I rush behind Bobrovnikov, trying my hardest to keep pace with the big guy. He's already entering the apartment that dispatch directed us to. Parkview Residences, a towering structure advertising the kind of life being led by the haves. I nod apologetically to the concierge who's half-hiding behind her marble counter. Poor girl probably didn't expect an absolute unit like Bobrovnikov to barge in like a runaway bullet train.
“Fifth floor! We're takin' the stairs, Kid! Follow me on the double!”
Of course we are. Fuck. I draw my Zeno Adjudicator and look over it after entering the stairwell. Newer model of a classic. Eight-inch long barrel, blued finish. Five shots in the cylinder, and the hammer in the safe position. A traditional carry, in a summer blockbuster action movie. If only we were so lucky. At least those guys in the movies know who they're chasing after, most of the time.
We reach the fifth floor in no time. I can't allow myself to lag behind and slow Bobrovnikov down. No need to land myself on the big man's shitlist.
“Help! Someone!” Panicked screaming just as we passed the door's threshold, from all the way over the other end of the corridor. I whip my Adjudicator in that direction, only to see a glimpse of someone getting dragged inside the elevator. I can't help but feel taunted by the closing doors.
“Quick, back down the stairs!” Probably wasted my breath there, seeing how Bobrovnikov already doubled back, ignoring the actual stairs and leaping down from landing to landing. I'm half-expecting mini-craters to form on the point of impact, but then again, these kinds of places don't use the best quality materials for nothing.
We're back on the ground floor in even less time than no time. I scan our surroundings for anything suspicious. No dice.
“Split up, Kid. Side and rear entrance. I doubt the perp went out the front.”
“You got it, but who goes—” Bobrovnikov speeds towards the back, looking like a steel wall grew tree trunks for legs. “Guess I'll take the side entrance, then.”
I blitz my way past a handful of gawking civvies and bust through the—of course it's a revolving door. Stupid luxury apartment bullshit.
Outside, and back into the rain. No time to get flustered. Quick scan of the sidewalk, Adjudicator barrel leading my line of sight. Nothing. Quick dash towards the back alley.
“Black Wolf Security! Put the gun down, buddy! We can talk it out, alright?” Bobrovnikov was already there, with his standard issue Mahler M9 heavy pistol drawn and locked dead on to center mass. Looks like he caught the supposed perp as he was running out of the building.
I post up next to Bobrovnikov, backing him up by also aiming my gun. Quick look at the perp. Scanners weren't picking up any kind of broadcasted ID, but he looked the part of someone trying to fit into this district. Renzo Urbani suit, thick-rimmed Basilio Bartolotti rectangular glasses with the lenses shifted to opaque black to hide his eyes. Good brands to not embarrass yourself on your climb up the corpo ladder. It's the leather gloves and silenced Marotta 96 pressed against his hostage's temple that gives him away.
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Looking at his hostage brings my train of thought to a screeching halt. She also seemed so out of place. A blonde, frail looking thing that was dressed far too nicely even for an upper-end neighborhood like this. I don't think your run-of-the-mill middle management's salary could afford the Escoffier heels she had on, let alone the rest of her get-up.
“I suggest you take a step back, officer.” There's something bone-chilling about the way he addresses Bobrovnikov. The perp tugs the resisting woman further and further back down the block. I snap back to attention as I realize he's heading right towards the edge of our coverage area. He passes that, we can't do jack. Shit.
“Hold up, pal. C'mon. Nobody needs to get hurt today. Just put your gun down and we'll talk.”
Bobrovnikov's doing his best. He doesn't have a clear shot, neither do I. And despite what Black Wolf Security's reputation is like, both of us don't want to gun down a civvie. Though, I wouldn't be surprised if it was a show to try and keep the girl calm.
“Au contraire, my dear hound. Someone needs to.”
I can tell Bobrovnikov is looking to say something, and I'm struggling to not open my mouth. Regulation says we can't act on anyone outside of our jurisdiction unless it's self-defense, but I doubt that Bobrovnikov wants to spill that to the perp. He's still backpedaling, dragging his shrieking hostage back. Just a few more paces and he's out of our jurisdiction. I feel like a blood vessel is gonna pop. First, the stress of an active hostage situation. Second, the helpless feeling of being held down by red tape, stopping us from—
“Oh, come the fuck on.” Great. McNamara finally makes his way into spitting distance of this standoff, alongside his cronies. “How do you think that story is going to end? We suddenly raise our hands up and let you walk after you kill someone?”
The perp says nothing to McNamara and takes a long step back, stepping clean out of our jurisdiction. He twitches for a split second and raises his arm up to point his Marotta 96 straight at Bobrovnikov.
Adrenaline hits and everything feels like it's gone into slow motion. I want to pull the trigger, but my synthmuscles tense up to the point of rigidity. Voices warp and meld together, everyone on our side shouting over each other. My hands are practically deadlocked around the pistol's grip. It's a lot easier to shoot someone when you're in open warfare—
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK CRACK CRACK.
I jolt back, my ears ringing. I look at Bobrovnikov. He's still standing tall and proud.
McNamara? He's still standing too, smoke rising from the barrel of his Mahler M9. Can't help but notice the faint bluish glow emanating from his forearm to his gun. So he's one of those. My attention snaps forwards to the perp and hostage.
The perp's got a hole in his forehead big enough to fit Bobrovnikov's pinky through—it's not a small pinky, trust—and the hostage looks like she's taken three to the chest and one to the throat. My first instinct is to run forwards, but Bobrovnikov holds up his gargantuan chrome mitt to stop me. Fuck, right. Can't step outside of our jurisdiction without getting a write-up.
“Well, fuck me, boys. Looks like I could do with some more time at the range.” Of course McNamara is the first one to break the silence. He laughs over the former hostage choking on her own blood. “Sorry, doll! I hope you got medical coverage. We'll ring up an ambulance to pick you up.”
I'm biting my tongue at this point. That woman's gonna be long dead before an ambulance gets here. If I say anything, McNamara is going to put my head on the chopping block. He seems like the type to hold grudges like that. Prick.
Maybe it was the blood vessel popping out of my forehead that caused Bobrovnikov to usher me back to the squad car.
In complete silence.