Taking the Highway

SIGNS ON BOTH SIDES of Oakwood Boulevard warned that there was absolutely no parking at Greenfield Village today. Tourists had their choice of a half a dozen offsite lots, from which shuttle busses ran continuously to the September Spectacular car show. As Andre drove down Oakwood Boulevard and then doubled back, he glimpsed Greenfield Village’s lot right by the street, half full. He could bet that it was being used for employees, security detail, and the VIPs who were even now inside the museum enjoying the kickoff to the economic summit.

He turned into the entrance, slowing for the patrolman who waved him to one side. The guard was one of those fifty-year olds who would proudly wear the uniform until retirement. Andre lowered the tinted window and the patrolman moved in.

“I’d recognize your heap anywhere, Danny. That thing’s so old it should be over in the car show.” He straightened and backed off a step when he saw Andre, his eyes suddenly cold. “No parking here.”

“Plenty of spaces,” Andre said. “I’m sure there’s one for Lieutenant Cariatti’s vehicle. He’s right behind me. Should be here any minute.”

“No parking,” the patrolman repeated. “At all.”

Andre kept both hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead. “Watch your foot.” He laid on the accelerator, moved past the outraged patrolman, and found a spot at the end of the row. If it were his own car, it would be at risk for a tow, but Danny’s would be safe. The patrolman would posture and yell, but in the end, he’d let the Jeep stay.

Andre got out and looked for Officer Friendly, but the patrolman was tied up with another vehicle that had also tried to enter the lot. He waved both arms until Danny nosed the Octave in and parked alongside.

Andre returned the Jeep key, then worked his way out of the ill-fitting kincloth jacket and tried to return that, too. Danny smoothed down the lapels of his newer, shinier, coat. “Keep it. That’s my old one.”

“You said it was your lucky one.”

Danny shrugged. “Kept me alive a lot of years.”

Andre put it back on and moved his shoulders, trying to make the jacket look like it might possibly fit. Maybe he could think of it as a disguise. He wouldn’t pass as a fourth in something this hideous, and not even a cop would dress this badly. As stupid as the kincloth looked, he had to admit he felt safer with it on. It wouldn’t stop a bullet at point-blank range, and would part easily for a knife or a shiv, but it might take the energy out of something small shot from far away. It was better than nothing.

Andre looked past Danny to Nikhil. “Did you call Topher?”

Nikhil nodded. “I did what you guys told me. I kept him on as long as I could. It was about two sentences before he cut me off.”

“Visual?” he asked Danny.

“He’s here. Standing next to a sign that said ‘service entrance.’“

Andre swiveled his head to look at the vastness that was the museum complex. “Has to be a dozen of those.”

Danny pointed at a single-story building surrounded by topiaries and oversized pots of yellow mums. “Yes, but I know Lovett Hall when I see it.”

Of course. No place better to show off the beauty of Detroit than at the city’s most elegant reception hall. Andre had been inside it exactly once, at a holiday party for his father’s company. He remembered starched linens and tuxedoed waiters. Glittering crystal everywhere from the ceiling lights to the candle holders. The business leaders, mayors, and governors would love it, and it would look great on video. He shook his head. “There is no way we’re getting into that party.”

“No, but neither is Topher.”

Andre nudged Nikhil. “Blip him.”

Nikhil took out his datapad. “And say what?”

“Tell him you’re here and you need to talk to him.”

Nikhil tapped keys. Waited. He looked at the screen and sucked in his breath.

Andre grabbed the pad out of his hand and read it.

[DON’T FOLLOW ME. YOU ARE SO USELESS.]

Andre typed. [YOU NEED WHAT I HAVE. I CAN GET YOU INTO THE PARTY.]

[HA. MADISON Z ALREADY KNOWS I’M HERE.]

“Shit,” Andre said.

“What?” Danny and Nikhil asked at the same time.

Andre turned the pad around so they could read it. “We need to get to Topher before he gets into bed with Madison Zuchek.”

The quickest way to Lovett Hall was directly through the tangle of classic cars on the museum complex’s front lawn. As they made their way through the maze, Andre risked a glance at the brick and white clock tower. Five-fifty. Would he get Topher in time? Even with Topher, could he make the trade before six? He forced rising panic down into his gut. Eyes forward, head on straight. He had a job to do. A single task. Worrying about what Talic would do later was useless.

As they reached Lovett Hall, Andre instinctively shied away from the windows. It was dim in there, brighter out here, and he didn’t want to be seen. His face was probably already on more security cameras than he could imagine. No need to make it worse.

Danny and Nikhil hovered with him behind a three-meter topiary. “How do you want to play this?” Danny asked.

“If Topher sees me, he’ll rabbit.”

Danny jerked a thumb at Nikhil. “What about him?”

“I can do it,” Nikhil said. “I can do it, Uncle Andre. I’ll distract Topher while you grab him.”

Andre looked at Danny. “So, I’m thinking you’re going with Nikhil.”

Danny nodded. “The service entrance is on the right side of the building. You break left and we’ll give you a head start to get around back.”

Andre grabbed Danny’s arm. “Don’t—” He swallowed, tried again. “Topher’s life is Oliver’s.”

