Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [97]
‘It’s going to be a long Hallowe’en,’ said Breen.
At the edge of her vision Mancuso registered a change on the dashboard screen. Above the street map a string of flashing numbers changed colour, amber to dark red. They were now more than half an hour late responding to their own urgent situation. Mancuso realized that her right hand was still clutching the contoured plastic grip of the gun. She forced herself to relax, feeling the grooves that the handgrip had made, moulded deep in the flesh of her palm.
Sometimes the faults in the new guns were subtle and nasty. Sometimes it was difficult to get anyone to test them. Nine years ago, when she was still a trainee, Mancuso had refused a direct order concerning a new gun. Her training sergeant, who hated Mancuso, had tried to force her to use the latest model. Mancuso was a rookie but she knew her rights. When she wouldn’t budge the sergeant had been forced to demonstrate the weapon herself. She was now collecting a fifty per cent disability pension.
‘So what do you think of the new gun?’ said Breen.
Mancuso felt her body jerk minutely at the sound of his voice. She realized that she’d been half asleep. Eyes open, hypnotized by the passing street. Eighteen hours yesterday. Twenty hours on shift the night before. She shook the images of McIlveen out of her head and forced herself to concentrate. She looked at the map on the screen, checking their location against the location of the alarm call. Two glowing dots merging.
* * *
The site of the call was a giant drugstore on Fifth Avenue, deep in the centre of the combat zone. Before the riots it had been a fashionable restaurant in a chic neighbourhood. Now the area was marginal slum: games arcades, discount stores, student housing for the Butler Institute. ‘Cut the siren,’ said Mancuso. She could feel the adrenaline rising, the lift of dealing with a situation. On the street, at night, your back to the patrol car. Sussing the situation and dealing with it and coming out on top.
Breen eased the car to a stop a block away from the site of the call. Mancuso grinned and popped the car door open, swinging it out from its thick rubber seals.
The night was cool and the air was so clear you could breathe without a mask. Mancuso crossed the street, watching for movement. The drugstore was at Number One Fifth Avenue. The government had requisitioned the place during the state of emergency and retained the property rights ever since. Mancuso did a quick sweep along the storefront. These places usually had private security guards, paid to keep a high profile. Where the hell were they?
As she glanced in the front door she found out. A young man in a black uniform lay against the chrome turnstile inside the glass doors. Head slack, bloodstains on his tunic. Mancuso went back across the street.
Breen was busy with the car computer, logging their location and filing a routine request for backup. ‘This is way the hell out of our patrol area. Why did we get this call?’
‘Ask the central computer,’ said Mancuso. ‘Take care.’ She thumbed the rocker switch on her gun from ‘wait’ to ‘ready’. Breen leaned across the front seat to release his own gun from the weapons rack.
Mancuso kept glancing up to watch the interior of the drugstore as she waited in the entranceway, crouching over the security guard. By the time Breen arrived she had checked for a pulse and used a BT stick on the man. She was just going through the motions; she could see that he was well and truly gone. The triamine level indicated by the BT stick showed that he’d been fatally wounded at least an hour ago. Even the organ banks wouldn’t be interested in him now. Breen waited while she closed the guard’s eyes. He looked about nineteen. Mancuso moved into the drugstore, Breen following.
The drugstore seemed to occupy about three acres of glaring floorspace. It was split into two levels, ground floor and