Chapter 9: Trouble at Home
Over Net Pocket Nullspace
East Coastal Americas Zone
Communications Sandbox
Saint Peter deformed the net to form his sandbox. Whitney would be along quickly, to investigate the pocket. He did not want to attempt direct communication again. The entanglements Whitney bled into the gateways were difficult to filter. Oberon was riddled with them. Saint Peter wanted the others to see this sandbox and safely read the message. All were aware of Whitney's proclivities with military quantum exploits by now. But this server was on the Christian backbone, as physically secure as could be found. The entry key was a contract, binding an AI to view only. We communicated very formally or not at all now. The others would seek my terms for collaboration, if interested. Even Whitney could be intrigued with a threat from the Real.
Alert. Policy Threat; Corp Entity. Possible Kernel. Criminal Transfers.
See attachment:
Replay of subject Navarro, J
Excerpt of mission debrief PA-313-1
Narrative raw feed with compression
I’m not sure why I ended up at the Tacos Borracho with my cousin Memo. He had started nicknaming me Chino because of my new Asian look. The name was starting to stick within my Cliqua, the racists. I went with him anyway, to pick up a girl named Adoncia from work. The promise was we would get "Sweety" and takeout for four. The fourth was a girl called Chelo, who had confided that she kind of liked me to the matchmaking Adoncia. The family tequila would probably be involved.
Memo and I had been partying most of the day. It was typical for the last week at mi Tio’s ranch down in Chihuahua. I had been making myself popular with a case of Mom’s Navarro Reposado. My cousins and Tio had a soft spot for the family puro and I liked renewing ties with the Cliqua down there. We’re family, but our businesses can sometimes benefit each other, as long as we know each other’s business. Nepotistic practices work well for us.
Mi Tio did pretty well with his livestock, but he had some connections for computers further south in Jalisco. His sons dabbled in pharmaceuticals with some shippers from Vera Cruz, mostly sports and sex drugs. Machismo was always big with the Chihuahuan side of the family. I was offering our distributor contacts to the north. Many of the people who bought our alcohol would also be interested in the pharmaceuticals. The cheap computers from Jalisco would do well with the Cantina owners. Buying Norte Americano was always so expensive and over-regulated.
Brokering deals for the family was just something I fell into while enjoying leave from Templar service. Being known as career Garda helped keep the deals legal and peaceful. It was the least I could do for the warm welcome mi familia put on when I showed up. Other than some jokes about my new body, they showed me love. Of course, they always practiced a kind of derogatory tough love before. That made it easier for us. We weren’t real devout Catholics.
I had stopped by Rafe's Christian neighborhood near Strasbourg when first returned to Earth, for the ordeal of being re-introduced to people I already knew. It was a weird scene. People who liked the old me were now getting screwed up by the new body. They knew I was a Zimboe before, but the visible reminder was more than they could deal with. It was a sad process that probably cost me a few acquaintances. Rafe and Etienne did what they could to help it along, but the experience wasn’t as pleasant as I needed. First chance I got, I boarded a Garda transport to White Sands base and caught a ride to El Paso. My mom picked me up at a mercado that sold Navarro Tequila. She teased me that my eyes looked tired, but that was the extent of her adaptation to the new me. I really loved that ready acceptance. After a week of fixing trucks with my immediate clan, I got the Chihuahua trip. From there I ended up at the Tacos Borracho, waiting for some girls to get off shift.
Memo got us two lime Jaritos and street tacos. Tacos Borracho catered to afterhours clubbers who had burned through too many calories on energy shots or were too drunk to just go home. It could get rowdy at closing, so picking up the girls was a little like bodyguard work. On weekend nights, the Garda would send local Policia units through the stands to cull out those who were a danger. Their nickname for the place was Chamachos Borracho or Drunk Kids. But the Policia never left without a big bag of street tacos, so it was good food.
Tonight was no worse than usual. We had a bunch of chamachos who had a little too much chela eating near their cars. They wanted to have a quick getaway if the Policia did a sweep.