“All I’m going to do is keep in him in one spot. You flank him from the other side and he’s ours. We arrest Price-Powell, you arrest Talic, Oliver will be fine.”

Andre nodded. He tugged the hideous jacket into place and pointed to Lovett Hall. “Saddle up, cowgirls. Let’s ride.”

Andre looked around the topiary, but the security guards for the party were already inside. He strolled to the building, head up, looking for hidden cameras, but nowadays, anything could be a camera. He hoped that any cameras here were not monitored, instead simply set up to record evidence to be used later in case of a problem. If he got to Topher in time and convinced him to go quietly, there would be no problems.

Rounding the corner put him in a narrow corridor between a windowless side of the building and a brick wall taller than he was. Someone stood in the darkness, sniffling and grunting. Not a cop. Not security. The guy looked like he was caught on something. “Hello?” Andre stage whispered.

“Andre?”

“Oliver!” Andre rushed toward his brother.

Oliver looked like a man coming off a three-day bender. His tie and hair were askew, his eyes wild and frantic. His left wrist was circled with a bright-orange zipcuff. The other end was fastened to an electrical box bolted to the side of the building. He tugged harder. “Get me off this thing.”

Andre patted the pockets of his borrowed jacket until he came up with the cuff cutters. He freed his brother with a single snip. “What happened?”

“Talic! You can’t reason with him at all. He’s a block of ice. Why would he—”

“He doesn’t want you!” Andre said sharply, the realization hitting him like a gut punch. If Oliver—and therefore Nikhil—had become unnecessary, then Talic had found better prey. Andre grabbed Oliver and gave him a shove, pushing him behind his back. “Stay close. Go.” He rushed around the side of the building, holding out a hand to put the brakes on Oliver at the corner. He peeked around it before going forward.

The area behind Lovett Hall was a manicured garden, empty of people. Greens and reds and yellows blurred by as they rushed through it to the building’s other side. At this corner, Andre dropped to his knees before poking his head around the wall.

Too late. He was too damned late.

It was over in a blink, and yet the seconds stretched themselves into a series of strobe-light snapshots. Topher standing with his hands in the air. Talic using a catering van for cover. Danny trying to throw Topher to the ground. The whine and pop from the gun. Nikhil yelling. Topher running. Danny clutching his shoulder and going down. Talic swearing. Topher gone. Blood. Danny’s blood.

Before Andre could even get to his feet, Talic had rushed forward to grab his next victim. Andre rounded the corner and skidded to a halt when he saw Talic’s large-barreled gun pointing at Nikhil. Talic waved it in Nikhil’s face before grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. “Now,” he whispered to Nikhil. “Walk backward very slowly.” Nikhil did as he was told.

“No, Talic!” Oliver said. “Don’t do this.”

Talic jerked his head. “Until you bring me Topher, this kid is mine.” He looked down at Danny. “F*ck, why’d you take a bullet for that punk?” His eyes snapped toward Andre, his expression that of a lifeguard whose rescue ring has been thrown back.

Danny didn’t answer. Or maybe he did, but the thrum of the officer-down alarm washed through Andre’s head like waves over a sandcastle. He lowered the volume, then lowered again, shaking his head.

Talic and Nikhil vanished around the side of the building.

Andre dashed to Danny’s side. His shoulder was a bloody mess. The kincloth had slowed the bullet some, but that caliber at that range probably broke his shoulder and did who knew what damage. He grabbed Danny with both hands and tried to push the sides of the wound together. Was that right? Or would he only push the bullet in deeper?”

Danny batted him away. “Unless you’re going to lay down on this pavement and bleed with me, you’re going to go get that f*ckwit.”

Andre stood and gripped Oliver’s lapels. “Make sure this man gets help. Do you hear me? Pull every string you have. I don’t care if I owe you for the rest of my life.”

“I won’t leave his side. For God’s sake, go.”

Andre released his brother and dashed to the front of the building, looking left and right. By now, Talic would already have Nikhil in a car. So where was it?

The shriek of tires drew his attention and he watched Talic’s green Mustang leap the curb and hum toward the exit. He ran toward it in the vain hope that he could catch it in time. There were other cars leaving too, but he measured the distance in his mind and knew he’d never get there before the other cars made a hole for Talic.

He had no car of his own. Danny’s Jeep, parked in the VIP lot, was a sprawling greensward away, the key with Danny back at Lovett Hall. Andre’s thoughts jumbled with the police chatter in his head and the still-resounding thrum of the officer down signal as he took one step forward, then turned back toward Lovett Hall, then spun and moved forward again, like a wheel that couldn’t get traction. Damn it! Thinking did no good here, but neither, it seemed, did action. How was he even going to follow Talic, much less get around him?

Then he saw his salvation, sitting proudly under an awning, with nothing between him and it but a little bit of lawn and a token security guard.





THE SECURITY GUARD ASSIGNED to the Challenger looked about Nikhil’s age. He was dressed in period costume—tight jeans and an oversized shirt and weirdly short jacket. His blow-dried hair flopped into his face. He stood head and shoulders above Andre, but even behind the hair, his eyes widened at the sight of the gun.

“I don’t have time to explain,” Andre said. “This car is mine and I’m taking it.” He held up the key with his left hand.

