CHAPTER ONE

 

 

Thursday, September 14th 2034

10:21

 

BENEATH HER, THE Lawranger thrummed, its engine growling as she gunned it. Shop fronts passed in a blur of liquid neon, flickering across the front of her visor. She leaned into the wind, willing more speed from the machine.

To her left, Ramos was keeping time, weaving right and left through the beeping traffic, tyres screeching on the asphalt as he swung the heavy bike around a yellow taxicab. The driver slammed his brakes on, grinding to a halt as the two Judges shot by, and bellowed from his open window.

Up ahead, police sirens wailed shrilly, cutting through the roar of the cars. O’Shea could see dancing blue lights in the distance as three police cars sped through the sea of vehicles on 9th Avenue, leaving a trail of angry, displaced drivers in their wake. She’d only been on the job for a few weeks, but already O’Shea had come to realise this was the way of things, here in New York—the cops charge ahead, blind and ultimately powerless, leaving the Judges to clean up after them.

It couldn’t last.

The call had come in a short while earlier—two NYPD detectives had managed to locate and corner the suspected serial killer Joseph Reece in the vicinity of Chelsea Market, on the corner of 9th and 16th. He’d resisted arrest—she’d expected nothing less—and half of Manhattan’s finest were now descending on his location. If the detectives had called them in sooner, she and Ramos could have dealt with the situation quickly and cleanly, and none of this would have been necessary. But now the perp had got away, loose in the food halls, and the whole situation was spiralling out of control.

O’Shea shifted suddenly, hauling her bike over to avoid a pedestrian who had stepped unexpectedly from between two stationary cars. She dipped so low that her knee almost grazed the road, before heaving herself up again, sliding back into her seat and continuing her haphazard path through the mayhem. Behind her, the startled shopper dropped her bags into the road, loose oranges spilling out and tumbling into the storm drain.

“You should have booked her for jaywalking,” said Ramos. His voice crackled and popped inside her helmet. She glanced across at him and he gave her a little salute, touching two fingers against the ridge of his helmet. He swung out wide to avoid another slow-moving car.

O’Shea grinned. “I suspect the fright of nearly being mowed down will be enough of a lesson for her.”

“You’re too soft,” said Ramos. She could hear the amusement in his voice, but there was an edge to it too. “We’re Judges now. We have to be seen to uphold the laws. All of them.”

O’Shea dipped her head, twisted her accelerator and shot forward, pulling ahead down the road. They were closing on the police cars now.

He was right, of course—she had a job to do. Everything was changing. Give it a few years, and there’d be no need for the police, or the old judicial system. The Judges programme was the future, and she had to play her part in making it a success, despite all the naysayers and the protests, the detectives who wanted to keep her at arm’s length. She had to rise above it all and be impeccable, a bastion of the law, an example to the people who would follow in her wake. At least, that’s what Chief Judge Fargo had said on her last day at the academy.

The police cars were slowing. Others had already formed a roadblock, and a riot of taxicabs and civilian cars were being diverted down a side street, horns blaring in an angry cacophony. O’Shea pulled her bike to a stop by the sidewalk and hopped down, boots splashing in a dirty puddle. The rain had been sweeping across the island in persistent squalls for the past few days, and there was word that these intermittent downpours were just the vanguard of a massive storm that had been brewing over the Atlantic and now threatened to pummel the Eastern Seaboard. All across the city, people were buying in provisions and cancelling engagements, getting ready to batten down the hatches and lock themselves indoors for the duration of the storm. All except the people here, she thought wryly, scanning the faces of the slowly massing crowd. Didn’t they have something better to do?

O’Shea checked her gun, and then fell in beside Ramos as they approached the cordon. Civilians parted like a wave before them. The people were still unsure of the Judges, and experience told her they typically responded in one of two ways—with righteous anger or sheer terror. So far, NYPD cops had proved no different.

Ramos approached a female officer who was leaning against one of the squad cars, a comms unit in one fist and her handgun in the other. Her hair was braided and tied back beneath her cap, her skin milky brown and smooth, flecked with a spray of freckles across her nose. She was young, like O’Shea: in her late twenties at most. She looked up as the Judges approached, and then, eyes widening, pushed herself slowly off the car.

“Sitrep?” said O’Shea.

The woman swallowed and licked her lips. “He’s in there,” she said, nodding towards the covered market building. “They’ve got him on the run.”

“People are at their most dangerous when they’re on the run,” said Ramos. “Back them into a corner and they lash out like animals.”

The woman nodded, but didn’t add anything. O’Shea saw her swallow again, and then glance across at one of the other squad cars, where her eyes met those of a stocky male cop with close cropped blonde hair, his upper lip twisted by a thin, silvery scar. He looked away when he noticed O’Shea watching.

“Things are about to go south,” said Ramos, eyeing the market building.