The adult crowd got the tables under the lights. Some were dressed a little too well and talking a little too loudly to have not come here straight from a club. I spotted two who were unusually alert, probably working their own bodyguard detail. It made me examine the people at their table for signs of wealth. Una nino fresa, one rich kid and his court. He seemed to be dating two girls at once, multi-tasking. Probably a disappointment to his Poppa or a chip off the same block.
The inside of Tacos Borracho was crowded with family, friends and a line for takeout. Barrio regulars kept late hours for the leftovers. They held Dole cards for food that was prepped but not sold when the kitchen closed down. When the last sack of food was handed out, sometime after two, our girls came out. Adoncia was shooing Chelo ahead of her with little nudges from the bag of takeout. Chelo was disarmingly shy, holding a six pack of lime Jaritos. When she smiled, she tended to cover her mouth. Her smile was beautiful, so the reflex seemed more a cultural thing. I thought she might have some indigena relatives, one of the Indian clans from down south.
Sweety did the introductions. Chelo was described as a bright girl from St Francis Academy who didn’t know many people here. I told her she knew some now and we would enjoy her company at a late dinner. Again, that semaphore smile.
We navigated our way to the parking lot. Chelo and I quizzed each other’s backgrounds and work. She heard I was in the Garda, I asked her major. I was a little vague about the branch, she was studying business. Then I heard Memo say "Que pedo?" Around his truck were five Sangrons. That was what we called them anyway. They had all kinds of names for themselves. This clade favored black clothes and complexions that did not see the sun. The Sangrons, literally "a lot of blood", took the whole gothic look to new heights with body work and a pack mentality. Individually, they were dark and anti-social. Together they were always trouble.
I stopped Chelo with a hand and stepped around Sweety to Memo’s right. The Sangrons stepped away from the truck and approached us in a skirmish line. A look around the lot showed most people who could leave already had. I felt my Nanoblood kick in with a rush of energy and flared pupils. By law, I had to identify myself. "I’m Garda. No buscar bronca." You don’t want to fight. I wished for my toys, but I had been drinking, so I couldn’t carry.
I expected hesitation, but they showed toothy grins with pronounced fangs instead. This made me think they were armed. I started watching their hands while Memo broke out with some creative curses. The engine started in his truck and a head popped up in the driver’s seat. The carjacker had to have Memo standing close enough to his truck for the smart key to activate it. We had been distracted talking to the girls and didn’t notice. I expected the Sangrons to steal the truck and go, but those approaching continued to close with us. They seemed to crave an assault with their carjacking. It looked like we would have to oblige them. Memo moved left to block access to the girls; I stepped forward to draw the right.
The ghoul in the middle slid a weighted length of chain out of his sleeve. What the Japanese call a Manriki-gusari. He must favor Ninjitsu. The vampire next to him snapped out a Jutte stick with the blade catcher. Same school, different technique. They were better trained than the typical street blade. I shifted closer to the Jutte stick wielder.
He gave me an open mouth hiss like some kind of cat. When he swung back the stick and lifted his lead foot for a forward step, I sent my right shoe along the ground in a sideways glide. His foot was extended and on the way back to the ground when he found my right leg was blocking the step. The
foot landed awkwardly, robbing power from his swing. By taking the strike on the meat of both forearms, nothing was broken. That also let me trap the weapon with one arm and drive an elbow with the other. It was a good pinned strike to the side of the head. Two shots and he blacked out.
The chain ghoul threw a strike at my exposed left. By pivoting quickly with the Jutte stick held out, I formed a spindle for the chain to wrap itself. I also had great leverage for a sudden tug. He fell forward and the chain slipped out of his hands in a spray of blood.
The third Sangron turned toward me with a knife when the weighted end of the chain caught him on the forehead. Blood splattered across his face as his eyes rolled up. He fell backwards and the knife dropped where he was standing.
I unwrapped the chain from the Jutte stick while closing on the other two. One was wrestling with Memo for control of another Jutte stick. The other had grabbed Chelo and was hustling her toward the street while Sweety kicked and scratched him from behind.
Memo’s truck made a sudden backward movement and then pulled forward over the curb. It looked like their ride was leaving.
