Steeled Spies #2: Off The Streets, Into the Sanctum
Out of the Firing Line & Into the Fire...
Agent Roger Steele had eyes for the street patrol as he slammed the gearshift’s blood-red button, and out swung the twin carguns from beneath the Charger’s chassis. With tires screaming, he kicked the brakes down and leaned on the throttle, the floor trigger clicking into place as mighty red laser fire tore into the floating silver machine as it read its spluttering riot act.
“H-H-HALT. HALT. YOU HAVE VIOLATED CURFEW IN THIS SECTOR.”
Lucille Devenreux took on the beast at their back. The second autocop bolted from the alley, racing towards the black muscle car as the fair-furred leader swung herself out the car window. Sharp-eyed behind the iron sights, each pull of the Mauser’s trigger made its mark, the hover engines taking blow after blow. Just as she was working her third of four, she felt a sharp-clawed hand rip her back into the car. Devenreux fell back in the seat, Steele’s puma now loose on the streets. The autocop in the alley surged forward into the other, both detonating in a colossal blue fireball.
The city blurred into lines of white, black, silver, and blue as the Charger gathered speed, guns retracting.
“Good aim,” Steele said. “Can see why you didn’t mind me packing.”
“Hey, I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday,” she said. “Besides, you can make peace with hounds but you can’t with machines.”
Roger cocked an ear her way. “How do you square Little Miss Ace then?”
“She is…she is something else.” Devenreux sighed, shaking her head, hand wrapped tight around the Mauser’s grip. “And that isn’t all!”
Ahead was a squad of HOV-CRAFT. All five pivoted in unison upon detecting the hot-rod hurtling their way. Steele clamped down hard on the brakes as the Charger screeched to a stop, the rubber still burning as the car sped away and down a side street on their right. The autocops gave chase once more.
“Want me out the window?” Devenreux asked.
Steele shook his head. “And have the leader of the free world split her head open on the edge of a tenement?” The narrowing street made for a compelling case.
So did the dead end.
Once more, the Charger ground to a halt, swinging herself around to face the inbound wave of hovering, chattering menaces. Out came the carguns and all the stopping power and smoke plumes to go with it.
Devenreux looked to Steele, worried. “How long can this thing’s transmission take these stunts?”
Steele turned and looked her square in the eyes, and with a careful clearing of his throat, answered. “She takes all she can.”
He opened the hot rod up wide, the Charger jolting up, nose in the air, bolting full speed towards the mob of robotic cop cars. When her front wheels hit the front of the first HOV-CRAFT, Roger flicked a switch. The car bounded clear over the hoard, landing on the city streets with a screech and thud.
In a frenzy of swerves and skids, the Charger roared on into the night, chased by wailing synthetic sirens echoing off the derelict skyscrapers, on into the never-ending mists that had spread beyond Empire Square.
“What’s the charge on the cartridge?” Steele asked, eyes darting between the rear-view and side-view mirrors.
Devenreux cleared the chamber and dropped the bronze cylinder in the palm of her hand. “Damn, it’s at 5%.” It only got worse when she checked the magazine. “5%. 5%. 4%. 2%. Good God, do you ever charge these?”
The gray agent cocked an eyebrow. “Try the glove compartment.”
When she did, she found a charging station. Five magazines. All in the red.
“Sonofabitch.” Steele growled. He dug into his own coat pocket, producing one last magazine. The top cartridge read 1%. With a deep breath, and a verbal command of “Computer: ACP Trace,” the charging station rotated, revealing five silver magazines.
Steele looked to Devenreux, and Devenreux to Steele.
“Well,” the agent started, “It’s been said they don’t make ‘em like they used to. Grab a mag, and have a blast.”
As the clouds of flashing blues and reds grew clearer and clearer, Devenreux locked, loaded, and swung herself out the window, fur battered by the winds as she took aim and fired. Yellow lines of light soared from the pistol, landing blow after blow on the pursuing craft, a pint-sized fireball erupting with every shot that landed.
“Tracer rounds,” Steele shouted, “With a controlled binary explosive on the tips. Great fun on the range.”