O’Shea turned to look. The noise was tremendous as squawking civilians tried to flee the food halls, only to be held in by a tightening noose of police officers with plastic riot shields. They’d been ordered to keep everyone inside until Reece had been taken into custody. An uncontrolled evacuation would provide too much cover. If the perp got out, he’d go to ground in the Chelsea slums.

Nevertheless, Ramos was right: the situation was about to boil over. If the terrified mob decided to take on the police…

O’Shea started forward, Ramos following in her wake.

“Wait! You can’t…” started the police officer, but a glance from O’Shea was enough to silence her.

“Let me through,” said O’Shea, as she approached the police perimeter.

“Are you mad? There’ll tear you apart. Look at them.” This from one of the male cops currently ducking behind his shield, feet planted firmly as if he expected the civilians to rush him at any moment. Sweat was beading on his brow. Beneath the brim of his helmet, his eyes were darting.

“They’re scared, officer,” said O’Shea. “Trapped in a building with a wanted man. A man who’s growing more desperate with every second we waste out here.” She glowered at him, though her visor obscured most of her expression. “I’m not mad, I simply wish to do my job and assist these people as quickly and efficiently as possible. What reason would they have to tear me apart?” She shoved her way through the perimeter, pushing the officer’s shield to one side and walking directly for the nearest entrance to the market. Civilians looked up at her with a mix of awe and appalled fascination, before shuffling quickly out of the way. She ducked through the entrance, straight into a lobby area where more civilians were cowering in a huddle, clamouring for a chance to escape.

“We’ll have you all out momentarily,” said O’Shea, raising her voice above the babble. “Just keep out of the way and you won’t get hurt.”

She turned to seek out Ramos who was watching her from nearby, wearing a lopsided grin. She wished for a moment she could see his eyes. He was so damn inscrutable.

A quick scan of their surroundings told her the food court was empty. Even the stallholders had abandoned their wares; nuts, burritos, burgers, fine wines, gelato. The place was thick with the mingling scents of sizzling meats, spices and coffee, and smoke curled from a nearby hotplate, where now-indistinguishable vegetables had been reduced to smouldering black lumps. A box of noodles had been dropped on the wooden floorboards close by, spilling its contents like a nest of gelatinous worms. Overhead, the artificial lights were stark and bright, creating deep shadows along one wall of shop fronts. She heard mumbled voices in the other aisles, along with hurried footsteps—the police, she assumed, carrying out a sweep.

She felt a hand on her arm, and turned to see Ramos pointing.

“Over there.”

She followed his gaze. A male officer had appeared at the far end of the nearest row of shops, his arms extended before him, hands wrapped around the grip of his handgun. He was wiry and pale, and wore a short ginger beard. She watched as he entered one of the small shops through a glass door, re-emerged a moment later, glanced along the aisle and nodded at the two Judges. O’Shea took a step towards him, and then stopped as the man suddenly looked to his right. His gaze seemed to fix on the gelato stall opposite him.

“Hold it! Right there!” he barked.

A figure lurched forward from the shadows, slamming into the freestanding gelato counter and sending the whole thing toppling over. The officer was forced to lurch back to avoid a large plate of shattering glass. The figure from behind the counter—presumably Joseph Reece—took off at a run, and O’Shea realised he was dressed in an approximation of a Judge’s uniform and helmet.

She raised her weapon, sighting along the barrel, but the man was too nimble and she wasn’t able to get a bead. Cursing, she dropped her arms.

Ramos was already on the move, charging after the man, bellowing for any other police officers to converge on his position. Footsteps and raised voices erupted from all across the food court. The cop with the ginger beard had regained his footing and was also in pursuit.

O’Shea went left, ducking around the side of a pancake shop and into the next aisle of the food court. With Ramos coming up behind him, and the police swinging in from the sides, maybe there was a chance she could cut Reece off.

As she ran, thoughts tumbled through her mind. Why was Reece dressed as a Judge? What was he hoping to gain? He’d hardly be inconspicuous. In the current climate, wearing a Judge’s uniform was just asking for trouble. Was it an attempted impersonation? Or was he trying to make a point? Either way, it wasn’t going to look good, given the recent controversy and the protests.

She was running at full pelt now, her boots pounding the floorboards, her lungs burning. She barely noticed the gaudy signs of the shop fronts as she raced by, intent only on her goal—to bring this unnecessary mess to a swift, just conclusion.

Movement. She swung her weapon up as she ran, training it on the figure at the end of the aisle. Her finger twitched on the trigger, her aim wavering on the helmeted head of the perp... but at the last moment she pulled up and the shot went high, striking the brickwork on the far wall and causing dust and shattered brick fragments to rain down on the stall below. The concussive sound of the shot echoed loudly throughout the entire food hall.

