Taking the Highway (40 page)

“Bring me some.” Talic slowly bent his right knee, trying to get comfortable. His left leg, stretched out in front of him, throbbed with every heartbeat, a stabbing pain with every breath.

Madison swatted the blades of the scissors against her palm a few times, then put them back in the drawer. She fiddled with everything on the desktop, lining up the pens, the potted plant, and a series of power cords. Her movements had become jerky and manic.

Talic rubbed the handle of his gun with his thumb. He wanted to make Madison sit down and shut up, but his resources were limited. If he didn’t want to pass out, he had to sit still, conserve his energy. So he remained silent while she paced and muttered.

Madison patted her hair into place and headed toward the exit. “That was a nice little show, pretending to be on her side, but do you really think it will fool anyone? You’re not a good cop. You’re barely a good man. You’re lucky I’m taking care of you.”

Talic grabbed her ankle as she passed. With his other hand, he flicked off his weapon’s safety. He made a show of reading the load indicator. “If you get anywhere near that door, I will empty this gun into you. I’ve got seven bullets. I’m going to start with your legs, one bullet for each. Two for your arms. Two for your chest. Then I will stand over your dead body and use the last bullet to shoot your face off.”

Madison yanked her ankle out of his grasp. She took a step back, tottering on her high heels. “Two for my chest?”

“Not sure you have a heart. Better shoot twice.”

The door slammed open and Sofia burst into the room. She rounded the desk and turned on the companel there, flicking through options.

Talic stared at her. “Where’s my water?”

Sofia turned the screen to face him.

The corner of the screen showed the CI newsnet logo, but the voice was Ugly Ben, one of those moron spinners always trying to stir up trouble. He was shouting, but that didn’t mean anything. Spinners shouted about the weather. Talic ignored the jumbled words and focused on the visuals. The low-resolution image bounced in and out of focus as whoever held the camera walked through the scene. This was no edited spin, this was live. Even with the poor image, he recognized the 75/375 interchange, both highways empty of cars.

Highways were never empty. Never. Another Overdrive crash must have stopped traffic further upstream. But two highways at once? And why did Sofia look so happy?

Madison sagged onto her knees. She crossed her arms and gripped her shoulders, leaning forward. She seemed to have forgotten Talic, more horrified at what she saw on the screen than the threat to her life.

The spinner finally shut his mouth and a legit anchor took over the report. The camera swung around to an on-ramp, where men in suits and ties stood arm-in-arm, body-blocking the on-ramp.

“We have reports that the fourths have stopped traffic from entering 75 near East Grand and the 375 spur,” the anchor was saying. “Hundreds of fourths, perhaps thousands, have joined the effort. It isn’t clear how the fourths knew that Overdrive had failed, but their quick thinking and coordinated effort have saved countless lives.”

“No,” Madison whispered. “They can’t do this to me. They can’t.” She stood and turned to Talic. “Stay. Go. I don’t care. I’m leaving.”

Talic shot once, a tiny, stuttering pop from his weapon that seemed to boom into the room.

Madison froze, staring at the hole in the floor a centimeter from her foot.

“Well, shit,” Talic said. “I’ll have to kill you with six.”

Sofia advanced on her with the duct tape. “You are, as of this moment, under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.” She ripped off a piece of duct tape and pressed it to Madison’s lips. “And I’m going to make sure you do.”

O
n another day, Topher
Price-Powell would never have crossed the first lane. People who have a breakdown on 75 didn’t get out of their cars unless they were suicidal, stupid, or both. Not that drivers would try to hit someone, but—and the fact was becoming a thorn in Andre’s brain—the reliance on Overdrive made it less likely for a driver to notice a pedestrian and there was no way for the system to see them. Anyone whose car broke down called for help, sat tight, and waited for rescue.

Thanks to Topher and whatever virus he carried on his datapad, the crashes had stopped all forward movement in the northbound lanes. Topher ran across the empty asphalt, threw himself at the neck-high concrete divider, and scrambled over it like a monkey on flash.

Andre swore foully and started forward himself, moving past tangled metal and angry drivers caught in the airwebs of their cars. He peered over the dividing wall to see Topher already on the other side. The southbound highway, though not empty of traffic, was less like a raging river of cars and more like a videogame about dodging sniper bullets. Whatever the fourths had done, it was working.

Andre stepped into the flow of oncoming traffic, trying to keep one eye on the retreating Topher and one on the cars around him. Individual cars whispered past him like ghosts before he could do more than flinch, the people inside just four oval mouths of surprise. He imagined what they must see. How many of them were already on their screamers, yelling about a maniac in ill-fitting kincloth with a wild tangle of black hair and a gun in his hand?

Topher stood in the breakdown lane and pulled weapons out of pockets. In his right hand, Sofia’s Guardian. In his left, a datapad. He lifted his head to look up the hill that led away from the highway and toward the service drive. At the top, silhouetted against the sky, was a crane-like tower sporting dozens of antennae. No doubt this tower housed the Overdrive node that watched over this section of road. Andre watched traffic, watched Topher, and attempted another lane.

Topher took one step up the hill, then turned and faced the highway. His eyes fixed on Andre and he raised his right hand.

The shot was wild, but it almost killed Andre anyway when he flailed to the side and was nearly hit by a passing Ford. Topher trotted upward.

