The Final Cut Read online

  The cameraman looked distressed, his eyes flickering nervously between Dredd and Indigo's minders. Other Judges were moving towards the confrontation so there was nowhere for him to go, though he probably knew that from the start. "V-Vanessa..." he whimpered. "I c-came for you."

  "Last warning," Dredd growled.

  "Vanessa, answer me!" the man cried, raising the gun. A fraction of a second later his head disappeared in a red drizzle as one of the bodyguards' pistols bellowed fire. Dredd reacted instantly, putting two bullets through the minder's chest. He staggered backwards, gazing down at his wound with an expression of utter disbelief. Dredd swapped targets and drilled a hole in the other bodyguard's forehead before he could aim. They both dropped heavily to the ground simultaneously, as if their nervous systems had been synchronised and somebody had just pulled the plug. The audience, who had just watched this brief firefight broadcast across giant vid-screens, took a collective breath and began to find their voice again, screaming for the superstar.

  Giving the bodies only a cursory glance, Dredd headed over to Indigo, who was being helped to her feet by the fatman and Peat. She was sobbing uncontrollably.

  "You want to tell me what that was about?" the senior Judge asked gruffly.

  "It happens, unfortunately," fatman said and introduced himself as the singer's manager. "A person of Miss Indigo's stature tends to attract obsessive types. He was not the first."

  "That doesn't explain the mini-arsenal those two meatheads were carrying," Dredd replied. "There's the small matter of smuggling illegal arms into the city."

  "I cannot take this," Indigo was moaning. "I cannot... I cannot face them..."

  "She all right?" Dredd asked.

  "She's in shock, as you would expect," Peat piped up indignantly, attempting to regain his composure. "I have to say, Judge Dredd, I was disappointed with the way that situation was dealt with. Surely there was no need for further bloodshed-"

  "You break the Law, you pay the price," Dredd snapped, his temper rising. "I will not stand by and see crimes committed, no matter how famous the person. My authority will not be undermined."

  "Dredd, it's Geest," a voice crackled in his earpiece. "Crowd's losing it. Going to need some back-up."

  Dredd turned and saw cits pulling at the barricades, their shouts now angry and frustrated. The celebs were fleeing into the building as bottles and debris began to be thrown at the screens and the entrance facade. Helmets were pushing the throng back, daysticks swinging to and fro, cracking heads. "OK, request riot foam," Dredd instructed. "Start making arrests. Let's stamp down on this hard."

  He returned to Peat. "Looks like the party's over, councillor. I suggest you and your guests stay out of harm's way before anything else happens." He looked at Indigo and Lubular. "I don't want either of you to attempt to leave the city. There's still some questions I'd like answered."

  Before they could reply, Dredd headed out into the heart of the disturbance, unsheathing his daystick. His radio mic sparked into life again. "Control to Dredd, Senior Judge required, Elizabeth Short Block construction site. Body dump discovered."

  "Kinda got my hands full," Dredd said, bringing his knee up into a rioting cit's face. "Isn't there anyone else?"

  "Negative. You're the nearest unit."

  Never rains but pours, Dredd thought as he waded his way through the chaos towards his Lawmaster and the first of the H-wagons roared overhead.

  TWO

  So I'm sticking my gun in this geek's face and he's moaning and twitching like he's plugged straight into Power Tower. I twist the barrel between his lips and tell him to open wide. He resists at first and I'm tempted to slam the butt against his jaw, perversely interested in seeing those tiny yellow teeth shatter like crockery. Instead, I just increase the pressure slightly, my left hand gripping his shirt collar at the back of his neck, my right forcing his head back as I push harder with the gun. He relents and the barrel slides into his hot, stinking mouth like it's making a home for itself. His eyes water with fear and his breath comes in short, sharp bursts. Looking at his sweaty, grime-encrusted skin, cheap jewellery, thinning hair and stained white suit, the temptation to squeeze the trigger and empty the contents of his skull all over the warehouse wall has never been greater.

