The Archangel Drones (40 page)

Everyone stood around for a while, a standoff in progress as neither side appeared willing to back down. The coach’s cell phone dinged, announcing the delivery of a new multi-media message.

Chip was pulled upright, one of the cops begrudgingly retrieving a first aid kit from his car and letting Manny attend to her father’s cuts.

While the principal was talking quietly with the two officers, the coach continued watching the video attached to the recently arrived message. “Sir,” he eventually said, getting the school administrator’s attention. “I think you’d better watch this. It’s a video I just received from the Citizen Observation Committee, and it shows these two officers aren’t exactly telling us the whole story. I am pretty sure our institution doesn’t want to be a part of this kind of publicity on the evening news.”

Chapter 12

Peelian Principle

The test of police efficiency is the absence of crime and disorder, not the visible evidence of police action in dealing with it.

Marwick could care less about the trouble befallen his two friends on the school’s force. Nor did he mind Chip Denton escaping the interrogation planned for him at the campus jail. Big Jim had what he was after, and now he was running open-field.

With a confidence derived from having correctly pegged Chip Denton as being associated with the Archangel, the suspended cop was pursuing his prey with a renewed vigor and determination.

It took longer than anticipated to find any information on Jacob Industries, even longer still to obtain the address. Despite the delay, one large, happy cop rolled into the empty parking lot and began to study the mysterious corporation’s facilities.

At first, he thought he’d arrived in the wrong location. From the front gate, it was clear that the small office complex was of recent construction, the unfilled lot and still-fresh landscaping indicative of a recently completed project. He’d used the fire department’s emergency access code to open the drive’s barrier.
Yet another benefit of being on the right side of the law
, he mused, pulling up to park across from the front door.

A quick jaunt around the exterior, combined with his flashlight beam piercing the tinted windows, showed the bottom level was completely void of occupants. In fact, it had never been built out, the raw concrete floors and ceiling appearing new and unmodified.

The sophisticated security cameras provided the first hint that the premises weren’t entirely void of habitation. When he spied Gabe’s lone vehicle sitting in a reserved space at the rear, he knew he’d discovered the Archangel’s headquarters.

For a moment, Big Jim considered calling the authorities and trying to cut a deal. He’d exchange the information now in his possession for immunity from prosecution and reinstatement at his old job.

The idea was quickly dismissed, Marwick realizing the animal he was about to snare was far, far more valuable on a national level. He began inventorying the federal officials he’d met and worked with over his years in law enforcement. Surely, one of them would be very interested in getting the credit for capturing the now infamous Archangel.

He knew a couple of the local FBI agents, mid-level guys at best. He’d been to the DEA’s Christmas party a few years ago, invited to the affair after playing a minor role helping the local agents with a significant drug bust.

After careful consideration, the head of the Houston ATF office finally surfaced as his best option. While he couldn’t truthfully call the head man a friend, Jim had worked with his group more than once, the outcome always positive. More than any established relationship, Marwick’s profile on the ATF’s honcho was that of an ambitious fellow, always looking at the proper career moves to achieve advancement or promotion.

The boys down at Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms worked inside a powerful organization that enjoyed extensive authority, few oversights, and even fewer constraints. They operated at a level of freedom that was the envy of many other agencies, including the FBI, Federal Marshals, and local law enforcement.

Jim started to dial the number, but then stopped. What would he say? “I’m sitting outside of an apparently empty office building, sure that the Archangel is inside?”

There was only one shot at this, and he couldn’t fuck it up. Any failure at this point would look like a desperate, half-crazed cop trying to avoid prosecution. No, he had to be sure.

That meant catching one Mr. Gabriel Chase inside, red-handed, fondling one of his little drones.

Big Jim exited his car for the second time, deciding to circle the building in hopes of finding a way in. He scoured the Impala’s trunk for tools first, pulling out a mid-sized crowbar and hefting the weighty iron instrument with a gleam in his eye. The pistol on his belt added to his reassurance, his success so far merely icing on the ego that fueled the big man’s confident swagger.

Gabe, three floors above, inhaled sharply when Marwick produced the pry bar, noting the intent to break and enter displayed all over the deranged cop’s face.

He had no idea how his nemesis had tracked him down so quickly, writing it off as unimportant and probably due to some minor detail Adam Barlow and he had overlooked.

The only thing that mattered now was the burly, unstable barbarian at the gate.

Gabe considered calling the cops, a report of a strange, husky man with a crowbar and a scowl of ill intent was surely a legitimate complaint. But he quickly dismissed the idea – Marwick knew all the cops and would talk his way out of it, just as he had in front of Chip’s home.

He watched the security monitors as the potential invader circled the perimeter, hoping that his fortress would dissuade the man. For a bit, he actually thought his optimistic thought would come true, Marwick skulking back to his car after examining the strong steel doors at both the front and back of the facility.