She didn’t say anything, not at 200 miles an hour. Shot after shot wore the protective shielding down, and just as the first autocop erupted into flames, tumbling into the dark and taking one with it, she felt the tug of the agent’s hand on her jeans. Devenreux threw the safety on and whipped back inside the car. The windows slid shut in seconds as Steele swerved hard to the left and into another alleyway. “But we still have three left to go!” she protested.
“And they will be dealt with,” Steele nodded. “Just watch.”
In the opposite alleyway, a pack of bikers sat, two astride their mighty hogs and revving up something fierce. With the wave of a black gloved hand, the hellions bolted across the street, pulling up along Steele’s side of the Charger. And in the blink of an eye, there was the ringleader herself.
Lita pulled her blood-red Beetle up to the center of the street. Cute as a button and twice as deadly, the little curved machine revved and rocked as the mother of all cackles came roaring from behind the wheel.
“COME AN’ GETTI’ BOYS!” Lita hollered with mad glee.
The three autocops came alive with a deafening roar of “HAAAAAAALT.” Their last words before hitting the force field at full speed.
The machines flattened like beer cans under one’s heel, the wall of blue fire expanding to the edges of the force field. Lita whooped and guffawed, flashing a thumbs up before shouting “E’RE’ONE MOVE OUT!”
Lita and her Red Devil whipped around and bolted into the mists, Steele and the Charger following suit. Devenreux looked back to see the pack of bikers dismantling the field, vanishing into the shadows. All that remained of the ordeal was another pile of electric junk, fading away in a sea of cobalt fog.
It was insane, the whole damn story, but she took down every word of it. Steele ran the whole thing from top to bottom for Lita. He told her of Draco, of the punks in the Reformation’s ranks, of the White Coat. Told her of disabling the front wall of the park. Her crimson eyes were rock-steady in their concentration as she jotted down note after note before handing it off to one of the black-suited hounds of her sanctum.
“Candygram from Ms. L to Goldfinger, extra sweet. Hot leads on the Dead Man’s Electric Hand. Encrypt data on our usual wave.” The wolf in black nodded before taking the write-up away. “So,” Lita started, her attention returned to the room, “She’s here now. Where we going with this?”
The dark gray punk batted at the overhead light like a cat with a string. The steel-domed fixture flashed in Devenreux’s face, the rusted chain creaking with every sway. She didn’t flinch.
“Well, all my leads wind up killing themselves,” Steele remarked coldly. “And Lucille’s green to the whole deal.”
Lita looked over the gray peacenik, from the tip of her well-trimmed head to the soles of her thin-strapped sandals. Her red eyes scanned the wolven activist like the ‘droids she’d been fighting for years. “You're dead sure, Roger?” Lita asked.
“The hell’s the matter, Lita?” Devenreux barked. “I just went through hell getting here, we’ve done great things in the past month, and you’re gonna treat me--”
“I've been rocking with you for a month and all I got is a dead hound to show for it.” came the punk’s cold reply. “Your main man bit the big one, you had three punk scabs who could be convinced of eating shit if you knew how to dress it. Honey, you’s on thin ice, and I’m not talking ‘bout with me no mo.’”
Devenreux leaned in close. She didn’t lay a hand on Lita but came within spitting distance. “And if I knew even an ounce of this was going on, I’d have done ‘em in myself. I ain’t never cried on air, but the shit that came out of me after DeVol was real, Lita. Ralph was good. Ralph put his ass dead on the line every fucking time, and you know what, it fucking cost him. And if I could, I’d have gone up on that cross myself. But now we’re BOTH on thin fucking ice because we’re dealing with one hound or a whole heap looking to break up the only movement in this town that’s ever moved the goddamned needle. I want every mole out of the Reformation, and I want to be in on the ground floor making sure everything gets done because I want you, me, everyone in that compound and everyone in this fucking city not waking up in the dead of night getting slaughtered for thinking wrong, whatever the hell wrong is to the maligned thug. This is all just another big part of the cause, bitch.”
Mousy could no longer describe Devenreux. Her deep blue eyes raged as she looked long and hard into Lita. She felt the leather of the punk’s gloves wrap around the back of her head. Lita brought Devenreux right to her face, their foreheads pressed against one another.
“I just wanted to see how real you was.” Lita said, her ebony rasp softening. “And you’s is. I can see it now.”