  A voice calls behind me. "Yo, Pete. Take it easy, man." I look behind me and Brett Dansky, leaning against a crate of grenades, makes a casual calming motion with his hand. I stand back a pace, but don't remove my gun from the gimp's mouth, letting him suck on it like a baby pacifier. His wide, panic-stricken eyes turn beseechingly towards Brett, as if believing he's all that stands between me and the drokker's brain exploding in party-popper streamers.

  If it were anyone else, I would consider him even more of a fool for appealing to a Dansky. You didn't have to spend long in their company to realise they had no redeeming qualities and zero sense of compassion or sympathy for their fellow man. Business is business to them, and if that involves dropping a competitor off a flyover or gunning down a rival gang boss in front of his family, then it goes with the turf, daddio. The Danskys don't consider anything off-limits if it stands in the way of them making a whole heap of moolah.

  However, this guy sucking on my blaster, this Banana City contact, he's known to them. They've used him before, and to all intents and purposes they probably trust him. But it doesn't hurt to make sure an associate is on the level, so while they've asked me to go through the heavy routine, this greaseball's still got his uses to Brett and Jonny. The charade is just to make sure the drokkwit is fully aware of just who he is dealing with. The brothers have put together scams with this character before, previous to my entrance into the Dansky empire, but since he's never dealt with me, I can be the wild card that keeps him on his toes, scaring him into submission.

  Brett saunters over and lays a friendly hand on the geek's shoulder. "You know we've always been happy with your work in the past, Martinez. There's no reason why we can't come to an amicable arrangement again, right, bro?" Brett glances at his younger, slightly dumber brother Jonny, who is sitting at a small card table, his feet up, cleaning the serial number off an ex-army assault rifle. Jonny grunts and nods. Brett turns back to Martinez, smiling. "You see? That shipment you brought in last time contained some high-quality merchandise, something our clients can't get enough of. Right now, we could do with more of that. As you can see, our stocks are running low and there are crazies out there with wars to fight, and Citi-Def units looking to procure untraceable weaponry. You're our connection, man." Brett puts his arm jovially around Martinez's shoulder, pulling him close. The gimp tries to smile around the gun barrel and only manages a nervous grimace. "But I swear if you screw with us, if you ever try to drokk us over," he continues, his mood darkening, "I'm gonna let Trager here put a bullet through your worthless, lowlife heart." Brett turns his attention to me. "You hate spics, ain't that right, Trager?"

  I don't reply but simply pull back the hammer on my pistol.

  "Old Petey's a real mad dog," Brett says. "Better get on his good side. So whaddya say, Martinez? Can we do business like grown-ups, or am I gonna have to dump your dago corpse in the Black Atlantic? Trager, let the man speak."

  I slide the revolver out of his mouth. As soon as it's gone, he swallows several times and licks his lips, probably trying to get the taste of gun oil off his tongue. He fishes in his trouser pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, which he uses to wipe his eyes and forehead, then blow his nose.

  "You have no reason to doubt me, Señor Dansky," Martinez says quickly. "I have always played straight with you. You say yourself, we have done good business together."

  "As far as I'm concerned, our past means as much as a week-old hottie, and in my experience, relationships sour just as quickly. Only thing I trust is the deal before me. So, what have you got for us?"

  "I receive your message, and pass it on to the relevant people. My suppliers are keen to provide you with more of the same material, for the right price, of course
."

  "Price remains the same," Jonny interjects, not even looking up from his task. "Otherwise we'll take our creds elsewhere."

  "Well said, my brother," Brett says. "You're not dealing with a couple of hopheads looking to score cheap arms, Martinez, and I find it personally insulting that you even think you can start dictating terms to us."

  Martinez is flustered. "I intended no disrespect, señors. I simply meant that my contacts in Cuidad Barranquilla are willing to sell for a mutually agreed price. I'm sure they are open to negotiation."