Andre crept forward, scanning the berm, using his peripheral vision to look for the cars, afraid to turn toward them. He saw his opening and dashed across the remaining lanes. He reached the breakdown lane on the opposite side and put his hands on his knees for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control, then bounded up the berm after Topher.

Halfway up the hill, he roared out Topher’s name, told him to stop. Topher raised his left hand, brandishing the datapad, but the tension in his stance said it all. He still wasn’t close enough to the Overdrive node. He took another step up the slope of the hill.

The Yavorit felt suddenly perfect in Andre’s swollen hand. Part of him—perhaps a larger part than he cared to admit—wanted to end this here and now, wanted to end Topher.

No. If Topher dropped his weapons, both gun and pad, Andre would arrest him, cuff him, and lead him away to trial. He wasn’t like Talic, choosing amputation over pain. “Don’t give me an excuse, Topher.” He didn’t shout, but the words carried. “Drop the datapad.”

Topher turned his head to look sidelong at Andre. “I think
you’d
better drop your gun. I’m close enough. I’m in. You shoot me and they all die.”

It started with a chuckle at the back of Andre’s throat that swelled into laughter.

“I mean it!” Topher’s voice, so sure, so controlled, was now shrill with anger.

“All who?” Andre mocked. “Take a look, Topher. Did you notice how few cars were on the road with us? Check out the on-ramp down there.” He didn’t take his eyes off Topher, but nodded his head to the north.

Topher turned toward the highway. His eyes widened “They . . . they . . .”

“You and Madison,” Andre said, “you both have the same idea about what Detroit is. To you it’s all just a big mechanical construct. The gears mesh together and those in power turn them. Turn one cog wrong, it all falls apart. Take a good look, Topher. Detroit isn’t a machine. When
things
stop working, people start.”

Andre shook his head in mock sadness. “You’ve been a pain in the ass, but after I arrest you, the spinners will cover your trial on a flash-pad. You and your little organization will be yesterday’s news.”

Topher’s nostrils flared under burning eyes. “You can’t arrest me.” He held up his datapad and looked over his shoulder at the tower. “I’ll do it! I will!”

Andre laughed again, low and long. “If you were close enough to release the virus, you would have done it already.”

Topher swung the gun in a flat arc, but Andre was ready for the movement. The Yavorit’s sight laid a perfect crosshatch on Topher’s furrowed brow and his squeezing finger was already at the trigger’s breakpoint. Topher’s head snapped backward, whiplashed forward and then back again as the second bullet scored. His arms flung wide and part of Andre’s attention tracked the gun as it dropped from Topher’s hand. He would need to mark that for retrieval. Sofia would want it back.

Topher spun halfway around as if still trying to flee, but instead thudded to the earth and lay there. He twitched once and was still.

Andre climbed the few remaining meters to the top of the hill and stood where he could see the highways laid out in complicated spirals below him. He activated his phone implant and placed a call to Captain Evans. He gave her GPS coordinates and called for an investigative team.

The glow of artificial streetlights had taken the place of fading sunlight, and Andre could clearly see the on-ramp to the north where a dapper row of fourths stood arm in linked arm, preventing the line of cars from entering the on-ramp. He could see more in his imagination, fourths up and down the highway, standing between the cars and danger—making a line and then putting themselves on it. He wondered if Bob was down there. He wondered if he should help them.

Andre smiled and shook his head. He wouldn’t go to the on-ramp. He didn’t have to. This was bigger than him. Bigger than any one of them. The fourths were on the job and would do what they always did. They would take care of their city.

A
ndre eased open the
door and moved around the corner, raising his hands to elbow level. He wondered about the wisdom of surprising a guy like Talic. Wondered even more as Talic held a large and unfamiliar handgun—probably military issue—on him.

“Gun,” Talic said.

“I thought that’s what it was.” Andre strolled forward, still holding his hands at that negligent height. He glanced around at the spartan lack of decoration in Talic’s apartment. There were a few lonely nails on the walls and two empty shelves. Had they once held trophies, medals, maybe a photo of his unit?

Two wine glasses sat on the spotless expanse of kitchen counter next to a recently-opened bottle. “Expecting someone?”

“Saw you sneaking into the building.” In a single fluid movement, Talic safed the gun and placed it on the counter, still within reach. He poured the wine, rolling his wrist with a connoisseur’s ease over each glass. He offered one to Andre. “Did you come here alone, or should I pour another?”

“Alone,” Andre said. “This isn’t department business.”

Talic grunted. “Meaning it’s personal.”

Andre regarded the wine in his glass—nearly as dark as the night sky beyond. The City Center lights below were the only stars available and more easily navigated. “Not the way you mean. You saved Sofia’s life. Maybe mine too. I’m here to thank you. Mostly.” He sniffed the glass and sipped. Smooth. Oaky. He glanced at the label. “I didn’t know Leelenau Cellars made Pinot Noir.”

“They don’t anymore. Been saving this one for a special occasion.” Talic took a generous sip. “Mostly?”

Andre raised his glass. “I’d say the summit is off to a successful start. The city,” he said with dramatic irony, “is saved.”

A laugh from Talic, only a tinge of bitterness. “For now.”

“I’m serious. Don’t come back.” He regretted having to say it out loud. Talic wasn’t a man to bear threats, but Andre had to be sure there was no room for misunderstanding. It was only a matter of time before the newly appointed investigative committee got around to interviewing Jae Geoffrey Talic. Better for the city—better for everyone—if he just disappeared. Unavailable in the permanent sense.