“I don’t think so.” The guard reached into his jacket. Andre set himself and watched hands. But the younger man only pulled out a very modern-looking datapad. “Panic button on. This entire area is in lockdown. Even if you could take the car, you’d never get past the gate.”

Andre batted the pad away with one quick move. Another step forward and he had the Yavorit tucked under the security guard’s chin. “That’s for the cameras,” he said. “You did everything you could to stop me.”

“Everything,” the kid squeaked. “I tried to stop you, man.”

“I’m about to elbow you in the gut. Make it look good, okay?” He gave the security guard a harder punch than was strictly necessary, and the kid went down and stayed down. Andre pushed the button on the fob to unlock the door. He shot into the driver’s seat and inserted the key, twisting it to fire up the engine, starting in his seat when it exploded. He’d forgotten how loud the Challenger was.

It was even louder when he spun the wheel, tromped the accelerator to the floorboards, and roared off the dais. He didn’t turn sharply enough at first—the steering wheel took a lot of effort—and then he overcompensated and clipped the edge of the tent before straightening himself and heading toward the exit. The ridges in the steering wheel fit his fingers perfectly and helped him keep the solid grasp he needed. He held on, terrified and exhilarated at the same time. The vast expanse of hood bulged at the sides like the muscles on a runner’s thighs and he peered over it looking for pedestrians to avoid. If the gate was shut, he’d have to cut across the flat plain of lawn, through the walking paths. After hours, there weren’t many people between him and the street, but those who remained seemed confused by the sight of a gas-powered car actually moving, and either ambled aside or stood rooted to the spot, mouths open. An older couple tried to approach the car, and he had to jink the wheel to avoid them, laying on an angry blast of horn.

An insistent ping echoed into the car, but no voice told him what was wrong or what he needed to do. A sharp corner reminded him. Seatbelt. He steered with one hand while grasping for the restraint with the other. He fumbled for the latch and finally got it secured across his shoulder and hips. A few more turns and he made it through the display area, speeding out onto Oakwood Boulevard.

Now it was just him and the other cars. He saw brake lights flare in the traffic ahead of him and glimpsed a flash of a green Mustang darting across yellow lines. He barreled up the left-turn lane, diving into the oncoming lanes twice to go around other cars. The surge of the accelerator traveled up his body as he hit the gas.

Through his implant, he could still hear the furor back at Greenfield Village sorting itself out. He ignored everything until he heard that Lieutenant Cariatti, injured in a single-shooter incident, was now being transported by ambulance while the area was secured. Then came the report of a red Dodge causing havoc on Oakwood, but the report hadn’t even identified the car as a gasoline model and had him going in the opposite direction. There was nothing on a green Mustang and wouldn’t be unless Talic deliberately called attention to himself, which, of course, he would not.

Worse, the confusion tying up circuits would work to Talic’s advantage. No matter where he went or how fast he drove there, the priority would be protecting the government and business bigwigs at the economic summit party. No one would care about a cop who left the party early as long as the VIPs were safe and happy.

Andre pressed his thumbs and fingers onto the underside of the steering wheel, wondering what he thought he was doing. He was in an antique car, barely street legal, that he had no right to drive. He couldn’t even claim half ownership. He wondered if Oliver would be angrier that his little brother was driving the Challenger or that he’d taken it away from the show.

Andre swerved to avoid clipping the bumper of an Octave, unnerved by the lack of warning. He was too used to proximity sensors alerting him to hazards like that. He couldn’t afford to get a single scratch on the Challenger. Yes, it could be fixed. Dents could be hammered out, scratches buffed, engines rebuilt. Whatever the insurance company wouldn’t handle, they could fix themselves. But it would never be the same. Dad’s handprints were all over it—his work, his time, his vision of automobile perfection. One infinitesimal scratch and Dad’s vision was gone forever. One dent and he might as well scrap the Challenger for parts.

He slammed on the brakes to skid into a turn and slammed just as hard on that thought. No matter what, he had to think about Nikhil. He had to set aside his doubt that he would catch Talic in a fifty-year-old car, or his worries about what would happen when he did.

He came to the Southfield Highway and took his foot off the gas pedal. Had Talic gone here or—there. Still southeast on Oakwood. But the left-turn lane had vanished. Andre leaned on the horn, grateful that the next light was with him. Flashing the headlights and using the horn, he blasted up the dashed white line between the rows of cars with centimeters to spare on either side. The old-style rear display—nothing more than a mirror pointed toward the back window—showed a scene like a swath cut in a cornfield, cars scattered to either side behind him.

Talic’s car moved right as it descended beneath the overpass. He was getting on the highway. East on 94. Talic had to know something Andre didn’t, or had some kind of plan.

The green car vanished from view. Andre signaled to the right and moved without looking for a space. The on-ramp began beneath the dark bridges of 94 and ascended in a rising loop that pressed Andre against the driver’s side door and made him wonder, queasily, how well the Challenger’s restraint system worked. They’d had crashbag technology at the turn of the century, but it was still in its infancy. There was no airweb here, only a three-point harness and a single airbag.

Rotating alarm lights flared on both sides of the on-ramp as Overdrive picked up the non-equipped Challenger entering the highway. Police would be notified. Fines would be levied. Patrol cars would chase him down.