“I’ve got a week’s worth of food and water in here,” Gabe advised the monitor. “How many bologna sandwiches do you have in your car, big man?”

But even if his enemy did leave, Gabe was still in a pickle. He had his sniper rifle and a few shells, but the previous experience with trying to pull the trigger was still sour in his gut. However, now he was facing a life and death situation…. Could he shoot another human being?

The police scanner sounded in the background, the sudden noise startling Gabe. He recognized a familiar voice as it came over the speaker, and it gave him an idea. Taking one last glance to make sure the beefy cop was still sitting in his Impala, Gabe rose from the console and hurried for the roof.

Officer Kirkpatrick was just exiting the all-night breakfast chain when an odd noise sounded over his head. Looking up, half expecting to see a beehive or similar gathering of buzzing insects, he scanned the area and then shrugged. Nothing seemed out of place.

He wandered through the nearly empty lot, occupied with the patrol route that would consume the remainder of his shift. He entered his cruiser and started the engine, taking a moment to glance at the mounted computer protruding from the dash.

He was just reaching for the radio’s microphone, ready to sign back in from his meal break when movement caught his eye. He froze, a rare bolt of fear rushing through the officer’s veins like ice water.

There, hovering over the hood of his cruiser, was a machine. It took the stunned man a few moments to realize it was nearly identical to the one that had saved him from shooting a child just a few weeks ago.

Fascinated by its sudden appearance and not sure what to make of the social call, Dole had to remind himself that there was a human being controlling the device. “What do you want?” he whispered.

It was then that he noticed a white piece of paper rolled into a tube that was hanging beneath the drone’s midsection. As if on cue, the machine changed its attitude slightly, making the note even more visible. It was an invitation of sorts, almost as if the machine were asking him to remove the cargo.

Slowly, his eyes never leaving the four spinning propellers, Dole exited his car. With even more caution, he took a step forward, extending his hand as if he were about to pet a snarling, muscular dog.

The plastic tube containing the paper came off easily with barely a tug. With its message delivered, the drone rose 25 feet into the air, and then paused as if watching to make sure the note was read.

Kirkpatrick unrolled the small communiqué, finding neat block lettering done by hand. It read, “Marwick is here with murder in his eye. I helped you with the child’s plastic gun. Please help me. Come to…,” followed by an address.

“Shit,” Dole hissed, unsure of what to make of the strange encounter. He glanced back at the hovering machine, not knowing what to do.

In a flash of self-preservation, the young officer decided to help the Archangel. His choice wasn’t born of nobility or honor due to the debt he owed the operator for saving an innocent child… nor was his decision motivated by a sense of civic responsibility.

No, Dole realized that if Marwick made the Archangel’s owner talk and learned that the man had nothing to do with the release of the dash cam video, the unstable cop would continue to hunt for the person who had betrayed him. That trail would eventually lead back to one Officer Kirkpatrick.

Peering back up at the still staring drone, Kirkpatrick announced, “Okay, I’m on my way. I owe you one.”

The small machine dropped down lower, coming to a stop not more than four feet away from Dole’s face. Its front tilted up and down, as if the machine were nodding its head in thanks. And then it was gone, whisking off in a flash, disappearing into the night sky.

An idea occurred to Big Jim. Cursing himself for not having thought of it earlier, he again exited his vehicle and popped the trunk. This time, he reappeared brandishing the tire jack in his meaty hand.

He’d assessed that the steel doors protecting the building’s entrance were too stout, even for the crowbar. Rather than stand around like an idiot, he’d returned to sit and think.

He was about to drive away, pondering some of the more potent options he had stored at home. Those would produce a considerable explosion, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass about collateral damage.

But then, he remembered a rather crafty thief they’d collared some years ago. The man had used a hydraulic jack to open even the most fortified doors. The felon had gained a certain notoriety over the years, only to be captured after one of his “cracked,” doors broke all the way off its hinges, pinning the hapless burglar under its considerable weight.

Big Jim had just such a tire jack in his trunk.

It took a few tries before he identified the proper approach, bracing the jack’s piston against the door with its angled base anchored against the concrete stoop.

His first attempt had resulted in the jack just tipping over as he pumped up the piston.

The second try was even less effective, the powerful tool merely scraping the paint as it slid up the smooth surface, unable to gain traction.

After an adjustment and the discovery of an expansion crack in just the right spot, Jim smiled when the piston wedged firm and started bending the door inward, its hinges groaning under the strain.

On and on he pumped, the metal door giving way, unable to withstand the tons of force being applied by the hydraulics. Soon there was a loud pop, followed by the scream of surrendering metal.

Now there was an opening perfect for his crowbar. After inserting the tip, Big Jim pressed both hands on the handle and dedicated his significant weight to the effort. The barricade began to give way.