The firing range was a spacious structure, nestled among the hills of southern San Francisco. Inside were enough lanes for a score of shooters, each soundproofed and reinforced to withstand the daily pounding from an amazing assortment of firearms. On the far left were two lanes designed to handle heavy weapons; autocannons, Assault Pistols, combat shotguns and the like. Normally, these two lanes were empty, a feature that suited Kitten just fine.
Standing quietly, Kitten adjusted her shooting glasses and replaced her hearing protectors. Idly, she flicked spent casings from the shelf in front of her, sending the empty shells spinning down the lane to land amid the debris of the morning's firing. Brushing the area clear with a sweep of her hand, Kitten picked up the Beretta, removing the spent clip and inserting a fresh one. Replacing the pistol in her shoulder holster, Kitten tossed the empty clip into a small bag, where it joined several others. Her S&W Assault Pistol was next. Firing 12.5mm gyrojet rounds, and capable of using a variety of ordinance, Kitten found it made an excellent all around pistol, capable of stopping the cyber-enchanced, replicants and some cyberdroids. Snapping in a fresh clip, Kitten raised the large gun easily, taking aim at the target hanging some distance down the lane. For awhile, the only sound was the continuous hollow thump as Kitten reduced target after target to to fragments. She cycled through several types of ammunition, firing flechette bursts, standard solid slug, and explosive tipped armor-piercing rounds. Emptying the final magazine, Kitten returned the weapon to it's carrying case. She paused a minute and smiled, now it was time to have a little fun.
The Remington Earthshaker was the biggest handgun ever made. It fired 15mm rounds and was really only usable by cyborgs, some replicants and anyone who had undergone extensive strength augmentation. The pistol's sheer size was a wonderful intimidation factor, simply producing the weapon was enough to take the fight of some people. Kitten grinned; Katsumi Liqueur, her best friend and a former fellow officer had once commented on the Freudian symbolism of carrying such a huge weapon. Kitten had been reminded of something a co-worker in the Special Investigations division had once said concerning his sidearm: "Of course this is a phallic substitute. If my penis could punch a hole in armor plate at 50 meters I wouldn't carry this either." Katsumi had almost hurt herself laughing when Kitten had related this comment.
Slowly, with almost exaggerated care, Kitten loaded the Earthshaker. Raising it slowly, she held the weapon at arm's length, locking her cyberarm to keep the recoil from affecting her aim. Taking a breath, she pulled the trigger
The target was an inch-thick composite slab suspended at the far end of the firing lane. The round struck dead center, blasting the target in half, sending splinters flying. If that had been a man, he'd would have been cut in two. A second round took the entire upper corner off, leaving the target hanging by a single wire. The last shot reduced this remaining scrap to so many splinters
Kitten let the pistol drop. Thumbing a switch, she opened the break action, worked the plunger and sent three shells skittering across the counter top. Behind her she could hear the faint noises of a spectator or two. It never failed. Even considering the range's soundproofing and the issued hearing protection, the Earthshaker was deafening. Someone always wandered by to see exactly what was being fired.
Tossing her bag onto the passenger's seat, Kitten climbed into her Isuzu Warrior. Pausing for a moment, Kitten sat back and closed her eyes, giving a quiet sigh. Spending an early morning hour or two at the firing range always made her feel better. Her moment of silence was rudely interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. Grumbling her irritation to an otherwise empty car, Kitten picked up the receiver.
"Katherine Ramis speaking."
"..."
"Really? How 'hot'?"
"..."
"Whew... not bad... And you sure he's still there?"
"..."
"There are? Well, how much for all three?"
"..."
"Eight thousand? Not bad for a day's work. Sure, I'll take it."
"..."
"How about the usual? Ten percent good enough?"
"..."
"Deal."
The apartment complex was located on a rather seedy section of Bayside property. Most of the buildings dated from the late 20th century and were uniformly drab masses of gray concrete. The parking lot was a wilderness of cracked asphalt and rusty, antiquated cars. Broken glass winked in the sun amid scattered masses of weeds and blowing paper.
Kitten glanced at her fax printout again, checking the address against the one displayed over the building's entrance. This was the place. Inside, in number 303, was one Eddie Dornack, wanted for theft, assault, murder and numerous other crimes. With him were 'friends', two women that were acting as his bodyguards and part-time street muscle. The report listed them as 'presumed armed and dangerous'. Yeah, well unless they were packing autocannons, Kitten wasn't concerned. Glancing around, Kitten realized that her Warrior looked a little out of place amid the other cars. Most of the vehicles in the area looked to be at least five years old and none of them were in good shape. The rest were late model luxury sports cars, most likely belonging to the local drug dealers. Oh well, she'd just hope no one would get too curious.
Tucking the gunbag under a seat, Kitten slid the Baretta into it's shoulder holster, and after a moments hesitation, secured the AP with a loop sewn inside her long coat. Exiting the Warrior, Kitten walked around back and opened the hatch. Opening up a small case, she started digging around for few additional pieces of equipment. Three sets of restraints were dropped in one pocket and the AP's magazine of flechette shells was exchanged for one loaded with baton rounds. Since she hadn't been planning on working today, Kitten was dressed in a simple outfit consisting of low dress boots, black trousers, a long-sleeved white blouse, and a long black coat that fell almost to her ankles. To this, Kitten added a set of stylishly tinted glasses and a thin combination datapad and clipboard. Her appearance now resembled that of a young rookie reporter or some useless city official. Not much of a disguise, but it would pass casual observation.
