L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 31

Chapter 2-4

From there, Rodriguez picks up the pace. He does at least a hundred push-ups on the carpet of his bedroom, runs up and down the stairs two at a time, assembles and disassembles his g*n faster than anyone I’ve seen. The tasks are repetitive, the mind trapped in a continuum of exacting execution. The next scene shows Rodriguez running on the sidewalk. He glances at his body once. It confirms he’s wearing the clothes we found him in, establishing a time frame. He hops a chest-high chain-link fence like it’s nothing, dodges cars in a frantic burst across a busy intersection. He then runs past three young males in front of an apartment building. They’re perhaps a little older than him. I catch a sneak peek of their stereographic tattoos. g**g glyphs, visible only through a retinal overlay. Rodriguez stops and turns around with near inhuman dexterity. The largest of the three is goading him, making obscene, taunting gestures. The other two laugh, but in a blink, Rodriguez is on them. He smashes the first in the side of the head with his fist, the second in the Adam’s apple, the third in the side of the neck. It’s something I picture a Navy seal doing to enemy combatants. They’re down in an instant, squirming.

I’m getting an adrenaline high watching the action. I want to deny it, but I can’t help but revel in Rodriguez’s a*s-kicking abilities. I want to mimic his superpowers, to become invincible like him.

The thrill ends the second I recognize the gas station. Rodriguez is running at full steam. Without missing a step, he pulls the Glock from his belt. A second later, the kiosk comes into sight. Officer Yee is holding a bottle of water, ready to pay the cashier behind the glass. He looks over to Rodriguez, mystified expression. Rodriguez slows to a walk. My heart is beating crazy in my chest. I know this feeling, this anticipation. The animal wants the prey to engage him. Yee holds off a moment longer, as if trying to rationalize what he’s seeing. He then goes for his duty weapon. Rodriguez blasts Yee in the face. The three of us gasp, Mullins adding in a “Holy s**t!” I want to turn away, but I can’t. I’m captivated by Rodriguez’s inhuman display of savagery.

Rodriguez takes a long moment to stare at his reflection in the kiosk glass. I feel like I’m looking at myself, carriage heaving to suck in more oxygen, a predator ready to maul his next victim. I clutch my chest. My heart is thumping like it’s going to explode. Mullins looks my way. “Parker, you all right?”

I have to get out of this room. I need air.

I’m becoming Rodriguez, mirroring his animalistic breathing, a hair trigger from snapping at anything that touches me or comes too close. I think Mullins senses it too, because he leans away.

We let the rest of the scene play out—the arrival of the police cruiser, the shootout with the other two officers, the suspect’s violent death. It ends with the first image we saw of the canopy lighting, then speckled blackness. We’re all quiet, as if waiting for the end credits to the horror movie we just saw.

Mullins is the first to say anything. He turns to Parekh. “You get all that?”

“Everything. My God!” Parekh is obviously shaken.

“‘My God’ is right.” Mullins wipes the sheen of perspiration from his forehead. “I swear, if that SOB weren’t already dead …” Mullins knots a fist, then relaxes his grip. He looks my way. He raises his hand, like he wants to place it on my shoulder, but drops it quickly. “You okay, partner?”

“Fine,” I say. But I’m anything but fine.

This is crazy, you know it?” Mullins has his jowls pushed up on his left hand, fat folds in his face bunched like a shar pei’s. He’s on his third can of energy water, the other two empty and crushed into pucks.

We’ve been going over Rodriguez’s recording for almost four hours. Everyone on our floor has gone home for the evening, leaving the rest of the cubicle farm dark and quiet, except for us.

Mullins is playing with his bowl of microwaved popcorn, circulating the kernels endlessly, his nervous energy eating away at my resolve. He points a greasy finger at the screen. “I mean, who gets this kind of front-row seat into a murder’s craziness, huh?”

I replay the scene showing the dispenser hand-off between what I imagine is the d**g dealer and Rodriguez. We’ve already run the still image against our biometrics database, searching through the collection of tattoos, scars and birthmarks. Fifteen potential matches were returned, not a single one quite like the knuckle scar in the still. The only thing we were able to determine were generic traits: male, late thirties to mid-forties, approximately five-nine in height, medium build, possibly Hispanic.

Mullins downs the last of his water and burps. “Hey, I gotta go. Sandy is driving me crazy. She keeps pinging me to pick up Kevin.”

“I thought this was her week to watch him.”

“It was.” Mullins heaves himself out of his chair and grabs his blazer. He sighs heavily, the weight of life showing in his weary eyes. I don’t envy his situation. Both his exes can be a pain in the a*s.

“You’ll be fine,” I say. “Just think: you can knock back a couple after Kevin goes to bed.”

He jiggles his big belly with a smile. “Yeah, that’s what I need.”

I shove him playfully. “Go on, get out of here!”

