Sinthetica (11 page)

“All right, as long as it doesn’t take too long, we have to leave shortly.”

“Yes, Myfriend.”

Both men watched her walk to the far corner of the room. Blood from the wound on her back had seeped through the white jacket Ivan had picked for her. She turned to face them and smiled, her clear blue eyes regarding them for a moment before closing.

“Amazing,” Mateo whispered again, shaking his head. “I must go downstairs; the doors open in twenty minutes. Help yourself to anything you need. Perhaps you should pick a new jacket for your friend. Help yourself to Viktoria’s wardrobe, and there is a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

After Mateo had left, Ivan sunk into the sofa and looked at Inga. He didn’t know why she had begun deferring to him; it was as though she had forgotten that Molenski was her primary user. Somehow the damage she had taken had messed with the adaptive technology that Marina mentioned. Whatever it was, he liked the change, not to mention the fact that if it hadn’t happened, he would be a cooling hunk of meat back at Molenski’s mansion.

Far from sleepy, he closed his eyes and began to work through everything that could go wrong in the next 24 hours.

21

Tom Redfern tried to sleep, but it was difficult to sleep when you couldn’t breathe. He tried to roll over, but the heavy weight on top of him was too much to push away.
Rachel?

Slowly – reluctantly – he began to wake.  

The memory of what had happened rushed over him. He opened his eyes and looked straight into the staring eyes of the man who had been trying to strangle him, the slack, gray face slightly distorted by the bullet that had so recently traveled through the skull behind it.

For the second time that day he fought his way from under a corpse. 

He climbed to his feet, his throat raw from the attempted strangulation, and checked himself – no other injuries.

“I’m alive,” he rasped, then cackled like an old crone.

Suddenly the rush of relief turned to one of triumph as he looked down upon the bodies of the killers. They were next to each other, with almost identical head wounds. They looked like the victims of a professional hit.

“Yeah! You like that bitches!?” he yelled down at them and did a little jig before doubling over in a coughing fit.

When he had recovered, he heard the faint sound of sirens.
Fuck
! Even though he had technically done nothing wrong and was, in fact, a victim, Redfern panicked. His recent trauma and the moral and legal responsibilities that had been drummed into him as a robotics technician overrode logic.

He had to find that robot and stop it. With the damage it had apparently sustained, there was no use trying to override its programming remotely. He would just waste valuable time. The only way to do that was to remove the card and shut her down.

The sirens were growing louder. Redfern bent over and pocketed the gun he had shot both men with and then ran to the display, snatching up the GPS unit. The red blip was stationary. The visual feed on the screens was dark, which meant the robot was still functional but in sleep mode. Good.

He quickly grabbed the mini laptop computer they had been using to control the robot and ripped it away from the cables connecting it to the display. He rushed to the kitchen. He went straight to the microwave oven and placed the laptop in it, setting the timer for twenty minutes on high. It began sparking immediately; he ignored it and headed back for the front door.

Redfern, stressed by the proximity of the sirens, swore and skidded to a stop at the front door. Transport! He needed a vehicle, and the Genitix van would be too conspicuous. He dashed back to the desk and grabbed the keys to the dead men’s SUV and fled the apartment.

Just five minutes later, after nearly causing an accident, Tom Redfern pulled over and forced himself to calm down. Unless he did something stupid on the road, he wasn’t likely to be stopped by the cops. Given the current state of the vehicle’s owners, he didn’t think the vehicle he was driving would be reported stolen anytime soon, if at all, and he had clearly escaped the scene without being detected.

“Breathe,” he said aloud as he gripped the steering wheel. “Just find the robot. Remove the card. Deactivate it… then go to the cops and explain everything.”

He hoped that shutting down the rogue robot would help mitigate the killing of the two men, but more pressing in his mind was preventing further loss of life. He had seen what the robot could do in glorious living color, and it wasn’t pretty. It would have to be destroyed; there was no doubt.

While removing the card and a complete reprogramming would be enough to completely mitigate the chance of future problems, human law would require punishment and in this particular case, multiple murders of humans would require nothing less than ‘execution.'

