Heatwaves radiated off the long, empty highway stretching out into the abyss. A cloud of dust took on an eerie shape. A black electric Maserati moved at a dizzying speed, almost hovering above the road. Six Chicago Police Department squad cars followed in hot pursuit, sirens screaming across the distance.
A police drone kept pace with the first two cars, flying several hundred feet above. “Easy now, Fincher. No more than four car lengths.”
The drone operator’s calm voice was clear as a bell in the earpiece of the young officer leading the chase.
“He’s heading downtown,” the officer responded, a slight tremor in his voice.
“Stay with him,” the operator commanded, controlling the drone from somewhere deep beneath city hall.
Sweat dripped off Tommy Fincher’s forehead. He’d just turned twenty-seven and the nervous habit of biting down hard on his lower lip didn’t spoil his handsome face.
“If we pursue into the city, we’re going to need more backup,” Tommy said.
“Stay cool, Fincher.”
The calming voice was only a distraction as Tommy desperately attempted to keep pace with the Maserati as it wove between the driverless SUVs and cars. The passengers failed to notice the wild chase streaking past them, their attention locked onto their screens.
[][][]
The driver of the Maserati prayed he could lose them in the city. He had cased that bank for one month straight. In and out in four minutes. One million dollars richer. He had been a cop, a homicide detective, and knew how to execute the perfect crime. Everything was going according to plan until that old bitch started to scream. He should have shot her. Shot her cold and shut her up, but he’d froze. That’s when the mistakes started to pile up. He shuddered at the idea of prison.
It would be a death sentence, Sam Knight thought as he rubbed his sore neck with one hand while keeping his other firmly on the wheel. A five-day shadow dirtied his chiseled features. At forty-eight, his eyes reflected a man who had been to hell and back, more than once. A relieved smile lit up his face as he passed a sign:
DOWNTOWN CHICAGO - 5 MILES.
[][][]
Midday downtown Chicago was packed with people on the move. Delivery drones buzzed everywhere. Driverless cars picked up and dropped off passengers, their engines running in near silence.
A school bus pulled over to a curb and a group of excited children exited at the entrance to the Museum of Science and Industry.
A little boy stopped and cocked his head, listening. “Do you hear that, Mrs. Kopple?” he asked.
Mrs. Kopple turned to the boy. “No. What do you hear, Ryan?”
Ryan walked to the edge of the curb. “A police drone!”
Mrs. Kopple listened carefully.
“Don’t you hear it?” Ryan shouted.
Mrs. Kopple and the other children watched as a fully armed, matte-black police drone appeared from behind a skyscraper.
“I’m gonna fly those when I grow up!” Ryan screamed, giddy with excitement.
Mrs. Kopple turned away for a mere second to check that all the students were off the bus when Ryan dashed out into the middle of the street.
[][][]
Sam glanced into the rearview mirror. The trail of blue-and-white cars stayed close, unwilling to give up the chase.
As he turned his attention back to the road, every muscle in his body clenched.
He saw the boy dart into the street, followed by his teacher—or was it his mother, or just some helpful pedestrian?
He swerved hard.
The Maserati missed the boy by inches but slammed into the woman, sending a spray of blood across the windshield. She spun into the air and landed with a bone-crushing thud thirty feet from impact. Her head struck the pavement, shattering her skull and emptying her brain onto the dark asphalt.
His plan had been flawless.
Now he was a murderer.
[][][]
“He hit her! Goddamnit, he hit her!” Tommy yelled as his patrol car blew past the carnage. He could hear the screams of the frightened children, and the squeal of tires as several squad cars broke off from the pursuit.
“Stay with him, Fincher!” the drone pilot ordered.
“We should back off!”
“Stay with him!”
A swarm of media drones joined the chase, casting a web of coverage across the scene.
[][][]
A feeling of despair rolled over Sam in a wave so powerful that he felt suddenly ill. Drops of dirty sweat poured off his forehead and dripped into his eyes. He wiped his face and made a sharp turn into a narrow alley.
[][][]
Tommy watched the Maserati disappear off Columbus Drive. Ten seconds later, he made the same hairpin turn and slammed on the brakes, bringing his car to a grinding halt. Three squad cars pulled up alongside him, blocking the entrance.
The Maserati’s engine purred, parked just feet from a high concrete wall.
In simple, black letters, a sign posted on the wall read: DEAD END.
“Is he inside the car?” Tommy asked.
The police drone crept in between the towering brick buildings and hovered over the Maserati.
“It’s empty. Let’s set up a perimeter,” the operator’s voice crackled. “He couldn’t have gotten far.”
