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  People either heard the guns or saw the Brunos, and soon the street was filled with the sounds of running and screaming. The men pushed past the screaming pedestrians toward me. I had to get out of here before I became little more than a bloody stain. I fired two rounds at the three hit men. One entered the lead man’s leg, and the other flew close to another man’s head, but ricocheted off a light pole beside him.

  At the sound of the shots, people ran or dove for cover behind anything they could — garbage bins, light poles, statues — leaving a large pathway open in the centre of the square. A rare sight indeed. This afforded me a view of Belik and the other two jumping into a black Packard 900 parked at the edge of the square.

  I soon heard the familiar crank of my Talbot’s engine. Allen had apparently gotten the hint that things had gone south. The tires screeched as they caught the pavement and sped toward me. I ran to the street to meet him as the Packard peeled out.

  Allen swung the Talbot in using the handbrake, sliding in front of me and allowing me to duck down as pellets from three shotgun shells smashed into the metal panels and bulletproof window of the driver’s side. I pushed myself up and dove inside the broken window on the passenger side. Allen slammed his foot down on the gas, and I righted myself in the seat. I replaced the empty shells in my revolver and pulled back the hammer as we gave chase to the black Packard, which was now careering out of Times Square.

  Allen kept the pedal down to keep up with Belik. A standard Packard could never match the speed of my Talbot, but they’d gotten the jump on us. Allen must have driven before, I thought, as the gears and levers ran like water under its metal hands, sending us down the alley the Packard had swerved into. The Packard hit trash cans and debris lining the sides of the small side street, forcing it to slow down and allowing us to gain on it inch by inch.

  The Packard pulled a hard left onto 6th Avenue, where the traffic was far less dense than on 7th. But horns still blasted at us as we peeled through traffic, drifting between the lines and over lanes, forcing other drivers off the road.

  After several blocks, Allen and I were right behind Belik’s vehicle. I grabbed the handle on the Talbot’s ceiling and hoisted myself up and out the broken window until I was sitting on the door. I levelled the Diamondback, pressing the lever forward to return it to its double-action configuration. I steadied myself as best I could and fired off a shot at the back tire. The bullet skipped off the pavement, missing its mark by mere centimeters. As I attempted to level to fire again, I heard a loud screech behind us. I looked back and saw that a second Packard had swerved into traffic behind us. And someone had the same idea as me. Except he had his gun trained on me, not on our tires. And his gun was a lot bigger.

  I slipped back down into my seat as the familiar rat-tat-tat of a Thompson Typewriter unloaded .45 rounds into my bulletproof roof. I blessed my foresight months ago as the soft sound of Allen trying to chastise me for my actions was drowned out by gunfire and adrenalin. Allen cranked the handbrake, dropping us back behind a few other cars and almost hitting the other Packard as it swerved out of the way. The civilian cars that were now in front of us soon realized the danger and retreated from their positions on the road, opening an opportunity for the assailants to attack us again, this time from the front.

  As this chaos ensued, Allen kept a firm eye on Belik’s Packard, which had taken a hard right, smashing into a parked Adler and pushing it onto the sidewalk. Miraculously, the Packard kept going. As we followed it into the turn, the second Packard swerved and tried to catch us on our right side. It missed and slowed down, falling behind by several car lengths, giving me a chance to poke my head out and test my luck. The silhouette of the driver was barely visible behind the dark windshield, giving me a good idea of where he sat as I levelled and fired. The bullet entered the window and the car immediately lost speed, tires screeching, horn sounding in a constant drone until it hit a parked car and stopped.

  Turning my focus back to the other car, I could see that our target was making up in manoeuvrability what it lacked in speed. We were speeding down West 53rd, the subway suspended high above us on the left, when the Packard sped up to pass across Park Avenue. I was pretty sure I had two shots left, and I knew I needed to use at least one, so I brought the weapon up and squeezed the trigger. Unfortunately, it didn’t do much, as Belik’s car had sped up just enough to pass through the traffic coming from the north without incident. The bullet instead slammed into the front of a Marmon Sixteen, probably killing its engine.

