II. Advice
The rain had slowed down by the time Detective Findhorn left the station. The chilly March night around him was pierced in a thousand places by the lights of New Liberty. As Findhorn passed the grocery store Briggs had mentioned earlier, he noticed a prominent sign in the window, advertising that 2% Milk was on sale.
"Hell of a marketing ploy." Findhorn muttered as he pulled into the parking lot.
Within a few minutes, Findhorn was waiting at the checkout. While he waited, he scanned the faces in line around him, and did a double-take when he recognised one--he'd seen it every day for the past six months as he passed the Wanted poster board on his way to his office. Kevin McAllister, lieutenant in the Raven Fist insurgency group, suspected in numerous terrorist bombings that had loft twenty people dead between them. McAllister had a scar over his forehead that wasn't in the Wanted poster, and had died his hair black, but there was no mistaking him.
Findhorn slid away from the checkout, trying to act nonchalant. McAllister was fourth in line; Findhorn had time, but not much. Kneeling behind an aisle display, Findhorn called for backup and explained the situation to dispatch through his radio. He was assured that a patrol of eight Loyalty Monitors--chemically controlled cybernetic officers commonly known as "Chots"--would be on site within two minutes. McAllister would likely realize what was going on if that was allowed to happen--Findhorn would have to get the jump on McAllister without delay.
Findhorn held his gun in one hand and his badge in the other, hands concealed in the pockets of his jacket. One thing that twenty-six years of police work had taught him was that people were rarely noticed if they looked like they knew what they were doing. Walking with false purpose, Findhorn made his way towards the Customer Service desk, giving him an excuse to pass McAllister.
As he did so he pulled his hands from his pockets and caught the unsuspecting insurrectionist in a headlock.
"NLPD!" he yelled, pressing the barrell of his gun to McAllister's forehead. "Empty your pockets!"
McAllister dropped a handgun from his left jacket pocket, not saying a word. Customers around the pair pushed back in fear. As luck would have it, there was a moment of shocked silence amongs the crowd that enable Findhorn to hear someone cocking a gun.
"Drop it! If I don't see a gun hit the floor in five seconds, I'll blow him away!" Findhorn yelled. In other times, such a display from a law enforcement officer would have been unacceptable. Those times were over.
Behind Findhorn, eight chots entered the store, weapons raised. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the ground past the crowd. A pair of hands went up in the same general direction. Outnumbered and captured, McAllister and his accomplice were brought in without a struggle.
Findhorn came home after eight o'clock that evening. He told his wife and children about the sale that had drawn him into the store, and how it had led to the arrest of the one of the 100 most wanted fugitives in New Liberty.
He didn't mention the tall stranger.
"Hell of a marketing ploy." Findhorn muttered as he pulled into the parking lot.
Within a few minutes, Findhorn was waiting at the checkout. While he waited, he scanned the faces in line around him, and did a double-take when he recognised one--he'd seen it every day for the past six months as he passed the Wanted poster board on his way to his office. Kevin McAllister, lieutenant in the Raven Fist insurgency group, suspected in numerous terrorist bombings that had loft twenty people dead between them. McAllister had a scar over his forehead that wasn't in the Wanted poster, and had died his hair black, but there was no mistaking him.
Findhorn slid away from the checkout, trying to act nonchalant. McAllister was fourth in line; Findhorn had time, but not much. Kneeling behind an aisle display, Findhorn called for backup and explained the situation to dispatch through his radio. He was assured that a patrol of eight Loyalty Monitors--chemically controlled cybernetic officers commonly known as "Chots"--would be on site within two minutes. McAllister would likely realize what was going on if that was allowed to happen--Findhorn would have to get the jump on McAllister without delay.
Findhorn held his gun in one hand and his badge in the other, hands concealed in the pockets of his jacket. One thing that twenty-six years of police work had taught him was that people were rarely noticed if they looked like they knew what they were doing. Walking with false purpose, Findhorn made his way towards the Customer Service desk, giving him an excuse to pass McAllister.
As he did so he pulled his hands from his pockets and caught the unsuspecting insurrectionist in a headlock.
"NLPD!" he yelled, pressing the barrell of his gun to McAllister's forehead. "Empty your pockets!"
McAllister dropped a handgun from his left jacket pocket, not saying a word. Customers around the pair pushed back in fear. As luck would have it, there was a moment of shocked silence amongs the crowd that enable Findhorn to hear someone cocking a gun.
"Drop it! If I don't see a gun hit the floor in five seconds, I'll blow him away!" Findhorn yelled. In other times, such a display from a law enforcement officer would have been unacceptable. Those times were over.
Behind Findhorn, eight chots entered the store, weapons raised. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the ground past the crowd. A pair of hands went up in the same general direction. Outnumbered and captured, McAllister and his accomplice were brought in without a struggle.
Findhorn came home after eight o'clock that evening. He told his wife and children about the sale that had drawn him into the store, and how it had led to the arrest of the one of the 100 most wanted fugitives in New Liberty.
He didn't mention the tall stranger.
posted by Andrew Michael at 4:37 PM
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