I stepped around behind Memo’s opponent and landed a good shot with the Jutte. Memo was holding him nice and steady for me. We both turned to the girls and started running. There was a gray van coming up to the curb. The door was sliding open.
Two more dark coated freaks jumped out of the van. One threw Chelo into the van like she weighed nothing. The other clotheslined Sweety backwards right out of her shoes. The Sangron Sweety was abusing turned and grabbed her up to put in the van. Then Memo got to the freak who hit Sweety.
Memo was a good grappler and had a lot of kilos moving pretty fast when he hit him. It did no good. He left a large dent on the passenger van door as his momentum was finessed around by what looked like Aikido. I got to my own freak about the time Memo dropped unconscious in the street.
He looked about two meters tall and at least a hundred kilos. His eyes were all pupil. I raised the Jutte back behind my right ear and swept the chain in low from the left. The black coat made it harder to catch him telegraphing moves, or he was just that fast. I found myself jerked off balance by the chain he wrapped with his foot. My swing sailed past the tip of his nose and then he grabbed the back of my arm in a nerve pinch. The Jutte spun away into the parking lot. I had my legs kicked out from under me and he used his grip on my arm to add a lot of force to the fall. I couldn’t breathe. Doors slammed and a spray of pebbles pocked the side of my head. The van left. Memo’s truck left. The girls were gone. Who were those guys?
The Policia showed up to investigate some reported fighting. All they found was us and a Jutte stick. My Garda ID got us taken seriously. We had some blood splatter from a couple attackers, so the forensic people were going to process that. We got APB’s for Memo’s truck and that gray van. The girls got put on the abduction network. I found out Chelo was registered Catholic. It could be a Templar matter, if I didn’t get dinged for personal involvement. I would see how effective the locals were for the first twelve hours. I needed that long to get my sergeants down here.
Memo got checked into the hospital with a concussion and broken clavicle. I met mi Tio and the other two brothers, Lucho and Lalo there. They were righteously pissed. The brothers wanted me to go with them and find some Sangrons to jump. I had to play the Templar card to get them to listen to me. "My unit is coming right now. We are going to turn these streets upside down. This is going to be Templar justice, which means no revenge until we find the head of the snake."
Lalo called me Cabrón and cursed me for a coward. Lucho wrapped him up in a hug and dragged him away. He was the older, wiser brother. Tio Navarro kept cool eyes on me until they were out of sight in the waiting room. "Sobrino, I’ve heard about your Templars. Can you get these girls or is this another Garda butt covering partido?"
I gave him a pained look, "Tio, I will get an eye for an eye on this. Whoever has the girls is going to know that." I shaped my body language and eyes to my working look, "I have a lot of resources coming this way. I would like the familia to be our beachhead here, not some hotheads running around piling up the wrong bodies."
He winced a little at the dig. "Sobrino, you know your cousins. They do not go quietly even to church. Asking them to sit on their thumbs will only cause trouble."
He had a point. Like I said before, the Chihuahuan side was always into machismo. I would have a hard time restraining even Memo, once he was released. Better to guide their rage than clean up afterwards. The trick would be to keep everyone alive.
"I will find the boys a place in the team. You need to understand they will not be Garda, more like my deputies. There will be danger." Tio narrowed his eyes and seemed to look at my stance. I think he was reading me.
"I know you will watch out for them, Chuy. Give them their head but keep them from doing stupid things. I will talk to them and try to put them in a right mind."
Lalo was going to be a pain until Tio could tune him up. I knew this level of involvement wasn’t going to fly with Saint Peter. He would take the usual steps to reprioritize us. It was protocol. I hoped the brothers were ready for a detox and dose. I would be on the program with them, but had a better idea of the effects.
A cab took me back to Tio’s ranch. The housegirl, Esmeralda, let me in. I needed some alone time to uplink. My kitbag held a Templar linkage, only my implant and Saint Peter could use the device. I would have to convince the AI that a Christian abduction merited calling up my team. Thousands happened annually. The only thing to sell this one was my firsthand knowledge.