He tosses a goodbye hand wave and disappears, leaving me with the video of our dead suspect. My smile fades when I see the frozen image of the dispenser in the dealer’s hand. It not only reminds me that we’re no closer to figuring out who’s moving product on the street, but that I’ll be out of my own supply tomorrow evening. I begrudgingly turn off the monitor, sinking into a cesspool of disgust, most of it aimed at myself. What would happen if I were to just go on empty? It’s not like I’m addicted to the stuff.

I catch myself l*****g my lips again.

I bang the desk, angry. I need to fix this. And the only way I see how, is to do exactly what I’m not supposed to do.

I park on Sutphin Boulevard, about a block from the Jamaica Long Island Railroad station. A little after eleven, and the streets are still teeming with pedestrians. It’s a shithole of a neighborhood, as mixed as a melting pot gets, mostly low- to middle-income, depending on which side of the block you’re on. My beat-up SUV is fine where it is. I push through the mangle of people walking by toward the subway and stores at the end of the street. I hear the L train in the background as I turn down an alley. I’d ended up going home after Mullins left, only to head out after reading Caitlyn a bedtime story and telling my wife that duty called. In a way, it’s not too far from the truth.

I ring the bell to Apartment Fifteen on the steps outside a rundown tenement. I’m wearing a nondescript tee, jeans and sneakers, with a Mets baseball cap, brim pushed down over my forehead to keep a low profile. I’m mindful of the pair of g**g members sitting on the stoop two buildings over. I can tell they’re tracking me as they talk to each other. They’re both wearing wife beaters and shorts that extend down to the ankles. I recognize the stereographic tattoos projecting in front of their chests, burning sigils of circles with exes for eyes. These guys are la hermandad de fuego, Brotherhood of Fire, a Dominican g**g that controls this part of Jamaica; and judging from their dot rankings above the circles, I’d say low-level enforcement. The lanky one doesn’t even bother covering up the handgun with the taped grip peeking out from his waistband. He turns my way, and I sense a pingback through my retinal overlay. It’s a discovery ping, a way of saying, “Who are you?” I ignore him; don’t even move an inch to let them know I’m aware of what he’s trying to do. If I were on the job, I’d do my own active pingback, and pull up his rap sheet through our NYPD portal using the electronic signature from his own temporal lobe implant.

The buzzer sounds just in time. The lanky one stands and whistles at me. He just wants to see my face. I quickly push through the door, pretending like I didn’t hear him, and make sure it locks before heading up the stairs.

The building reeks of trash, and the hallway walls are filled with graffiti. How can anyone stand living in a place like this? I knock once on the metal door of Apartment Fifteen. Reggie opens the door, but leaves the chain on. His one visible eye is looking at me, red-glazed, pupil dilated. He’s getting skulled, I’m sure. It’s a cheap high, requiring a Mindnet app you download to root the firmware of your TLI. The TLI fires a pulse every few seconds, flooding the brain with alpha waves. Stupid in my opinion, because you can get stuck in an endless loop, and eventually, a coma.

Reggie wipes the dribble dangling from his lip. “Hey.”

“You going to let me in?”

He waves a catatonic hand. “Pockets.”

It’s the same ritual every time. I turn my jean pockets inside out and lift my shirt to show him I’m not packing. He’s too stupid to ask me to lift the cuff on my pants. I’ve got a .22 handgun concealed in an ankle holster. Not much use against the guys downstairs though.

“Okay.” He unlatches the chain and lets me in.

I hate the routine—going inside, smelling that rotten Chinese food stink that never goes away, seeing the disarray of clothes, wrappers and dirty dishes everywhere. I’ve asked him a number of times to exchange product for cash at the door, but he wants me to wait on the dirty couch as he tries to remember where he stashed his supply of Switch. This time, I’m glad he let me in. I’ve got to talk to him.

“Have a seat.” He points at the couch as he teeters toward the kitchen. I don’t bother sitting.

Reggie is an odd-looking creature, real narrow head, with a leather-brown Columbian complexion, early thirties, although his compulsive d**g use has him looking much older. He was a certified informant for us a couple years back, paid to report on local g**g activity. He helped me make a buy, and that’s where I got a sample of the good stuff. He’s no longer on payroll, but he’s still my go-to guy.

After a few minutes, he staggers back in. “Yo, I can’t find it.”

It’s not what I want to hear. “You can’t remember where you put it? Maybe it’s in the bedroom, like last time, or the closet.”

His drowsy face twists into a frown. “You telling me how to run my s**t? I”—he yanks his hand haphazardly—“Yo man, I know what I’m doing. Don’t tell me how to run my s**t, okay?”

I let him go through the motions. Part of my brain says I’ve made a mistake coming here, the other part knowing this guy’s track record. He’s always come through for me. I’ve used other sources in the past, but Reggie’s stuff is hands-down the best, even if he’s out of his mind.