Redfern picked up the GPS tracker. If the robot had been in sleep mode, it wasn’t anymore. The blip signified the robot was now on the move, somewhere on the East side. He propped the tracker on his dash and eased back into the traffic.

22

It had taken several hours for the Chicago PD along with a couple of members of the Organized Crime division to question Molenski. Finally, they conceded that the Russian seemed to have been the victim in this particular circumstance. From all appearances, his enemies had devised a particularly sophisticated assassination attempt by a robot. 

The Russian had cooperated fully with the man in charge, Commander Burlinson, who was actually on Molenski’s payroll, but it was clear that the case would be referred to the FBI as the AI factor moved it into the federal jurisdiction.

When he had told them about the murderous robot, you’d be forgiven for thinking he had shoved a wasp’s nest up their ass with a long stick. A breach of the robotics laws was rare, especially a murder attempt, so what they had initially thought of as a standard mob hit turned into something with far wider ramifications.

Molenski was careful to implicate Ivan. By the time he left, Burlinson was under no illusion that the bodyguard had been in on the whole thing and that Molenski wanted him apprehended before the FBI got their hands on him.

Of course, the Russian didn’t really think that Ivan was involved in the plot. The assassination attempt was the work of the Columbians, of that he had no doubt. No one else had the resources or the motivation, and he would deal with them in his own time.

Ivan, though, had let him down badly. Had
betrayed
him in his moment of need, despite everything that Molenski had done for him.

No. Besides not being killed, the only good that had come of the whole thing had been the fact that Ivan had prevented him finishing Inga with another gunshot or two. Now that he wasn’t swept up in the emotion of his near-death experience, he saw how much sweeter it would be to deal with the beautiful Inga lookalike in his own sweet time. And he would make Ivan watch.

Molenski was sure he would find the odd couple, but putting Ivan into the cops would be a backstop should he escape the mobster’s reach. If he was apprehended anywhere within the city limits, it would be easy enough to use his connections and grease a few palms to give him and the bitch the welcome home they so richly deserved.

After the cops had quit the estate, the hunt for Ivan and Inga began in earnest. Molenski’s tech experts got busy hacking into the phone company’s systems and searching for the stolen Dodge.

While he was waiting, Molenski watched the surveillance footage of the Dodge speeding up the ramp of the underground carpark over and over, peering intently at the black and white footage of the two absconders.

After twenty minutes, Molenski was informed that Ivan’s cell phone had last been detected a few suburbs away and hadn’t moved for hours.

“Don’t bother sending anyone; he’s not an idiot. It’s been dumped. What about the car?”

“Better. Courtesy of the vehicle tracking you paid for, we have an exact location…”

“Is it still moving?”

“No sir.”

“How long has it been stationary?”

“Three hours or so Mr. Molenski, at a wrecking yard on Kedzie Avenue.”

“He’s gone,” said Molenski. “But let us go and find out who has my car and what he might know of our friend and his passenger. Hand me your phone…”

Molenski quickly dialed a number.

“Andre, it’s me. I need you; something has come up. Be ready in 20 minutes.”

Molenski took three men, and they picked up Andre on the way. Now that Ivan had departed the scene, Molenski wouldn’t have admitted it, but he felt a little naked. Andre had been with him since not long after he arrived and was his head of security; he would adequately fill the shoes of the traitor.

Dimitri Molenski was quiet and thoughtful during the drive to Kedzie Avenue. That didn’t make the four men in the car with him relax. If anything it made them ill at ease, even the seasoned Andre.

An angry Molenski in full flight was much more predictable than his quiet alter ego.

23

The deal Stan Lewinski had made for the Dodge that afternoon had put him in a good mood. Once the re-birthers paid him, the windfall would fund his betting for a whole month. He decided to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels on the way home to celebrate, and also to dull the razor tongue of his wife… for a few hours, at least.