Tommy cautiously opened the door and stepped out of his car. The other officers followed his lead, their guns drawn.
[][][]
One wrong turn was all it took to end any possibility of driving out of the city. By some miracle, Sam managed to escape into a gutted building on its way to demolition that was less than thirty feet from his now-abandoned supercar. Just before making his hurried exit, he’d reached into the back seat and grabbed a Mossberg Thunder Ranch double-barreled shotgun—a weapon capable of blowing all four legs off a horse. He could hear the disturbing whine of police sirens coming from every direction. Cops would be swarming like a horde of yellowjackets in minutes.
Greed, he thought, disgusted with himself. Greed is what turned me into a thief and a killer.
Sam ran through the empty building and stopped at a door marked: EMERGENCY EXIT. He took several deep breaths and loaded his weapon. With a determined slap across his weary face, he pushed open the door, and found himself in an alley.
He had taken no more than ten steps when a young officer emerged from the backdoor of the neighboring building.
The officer’s arms were abnormally extended, his huge hands matched by equally elongated fingers. He stood slightly stooped, his long legs in a broad stance. His gaunt face and sloping forehead looked disproportionate to the rest of his body.
The nametag on his dark, blue uniform read: H. BECKER.
The officer spotted Sam and drew his weapon. “Freeze!” the officer shouted. “Drop the weapon, Mr. Knight.”
Sam didn’t move. The shotgun hung at his side; his finger wrapped around the trigger. He knew he would never beat the cop, whose small but effective handgun was aimed directly at him.
“Now, please!” demanded Hans Becker.
Sam knew to play it cool. He smiled a friendly smile and asked, “Marfan Syndrome?”
Hans’ eyes went wide at the insult. “Go fuck yourself, you prick!”
“Yeah. Oh, yeah. I can see it. The arms, the hands. That forehead. All the telltale signs are present. You’re going to die young, regardless of how all this turns out.”
“Don’t make me kill you,” Hans said. “You have two seconds. One . . .”
Sam calmly nodded, kneeled, and extended the shotgun, preparing to set it on the pavement.
Relieved, Hans said, “There we go. Nice and easy, asshole. Nice and slow.”
Sam hesitated for a brief but crucial moment, and as the shotgun dipped parallel to the ground, he ever-so-gently squeezed the trigger, and the mighty cannon fired.
[][][]
Tommy and several officers were searching the Maserati when they heard the single shot fire off, less than a block away. Tommy instructed two men to stay with the car while he and another officer took off in a full run, his Glock 22 leading the way, praying it was over, and that the once-great Sam Knight was dead.
[][][]
Hans was alive, but barely. His legs were blown apart from the knees down, a mass of blood and flesh strewn behind him. Lying flat on his back, he was motionless as Tommy and the officer approached.
“Officer down!” Tommy yelled into his earpiece. “I need an ambulance, and some backup! We need help down here!”
Tommy knelt next to Hans. “Funny thing,” Hans whispered. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“You’re gonna be okay,” Tommy replied, knowing full well he wasn’t.
Hans mumbled, “I’ve done terrible things. Inhuman things, and God will punish me for my sins.”
“What’d you say?” Tommy asked, confused by the strange confession.
A torrent of blood, mucus, and bile spewed from Hans’ mouth, creating a grotesque fountain. The cop took one last, beleaguered breath, and slipped quietly into death.
Tommy nervously scanned the area as another explosion from that shotgun echoed through the alley, followed by two more.
[][][]
Tommy, now flanked by three officers, cautiously approached the Ritz-Carlton hotel, following the sound of the gunfire. Two bodies, mutilated by blasts from the shotgun, lay on the sidewalk. Somewhere in the slop, Tommy spotted a ragged strip of cloth from a white blouse. It was the only way to tell the victims were women. Another body lay just outside the revolving doors, amid a shower of shattered glass. The three tourists’ belongings were scattered all around them. Tommy stared down at a blood-splattered postcard, which read in big letters: THE WINDY CITY . . . WHERE FOOD, FUN, AND EXCITEMENT ARE ONLY THE BEGINNING.
“Where the fuck is that backup?” Tommy whispered into his microphone.
“Four minutes,” the operator replied.
“We don’t have four minutes . . . Jesus.”
“Do not enter the hotel.”
Tommy rolled his eyes and instructed one officer to take a position at the back entrance, and the other two to stay put at the front.
Tommy extended his gun, and, against his better judgment, entered the hotel.
[][][]
Shards of glass littered the marble-lined floors of the expansive lobby.
“He’s in the garage!” a voice shouted.
Tommy spun and spotted a frightened concierge hiding under his desk.
