City of Broken Lights Page 9

  Ambassador Marshall had achieved a lot in his career. At the moment it all meant nothing to him. He leaned back in his chair, alone in his office.

  Public service had been his life. As a young boy, when other children were playing games on their tablets or outside, he'd been reading biographies about great ambassadors. Where the obsession with diplomacy and public service had come from, he'd long ago forgotten.

  It didn’t matter.

  What mattered now was to hold on to the power he’d gained, to increase that power and influence. In that regard, Marshall was like every other politician who’d ever lived.

  Now the man found himself faced with a choice he had not planned on.

  Marshall ground his teeth in anger. It was not possible to be everywhere at once, to make every decision, maximize every opportunity, and most important in the world he lived and worked in, make sure there were no screw-ups.

  How he handled the current foul-up would define his career, if not his entire life.

  A glance at his chronometer reminded him of the late hour. There was nothing he could do at the moment about the crisis. Marshall sighed and stood up. He straightened a few items on his desk and paused for a moment, thinking. Deciding it was best to leave, Marshall ignored the image concealed in the second secure drawer of his desk.

  BOTH OF US SAT IN SILENCE, listening to the cracks and pops of the power plant and frame of our rented hovercar as it cooled down. The fresh air inside the hovercar made it difficult to want to venture out into the stale heat and humidity of the night air and go inside to the dank, dirty interior of our hotel room.

  I had no idea what my friend was thinking. I just knew from his expression he was troubled by his interactions with the people on the streets he’d spent time talking to.

  My insides were a mess.

  Here I was, at my age, single, never married, and no prospects for marriage, and I’d learned I had a daughter. Of sorts. Where do clones fit within the family structure? I’d had no say in Katrina’s creation, no knowledge of her existence until a few days ago. If I found Katrina, what then? It was a bit late in her life to become a father to her.

  I'd never asked Sarah about the source of her DNA. Did she have parents who contributed their DNA, either voluntarily or otherwise? Was Sarah a pure, genetically engineered clone? Did she even want to have parents?

  What I was sure of was the simple fact I didn't want to talk about any of this, not with Father Nathan and for dead sure not Sarah. I was furious with Saundra. For the way she’d treated me, deceived me, and, I was sure of it, manipulated me in the current mess I found myself in.

  A loud bang followed by hurried footsteps snapped me out of my funk. The owner of the hotel was hurrying towards our car, a worried look on her face. She scurried up to my door and motioned for me to lower the window.

  “Hey,” she blurted out, looking about furtively.

  “Is something wrong,” I asked calmly, hoping to soothe her nerves.

  “Yeah. You asked me to let you know if I heard anything. You know, about that girl you’re looking for.”

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “Just be calm and tell me what it is you heard.”

  “Word is,” she blurted out, “that some hard men have taken notice that you and your friends have been asking around.”

  “Doesn’t worry me,” I told her. “But thanks for giving us a heads up.”

  “Well, I don‘t know if I want you and your friends stayin’ here. I got a business to run after your gone.”

  I smelled a shakedown. This lady was tough. She knew how things worked, and a pair of toughs sent to find out a few things didn't scare her.

  “How much?”

  Our host stopped wringing her hands and looking around.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t follow you, Mr. Sullivan.”

  I blew a puff of air out and gave her a dirty look.

  “For us not to have to leave.”

  “Oh, well, I suppose we could renegotiate your daily rate. You know, make the risk to my business acceptable.”

  “How much,” I snapped, irritated by her unnecessarily dragging the whole thing out.

  “Oh, I suppose...”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Three hovercars flitted past, beating the red light. Sarah hurried across the street and made her way to the parking lot of the hotel. She gave off the air of an unconcerned young woman who had nothing to lose as she approached the hotel. Two short knocks on a room door and she vanished into the interior.

  I was impressed. My partner still had her issues, fear of being hunted, seen even by people she didn’t know, being foremost. To the casual observer, they would never have thought that about Sarah, let alone made the connection that she was a cop or even a cop for hire.