She relinquished her grip on the revolutionary. Steele looked over the two. “Anyone need a sedative?”
Lita looked to the agent, bug-eyed, “For fuck’s sake Roger! I thought you’d gotten off the damn things.”
“If this night gets any better, I’m bound to relapse.” he smirked. “Especially if that electro-mag charging station keeps failing. All my magazines were under 5%.”
She rolled her eyes. “Cunts at the shop musta been in my hash again. We’ll get the Constable patched up on that end.”
“My spare was also fried.” Steele added. “My fully charged spare.”
Lita looked skeptical. Then the agent produced his magazine. She went over every bullet and came up livid. “How the fuck did this get past us?”
“My only idea,” the leather-clad agent said, “is that the wall at Empire Square ran a syphon circuit, tactical disabling of laser weaponry within set distances.”
“How come the car’s ammo wasn’t drained?” Devenreux asked.
“The same shielding on our limiters, Lucille.” he winked. “Maybe check the model numbers on those magazines, see if they’ve passed their sell-by.”
Lita nodded. “Yo, Merrick, get the Kaiser some fresh batteries for the next leg. I want the Charger fixed up before we get back now, right?”
“Ma’am?” the black suit answered. “We ain’t finding anything.”
“No anomalies, no nothing?” she pressed.
The stocky, jade-eyed wolf shook his head as he handed Steele the fully-charged magazine. “Rest of those should charge up fine, Sir.”
The agent nodded. “Guess it was just the fence. When we have the time, we’ll get those swapped for the freshly shielded.”
“Mind if I ask where we are stopping first?” Devenreux interjected.
Lita turned to look at her. At first, she came on with the high and mightiness of having the situation firmly in hand, only for her look to soften. She relieved the tension ever so slightly, the red of her eyes now warm instead of blazing.
“Check on the compound, make sure they all still cool wit’chu and us.” she said. “Lotta folks are gonna be in for a long haul, and I wanna make sure you still got them on lock. And they still good to work with us publicly, you just can’t tell them ‘bout the Creed is all. That’s loose-lips-sink-ships kinda stuff.”
The silvery-white gal shook the gloved hand of the punk before her. “I think everyone’ll be on edge, but once they know we’re in the company of friends, they’ll smooth out.”
Lita nodded before snapping her fingers. “Ayo! Gimme the ‘84!” In came Merrick once more, now with a holster and a black Beretta. He gently handed it to Devenreux, stepping away with a polite bow.
“Thank you,” she smiled. As she tried to slide into the holster, Merrick worked his large hands ever so nimbly to guide the activist into her new-found gear. Their eyes lingered on each other before Merrick nodded, smiled, and quietly returned to his post in the sanctum. “We’ll get y’all a room later,” Lita snickered. “To the Batshit Mobile!”
Steele shook his head, Devenreux flushed with embarrassment. The look he gave said it all; “follow my lead.”
The trio piled into the Charger once more as Roger pulled out onto the streets and went hurtling towards the Reformation block. Through the winding maze of Eastern District streets they rode, Lita having the time of her life riding next to the ammo storage unit. At last, the group had made it to the gate. Devenreux took a forensics glove from the bottomless glove compartment; the closest to the ones used in ID scanning she could have.
She stepped out and went up to the device, pressing her sheathed palm up to the sensor.
“ACCESS: GRDENIEDANTED”
The fusion of words startled her. She cleared the reading and tried again.
“ACCESS: DEGRANTNIED”
A reverse of the same jumbled mess. Quickly, she removed the glove and tried her bare paw.
“ACCESS: 763246823746827346823746823746823724”
It was useless. She hurried back into the Charger and looked to Steele. “She built to ram?” Devenreux asked.
Steele gunned the black beast in reverse. Once he gained enough distance, the engine worked up to a scream, he shifted gears and dropped the hammer. The muscle car clocked 100 in the blink of an eye as she rushed the gate.
With a calamitous crash, the metal doors were blown off their hinges, each hitting the pavement with a clanging thud. When everyone released themselves from their braced states, an unearthly hush came over all. All within the car, and all beyond it. Barren streets and sidewalks. Every light turned out. Somehow, someway, there was nothing left of the Haven Reformation…
TO BE CONTINUED…