In the meantime, Andre was a ghost the system could not track or control.

As he merged into the rushing flow of the highway, it didn’t seem any different from a self-controlled surface road. No telltale flicker of Overdrive lights, no softly modulated voice quietly reminding him that his car was now part of the system. But it wasn’t. He wasn’t.

He gripped the wheel, feeling the rush of cars on every side. He’d had little trouble controlling the Challenger on surface streets. But the highway? Computer-assisted cars drifted in and out of lanes, any one of them able to cut him off or even ram him because the computers monitoring the system couldn’t see him. The proximity sensors should prevent crashes, but it took two to make it work with any kind of effectiveness. At these speeds, he could be right on top of another car before its sensors could see him. He’d be playing bumper cars in no time.

His only hope was to open up space around the Challenger. He had to see hazards in time to avoid them. He stomped the gas and caught startled looks with his peripheral vision. He wondered what the people on the road with him thought when they heard the roar of the Challenger’s engine and smelled the reeking exhaust he was leaving behind. The happy nostalgia of seeing a classic car meant nothing if the car was about to plow into you.

The green car moved out of sight, still in the fast lane, but a few seconds of chase brought it into view again. Talic was just cruising now, perhaps not realizing he was being followed. Andre felt a laugh welling up. He felt so damn conspicuous in this bright red car with its acre of hood and rocket engine.

Apparently Talic thought so too. He must have caught sight of the Challenger in his rear display because one moment, the Mustang was there and the next it had dipped between two freight-haulers and was gone. Andre swore and moved in. He rode the ridge onto the raised right shoulder to be sure Talic didn’t take an exit and lose him. He wondered if Talic would use the upcoming interchange with 96. There was the green car, hovering between two minivans. It disappeared left.

Andre tried to follow, but slashing across that many lanes involved a dodge-and-weave that cut way too close to neighboring traffic. He could bet that the proximity sensors were screaming in his wake, and in the end he only managed to change lanes three times. That would have to be enough. There was nowhere for Talic to go on the left—unless he was going to use an Official-Vehicle-Only turnaround—damn! Andre cut sharply left, and saw traffic slow around him as the other cars sensed an obstacle. He moved one more lane and hit the brakes on instinct, gritting his teeth as the Challenger almost ate the Mustang’s tailpipe.

“Shit,” he muttered, trying to get his breathing under control. Too close. Way too close. He could have completely wrecked the Challenger, not to mention injuring and possibly killing Nikhil.

Talic had already pulled away and across several lanes. Andre hit the gas and peeled out after him. Talic had been going for the turnaround. Now he couldn’t and he would fly on the highway as long as he could, letting Overdrive help him, while Andre—a woefully inadequate driver invisible to a powerful system—did all the work.

But perhaps he could get Overdrive to do some of his work after all. He changed lanes yet again, the tachymeter needle jerking toward the redline as he struggled to catch up. He positioned himself right behind Talic’s Mustang. Talic was stuck, hemmed in with cars in front and to the left, nothing but shoulder to the right, where Overdrive would not let him go. Someone driving his own car would weave, preventing Andre from coming alongside. With a computer in charge? Not happening.

Andre waited for his opening. One kilometer passed. Two. Traffic thinned as they neared the edge of the city, offering him a shot. He popped left into the next lane before Talic could.

And then he started. Nudged the wheel right so that the Mustang’s proximity sensor would force Talic right. Then right again. Not too much and not too suddenly, or Overdrive would take over and either slow Talic down or speed him up and get him into a safer lane. Andre had to prevent that. He matched Talic’s speed and made sure his right front tire was next to Talic’s left rear one. Over. A little more. A little more. And there was an exit. He herded Talic’s car onto the ramp like cattle into a chute.

He felt an absurd gratitude for the brake pedal as he gave it a gentle push and slowed the car. Adrenaline made his mouth dry, and his fingers tingled as if they’d been iced. His panting breaths filled the car as he finally had a chance to see where he was. Telegraph Road. Heading toward the worst part of the zone. Talic could skirt it by turning left. But the light was with him and he took a sharp right instead, then straight for a single block, then another turn, and they were fully in the zone.

No other traffic. People scattering into hiding at the sight of two well-kept cars.

No witnesses.

The rubble in the road was an obstacle course, but Talic didn’t let much slow him and not for long. He took several more turns, left and right. Smart. Talic was too damned smart. His Mustang, designed for higher speeds and quick maneuvering, took tighter turns than the Challenger. As long as Talic kept turning, Andre would fall back. His palms were slick on the wheel, his swollen right hand barely hanging on, but he didn’t dare adjust his grip. He had to stop Talic and stop him now.

Talic slowed to under fifty KPH as he reached a straight stretch of road that was littered with the burned-out husks of former automobiles. Many had parts spilling out into the roadway and Talic had to weave between them. Andre nosed closer, and then almost alongside.

“This won’t hurt,” he told the Challenger. “Much.” Making unspoken vows to personally hammer out any dents, he turned the car sharply right. He put his front bumper between Talic’s rear bumper and rear tire. He tugged the steering wheel and hit the gas. Talic’s smaller, lighter car spun out quite satisfactorily.