He started to pack up for the evening. These days he usually stretched his workdays for as long as he could. The less time he had to spend with his shrew of a wife in the evening, the better! If he had been twenty years younger, he might have clawed his way out of their dead marriage. But he wasn’t. He was old, and he was tired. Pretty much just counting time, socking away as much money as he could for his grandchildren. Besides them and the races, what else was there?

Whistling, he put on his jacket and hat and bent to pick up his briefcase. He stopped halfway and cursed, aware suddenly of the urgent need to take a piss. That’s how it was these days. No warning. Fine one minute and on the verge of wetting his pants like a toddler the next.

He straightened, groaning a little, and was about to head to the John when he heard tires on the gravel driveway.

“Who calls on a man at this time of night?” he asked, in disgust.

He stalked to the door, ready to treat the unexpected visitor a warm slice of ‘fuck off’ pie.  He watched as a long black Mercedes crawled up the drive and pulled up outside his office, lights on and engine running.

The sleek stretch limo looked out of place in his boneyard, and its blackened windows lent it a sinister air. Trying to look braver than he felt, he stomped down the steps and glared at the dark windows.

“I’m closed!” he yelled, in his best crabby old man voice.

Nothing. Feeling disquiet, Stan stalked to the front of the car and held a hand up to shade his eyes from the glaring headlights.

“I said, I’m closed!”

The car revved suddenly, and the old man jumped quickly out of the way, clutching his chest. A second later the engine and headlights were switched off. The rear doors opened, and four men got out.

“What are you, wise guys?” he yelled, trying to sound braver than he felt. “You’ll give an old man a heart attack.”

“Forgive my driver,” said the shortest of the men in a heavy Russian accent. “He is still getting used to the new car.”

“Well, I was telling you I’m closed, so if you wouldn’t mind turning your nice big shiny car around, I want to go home. You can come back tomorrow.”

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, Stan could make out the man who had spoken. He was well dressed and smiling. His smile did anything but put the old man at ease.

“I understand Sir, and I won’t keep you any longer than I have to. Please, would you mind stepping back inside your office for a moment?”

Stan was about to argue when one of the other men stepped up close to him. The old man’s eyes widened. Unlike his boss, the man didn’t display any emotion at all, and with his heavy brow and blocky build, put the old man in mind of a brick with eyes.

“I suppose I can give you five minutes,” he said, looking back to Molenski. “That’s all, though. My wife will shoot me if I’m not home too late… you understand?”

The Russian laughed heartily.

“Oh, I understand completely!” the Russian said, placing an arm over Stan’s skinny shoulders and guiding him to the steps. “My own wife, God rest her soul, also had a temper. Come, let us speak inside.”

Stan allowed himself to be ushered back inside his office.

“Please, sit,” said Molenski.

The old man was about to refuse but the big man, who was sticking to him like shit to hair in an ass crack, pushed a chair into the back of his legs. Stan sat at the small table he had set up for customers who never queued and folded his arms tightly across his chest. The Russian sat down opposite.

“Please relax, Mister..?”

“Lewinski. Stan Lewinski.”

“Mr. Lewinski, thank you. I am Dimitri Molenski. Now, I am here about a car…”

“Well, you can come back tomorrow, if you don’t mind I have to be getting home.”

Stan tried to stand up and found himself shoved back into the chair by the meaty hand of the brick.

“Please, Mr. Lewinski, I really don’t want things to become – shall we say – unpleasant. Andre here has a quick temper. Just allow me a few moments of your time and we can all go home.”

“Fine, fine,” snapped Lewinski. “What car?”

“A gray Dodge Challenger,” said the Russian, watching the old man closely.

The old man’s guts turned to water. He should have trusted his instincts earlier, but his greed had won out.

“What, you want to buy one?” he bluffed. “I don’t have one; you should try the used car dealer down the…”

Molenski slammed his open hand down on the card table. The old man jumped.

“I know you took possession of one today. I know that because it’s
mine
.” The old man opened his mouth to speak, but Molenski held up his hand. “That’s neither here nor there, Stan –do you mind if I call you Stan? – all I need from you is information.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve never bought or sold a Dodge Challenger. In fact I…”

Molenski waved a lazy hand at Andre who seized the old man’s wrist and peeled his hand away from his chest before separating his pinky from his other fingers. Without pause, he snapped it backward. The muffled pop of bones breaking was loud in the small room, but not as loud as the old man’s scream.