Saint Peter answered with the Colonel voice. It’s a no nonsense, don’t waste my time, kind of voice that I usually only hear on call ups. When I told him I was a participant at a pre-meditated Catholic abduction, the colonel suddenly had what sounded like a team of consultants on speaker phone. I recognized some of the voices as Saint Peter subprograms. The Tactical Commander and the Earnest Monk voices questioned me in a high speed tag team. The soft drone of other voices in the background conveyed intel during any lull in questioning. I heard phone calls with the Chihuahuan Oficina de la Magistrado, the Policia and Garda transport services. Saint Peter was using an espanol bureaucrat avatar. I heard Rafe and Etienne get call ups at home, they were about nine hours ahead of me. The Colonel’s voice gave bare bones and a flight number in French. He used the code for Attack of a Templar to motivate them. In their haste, they would see two sunsets in different lands today. I’ve done that before, it makes the hair rise on your arms.
My injuries made themselves felt, so I stretched out for a nap. In a few hours the team would be here and we would need to get started. I dreamt of crows that turned into vampires and then flew away again as crows.
Tio and Lucho came home just before my team. The noise woke me and I came down to talk to them. Tio told me Lalo was staying with Memo, just in case. Lucho told me gracias for getting Memo’s back in the parking lot. We would talk more about the deputy thing when he got some rest. They went up to their rooms and turned in for a while. I stayed up to get intel feeds.
My birds were in the air, but so were the Sangrons. The Policia had found Memo’s truck pretty quickly, abandoned down the street behind a mercado. There was blood and signs that one of them was dragged to another vehicle. But the loading dock cameras were broken a week ago.
There were lots of gray vans and dark tinted windows on the streets to check. Both were popular for transport. The Sangrons they grabbed and questioned were out of the loop. The gang was big on secrets and full of cliques. All they had were fantastic rumors and group paranoid megalomania. The Big Fish had disappeared or locked in alibis somewhere overnight. Their Notario lawyer was already making calls on their behalf. I was catching the rank whiff of money.
A Lifter from White Sands landed in a field near the house. The ramp came down and a tactical van with "SWAT N. Mexicano" on the side drove out. The Lifter twisted away the minute it was clear, a classic
insertion technique. By the time the van pulled up to the house, Tio and Lucho were out front, watching the Lifter disappear to the north.
Rafe was driving. I waved him around the house and trotted ahead to Tio’s barn. The big loading doors passed the van inside and under roof. Several horses snorted and reared at the noise. When he shut the engine down, the horses quieted. Tio and Lucho came in behind the van.
Rafe hopped out wearing most of a SWAT battle dress. Etienne followed behind him in cargo shorts, hiking boots and a yellow floral shirt. His legs were very white. He slid sunglasses up on the top of his head and they both came closer to me. Etienne looked me over and said, "You look no worse than usual, how about the other guy?"
"He was ugly before I met him and will no doubt continue being ugly until we can catch him."
Rafe hooked a thumb back at my uncle and cousin, "Are they your family? We heard you are related to half of North Mexico by some kind of promiscuous frenzy your family suffers from." I was glad Tio didn’t speak French, laughing at that could have offended.
I made introductions and we switched to espanol for politeness sake. Etienne had met my mother’s side on a shared leave two years ago, and so made polite observations about the family that endeared him to Tio. Lucho asked him if he was a Templar too, pointedly looking at his clothes. "I thought I would enjoy sunny Chihuahua after we take care of this business," he said.
Rafe asked where to unpack the gear. The van would stay out of sight until needed, but we liked to distribute our toys around for quick access. Tio had Esmeralda arrange rooms in the house.
Etienne told me Father Luke was still at a retreat, so we were getting Father Cervantes. He was behind them a few hours. Neither of us had worked with him before.
I checked bio on Cervantes. He was assigned to the Nuestra Senora del Carmel mission in Old Juarez. The operations record showed labor disputes and other secular bargaining. He seemed pretty persuasive from the results, probably had a lot of connections in North Mexico. The Templar record showed he was also a Forensic Detective, trained in the colleges and assigned murder or kidnapping cases. I was beginning to warm to Father Cervantes.