And then smashed itself into the steel frame of what used to be a pick-up truck.

Talic was on the brakes the moment he lost control of the vehicle, but it wasn’t enough to stop the momentum. In a juddering wail of overheating tires, crushing plastic and squalling steel, the cars came to a halt in a gaudy T, the back of Talic’s car a ruined mess. Airbags had popped out all over the front of the car, but not the back, where the impact must have destroyed the airweb mechanism before it could deploy.

Andre’s chest felt cut in two from the shoulder harness. He unlatched it and dragged himself out from under the seatbelt and around the door, staying low. He drew his gun and aimed it over the hood of the car. The Challenger had suffered three deep dents, plus one nasty scrape at least a meter long, probably from Talic’s bumper.

The bigger problem was staring him down from behind the other car. Talic aimed at him over the Mustang’s trunk, his Smith and Wesson Guardian looking like a tunnel.

“Nikhil!” Andre yelled. No answer. “Nikhil!”

“Unconscious.” Talic sounded breathless and harried. “Bleeding.”

Andre felt the sweat leaking down his ribcage. If Nikhil was bleeding out, he wouldn’t have much time. There was no way to trigger an emergency alert—the Challenger was far too old to have a screamer. Would Talic’s car do it? If I hadn’t clipped him so hard, if I’d watched where I was going, if I hadn’t . . . if I hadn’t . . . No matter how he clamped down on that thought, the self-blame kept spinning through his head. He couldn’t fix things as long as Talic held a very loaded, very lethal weapon on him.

“Let him go!” Andre yelled across the three-meter expanse between their cars. “Nikhil is nothing to you.”

“But he’s everything to you,” Talic said. “I still want Price-Powell.”

“So do I. But not like this.”

“Ah. So you do see things my way. We simply disagree on methods.”

“I’m sure that’s not all we disagree on.” Andre used his left hand to steady the Yavorit in his swollen right one. “What does it matter? Topher Price-Powell is long gone.”

“He’ll never leave,” Talic called. “Not until he gets what he came for.”

Andre brandished the Yavorit. “Give me my nephew.”

“So this is it,” Talic said, his voice remarkably calm. “You want to shoot me. This is where you’ve drawn your blue line. Right here.”

“That depends, Talic. Depends on where you draw yours.”

“No one can take back a bullet fired.”

“I know. You taught me that. First-year weapons training.”

“Your partner—”

“Danny. You shot Lieutenant Danny Cariatti.”

Talic dropped his gaze and ran a hand along his jaw. “And is the Lieutenant . . .”

“He’s okay.” Andre blew a breath through pursed lips. “Stupid, but okay.”

“He’s more than okay,” Talic lifted his head. “You be sure to tell him that.”

Andre slowly, carefully lifted both arms in the air. He turned the Yavorit in his hand and lowered it to the top of the Challenger. He let it go and took a step backward.

After a moment, Talic holstered his Guardian and showed empty hands. He looked at Andre under wrinkled eyebrows, as if he hadn’t quite seen him before. Then he nodded. “What now?”

Andre holstered his gun and moved to the side of the Mustang. Through the open door he could see Nikhil half off the seat, eyes closed, blood welling from a nasty-looking gash high on his forehead. Talic had cuffed his wrists to the floor ring, leaving Nikhil almost completely unprotected in the crash.

Talic was leaning in from the other side where the window had stress-shattered into rounded safety beads. “Don’t move him.”

“A dead hostage is no good to you.”

“The ambulance will be along soon. My car called for it the moment you ran me off the road.”

“You didn’t cancel it?”

“No.” Talic pointed to the car’s companel, where the display counted down the time until the ambulance’s expected arrival. Six long minutes, and that was if the ambulance driver would agree to go into the zone at all.

“I wouldn’t move him,” Talic said. “He could have a neck injury.”

Andre ignored him, patting the pockets of his borrowed coat until he found Danny’s cuff cutters. He removed the zipcuffs from Nikhil’s wrists and laid him prone on the seat. Nikhil groaned, which Andre considered a very good sign. One of his arms seemed wobbly, dislocated or broken in the crash. The gash on his forehead was oozing blood. “Hold on, buddy,” Andre told him. “Just hold on a few minutes.”

[ATTENTION! ATTENTION!]

Andre frowned and reached behind his ear to acknowledge the page.

The computerized voice of the AI dispatcher came through his implant. “Sergeant LaCroix, please report to the mayor’s office.”

Andre could tell from Talic’s rigid posture that he was receiving the same summons. What was Zuchek playing at?

He clicked in. “Detective Sergeant LaCroix is currently suspended from the Detroit police force. Detective Sergeant LaCroix will not be responding to official police messages at this time.” He clicked off and shut down the implant.

Talic gave him a shake of the head and a breathless whistle. “You got some steel-plated gonads.”

Andre held up one finger. Wait for it. His datapad vibrated in his pocket. He picked it up and looked at the display before answering. “May I help you?”

Mother Mad was in some kind of floral dress—probably a ball gown—her hair and makeup flawless. She sat in front of a bank of windows overlooking the city. She must have left Greenfield Village as soon as she missed her meeting with Topher and was now back at her office. She sneered into the camera. “I don’t care where you are or what you think you’re doing, but sometime in the next ten minutes, I expect to see you on the twentieth floor of the New Building.”

