Once A Killer by Jonathan D. Beer

Author:Jonathan D. Beer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FL
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2023-09-04T00:00:00+00:00

ONCE A KILLER,

ALWAYS A KILLER

MITCHEL SCANLON

Captives

The sky above the Dredge was a shard of dull crimson, crowded out by the needle-peak spires of the city. It looked like an old wound, the edges ragged, damage stubbornly refusing to heal. On another world, it might have felt like a bad omen. On Alecto, it was just another day.

I was in the front seat of my patrol groundcar, by the open air refectoria on Heroes Prospekt, doing my best to enjoy the flavour of warmed-over recaff, triple strength to keep me awake, when the alert came in over my helmet vox.

‘Bastion HQ to Rampart patrol five-nine-omega-nine.’ The voice hissed with static. ‘Gunfire reported, Zaranghast Commercia. Advise status.’

I knew the location. Zaranghast Commercia was a down-at-heel collection of food stalls, tonsurists, apothecaries and other tabernae of various stripes, set under the communal roof of a cathedral-sized indoor trading space, situated on the western side of the district.

I threw away the recaff and gunned the engine.

‘Five-nine-omega-nine receiving, Bastion. Sanctioner Kirian Malenko responding. Estimate arrival at eight minutes.’

I made it in seven, the early-morning traffic scattering like frightened birds at the sight of the Rampart groundcar and its insignia.

Once at the alert destination, I parked beside the front entrance and drew my sidearm. The weapon was a Zev Arms semi-automatic stub pistol in .55 calibre, the Penitent model. A portable hand-cannon, it was proof positive of a common adage in Varangantua – downclave, there was no such thing as too much gun.

Weapon at the ready, I proceeded into the commercia.

It didn’t take any great genius to locate the source of the alert. A man’s body lay halfway down a parade of storefronts, his life bled out onto the tiled floor of the inner courtyard. The blood trail led back to the doorway of a nearby provisioner’s.

‘Bastion, this is five-nine-omega-nine. One body found at Zaranghast. Suspected homicide. Offender at large.’

‘Affirmed, omega-nine. Do you need backup?’

‘Negative. I’ll handle it. Send a meat wagon for the body. I’ll let you know whether one’s needed for the offender.’

There’s an art to moving quietly in body armour. Most sanctioners never learn it. It’s not just the bulk of the standard uniform, with its full-face helmet, oversized boots and layers of flak armour, all designed to be as intimidating as possible. As the uniformed branch of Alecto’s enforcers, we’re supposed to be the visible presence of the Lex – whether it’s on the streets or in the nightmares of criminals. For the most part, that involves kicking down doors and making arrests with no time for stealth or any other kind of subtlety.

I work patrol, though. There, things are different. Don’t get me wrong. I can kick down doors with the best of them. But on patrol, sometimes you need a few more tools than are kept in the standard sanctioner’s toolbox. Not every problem needs a hammer. Not unless you’ve got a nail waiting to be hit.

In this case, with a body down and no sign of fleeing civilians in the vicinity, I had to wonder whether I was dealing with plain murder or a hostage situation.

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