Molenski winced sympathetically and nodded his head.

“I know, I know – it must hurt like a bitch. Now Stan, please, just tell me what I need to know and as I said before, we’ll be out of your hair.”

The old man was beside himself; his eyes squeezed shut as he rocked back and forth, moaning and cradling his damaged hand.

“Stan, please.”

Stan Lewinski ignored the Russian bastard, hoping, like a bad dream, he would just go away. It wasn’t until he felt his hand grabbed again and the finger next to his mangled pinky separated from its fellows that he capitulated.

“All right, all right! Yes, I bought it today! Please! I can give it back… no more… please…”

“Excellent,” said Molenski. “Now we’re making some progress. Tell me, was it a big man with a crew cut?”

“Yes,” said Stan, his voice strained. “Him and his girl, a pretty thing.”

Molenski nodded and leaned ever so slightly forward on his chair.

“Good, now think very carefully, did he say where he was going?”

“No,” said Stan, honestly. He was compliant now, willing to tell the man anything he wanted to know. “He did buy a car from me, though. A Hyundai. I’ll give you the registration details; they’re in my filing cabinet.”

“Excellent. You’re sure he said nothing else?”

“No Sir, it was a quick transaction, just the way I like,” Stan said, smiling ingratiatingly. His broken finger was shrieking louder than his wife in an argument, but finally, he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. He just wanted these people gone so he could go home and see to his finger.

“Good,” said Molenski, standing up. “You’ve been very helpful. Give Andre here the details.”

He headed for the door.

“But what about your car?”

“Keep it,” said Molenski over his shoulder before going through the door.

Stan was confused but relieved to see the back of the Russian, and keeping the car was a bonus. He stood up and shot the thug who had broken his finger a dirty look and headed behind the counter to his filing cabinet. He pulled out the folder with the details for the Hyundai and turned around to find the big man right in his face. He took a wary step back and held out the folder.

Andre reached out with one of his long arms, but instead of taking the folder he grasped Stan Lewinski’s wrist and pulled him into a bear hug, his free hand snaking up behind the old man’s head and pulling his face into his chest.

The move was unexpected and done in such a way that at first, Stan thought the man was comforting him, perhaps sorry for his broken finger. With his face pressed into the fabric of the thug’s well-tailored sports coat, he hugged him back - he just wanted the fucker to leave with as little fuss as possible. 

It was only when he tried to break away from the awkward hug that he found that it wasn’t a hug at all. 

The hand on the back of his head pushed his face harder into the man’s chest, and Stan struggled to breathe. He dropped the folder and punched and clawed at the strong arms restraining him.

He tried to bite, but his mouth was so tight against the other man’s chest that he couldn’t open it wide enough.

Finally, he tried to scream but couldn’t.

What a fucking way to go
!

He felt death start to take him, and Stan Lewinski performed the one act of defiance still available to him.

As the struggling of the old man faded, Andre felt an unpleasant warmth spread over the front of his pants. Cursing, he stayed focused on the task at hand, holding him in the deadly embrace until a full minute had passed.

When it was done, Molenski’s man picked up the body and dumped it unceremoniously in the old office chair behind the counter. As the chair spun lazily into the wall, Stan Lewinski’s unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling, the small smile on his blue lips as unmistakable as the large piss stain on his killer’s pants.

Andre, his face a thundercloud and the front of his wet pants clinging to his legs, bent over and picked up the folder before walking out of the office in an awkward, bowlegged gait.

Molenski’s eyes reflected the burning garage at the back of the lot as his man climbed back into the Mercedes.

“Andre, get in touch with our contact in Traffic Control right now,” he said, without taking his eyes off the tall flames. “Give them the details of that car; I want Ivan and that robot bitch in the Red Room by daybreak. What the fuck is that smell?”