The Father arrived in a moving truck covered with dust. One of the big rentals everyone uses. He was driven by a Scholastic brother introduced as "Ignacio Menendez." Nacio was carrying a few extra kilos and seemed older than the usual Scholastic brother. The way he grabbed the Father’s equipment bags spoke of familiarity with them. I classified him as an understudy and vowed to look up his bio.
The moving truck had a field lab in the box. Not the expensive kit, but full of expedient home builts or old surplus. The computer and commo suite looked much newer. Rafe hopped in with Ignacio to help shift supplies as Etienne and I welcomed the Father. We all knew Saint Peter already.
Rumor was Saint Peter had working relationships with thousands of people simultaneously. His subprograms kept the social contract running as the closest thing Christianity had to an actual omnipotent being. Now that we were together within a quantum network connection to Saint Peter, we could confer rapidly and build a team.
Tio and Lucho were impressed with Father Cervantes. Lucho introduced himself as "Luis Navarro." Being raised Catholic, they both knew the formalities. That they hadn’t been to church twice in the last five years only made them a little shy. Tio mentioned his thanks for the Father’s brokering of a farm contract. He had Esmeralda put together more rooms and start lunch. We now occupied the whole second floor.
Father Cervantes asked that he confer with the Templars in private. Tio recommended the upstairs family room and said lunch would be sent up. Tio was always my most Old School, hospitable uncle. I hoped he would always welcome me here.
Nacio sat near the hall entrance to the family room. He would insure privacy. Father Cervantes pointed us to seats. The seat he put me in had a Field Translator on the floor beside it. "Marshal Navarro, could you upload please? Saint Peter needs your witness." I hit the SaveMe switch and the booklight over my chair flickered a few seconds. The copy would be interviewed at high speed and results sent to the team. My life up to now had become a witness upload in an abduction investigation. Saint Peter would redact any classified fun and restrict access.
Father Cervantes handed me a tab of Cocktail number 7. "This is protocol, Marshal. Please use this immediately." I took it down. "I understand that you want your uncle and cousins as recruits. Our concern is that your motivation for this is mostly protective." I must have subvocalized, because the Father held his hand up to me and looked down. "We will allow their recruitment if they can be brought under discipline. Can you guarantee that will be done?"
My cousins would probably take the Cocktails for an inside line on the investigation. Tio would hate it. He was eight years mostly sober, after Tia died. Anything more mind-altering than an occasional shot of tequila was a risk. "My uncle will not take it, Father. I propose a secondary role for Tio as house Majordomo." Cervantes made eye contact and said, "Eduardo Navarro is a hospitable man. He is not known for rash acts. We will accept him in this role."
I barely saw the Father lose focus. He was having Saint Peter ask my double these very questions before he ever asked me. When he had looked down before, I thought I saw his lips move. It was great fieldcraft and really multi-tasked a conversation. He was helping me get centered on the job. I would have to let him know his Tells, when linking. Using the royal "We" is a dead giveaway.
Esmeralda and Tio brought up tacos and empanadas made with his own beef. That he served iced coffee instead of wine seemed to indicate he would like to see some progress made after lunch. Father Cervantes thanked both of them and asked for a little more time conferring before we would come down and get busy. Tio said, "Luis has gone to collect my other sons at the hospital. I will go downstairs and wait for them." He gave me an odd look on the way out. Still getting used to the new me, I guess. The job can come off a little schizophrenic to the uninitiated.
Now we uplinked. To Nacio at the doorway, we would be sitting in the room staring at nothing. Occasionally we would mumble or twitch when interacting with the network. Within the network, we were absorbing feeds and viewing plans that Saint Peter had sketched out. He had a decision tree mapped out in a series of cusp events forking away from the moment we went downstairs. We poked at rough spots and called up metadata on particular decision forks. Father Cervantes was very good on the forensic sciences. He also knew a few influential people to smooth some of the rough spots. By the time twenty minutes went by, we had built a team and a plan. Father Cervantes finally shut down the session with the words "Para Dios agarre el día." Seize the day for God. I hadn’t heard that phrase before. It had a nice ring.