Ramos—who’d made a dive for the floor as soon as he realised O’Shea had mistaken him for Reece—slowly got to his feet, dusting himself off. Once again, he fixed her with a wry smile. “You missed.” Behind him, cops were still spluttering on the brick dust.

O’Shea studied her partner for a moment as he checked over his weapon. “You okay?”

Ramos nodded.

Somewhere close by, another weapon barked.

“Over here!”

The shout carried from the neighbouring aisle. The man’s accent was thick, and local. Ramos looked at her for a moment, as if weighing up his next move, and then turned and ran. She followed behind, jogging now, still attempting to catch her breath.

Around the next corner, five officers stood in a semi circle around a coffee stall, weapons drawn, all looking down at the floor. Three of them—a woman and two men—wore the blue uniform of the NYPD, while the other two men wore jeans and shirts. Presumably the detectives who’d first cornered Reece in the market.

One of them—a guy with a shock of grey hair and startling blue eyes—glanced over his shoulder at their approach. “Oh, great,” he muttered, making no attempt to disguise his disdain, “here comes the cavalry.” Nevertheless, he stepped to one side to allow Ramos and O’Shea to join them.

Joseph Reece lay on the ground at the foot of the coffee stand, clutching his thigh, which—judging by the torn fabric and oozing blood—had taken a glancing shot from one of the detectives’ weapons. Now that she got a closer look, it was immediately clear that Reece’s costume was exactly that—a rough approximation of the uniform she was wearing, self-made, with shoulder pauldrons and a crudely fashioned badge. Even his helmet was just a modified motorcycle helmet. He didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon. He’d clearly been in hiding for some time, too—he stank of urine and excrement, and his trousers were dirty and looked damp.

He was a scrawny thing, thin, unkempt and jittery, and he was wailing pitifully as he pressed his fingers over the wound in his leg, attempting to staunch the blood flow.

“Joseph Reece?” said Ramos, his voice level.

Reece froze suddenly, and looked up at Ramos. He reached up and removed his helmet, revealing a gaunt, unshaven face, wide-eyed and pleading. “A Judge!” He jabbed a bloody finger up at Ramos. “Look at this! They shot me. That one, that policeman there.” He indicated the second detective, a heavyset black man with a balding pate.

Ramos frowned. “Resisting arrest, impersonating a Judge… Murder.”

Reece shook his head. “No, no, that’s not right.”

“So you deny killing Emilio Hernandez, Peter Sage and Eleanor Roberts?” This from the silver-haired detective, whose gun was still trained on Reece’s chest.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong. We can clear this up. I’ve done nothing wrong. I killed them, yes, but I did it in the line of duty.”

“The line of duty?” echoed O’Shea.

“Exactly!” said Reece. “I was just doing what was right. They were corrupt, wicked. They deserved to be punished. I heard what Fargo’s been saying on the news, about how the Judges are necessary to uphold society, to ensure people are held to account. Well, that’s all I’ve done. I saw that justice was done. I sentenced them to death.”

“You sick bastard,” muttered one of the uniformed cops.

“Get up,” said the silver-haired detective. “You’ll answer for this.” He turned and glowered at O’Shea, and she knew that all he saw was the uniform, and everything it represented. They would get the blame for this. It would fan the flames of popular opinion. The Judges were going to be crucified.

Reece started to get to his feet. “You should be proud of me. A citizen, standing up for what’s right.” He leaned on the coffee bar, supporting his wounded leg, then turned to Ramos. “Following your example.”

Ramos cleared his throat. “Joseph Reece. I find you guilty of the murders of Emilio Hernandez, Peter Sage and Eleanor Roberts. I sentence you to death.”

Ramos’s weapon barked, and Reece staggered back a step, his eyes wide. He looked down at the sudden fist-sized hole in his chest, made a wet sucking sound that might have been a laugh, and then toppled backwards, collapsing in a heap of limbs. Blood spread around him in a glossy pool.

O’Shea stared at Ramos in shock. Beside her, the bald detective was wiping blood spatter from his face with the crook of his arm. He looked furious. “Jesus Christ! We had him in custody. He didn’t have a weapon. What gives you the right?”

“The law gives me the right,” said Ramos. He holstered his gun and turned to leave.

“Oh, no,” said the silver-haired detective. “You’re going to have to explain this one to Flores yourselves.”

Ramos looked as if he was about to round on the man.

“Of course,” said O’Shea, carefully positioning herself between Ramos and the other man. “That man was dressed as a Judge. We’ll need to assess all the evidence before briefing our superiors.” She glanced at Ramos, who nodded his assent.

“All right,” said the silver-haired detective. He turned to one of the uniformed men. “Carter, you and Shaw get those people out of here and help disperse the crowds. The last thing we need is another riot. The situation’s bad enough already. Jackson—cover up that corpse and send for an ambulance.” He glanced at O’Shea. “We’ll see you and your partner back at the precinct, right?”

O’Shea nodded. “Right.”