  Taking my time, I strolled over to our rooms, the sack of junk food in my hand. I don’t have the ability to blend into my surroundings with the same ease as Sarah. So I don’t try. When your two meters tall and have a mutilated face like mine, what’s the point?

  Father Nathan opened the door before I could knock. I hurried inside so he could shut the door behind me, preventing the cold air from rushing out and the hot, humid air from pouring in.

  “Took you long enough.”

  My comment earned me a stink eye. At least Sarah refrained from sticking her tongue out.

  “What did you find out?”

  “Katrina didn’t put up a fight. The kidnappers were in and out in two minutes or less. They grabbed just enough of her stuff to let Katrina have a change or two of clothes and a few feminine things.”

  “Anything else?”

  Sarah sat down at the table we’d set up to work at and stared at me.

  “No hard evidence, just conclusions.”

  “Good enough,” I told Sarah, encouraging her to continue.

  “Don’t get mad at me,” she retorted.

  “I promise,” I replied. “You’re just the messenger.”

  “Definitely a clone, generic, non-military type.”

  “Explain why you think this.”

  "She's the daughter of the Chancellor, but she lives like a fugitive on the run. Katrina has almost no possessions. What she does have can be thrown in a bag in a minute or two, and she's gone."

  It was my turn to be puzzled.

  “Reasonable conclusion, but I don’t see how you arrive at the rest.”

  “Clones live in fear of being hunted, for whatever the reason. That's why Katrina's ready to run at a minute’s notice. Plus, if she can't get back to her place, it doesn't matter. There's nothing there to hold Katrina. She's free to run if she needs to.”

  “Okay,” I said, agreeing with Sarah. “Explain the rest.”

  "No weapons. That means Katrina has enhanced combat skills that don't require Katrina to carry weapons, or there is no point because she doesn't have combat enhancements. I think it's the latter."

  "I'll bite. Why?"

  “She’s girlie,” Sarah replied her upper lip curling up in disgust. “Has more dresses than pants, lacy girlie underwear in her drawer, and enough makeup and perfume to fill a small carry bag in the bathroom.”

  “So, Katrina’s a girlie girl. How do you make the mental leap that she's not a combat model?"

  “It’s hard to fight in a dress, at least the dresses she has.” Sarah reached into her coat and pulled out a tablet. “Then there’s this.”

  PAUSING TO RUN HIS hand through his unruly hair, Pastor David watched Vick sort out cans of donated food for the soup kitchen. He braced himself to do what he’d come to do.

  “Vick,” the older man called, motioning towards a small table with two chairs set against the far wall of the large kitchen area. “Come, sit, and talk with me.”

  Worried by the unannounced arrival of the older pastor, Vick hurriedly removed his apron, wiped his hands, and joined his mentor at the table.

  “Have I done something wrong?”

>   “No, not at all, Vick,” the Pastor David answered. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation last night.”

  Vick’s face blanched at the mention of Father Nathan and the lie he’d confessed to telling.

  "It's okay, Vick, truly." Pastor David reached out and patted the hand of his assistant. "In fact, I want to meet this priest, and I want you to arrange it."

  Confused by the surprise request, Vick stuttered several times before stopping to regain control of his speech. “Do you think that is wise, Pastor?”

  “These are strange times, Vick. Sometimes God sends us allies we would never seek out. This might be one of those times.”

  “But he’s Anglican,” Vick protested.

  “He’s also a man of God who came here for a purpose,” Pastor David pointed out. “Don’t put God inside a box. Not all of those denominationally trained pastors are spiritually dead.”

  Vick considered the request of his mentor and the advice given. He made his decision and nodded. “I’ll do my best. He didn’t say where he was stayin’, but, you know, I can check this and that. I’ll find ‘em, Pastor David.”