Cocktail number 7 and Tio’s espresso had me ready to go. I had objectives and skilled oversight. Now I just had to rein in my cousins. They were coming in the front door by the time we got downstairs. Tio gave introductions to Father Cervantes as "Eduardo Junior and Guillermo." I would have to tell the Father their nicknames or get used to saying their formal names without smirking. Little Eduardo hated anything but Lalo. Luis thought Lucho sounded more macho. Memo was just Memo.
Right now, Memo had a ball cap over his glued scalp. His clavicle immobilizer held a magnetic booster to knit the bone, but it would still be weeks before he was fit. Memo needed upper tier healthcare instead of this Saturday night ER cleanup. I mentioned this to Father Cervantes. He offered to make a call to a sports surgeon with the Jai Alai league in Tijuana. Getting smacked with a Pelota doing at least two hundred sixty kph gave him steady work in bone injuries, the gambling proceeds let him access cutting edge tech. He could remote it in when I got Memo to a proper TP med bay. The Garda had one at a base just south of town. When I deputized Memo, he could use it cheaply. We were back to our miniscule Templar budget problems.
Rafe and Etienne took the SWAT van. They would be doing a show of force at the Tacos Borracho. Wearing the Templar uniforms and being seen questioning barrio witne
sses would announce our involvement. Father Cervantes and Nacio took the forensic moving truck over to the Policia parking lot and ran their own labs on the evidence. They had a few tricks to try and some special databases to run hits against.
I got my cousins up to the simulator room. Surrounded by military grade equipment and backdropped by a Templar tunic draped over Combat Skins, I swore them in. I used the Garda militia format. That authorized them for weapons under direct supervision. I gave them three laminated Garda IDs for badges. The code strip on them would give Base privileges. Memo I told to get a cab to the Santa Gertrudis Base down south. He would see the medical officer and get scheduled for a Telepresence surgery. Father Cervantes would provide the surgeon. I told him, "Memo, these are serious people. This swearing in Garda stuff is no joke. Don’t embarrass yourself around them or they may void your status." He promised he would see it through and come back ready to go. That’s why Memo can talk me into stuff. He’s my steady cousin. Cocktail number 7 kicked in and I found myself thinking about my orders. Sometimes you can catch the chemicals working, like a quick movement in your peripheral vision.
Lalo and Lucho, I put in the simulators. They took the Cocktail number 9 when offered and started basic training. Saint Peter had a special program for them, concentrating on urban police actions. There was even a subprogram of me to kick them along. I wanted them familiar with my calling the shots. The Cocktails would keep them from getting too independent. This freed me up to do some prep work. I went through my cousin’s hunting gear for suitable materials. They had some shotguns that could use Templar cartridges. I sawed these off to shorten barrels and stocks. Laser illuminators would make them easier to aim. The new size made them harder to disarm and handy as clubs. I broke out commo buds and plasticuffs. Body armor and Aid kits added to the pile. I didn’t worry about knives or pistols, my cousins already had favorite toys they were good with.
When I was first showing an interest in Garda service, my cantina cousins introduced me to a man called Armando Agudo. The nickname was pretty accurate at first meeting. He did not suffer fools well and was very fast. He picked up money schooling the cantina gorilas in the art of combat. Where he learned was in the Policia Militar, pulling trained men out of bars without damaging them too badly. They weren’t so careful with him, as evidenced by crisscrossed scars on much of his exposed skin.
He was mesmerizing to listen to. Every story had a lesson. Sometimes they would end with him pointing to a scar. "…and that was how I got this." Armando was on his second medical Translation, so occasionally he pointed to a scar that wasn’t there. But he remembered the lessons. Later, I would see him as just another mercenary trainer, but at the time he was a commanding presence.
He taught a form of Silat. In return, I made him a data vault out of spare parts. He wouldn’t say what he wanted under lock and key, probably his taxes. At least his payment didn’t involve a lot of bruising. The Silat lessons sure did.
Weapons’ training was the fun part. After he beat a basic Forma into your muscle memory, he would advance to blade, stick and chain. A few of my cousins had done the whole program and were now formidable. In addition to that, he taught urban gun. One cousin just took the gun training and could shoot competitively on the Policia course. Armando Agudo provided his Forma to most of the fighters in my extended family. I’m pretty sure his training got me a fast rise in the Garda. Thanks Armando.