“That’s going to be difficult,” Andre said.

“It will be more difficult if you don’t.” She snapped off.

Andre stowed the pad and looked at Talic, eyebrows raised.

Talic shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I have to.” Hell, if he could prove half of what he knew she’d done, she’d go away forever.

“Don’t,” Talic repeated. “The considerations here are beyond the rules of law.”

Andre clawed in his jacket, whipped out the Yavorit, and aimed it at Talic’s face. Talic’s eyes widened as he raised his hands.

“You know what’s above the law, Talic? Nothing. No one. Not your puppet master Madison Zuchek, not you.”

“You want to arrest me? You want to put me in your wagon and escort me downtown? Go ahead.” Talic lowered his hands and held them together at the wrists. “Put the cuffs on me right now. But to do that, you’ll have to leave your nephew behind.”

Andre glanced at the screamer. Three more minutes. Nikhil’s breathing was shallow and labored, his face ghostly. The Yavorit felt like a five-kilo weight in his hand.

Talic angled his head toward Nikhil. “You can stand there and point a gun at me all day, but that does nothing to help him.”





THE ELEVATOR IN THE New Building was almost identical to the lifts in headquarters and as the doors slid open on the twentieth floor, Andre tried for the same blank calmness he felt approaching the target range. Just a drill, he told himself. Keep it fast and light. His dread of a confrontation with security in the lobby had turned to relief when they’d waved him through, and then to low-level panic when he thought about what that implied. Clearly Mother Mad was expecting him, and did not care if he was armed, which meant she was holding something bigger than a gun. He still had no idea where Mayor Smith stood in this, and until he did, any move he made would be the wrong one.

The door opened easily and the conference room’s air conditioning blew into him like a November wind. The sweat around his collar cooled instantly, encircling his neck like an icy noose. The last time he’d been in this room, it had been full of overheated bodies and hot coffee and the simmering tension of wolves establishing pack dominance. Now, the dim lights and cool air held the brittleness of a thinly-frozen lake about to shatter under his feet.

Madison Zuchek sat at the head of the table. A datapad was open on the desk, set aside and ignored. Instead, she was drawing vicious lines on a short stack of papers. When he would have spoken, she held up a just-a-moment hand that made Andre want to shoot her on the spot. She smiled and put down her pen, then turned her attention to him. “I should thank you, Sergeant.” Her voice was soft and high, the all-seeing mother managing her brood. “Today’s fiasco at Greenfield Village has made a mockery of the economic summit, but at least it brought me Topher.”

“Where is Price-Powell? Did you kill him too?”

“Certainly not. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m beginning to.” She’d called Topher by his given name. He was no longer an enemy.

“This case, Sergeant LaCroix, is no longer your concern. All will be put right in a few days and the city can put this whole nasty business behind it.” Her tone became reproving. “I would think after the mess you’ve made, you’d be as pleased as anyone by the restoration of order.”

“So murder in the name of order is just part of doing business.”

“I don’t expect someone like you to understand what we do to protect and safeguard the people of this city—”

“And the crashes? Who protected the people of the city from the Overdrive sabotage?”

“You are responsible. You started this investigation.” Madison pushed off from the chair’s arms and stood. “From the start, you have ruined everything. I was seeing to things, quietly, doing what was best for the city without causing any panic, or transportation issues, or even a whiff of scandal. The spinners didn’t even notice. Then you forced my hand and I had to form the task force.”

Andre glanced at the door to the adjoining office. “Was that with or without Mayor Smith’s approval? Did she even know?”

“I was handling this!” Madison walked behind her chair and gripped the back of it. “If you had let us do our jobs, there wouldn’t have been a single Overdrive crash. Fourths would be happy, commuters would be happy, and the investment dollars would be pouring in right now.”

“It’s not your job to murder people.”

“They were killers. They were terrorists who would hold my city hostage.”

“So you took care of it.”

“I’m still taking care of it.”

“By working with Topher Price-Powell?” He gestured to the papers on the desk. “Let me guess. He’s your new advisor, bringing you a ‘bold new vision’ for Detroit.”

“Politics and bedfellows, Detective. You are the one who forced me to co-opt the Council for Economic Justice instead of merely allowing Talic to deal with them. Until your interference I had everyone looking the wrong way. Now . . .” She sighed. “I’ve had to make some significant compromises.”

“And you expect me to compromise as well.”

“Indeed. You’ll start by signing this.” Madison selected a small piece of paper from the stack and slid it across the table. Whatever it was, she didn’t find it worthy of an entire sheet. Andre stepped closer to the table and read the short paragraph.

It was mild, as far as confessions went. He’d half-expected it to pin the murders, the Overdrive crashes, and probably Madison’s last chipped fingernail on him. But it simply said that Andre had falsified evidence and that Topher Price-Powell was, in fact, innocent. Did Madison truly believe that would be enough to protect her? Then again, it was probably just the opening move in an intricate plan. She would cover what she needed to cover, reveal what she needed to reveal, her influence and authority swirling around her, deflecting all blame.