  “Well, that’s settled,” Pastor David said, smiling. "I'll leave you to your work. After you serve lunch, please find this Father Nathan. I'll see to it the remainder of your duties today are covered."

  Confused by the turn of events, Vick slipped on his apron and out of habit wiped his hands on it as he watched the man who’d helped him find purpose in his life. “Don’t put God in a box,” he repeated out loud to nobody but himself.

  “THIS IS NOT COMFORTABLE,” Katrina complained from the right rear passenger seat.

  “Be quiet,” Josef snapped. “Nobody said you could talk.”

  "You should have thought of that before you handcuffed my hands behind my back. The cuffs are too tight," Katrina whined. "Then you made me sit on my hands. How is that supposed to be comfortable? This blindfold smells of sweat and other things I don't want even to imagine. Last of all, the two of you own the only hover car in the galaxy that rides like it has wheels on the road!”

  Rondello nearly choked trying not to laugh at his younger, less intelligent partner in crime. “Loosen the handcuffs a little, Josef,” Rondello ordered. “It won’t kill you to show her a little kindness.”

  He slowed the ancient hovercar down and eased over to the side of the road. Josef scowled in frustration but did as he’d been instructed. Sitting next to his prisoner, the captor reached underneath Katrina and took his time loosening the cuffs, making sure his hands made plenty of contact with her firm bottom.

  “Better, princess?”

  “A little better,” Katrina groused back. “How about the blindfold?”

  Rondello answered sternly, startling Katrina. “Don’t push your luck, girlie! It's for your own good you don't see too much." Easing the dilapidated vehicle back out into the hoverway, Rondello added, “things don’t always work out as planned.”

  HOT AIR PUSHED ITS way into the place as two strangers stood in the doorway, keeping the door open, letting warm air in and precious, expensive cold air out. Mitch hated wasting air-conditioned air; so much so, he’d often tossed paying customers out. One glance at the two unwelcome visitors was enough to make Mitch bite his tongue and concentrate on wiping down his bar.

  Both men wore expensive, tailored black slacks, shirts, and jackets. Mitch didn't bother to look. He was certain they wore imported, handcrafted shoes made of real leather. The glistening bits of light on their timepieces would be real diamonds. Neither tried to hide the bulges beneath their armpits, revealing the presence of weapons of some sort. Their faces were the kind of face such men commonly had. Faces you could recognize for what they were, trouble. Faces you could easily forget except in nightmares.

  The shorter of the two men noticed Mitch and nudged his partner. His only identifying feature was his misshapen nose, a nose broken so many times it had a face of its own.

  “What can I get for you?”

  "Nothing," the shorter man said. "You can, however, answer a few questions for us." The man paused ominously, "Mitch."

  “Sure, sure,” Mitch answered, hoping to avoid the kind of trouble that ended with a visit to a doctor.

  Without warning, the taller man’s hand shot out across the top of the bar and grabbed Mitch’s right hand. An evil grin spread across the shorter man’s face. He pulled out a short piece of metal with a hole drilled near one end. As quickly as his partner had acted, the short man shoved Mitch’s right index finger through the hole, forcing the finger up at an odd angle.

  “Hey, look, I don’t want any trouble,” Mitch stuttered, licking his dry lips.

  "We don't expect any trouble," the taller man answered. "Like we said, we have a few questions we need to ask. Questions we want you to answer honestly."

  His hand slammed down on Mitch's finger and the piece of metal. A loud snapping sound came from beneath the tall man's hand just before the sound of Mitch's scream pierced the ears of everyone in the bar.

  “Nobody leaves,” the shorter man shouted, not turning to face the other customers. “We might have a few questions to ask if Mitch here is not forthcoming.”

  “Now, Mitch,” the man with the broken nose whispered, reaching into his jacket. “I have two images I want you to look at.”

  Whimpering softly, Mitch forced himself to look away from his bleeding, broken finger and stare at the two images.

  “Recognize either of ‘em?”