“Chicago P.D. Everything’s under control.” Tommy’s voice cracked on the third word.
“Bullshit!”
“Is he still inside the hotel?”
“I think so. He shot those people for no reason. What the fuck is going on?!”
Tommy lowered his arm and let the gun rest at his side. “Come out from underneath the desk, sir.”
“And wind up like those poor fuckers outside? No, thank you!”
Tommy extended his gun back into position. “Did you see where he went?”
“I—I think P4. It’s a massive recharge station.”
“Which way to the elevator?” Tommy asked, his voice strong and confident this time.
“To the right!” the manager shouted back.
[][][]
“Thank you for choosing the Ritz-Carlton Chicago,” the velvety smooth feminine voice said as Tommy entered the roomy, golden elevator. “We hope your stay was a pleasant one. Come visit us again soon.”
Tommy wiped away the sticky sweat from his brow as the operator’s voice burst back into his earpiece. “Backup’s arrived. Where the hell are you?”
“In the elevator.”
“Do not pursue, Fincher. I repeat, do not pursue.”
Tommy swallowed hard as the feminine voice announced, “P2.”
Tommy checked and re-checked the clip on his gun, trying to steady his shaking hands.
“P3.”
He knew it was a mistake not to wait for a senior officer, but he didn’t want to risk more tourists getting blown to pieces. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands, he thought as the elevator announced, “P4.”
The doors cracked open, and Tommy peeked his head out for a brief second, then pulled back. He raised his gun and made a quick move out of the elevator.
He took a position along the wall and stared at the mass of identical SUVs parked in charging stations. The only thing separating them were the digital advertising banners that wrapped around their sleek bodies. With his heart beating so loudly he feared it would give away his location, he snuck into the belly of the underground juicing station.
The minute you see him, shoot to kill. Shoot to kill.
The words kept running through his head.
He’ll blow you away. Blow your legs off. Blow your fucking head off.
A noise startled him. He swung around. Short, panicked breaths escaped his mouth.
COOL DOWN. CALM DOWN.
“Where the fuck are you, Fincher?” the operator asked.
“P4. He’s down here . . . I think.” Tommy whispered.
“I told you specifically not to—”
With a tap to his earpiece, Tommy cut off the connection. He thought he heard footsteps and swung around again. Several driverless SUVs disengaged from their power stations and drove out of the garage, immediately replaced by a fresh fleet of vehicles.
Tommy had to duck around the charging stations’ mechanical arms as they jammed into the SUVs’ electronic refueling ports.
He’s watching me, Tommy thought. He’s toying with me.
Another loud popping sound spun him again.
He’s going to blow me away. He’s going to do to me what he did to that officer in the alley. I should have waited for backup.
He thought he heard breathing.
HE’S CLOSE, his mind screamed. GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE!
As he broke into a desperate run, a refueling arm slapped across his shoulders and knocked him flat on the cement. He scrambled to his feet, and as he stood . . . something nudged the back of his head.
“Never the elevator, kid. Always look for the stairs,” the voice said. “Now drop it.” Tommy’s Glock hit the pavement a second later.
“Turn around, but do it cool. Real slow,” Sam instructed.
Tommy followed the instructions and found himself staring into the massive tunnels of that double-barreled shotgun.
Sam smiled and shook his head. “You’re pathetic.”
Sam pressed the double barrels flush against Tommy’s forehead, and the young officer felt them burn against his skin, still hot from the previous shots that blew away those poor tourists.
At the very least, Tommy thought, death will be quick and painless.
“You couldn’t track down a cripple with bells on his shoes,” Sam continued, pushing the gun tighter into Tommy’s sweat-stained forehead. “Why don’t you open up that big mouth of yours.”
“What?” Tommy asked breathlessly.
“You heard me. Say ahhhhh.”
Tommy’s lips slowly parted. He nervously glanced around, praying a hundred cops were ready to pounce.
“Wider, please. Wider,” Sam said, and eased the barrel into Tommy’s mouth.
This is it, Tommy thought. This was the way he would exit this world: decapitation by a single shotgun blast.
Sam’s finger tightened around the trigger. “Trying to think of a cool line here,” he said. “What about, ‘Vaya con Dios, amigo’? No, no. Come on now, I can do better than that . . . Oh, wait. I got it. How’s this . . . See you in hell, motherfucker.”
Tommy slammed his eyes closed as Sam pulled the trigger.
[][][]
Silence and blackness.
Suddenly, two red laser beams flashed by, disappearing into a dark abyss.
Tommy heard voices. He tried to turn towards them, but he couldn’t move. Something held him down. He felt weight on his limbs. On his face.
“Release them, please,” a male voice instructed.
