entered the screen, her figure obviously female, and (just ask Midas) homicidal. With several slow clicks, her aerial form filled the view, growing closer. The video feed paused. Cat stared at an outlined and detailed shot of her face.
Staring back at him from the screen was an artificial image of Delambre’s daughter.
Cat had kicked through two doors, unhinging one of them completely. He pounded on the third, demanding some answers from Angela but receiving nothing. He pushed back from the door far enough to line up a sidekick. The door crashed open from the force of his cybernetic leg. His blood was boiling at his new endangerment and the result of the recent discovery. Angela wasn’t a masochist and had stashed herself away far too well to be the real assassin on the case. Instead, she was ripped apart from within that the murderer wore her face. She simply wasn’t prepared to discuss that fact with a violent and self-important business partner on the outskirts of the law.
Cat’s calls for her had gone unheard or ignored. His best guess was that Delambre’s quiet daughter had ducked out of another exit and was long gone. If she had anything to contribute to the fact that her look-a-like had murdered Midas and nearly added Catwalk as a side dish, she wasn’t prepared to volunteer that information. Deciding against chasing her or searching her private quarters, Cat instead clicked on Delambre’s ID on his comm, summoning the medtech.
“Please tell me this is urgent, and you’re missing at least two limbs, Catwalk.”
“No such luck, D. Close, though. You seen my upload that yer daughter scoped out yet?”
Delambre’s voice changed so suddenly the comm might have developed whiplash. “Where are you?”
“Relax, doc, your daughter ran outta here after tossin’ me the remote. I’m guessin’ she’s not very cool with somethin’ she saw on the feed.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cat paused a moment for effect, long enough to draw in a breath and resist the temptation to verbally badger his new partner. “Get yer ass down here to yer own lab, an’ let’s talk.”
Delambre was silent.
“An’ pick up a bottle a’ better booze. Yer cheap whiskey is like formaldehyde with food coloring.” Cat clicked the comm dead, picturing Delambre’s mind jump-starting into high gear. He wanted answers and forcing the medic to switch from scientific genius to concerned father provided him with a better angle for an interrogation. He tossed the comm into the air, at first willing to let it drop, but before it was past his face, he swung a roundhouse kick, shattering the small device into pieces. He caught himself gritting his teeth as he stared at the broken device.
Cat blew out the air in his lungs as if it was responsible for the frustration and hatred he bottled up inside. As he released the tension, clarity returned. Delambre’s daughter couldn’t be the winged assassin, and if she was, why would she reveal that to him? That was either stupidity or a challenge, and Cat had no reason to believe the prim and proper technician would suddenly take flight and behead crime lords.
He pressed his fingers against his temples, going over what else had changed. He had hired Delambre, and apparently Angela, worked out the kinks in his new armor, had a run-in with the fake Sirens, and what else? There was that little matter of killing Hitch. Offing Hitch had caused a reaction in Midas, but it also had to be related to whoever killed the golden-skinned pimp. So, what was the connection?
Cat tapped into his cop days and began drawing up motive scenarios. Midas kept Hitch around as an example, but didn’t approve or finance the sidekick’s underage habit. Cat had learned that from the source who sent him the recording. Hitch was paying for innocent flesh on the side, and when those payments dried up, his source went right after Midas. It was a desperate move, the kind committed by panicked amateurs or raving
Staring back at him from the screen was an artificial image of Delambre’s daughter.
Cat had kicked through two doors, unhinging one of them completely. He pounded on the third, demanding some answers from Angela but receiving nothing. He pushed back from the door far enough to line up a sidekick. The door crashed open from the force of his cybernetic leg. His blood was boiling at his new endangerment and the result of the recent discovery. Angela wasn’t a masochist and had stashed herself away far too well to be the real assassin on the case. Instead, she was ripped apart from within that the murderer wore her face. She simply wasn’t prepared to discuss that fact with a violent and self-important business partner on the outskirts of the law.
Cat’s calls for her had gone unheard or ignored. His best guess was that Delambre’s quiet daughter had ducked out of another exit and was long gone. If she had anything to contribute to the fact that her look-a-like had murdered Midas and nearly added Catwalk as a side dish, she wasn’t prepared to volunteer that information. Deciding against chasing her or searching her private quarters, Cat instead clicked on Delambre’s ID on his comm, summoning the medtech.
“Please tell me this is urgent, and you’re missing at least two limbs, Catwalk.”
“No such luck, D. Close, though. You seen my upload that yer daughter scoped out yet?”
Delambre’s voice changed so suddenly the comm might have developed whiplash. “Where are you?”
“Relax, doc, your daughter ran outta here after tossin’ me the remote. I’m guessin’ she’s not very cool with somethin’ she saw on the feed.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cat paused a moment for effect, long enough to draw in a breath and resist the temptation to verbally badger his new partner. “Get yer ass down here to yer own lab, an’ let’s talk.”
Delambre was silent.
“An’ pick up a bottle a’ better booze. Yer cheap whiskey is like formaldehyde with food coloring.” Cat clicked the comm dead, picturing Delambre’s mind jump-starting into high gear. He wanted answers and forcing the medic to switch from scientific genius to concerned father provided him with a better angle for an interrogation. He tossed the comm into the air, at first willing to let it drop, but before it was past his face, he swung a roundhouse kick, shattering the small device into pieces. He caught himself gritting his teeth as he stared at the broken device.
Cat blew out the air in his lungs as if it was responsible for the frustration and hatred he bottled up inside. As he released the tension, clarity returned. Delambre’s daughter couldn’t be the winged assassin, and if she was, why would she reveal that to him? That was either stupidity or a challenge, and Cat had no reason to believe the prim and proper technician would suddenly take flight and behead crime lords.
He pressed his fingers against his temples, going over what else had changed. He had hired Delambre, and apparently Angela, worked out the kinks in his new armor, had a run-in with the fake Sirens, and what else? There was that little matter of killing Hitch. Offing Hitch had caused a reaction in Midas, but it also had to be related to whoever killed the golden-skinned pimp. So, what was the connection?
Cat tapped into his cop days and began drawing up motive scenarios. Midas kept Hitch around as an example, but didn’t approve or finance the sidekick’s underage habit. Cat had learned that from the source who sent him the recording. Hitch was paying for innocent flesh on the side, and when those payments dried up, his source went right after Midas. It was a desperate move, the kind committed by panicked amateurs or raving
Similar Books