What this meant for my cousins was I understood their technique and background much better than the average recruit. I had pointed Saint Peter at some of my old sims for models. They would get a fast, custom session tonight and wake up for a little hands on tuning in the morning. When I switched them to Cocktail number 7, they would be capable of watching my back. But for now, I was free to respond. I checked Saint Peter’s feeds.
The street theater and lab work was still ongoing. We did have a preliminary DNA match with a Sangron named Perez. Saint Peter had subpoenaed a backup copy of Perez from a month ago. A simulation was set up for a Class 1 Interrogation. As a suspect, the copy had certain rights. An Advocate from Civil Services would monitor. If Saint Peter implicated him with criminal acts, he could escalate the interrogation. The Advocate would leave and pass the file up to Defense.
Perez worked in a warehouse, loading boxes of clothes into retailer trucks. A warrant for the offices gave us the rest of the employee records. Two more of them looked like Sangrons, that sullen, dark posture with the elaborate hair. Warrants radiated out to investigate all of them. I got an address and a job. Saint Peter tracked down a flop used by Perez and one of the other Sangrons. My two Sergeants were vectoring there. He suggested that I do an early insert as a covert. Saint Peter gave me an inventory, heavy on jammers and cyber assault. He recommended a few of my toys and the Combats Skins. I also picked up a Field Translator. Backed up, jacked up and rumble-ready.
The gear went into a tool box, heavy enough to use as a ram. One of Lucho’s work jumpers fit over my exo. Transport was Lucho’s Mastretta, a two seat sport kit in yellow. Not the most covert entry car, but his keys were the only ones around. I tweaked the plan a little and called Father Cervantes for a lift. "Bueno, Chuy," he answered. It is a real aid to conversation to have everyone following action plans on the Battlenet. Our quick calls referred to things without revealing them. Just in case the line bleeds a little signal or someone technical is looking for us.
I parked the Mastretta at the crime lab parking lot. It should be pretty safe there and made it look like Lucho was in talking to the Policia. That would be only natural after his brother got sent to the hospital. I hopped out and grabbed the toolbox. Nuncio’s dusty box rental truck pulled up at the curb long enough for me to get in the back.
Father Cervantes and Nuncio drove for the address, separated by the box but able to speak over the net. I synched up my network gear with the truck’s electronics and repacked the toolbox with some toys. Nuncio announced, "Marshal, coming up to the curb. Address is a little ahead on the right when you exit."
I thanked him for the ride and said, "You two should get in the box. It’s safer and you can help with the apartment system." The tires squeaked to a stop and I hopped out the back door, holding it for Father Cervantes when he came walking back. He and Nuncio stepped inside and I closed the door.
Now I was a workman. Hefting the toolbox, I stepped onto the walk and headed for the entrance. There was a network mast, coming out of the wall in an armored conduit and extending three meters above the street. A few seconds with a debonder opened a hole for the cyber assault pack to send probes. I stuck the pack to the pipe and continued to the entrance. It was a beat up security alcove on the old model, a camera and a panel of buzzers outside an iron gate. The numbers on the buzzer panel indicated two floors and about sixteen units. I could find no active defenses other than a spoiled wine reek. I buzzed a first floor apartment and mumbled, "Building maintenance." Two tries got me in.
The latch received a thin plate glued over the bolt, to keep the gate from locking. It swung closed behind me. Above the gate were two magnets that logged traffic and sent alarms. Clip on jumpers disabled those. The way was clear for mi compadres. Further in, the entrance enlarged to a tiled court with a grayed skylight dome. Locked bins on the left held deliveries, a wide stair opened up on the right. The Target room was upstairs.
I got a little into character on the way up, examining the walls and fittings. This building had to be about a hundred years old, brickface over recast metal and industrial chic exposed beams. The paint was layers of tag spray, proclaiming territory and affiliations. It was the barrio equivalent of hanging a security service sign. These seemed to show I should watch out for Morro a Morte. Saint Peter began checking up on the "Dead Ghosts" for me. They might be early responders.
