.

He scrambled to the trapdoor and flung it open. He slid down the ladder and fell hard on his backside. His numb legs wouldn’t hold him. He beat his fists on his thighs, trying to get feeling back into them. Sharp pins pricked his skin as his legs woke up.

He tried to stand. Failed. He crawled through the second floor hall and scooted down the stairs to the first floor on his ass. His legs were still rubber, but by the time he reached the door, he could at least remain upright. He opened the front door a crack and slithered through it.

Across the street, they’d shot out half the spotlights, and the yard was ribboned in shadows. Andre pulled his Guardian from the holster and eased himself onto Reem’s property in a patch of darkness. He circled to the side yard, crouched behind the waist-high wall and peered over the top.

It was over. He was too late. Reem lay on the ground, bleeding, not moving, probably dead. Two more bodies slumped in the grass. The bodyguards seemed even younger up close. Were they Reem’s sons? His nephews? The three Vice cops plus the two snipers all stood in a loose semi-circle, weapons at their sides, breathing heavily, looking out into the street. Waiting.

Reem twitched and moaned. Nobody moved to help him.

Andre vaulted the wall and rushed forward, only to be tackled from behind. He went to his knees, sprawling forward and sliding across the grass. The Guardian flew from his hand. He found himself face down on the ground, chewing dirt, an armored body on top of him.

Talic’s voice was a harsh whisper in his ear. “You don’t think I have friends in tech? They told me what you wanted. They told me they wouldn’t do it. You don’t put cameras on cops.”

Andre spat out dirt and caught his breath. He hunched his shoulders, trying to twist out from under Talic. “Get the f*ck off me!”

He could hear murmurs and footsteps as the other armed officers gathered around them. Andre pressed his face into the cool grass. His resolve bled out and disappeared.

Talic must have felt him relax because he moved off and stood. “Sorry about that, man,” Talic said, loud enough for his fellow officers to hear. “I thought you were a local.” He held out his hand to help Andre up.

Andre rolled to his back and got to his feet, ignoring Talic’s outstretched hand. He took two unsteady steps and retrieved his Guardian from the lawn. He glared at Talic while jamming it back into its holster.

He twisted his head to look at Sufek Reem, who had long since fallen silent. No movement, no breath. His eyes were open and glassy, staring at nothing.

Talic lifted his rifle and secured the strap across his shoulder. “You want some advice?”

“From you? No.”

“I wouldn’t be asking tech for favors anytime soon.”

Andre shook his head. Like anyone in IA could ask for favors. Most of the guys he’d graduated from the academy with had stopped talking to him.

The cops still stood in a circle, two of them with their weapons trained on Reem and his bodyguards, as if they would suddenly stand up and start fighting. Andre traced the length of Reem’s body with his eyes, taking in his sandals, his diamond ring, his bloated face. He hoped for some pity, something to mix into the anger he felt at Talic, at the Vice squad, at himself. But it felt hollow. One less glaze dealer. One less zoner. He wondered if he’d feel differently if Reem were a citizen. That thought bothered him more than Reem’s death. Being a cop was hard enough. He didn’t want to live in a world where he was judge and jury too.

He spat out another mouthful of grit. “You could have arrested him, made him give up his suppliers. Your case was tight. He’d never walk.”

Talic shrugged. “He resisted.” Amused agreement rippled through the rest of the Vice squad. Andre looked from one to the other, forcing them to meet his eyes. All these men and women in kevlar and kincloth, carrying assault weapons, not one of them with a single scratch. He turned and looked at Reem on the ground in shorts and a t-shirt, his unprepared bodyguards at his side, one of them barefoot. How much could they have resisted?

“He shot first,” one of the younger officers insisted.

“Really.”

Talic walked away, motioning Andre to follow. He turned the corner into Reem’s front yard. “I can prove it. He pointed across the street to the attic where Andre had been hiding. “Actually, you can prove it. Thanks.”

Andre stared at the missing chunk of siding where he’d set up his camera. Talic had screwed him to the wall, making sure he was present at Reem’s execution so that Quigg wouldn’t be. Andre’s sting had gotten him less than nothing—he was now Talic’s witness, his recording with its inconclusive perspective the only record. He’d only cemented Talic’s position.

Talic waved at the camera, again touching fingertips to head in the okay sign.

Andre clawed at his holster, whipping out the Guardian.

Talic ducked away, arms up. “Whoa, whoa.”

Andre ignored him, took his stance, and fired. It was far for a short-range weapon, clear across the street and three stories high, but he hit his target on the first shot, leaving a very neat hole where his camera used to be.

Talic stood upright as Andre holstered the Guardian. He closed his mouth, pursed his lips, and shrugged again. “Makes no difference. If the biggest glaze dealer in Detroit wants to suicide-by-cop, I’m not going to stop him. One way or another, he needed to be taken out.”

“And you’re the hero who did it.”

“Somebody is.”

Andre nodded. “Which makes me the a*shole for insisting you do it legally.”

“Here’s some more advice,” Talic crossed his arms over his chest. “If I have to choose between hero and a*shole, hero wins every time.”