  Allen yanked on the brakes and the Talbot slid to a stop, but not before scraping against every car parked on the right side of the street, leaving a strip of paint across the front panels of my car.

  “Fuck, fuck! We lost him. We goddamn lost him!” I kicked the glovebox in frustration, holstering the revolver as I continued cursing.

  We were so close. We could’ve ended this case right here, right now. Instead, we had one dead Bruno and another one wounded, which equated to nothing in terms of progress. The car full of gunmen was probably vacant by now, the body missing, leaving the police and me with nothing to go on. Going back for the car would be the surest way to get thrown in the slammer.

  Allen said nothing, but looked at me with both sympathy and disappointment when I told it to drive to my place. The one thing I needed now was something to drown my disappointment in. At least things couldn’t get any worse.

  CHAPTER 14

  ALLEN PARKED THE CAR in front of my building. What a goddamn night. Nothing had turned out right. Now I needed to get the car checked out; it had kept making concerning noises all the way back, now that there were a few new pellets and bullets in the frame.

  Yuri was still selling his dogs, this time to the night crews that were getting ready for their shifts as the Plate lights prepared to go out.

  “Good evening, Elias!” he said in his Russian accent. He flashed me that smile of his that could stop bullets, shook my hand hard, and nodded gratefully. “You come back earlier than you usually do. You might be first customer for once!”

  “I … I suppose so. I’d be honoured, Yuri.” I smiled back and put a few coins on his little chrome cart — a little more than what the dog cost, but he could use the cash. We shared a little conversation, but I was all too aware of Allen, who was standing impatiently near the doors to the building. So I bid Yuri goodnight and we headed inside. I finished the street meat in the elevator as other people got in and out on our way up. At last, we reached floor 75 — so close to the Plate, yet still so far away. Allen followed me into my apartment, closing and bolting the door behind us. I went into the kitchen. “Well, Allen, shit. I suppose things could have been worse.”

  No response.

  Suddenly I heard the various clicks and clacks of metal gears and felt steel on my wrist. Allen jerked me off my feet and handcuffed me to the fridge door. With lightning speed, it retrieved my revolver and placed it within its suit pocket. It took me a few seconds to react, then I blew my stack.

  “Allen, what the fuck!”

  “I apologize, Detective Roche, but after observing your actions tonight, I believe it would be beneficial to the investigation for you to remain here, under house arrest, until I can —”

  “Metal man, take this shit off my hand and stop fucking with me.”

  “This is no joke. I must prevent you from endangering other civilians or law enforcement, including myself.” It looked resolute, though I doubt it had any idea what it really was doing.

  “Endangering? Shit … Allen, you’re essentially killing people right now by doing this. If you don’t take this cuff of my hand in three seconds, I swear I’ll kill you.” But Allen didn’t back down. It stayed silent, staring at me, calling my bluff. After a few seconds I lost it. “Allen! Fucking stop this!”

  “I’m sorry, Detective Roche.”

  “No! No, you are not sorry. You have no idea what you’re doing right now. I will make you sorry, you metal fuck!” I grabbed for my revolve
r, but Allen moved back just out of my reach.

  “I’ve watched you engage in police brutality, discharging of a firearm without warrant, forced entry, and several other violations. I doubt that you have done one thing in this time span that even you could point to as ‘good’ besides sparing Stern’s life. I’ve held my tongue until now, but seeing as we have returned to your abode, I thought this the perfect time to prevent you from committing any more infractions.”

  “And who’s the judge of my actions, huh? You? A fucking machine?”