Inside, the apartment lobby smelled of urine, sweat and alcohol. Graffiti was scrawled on the stained walls and a worn carpet covered the floor. To Kitten's right, the doorman's cage sat empty, the door swinging slowly. Seriously considering activating her internal air supply, Kitten made her way to the elevator, punching the third floor button with a sigh of relief.
The third floor was scarcely better. Most of the overhead lights were broken and what little light there was came in through a series of grimy windows facing the street. Stopping in front of 303, Kitten paused, took a deep breath, and knocked.
For a few moments, all was silent, and then the sound of footsteps was heard. The door opened slightly, a restrained by a short length of security chain. Peering through the gap was a thin black woman, who looked to be wearing very little
"Yeah?" she rasped.
"Afternoon ma'm," Kitten started in as cheerful a tone as she could manage. "Is," she glanced at her clipboard, "Eddie Dornack in?"
The woman didn't respond, but simply gave Kitten a thorough examination. "No!" she answered and slammed the door.
Kitten stood in the hall, feeling more than a little foolish. Glancing each way down the hall, she considered her options. The easy way had failed miserably, which was a shame. As dumb sounding as her ploy had seemed, it worked more often than not, people could be remarkably stupid sometimes. Raising her hand, she decided to try knocking again, when someone opened the door, she'd simply force her way in.
Kitten's contemplation of her options was abruptly interrupted by the soft, oily click of a gun being cocked. Twisting around so that she faced away from the door, Kitten threw her arms over her head, trying to shield herself as best as possible. Scant seconds latter, there was the rapid pop of a machine pistol being fired. The door was almost instantly cut in half, wood chips, dust and splinters flying everywhere. Scrabbling away from the door, Kitten felt several rounds strike her back, deflecting from the underlying armorplate. The datapad wasn't so lucky, one round hit it dead center, reducing it to a spray of plastic shards. Digging inside her coat, Kitten produced the AP, and still keeping her back to the door, pointed the pistol in the general direction of her assailant. She fired twice, hoping that at such close range the low-velocity baton rounds would be able to punch through the shattered door. As suddenly as the firing started, it quit and for several long seconds, silence reined, broken only by the faint ringing of spent shell casings bouncing across the floor.
Warily, Kitten stood up, looking in the direction of the apartment door. It was a splintered wreck, hanging weakly from it's hinges. Overcome by a rising surge of rage and irritation , Kitten swore angrily. Smashing the door open with a swing of her free arm, Kitten found her attacker curled up on the floor, gasping weakly. Kicking the machine pistol away, Kitten paused only to toss the woman's limp body into the hall.
The apartment was pretty much as she expected, scarcely furnished and littered with empty bottles, discarded fast food containers and dirty laundry. The smell of gunpowder hung heavily in the air and the living room had a slightly hazy look from the recent burst of gunfire. Standing silently in the center of the room, Kitten listened for any sound of movement. There was a faint scraping sound coming from the kitchen. Slowly, the AP held firmly before her, Kitten made her way to the kitchen entrance.
Sliding along the wall, Kitten crouched down next to the doorway to the kitchen. The sound of someone trying to breathe quietly was barely audible from inside the small room. Reaching behind her, Kitten felt around until she'd found a chair leg. With a grunt and a twist, she pitched the chair into the room beyond, a series of pistol shots greeting the furniture's sudden arrival. Following the crashing impact of the chair, Kitten dashed into the doorway. Spotting a blond-haired woman crouching behind a small table, Kitten reached out with one hand and slammed the table into the woman, pinning her against the counter. Stepping back, Kitten pulled the table away, the woman dropping bonelessly to the floor, pistol clattering across the tiles.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Kitten was startled by a sudden shriek. Spinning to face this new threat, Kitten had a brief glimpse of Dornack, the box-like shape of an Ingram cradled in his hands. Rushing forward, he sprayed the kitchen in a haphazard manner, hosing down the small room with a steady stream of bullets. There was a hollow thump as the door to the microwave exploded, and the shattering of glass as bullets ripped through the dishes and bottles scattered across the counters. The refrigerator sprouted a jagged series of holes, while the cabinet doors were blown into flying clouds of splinters.
Kitten had ducked to the floor the moment the shooting had started and quickly rolled out of the line of fire. Crouching behind the cover of a near wall, she waited for Dornack's gun to run dry. After a few moments of furious firing, there was a sudden burst of silence. Dornack could be heard struggling to exchange clips before anyone could get a chance to return fire. Spinning out from behind the wall, Kitten quickly sent three rounds in Dornack's direction, catching him squarely in the stomach. He doubled over with a weak gasp and crumpled to the floor.
Standing in the ruin of Dornack's living room, Kitten gave a sigh. A simple bail-jump bust had dissolved into an insane mess of gunfire and exploding furniture. Her jacket was most likely ruined, and the sudden wet feeling from her forehead turned out to be blood. Apparently a stray shot or a flying fragment had managed to crease her scalp. Wonderful.
Kitten sighed again, deep this time, digging the restraints out of her pocket. "I gotta get into a new line of work," she pronounced in a tired voice.
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