Madison strolled toward him, standing closer. Too close. She looked into his eyes, tilting her chin proudly to do so. Andre could feel the energy radiating off her, like the very scent of power.

“This is merely a formality,” she said. “An insurance policy, if you will. You sign this, I hold onto this, and as long as you keep your mouth shut, it stays buried forever. Pen?” She picked up the one she’d been using when he arrived and pointed it at him, nearly poking him with it.

Andre took a step away from her and pressed his back to the wall. He pulled open his jacket and unholstered the Yavorit. He held it low, but the message was unmistakable. “Or, I tell you to stick that pen up your ass, arrest you right now, and start blabbing to the first spinner I see.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Although you don’t deserve it, you’re going to come out of this quite well. Your efforts in handling today’s crisis can be given a very different spin. You’re the goat now, but we need a hero and you’ll do fine.”

Madison paced in a semi-circle around him, marking the perimeter of his cage. “The fourths didn’t sabotage Overdrive. That bad press the fourths are getting? The mayor’s office will put a stop to that. When this case is solved and every single report has your name on it, how could we fail to promote you? I predict you’ll make Lieutenant by the new year. All you have to do is sign that piece of paper and you’re free to go, with the gratitude of the citizens of Detroit to keep you warm at night.”

Madison turned her back, marched to the window, and stared down at the city laid out before her. Andre shifted against the wall, more uncomfortable now than when she’d invaded his personal space. Mother Mad had turned her back on an armed man. Could she truly be that fearless? The Yavorit seemed to be sliding through his sweaty fingers, but he couldn’t move his hand to grip it.

It took Andre two tries to lift the lapel of the borrowed jacket. The cut was all wrong. Nothing was where it should be. He finally got it open and holstered his gun. He wiped damp palms down the side of his trousers.

Madison put her hands on the glass, addressing the city below. “The other side of the fence is very bleak. It can all be your fault, the crashes, the deaths. We can lay them at your feet very easily, you and your nephew—his name is Nikhil, isn’t it? I’ll make sure he goes to jail for a good long time. You yourself will be under suspension, review, termination. You’ll be lucky to get away without prison time. Maybe you can share a cell with your nephew—keep him safe in there.”

She tapped one square-nailed finger on the glass but did not turn. “Every fourth in the city will be tarred with the same brush I use on you, especially when we arrest several of the more prominent ones. No one wants a terrorist in his car.” Madison turned, her lean body framed by the city lights behind her. “The only way a fourth will get a ride in this town is by clinging to a hood.”

“You’ll shut down the city.”

“No, we’ll save it. We’ll double the funding for public transportation. More trains on the monorail. More busses on the streets. Mayor Smith will be a hero. She’ll be known as the leader who finally broke the automobile stranglehold in Detroit.”

“Shouldn’t that be the mayor’s decision?”

“If not Smith, then the next mayor. When her term is over, it could be Oliver LaCroix in a landslide.”

He pointed to the confession. “If I sign this? What’s to stop you from giving it to every news outlet in the country?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Madison snapped. “Going public is the last thing I want. I’ll be working full time on damage control as is. If it comes out that I let a couple of nut jobs and some greasy fourths disable the greatest city in the world? Honestly!” She picked up the paper and waved it at him. “This, here? It protects us both. Sign it.”

Andre wiped a moist hand over his damp neck. Why was he perspiring so much when it was so cold in here? He looked from Madison to the damning piece of paper in her hand, as if they were two sides of the choice instead of a package deal.

He wasn’t worried about his own job. He could take his lumps, both with Internal Affairs and with the fourths, if there still was such a thing as fourths after this. But Nikhil? The kid wouldn’t last a day in jail.

He knew what Oliver would say, if he were standing in his brother’s place. Oliver would tell him that Madison was being more than fair, that she was doing what was best for the city as a whole, and that he could affect more change from within the government than outside of it.

He thought of Bob Masterson. Bob and the other fourths were victims of the Overdrive crashes, not its cause. Andre reached into his pocket for his fourthing badge. The holographic seal caught the light, like an eye winking at him. This was bigger than him, or his family. Mother Mad had really given him no choice at all.

He stowed the fourthing badge and reached out a thumb and pinky. He touched just a fraction of a corner of the paper, gently lifting it from Madison’s fingers. She tried to give him the pen too but he waved it away. He held the paper up to the light. “I have to hand it to you, Madison Zuchek, you’re one classy lady. Paper. Ink. Way to keep it real. I especially love that your fingerprints are all over this.” He carefully slid the confession into one of the oversized pockets of his jacket. “Naked Jay has never been a fan of this administration. I give him this, he’ll probably kiss me on the mouth.”

Andre fished the bright orange zipcuffs out of another pocket of the borrowed jacket. “You are under arrest for—”

“You don’t want to do that.” There was no longer anything motherly about Madison’s face. She lifted her datapad.

Andre smiled. “I don’t think you have any idea how much I do.”

Madison touched the datapad’s controls and the holostage opened, apparently doubling the size of the room. Andre froze.

He was looking into an office of some kind, perhaps a cubicle. Topher Price-Powell stood behind a desk with crossed arms and a self-righteous expression.