  “As I said before, I am not a standard Automatic —”

  “I couldn’t give a shit! You live in a world of ones and zeros. You could just be some cleverly programmed Automatic Robins sent to fuck with me, but it doesn’t seem that way, so maybe you need a hard lesson, metal man. We don’t live in a world of black and white, never have. Maybe you and your brethren do, but we do not. But I will find a way to make you black and blue if you don’t unlock these cuffs.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard before from multiple sources, including some prominent psychoanalysts, that we live in a world of shades of grey. However, unlocking your cuffs now would do little to impede the possibility of violence —”

  “No, not a world of grey. Grey wouldn’t do this world justice. We live in a world of shades of red, Allen.”

  At this point it let its guard down, perhaps trying to comprehend my metaphor, or thinking of a way to calm me. I grabbed its collar and brought it close to my face, speaking harshly through clenched teeth. “The question I wake up to isn’t ‘Will I do the right thing?’ or ‘What difference will I make?’ That isn’t what crosses my mind when the 5th phones me in. What I ask every day is ‘How many people will die today?’ The fewer, the better. There is not a single day that someone doesn’t die. You can’t save everyone, and sometimes to save some, others have to die. Welcome to the real world. Welcome to my job. You have no idea what it takes to do what I have the past three years. I am the one thing preventing the cops and the Mob from killing each other every goddamn day! You’re not even half the Automatic James was, I swear to —”

  In the midst of spitting out my anger at Allen, I saw something I wasn’t prepared for. Allen’s eyelids, or whatever they were, were closing around its blue bulbs, as if it were cringing. I had scared a machine. I let go.

  Allen backed away, silent as it smoothed its crumpled collar.

  “I left the Force years ago because I realized there’s a thin line between law and justice. I chose justice. The law has rules. The law stops the cops from becoming the people they lock up. But justice is retribution. And sometimes morals get skewed when you’re chasing justice. Sometimes you fall as far as those you chase. I act like a criminal to catch criminals, and that’s what you see me doing. Though I must admit you’re the first person who seems to care.”

  I slumped against the fridge. I’d never spat my thoughts out like that before. In fact, this was probably the most I’d spoken in the past few weeks. I used the cuff on my wrist to pull myself up and open the freezer. I pulled out a bottle of hooch and held it between my knees as I popped the top off. I raised it to my lips and downed some of the vile liquid. “Robins doesn’t give a fuck as long as I get him a body or a confession … or both … and if it weren’t for me, the Mafia would have torn up the 5th and every other precinct in Lower Manhattan.”

  Allen approached once more, sitting down beside me with its back against the cabinets. It looked like a child drawing its knees up to its chest. We both sat in stunned silence. My wrist was beginning to go numb as the handcuff dug into my skin.

  Finally, Allen said, “You were admirable when we were in pursuit of Cory Belik. It was fortunate there weren’t any civilian injuries. I also found it irresponsible of you to fire from a moving vehicle. I could go on for many hours detailing your infractions. However, I can see you are well aware of them yourself.”

  “I’m not saying what I did was right, Allen. I’m saying that sometimes you have to do what you need to do, not what you should do.” I took another swig, thankful that I’d saved it. “Besides, I don’t see you reprimanding the guy with the Typewriter in the Packard.” I smirked. Allen didn’t. Humour, right. “But you’re right … I could have killed someone. Someone innocent.”

  “You could have killed four civilians with reckless firing of your illegal firearm. Instigating the shoot-out also could have caused severe injury and property damage from those criminals firing shotguns in a civilian centre. I can see why you are no longer officially part of the police force.”

  That one stung. It was right, but it still hurt. I was getting reckless. Too reckless. That must have been why Robins had assigned Allen to me. It was there to keep me from blowing my lid and getting my name on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Or, maybe to ensure that I couldn’t be tied back to Robins. After all, if they dug deep enough — and they wouldn’t have to go far, thanks to the metal man next to me — they’d find many illicit dealings between the commissioner and me.

  A few minutes of silence followed, and more hair of the dog. The hooch was good, dulling me. But why couldn’t I shake this uncomfortable feeling, like I’d shaken so many others?