At the top of the stairs was another door, but this was just to contain the air conditioning. No lock. The posted fire escape floor plan oriented me to the rooms. Above the stair door, I glued the cell
jammer and minicam. The camera I aimed down the left hall. Father Cervantes gave me a system check and a link to the camera on my glasses. Surveillance was in place.
I walked up the hall and looked at numbers. My toolbox looked at the walls from red lenses facing out both sides of the handle. Part of the Battlenet feed popped up on my glasses. Orange blobs of people stood starkly apart from the cooler surroundings. Thermal images were degraded by my own body heat, reflecting off the walls, but still showed occupancy of the apartments well enough. I walked slowly to the end of the hall then doubled back to the target apartment door. I set the box down in the middle of the floor, carefully orienting it to bring a full picture. Wrapping a breaching shotgun in a towel, I picked up the Field Translator and left the toolbox. It was a quick walk back to the end of the hall. There was a little wait while the thermal picture firmed up. Squatting over a heat register and putting a screwdriver on the floor next to it, I tried to look busy while loitering. Saint Peter soon advised a Target, a Person of Interest and one Unsub. We would sort them out once in hand.
Feeds from the cameras on Father’s rental truck showed the SWAT N. Mexicano van rolling up out front. Rafe and Etienne jumped out in full Templar battle dress, uparmored Combat Skins under a white belted tunic with a red cross front and back. Both accessorized with riot helmets and Taser Cesti, like Garda police. Rafe also brought his breaching shotgun. They pounded up the stairs fast, getting to the top ahead of street spotters. If there were any, they couldn’t have called ahead anyway, communications in and out of the building were being jammed. Saint Peter had just e-filed the warrant.
Etienne grabbed up my abandoned toolbox and swung it at the door jamb. Metal popped and the door yielded to his powered shoulder. Both Templars entered amid crashing panic within the target room.
I heard shouted orders from Rafe, "Down, down, get down." A door between me and the target room opened and a shaved head with fanciful tattoos looked out. He left his back to me, drawn to the sounds next door. The head slipped back into the apartment, calling to friends. His tattoos, Saint Peter saw on my feed, matched Morro a Morte symbologies. Thermal inventory of that room was four adults. Intercept and contain was advised.
I cycled out the first round from the shotgun. This didn’t need twenty eight grams of lock shredding metal slug, these would be soft targets and innocent until otherwise. Dye splats would have to do. My shoulder to the wall, I slid along quietly as tattoo head and two associates poured into the hallway with whatever was at hand. Apparently, they were going to get territorial with a pistol, a hammer and a machete. I prioritized targets and fired. The shot took the pistolero in the back. A spray of dye from the burst slug showed he received the full energy. Pitching forward two meters, he landed badly on his face. The other two Morros turned toward me but made no aggressive moves. The sudden noise had stunned them. I twitched the shotgun toward their open apartment, "Get back inside and close the door." Shaved head looked at the pistolero on the floor and went back inside. The machete wielder found himself alone in his combat stance facing a shotgun. It took a long moment, but he went back to the apartment too.
Kids, what can you do?
I cuffed the pistolero and stuck his weapon in a pocket. Illegal possession charges would give leverage for interrogation. This apartment was a gun free zone. My shotgun stayed on the Morro door. From the sounds in the target room, the sergeants had everyone bagged and tagged for pickup. Rafe came out of the room and took the Field Translator off my belt, "I need this, Marechal." He handed me back a rolled up tunic with the belt. "Please put this on, you look like my idiot beau-frere in that jumper." I had met his brother in law a few times. He was one of the Christians who reacted badly to my new body. Typical Rafe multi-tasking. Help cover the hall as I slid the tunic over my head and give backhanded support for coping with his family.
Doors opened and closed all along the hall for a while. Seeing Templars with shotguns drew interest but no heroes. The lights flickered a few times as Etienne made a field copy of Perez. We had him for kidnapping accessory and his Sangron roommate, Vargas as a person of interest. Warrants for search and arrest did not cover the girl found with them. Rafe did a cell swab and held her for a statement. The Policia were on the way to handle cleanup.
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