Sofia sat in front of him, duct tape binding her body to the chair and her hands to the armrests, a fat piece of silver tape over her mouth. Her left eye was swollen and starting to purple, her right eye wide and wary.

Andre staggered backward, the fullness of the situation hitting him instantly. Sofia had done the one thing she could to keep Topher safe from Talic. She’d intercepted him at Greenfield Village and tried to bring him to Mother Mad, or perhaps all the way to Mayor Smith.

The weight of it slammed down on him, as if gravity had increased and his own body weight had doubled. When he’d driven away from Sofia earlier tonight, he was most worried that she’d get in his way. He never imagined she’d be the one in danger. Her hands were a mess—scraped knuckles, broken fingernails, a disjointed pinky finger. She’d fought, and fought hard. Someone would pay dearly for that.

Madison strolled along the conference table and brought her face very close to Andre’s. “I think I have a good idea what you will and will not do. You won’t risk further harm to Detective Gao. You want to save her. Anyone can understand that.” Her unspoken words said more. I hold all the cards. What is the truth next to that?

Madison’s voice filled with concern, as if she hadn’t been threatening bodily harm a moment ago. “I regret that Topher was not gentle with her, but, as I’m sure you know, she herself is not a gentle soul.”

Andre felt a vicious satisfaction at the splits on Topher’s high cheekbone, but also a chill at the dull despair in Sofia’s gaze. The Guardian in Topher’s hand had to be her service piece. It was ready to fire and his finger was inside the trigger guard. Topher’s other hand held a datapad, which he caressed with his thumb. The knot in Andre’s belly tightened. He didn’t even know where Topher was keeping her. The office had to be somewhere in the New Building, but they could be one floor away or a dozen.

Andre put a hand on Madison’s shoulder and slowly straightened his arm, moving her away from him. He watched her smile. This was what Mother Mad wanted—to be in control, to own other people and their lives. And she would have him. She already did. Not just him, but the whole city, today and forever.

He touched his jacket pockets. He’d loaded them with everything a cop would need, and none of it would help him now. He balled his fists and focused on the image in the holo. If he could get Topher to move just one step to the side, he’d be able to see the window and get some idea of where they were.

“So now you’re part of the system?” he asked Topher. “The one you tried to destroy. How’s that feel? Because if it were me, I’d feel like a f*cking fraud.”

Sofia shook her head violently, her inky hair flying out around her.

The muscles in Topher’s jaw tightened as if he were grinding his teeth together, but his voice was almost defiantly friendly. He brandished his datapad. “I’m changing the system. The Council for Economic Justice will finally have a voice.”

“You mean your voice. It’s all about pulling your nuts out of the fire, isn’t it? Better grease them up first, boy. Madison Zuchek has quite a grip.”

Topher’s face darkened and he pressed the muzzle of Sofia’s gun against her head and applied pressure until her right ear nearly touched her shoulder. Her eyes blazed at him. Don’t stir the big kettle of crazy.

“All right. All right. I apologize. Ease off.”

Topher relaxed the pressure, but kept the gun to her head. All Andre had done was endanger Sofia. He still couldn’t see where they were.

A door opened and Andre reflexively turned. No, not a door in the conference room, but a door in whatever room Topher had Sofia.

“What is this?” Talic stood in the doorway. His face was as impassive as always, but Andre could read surprise in his sudden stillness. Where did Talic’s loyalties lay? He’d let Andre walk away when it was the two of them alone in the zone, when letting Andre walk didn’t cost him anything, when he was just as much walking away himself. But when it was right here, with his boss holding all the cards and absolutely sure of winning?

“Get him out of here,” Topher snarled through the holo.

“Jae Geoffrey,” Madison said tightly, “I need you in the conference room. Now.”

“You wanted him, Talic,” Andre said, hoping what he’d seen earlier in Talic’s face was still there, terrified it wasn’t. Madison tried to order him out of the room again, but Andre rode her down. “You wanted Topher Price-Powell and now you’ve got him. Madison made a deal with him and he kidnapped a police officer with her collusion and they’re going to kill her. They’re going to kill a police officer, Talic! They’re going to shoot Sofia through the head unless I agree to roll over and let Topher walk.”

Madison cut the holo as he was finishing his last sentence. The conference room snapped back close around them. Andre drew his gun, the Yavorit feeling so light and inadequate in his hand, but in the same instant, he heard the unmistakable pop of two quick shots—not ten floors away or even one, but a few rooms distant.

“Son of a bitch!” Talic yelled.

Andre snatched open the door and dashed down the hall. A resonant slam around the corner led him to the closing stairwell door, but the door just before that was thrown ajar. They’d been this close the whole time.

Andre went in low with the Yavorit before him. Sofia was still upright in the chair behind the desk, alive, apparently unhurt, but struggling against her bonds. Talic sat on the floor, his own weapon on the floor beside him, his hands busy at his lower leg, trying to staunch blood from an ankle wound.

Andre was already bounding up to see to Sofia, trying to work the tape off her. She shook her head again and pointed it toward the door.

He whirled to see Talic pointing the Guardian at the doorway, covering a frozen Madison Zuchek.

“Get him!” Talic ordered. “We’ll take care of Madison. Get Topher.”

Andre ran for the stairs.