Southwyck House, by Kibwe X-Kalibre Tavares
“Who in the name of Hell was that?” The gunshot echoed in the hallway, deafeningly loud – I lay face-down on the floor, counting the seconds, counting my blessings. A fist-shaped hole punched through the wall above my head. It bled slowly, trickling plaster down to cake in my hair. “I’m gonna need a bucket of tea after this.” It sounded like a whisper, even inside my head.
“Third Precinct,” the Boss said, “bastards. They’re trying to snatch the case.” He stood up, adding the roar-and-click, roar-and-click of his hand-cannon to the sound of shrieking civilians. The leaning walls of the capsule hotel were grimy, the rust-water pooling on the concrete floor. Shells hissed in protest as they hit the puddles. My own gun shook as I drew it, caressing the fingertip identifier. There was no way we were going to lose this case to a bunch of pricks like Third. We had only a glimpse of the corpse as it lay there on the cold floor – I had no fucking idea what was going on there.
And neither would Third, if I had anything to say about it.
The Boss flicked a flash grenade around the corner – visors down, we chased after it.
“Second Precinct!” I shouted. The Boss just shot one, clean through the top of her head.
“Looks like a double homicide, eh, Constable?”
“And it looks like we found our prime suspect, Boss.” I grinned beneath my helmet. All he could see were my teeth.
And my baton, as it swung down.
The first victim’s lower intestine was looped around his neck, and an ankle was missing. As well as a couple of his teeth.
This bastard from Third would pay for that.
The Boss would come up with his usual, intangible proof.
And the killer could keep us in a job.