Tommy felt the pressure release on his wrists and ankles. He reached up towards his face. His fingers touched metal, and he gripped the cool surface, and pulled.
He blinked at the onslaught of light and noise, disoriented.
Huge 3-D screens hung above him. On the largest, Tommy’s face, with the barrel of the shotgun placed deep inside his mouth, appeared in a freeze-frame. The projection of the officer on the screen was identical to the man in the chair: handsome, late-twenties, and soaked in sweat.
On a second screen, Sam stood, holding the shotgun. Other screens displayed different sections from the pursuit. Directly under the main screen, two high-tech, clinical reclining chairs faced one another. Tommy lay in one, holding the Total Immersion headgear system in his hands. A chrome faceplate melted into a silver neck lining, which was attached by bolts to shoulder pads.
Twenty officers sat in bleacher-style seats, taking notes on tablets. Behind them, a technician manned a glass-encased booth, running the various Total Immersion police training programs.
Sam removed his own headgear. His chiseled features, although still evident, had blurred since the days he had wooed Jenny. Age lines gave his face character. The boyishness that his wife had found so attractive had been stripped away, leaving the sorrowful appearance of a life gone bad in its wake.
It took them both several minutes for their eyes to adjust.
Sam turned to Tommy and smiled. “Too easy. That’s the second time this month you let me get close enough to blow a body part away. I may be wrong, but I think you’re supposed to be getting better at this shit, not worse.”
“Thanks for the confidence booster, Sam,” Tommy said, trying to regain focus.
Sam lifted himself off the long chair. “Always look for the stairs. Elevators are death traps.”
“Now that’s sound advice,” Donald Dodd said, standing behind a podium located on the left side of the stage.
Dodd, a former District Field Sergeant turned Total Immersion guru, had approached Sam, hoping to convince the infamous detective to participate in the training sessions. Sam happily agreed to devote some quality time blowing away the young officers.
Tommy sat on the edge of his chair, trying to catch his breath. “I can still taste the metal of that shotgun in my mouth.”
“Total Immersion does pack a wallop,” Sam said, grabbing his coat from where he’d tossed it over the armrest. He threw on the black trench coat over his dark suit and tie. “Makes Virtual Reality feel like a fuckin’ Pong game.”
Tommy grabbed the headset and pushed a white button located on the armrest. Two red laser beams burst from the eye sockets. Not finding a user to connect with, they disappeared back inside the helmet.
“It’s a weird feeling when those babies hit your eyes. Really stings,” Tommy said, and carefully set the helmet onto a waiting hook.
Sam walked across the stage toward a short staircase where Dodd waited for him.
“I read the kid who invented this was, like, eighteen years old,” Sam said.
“Sixteen,” Dodd corrected. “Pei Chang Lee. My personal hero. He just bought a one-hundred-million-dollar home in Malibu. President of Google.”
Sam stepped off the stage and looked back at the now-empty Total Immersion chairs. “This tech will be the end of society as we know it,” Sam concluded.
Dodd laughed. “My father used to say that about the internet.”
“That’s child’s play compared to this manipulative beast,” Sam said as Tommy joined his fellow officers in the seats.
Dodd walked Sam up the theatre’s aisle and said, “It’s those Adult Integrated Fantasy stores where they’re really starting to make big bucks.”
“Gotta love it,” Sam said. “The Polaroid, cable, VCR, DVDs, the internet, and now Total Immersion. Where would we be without the almighty sex industry? Why is porn always two steps ahead of everyone else?”
On the main screens, the chase sequence was being replayed.
Sam approached the exit and gave Dodd a friendly slap on the back. “Nice work, Donald. One of the better programs.” He turned to address Tommy before exiting the theatre. “Let’s hook up at some point tomorrow. Maybe lunch.”
Dodd smiled. “Hell of a lucky break for Mr. Fincher to snag you in the homicide recruit program.”
Sam pushed the door open. “One more month and my tour of duty with Mr. Lucky here is finally over.”
Tommy pulled his tablet from his pocket, unfolded it, and said, “Don’t sugarcoat your feelings, Sam. Let me know how you really feel.”
Sam laughed and breezed into the busy hallway as Dodd made his way back to the stage.
On the main screen, a black electric Maserati moved at a dizzying speed, almost hovering above the road. Six Chicago Police Department squad cars followed in hot pursuit, sirens screaming across the distance. A police drone kept pace with the first two cars, flying several hundred feet above.
“Okay, boys and girls . . .” Dodd said, freezing the image. “We’re gonna go over this moment by moment and see what Mr. Fincher did right . . . and, mostly, what he did wrong.”