  Because Allen was right. I’d gotten too reckless. I’d put too many people in danger, myself included. I probably would have gotten my old partners killed if they’d stuck around me after I threw their asses out. Allen sounded like a recruit, listing all his concerns straight from the book. Shit, Allen sounded like I had back when I’d joined up at the 5th almost a decade ago. I hadn’t been much different from the machine when I’d first gotten my badge. Seeing it from an outside perspective, it really did look a lot worse than I’d thought. I’d been teetering on an edge I hadn’t even noticed. Maybe Allen was my safety harness. But all harnesses eventually wore out. What had happened to turn me into such a piece of shit? Had the city gotten to me? Or …

  No, I definitely knew what had pushed me over the edge, but of all things, I didn’t need to think about that right now. I hoped to God, or whatever it was up there, that Allen wouldn’t experience what I had. Or what any of us at the 5th had experienced. The ghost that had sent me off the deep end could very well have been the same machine that Morris and Belik had Red-eyed to shoot up the speakeasy. If it was, if I saw it again, would I even be able to pull the trigger?

  Allen was different. The fact that I was able to scare Allen — not programmed scared, but human scared — was another point in its favour supporting the claim that it wasn’t just a machine. It was also an indication that my personality was so godawful I could frighten almost any form of life, even artificial.

  Allen didn’t look at or acknowledge me for a long time, perhaps out of respect, allowing me to reflect on my own mistakes. Or perhaps out of fear. But finally it said, “Tell me, Detective, what engagements did you take part in during the War?”

  “Excuse me?” That was a question I hadn’t been prepared for.

  “You mentioned at the diner that you were in an engagement during the War. I was curious about what you did.”

  I sat up and combed through all the memories I had hidden away. Nothing like a bloody trip down memory lane. “I was part of the Cleanup Crew, 2nd Battalion, 1st Manual Corps. My only major experience in battle was during the Siege of Strasbourg. After that, a few weeks later, the first Automatics came off the line, and we were all out of a job and headed home.”

  “Tell me about the War, Detective.” The metal man wrapped its arms around its legs like a child. For all I knew it would analyze my every response. Or maybe it actually wanted to know. Textbooks didn’t do those horrors justice. “It seems you have some built-up anger from the War, as many veterans do.”

  “It ain’t because of the War, if that’s what you’re wondering about.” I had to laugh. I could barely function, yet it was still grilling me for details. “On that day, the brass wanted to put tanks down on the field and try to push through the Austros’ blockade. They had these big fucking things call
ed Diesels — they were like Manuals, but they stole the Allies’ tech and made these things run off of diesel fuel instead of Tesla Batteries. You know what a Manual is, I hope. Fortunately, the tanks had Manuals backing them up, to draw most of the fire. I was in a transport tank, and they let us out in a trench. I watched the metal suits walk over us, the gunfire was …”

  Fuck … the sound. The sound was deafening, like the buzzing of bees … bees whose sting was deadly.

  “It was overwhelming. The Manuals were dropping left and right from the machine gun fire, and I was supposed to either reload them or drag the operators out of the metal carcasses. I watched one get chewed up, another get blown apart and vapourized when its Tesla Battery got penetrated. It was hell.”

  “Were you victorious?”

  “We were. The tanks rolled in and stomped on the positions, and I got a few bullets across the stomach as a souvenir. After the battle, they carted me off to a field hospital, and we got to see the first Automatic Division get released as an offensive shortly after. I saw a lot of good men die then and there. Even the Krauts were helping us after they surrendered … they knew the only way the War would end was with a victor, and they’d already switched sides.”

  Allen, who seemed a bit more comfortable now, turned to face me. “What other things did you see?”

  “I saw the reason I’m nervous around you metal men. It was nothing but brutal efficiency. I saw a robot snapping necks and tearing apart limbs even while it was riddled with holes. I saw one take a full belt of ammunition before it fell. The Automatics were scary then, and they still are now. That’s why I don’t like them too much. But I’m getting better.”