  Being a snitch was not in Mitch’s nature, never had been. But he was married now, with two kids and a wife he loved dearly. The people in the images were not part of his world.

  “Yeah,” he finally got out, drool running out of his mouth and down on to the shined surface of his bar.

  “Names?”

  "No," Mitch forced out, not ready to give in to his tormentors completely. "Just recognize the faces; that's all."

  “This one,” the taller thug said, pushing the first image closer to Mitch.

  “Local girl,” Mitch gasped from agonizing pain.

  “Local girl?” the shorter man said, suddenly more interested. “You should know her name then!” He nodded at his partner. “Middle finger. Mitch here hasn’t learned his lesson.”

  "I swear to you," Mitch pleaded, waving his uninjured hand. "She never came in my place but the one time. She's a do-gooder!”

  "A do-gooder? You hear that?" the shorter man asked his partner, laughing. "Never met a do-gooder before.”

  “First for everything, I suppose.” The taller man pushed the other image closer. “Now, what do you know about this guy?”

  Mitch swallowed and licked his lips again. “Don’t get mad, I’m just telling you the truth, you know? Answering your question.”

  “Well, answer it then,” the shorter man whined, making a face, “otherwise, we’re going to need to fix another finger.”

  "Came in my place twice," Mitch panted, sweat dripping from his brow, stinging as it landed on the open wound of his damaged finger.

  “When?”

  “Two days ago, then again tonight.”

  “What did he want?”

  Mitch didn’t flinch. “A beer, but he didn’t drink either night.”

  “Middle finger,” the short man barked.

  “No!” Mitch shouted, panting in fear. “He asked a few questions.”

  “What kind of questions,” the taller tormentor demanded.

  “Showed me that image there,” Mitch wheezed, the throbbing in his hand becoming nearly unbearable.

  "This one?" Broken nose held up the image of the do-gooder.

  “Yeah. That’s all he was interested in. Stayed to himself for a bit then left.”

  The taller man ran his tongue over the outside of his teeth in his jaw, making his right cheek bulge. “What was he like?”

  “Big,” Mitch said.

  "I'm big. That doesn't scare me."

  “Quiet, too,” Mitch added. “Like he was thinking all th
e time, serious like.”

  “Sounds like some dumb stiff if you ask me,” the taller man said, easing the torture device off Mitch’s hand with care.

  “Yeah, a dumb stiff,” broken nose exclaimed, his right arm swinging in a tight circle, a sap held in his hand. For the second time that evening the sound of bone snapping could be heard as Mitch’s jaw broke.

  The taller man turned and faced the customers in the bar, all of whom were looking away, not wanting to draw unwanted attention while feeling guilty for not standing up for Mitch.

  “We’re gonna go now. Mitch here is taking a nap. Nobody saw anything, is that clear?”

  He grinned at the sound of blood rushing through his ears, heard easily because of the silence in the bar.

  “Good, now, Mitch here is going to wake up with a bad headache. He broke a finger too, can you believe that?”

  Stopping at the door, the taller thug glanced back. “Wait five minutes and then get Mitch to a clinic.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Madam chancellor, you have a secure incoming transmission."

  Saundra sat up on the couch, fully awake.

  “XR, is it from the same source as the first message?”

  “No, Chancellor, but I have initiated tracking procedures.”

  A quick check of her hair and makeup followed by a few minor repairs gave Saundra time to gather herself, to become the character she played, the Iron Chancellor. Collecting her suit jacket from its hanger, Saundra slipped the garment on as the closet door slid shut silently and melded into the wall, leaving no trace of its existence. After a quick brush of both shoulders to remove any and all imaginary lint, Saundra buttoned the jacket, completing her uniform. She took position behind the monitor on her desk and seated herself.

  “Send the link through XR.”

  As on the previous message, the background was green, and the individual wore a black mask, covering their entire face. An eerie, electronically altered voice, sounding neither male, female, or human was emitted from the screen.