  "So are we," Jonny remarks, working the rifle's bolt release with a sharp krr-chak that echoes around the warehouse.

  "Indeed," Brett says, grinning. "So, Martinez, this material. What exactly are we looking at?"

  "Three crates of zip guns. A dozen rocket launchers, with twenty-eight boxes of ammunition. Laser parts removed from an orbiting defence battery, enough to build a military-grade weapon, or so I am told. Five crates of stub guns and a dismantled sonic cannon. There is more, but I did not bring a list, in case I was stopped by the authorities. You will be able to see for yourself, once you agree to the meet."

  I can see Brett's eyes gleaming. I imagine the thought of all that shining killware makes credit signs ping! in his head. The Danskys have been dealing in illegal arms for several years now and have found that it is easily the most profitable of the gang's sidelines. When they started out, they had their fingers in the usual pies - extortion, robbery, prostitution, perp-running, Umpty-bagging - but nothing was more in demand in Mega-City One than readily available and unlicensed weaponry.

  For the most part, their clients are the various criminal factions wasting each other in drive-bys and contract hits, but they have built up a formidable reputation for providing heavy-duty ordnance for block wars and Cursed Earth hunting parties as well. Nothing was beyond them. Somewhere in this vast building were boxes filled with satellite components, deactivated Mechanismo parts and Land Raider tracks. Mark I Lawgivers stolen from dead Judges' hands now collected dust, experimental devices that never left the prototype stage had been sold on to the Danskys by disgruntled Tek Division employees out to make a quick sale.

  Some of the Danskys' buyers were genuine collectors, obsessed with picking up assorted pieces of hardware from the Big Meg's bloody past - the gun that Chief Judge Volt used to commit suicide was a big seller on the black market - but more often than not it was the business of killing that kept the money rolling in.

  "Quite a cache," Brett says, impressed. "And the source?"

  "Ah, as you know, Señor Dansky," Martinez replies carefully, "my suppliers like to keep their own contacts, how you say, close to their chests. They have their own interests to protect, as much as you do."

  "I just want to be sure we're not being sold ten year-old junk, or cheaply made knock-offs from Sino-Cit. We have something of a rep to maintain amongst our regulars."

  "Let us just say somebody very close to Cuidad Justice Department's main armoury is benefiting very nicely from the arrangement and leave it at that."

  Brett shares a look with his brother, then glances around the room. Besides myself, there are four other members of the Dansky gang whose principal roles are muscle, intimidation and donkey work. Strodem, Mauser and Cavell were all cut from similar cloth; their lack of intelligence ensured an unquestioning and unswerving loyalty. I wonder sometimes what path led them to their current employment as gun-runners. They look almost vat-grown for the job: all over six feet, built like tanks and with creepily blank expressions, as if breaking some poor sap's neck is no different to opening a can of Popp's Cola.

  The fourth, Hogg, is different. Small, dark and quiet, you can see a brain working behind her desensitised eyes, but she's probably more insane than the rest put together. Rumour has it that she used to work as a slab-walker for the Danskys until she started cutting up her johns and the brothers realised her talents could be put to better uses. The way they reason it, they're doing the city a service by channelling her energies into something more pro-active. Left on her own, she'd probably run wild on a thrill-kill rampage.

  I'm sure there are plenty of tawdry tales of their pasts that I'm not privy to and they're in no great hurry to divulge - I'm sure as hell not about to start telling them my life story - and so an air of general mistrust hangs over us all, like a background smell you eventually become accustomed to.

  For people who live their life by the moment, you never know what's coming around the corner, and whether you might have to just drop your colleagues and walk away. Sometimes you might have to make the decision to whack them, if there are no other options available. Experiencing life on a day-to-day basis like that, friendships are fleeting, and therefore unnecessary.

  "Whaddya think?" Brett asks us in general, though his decision's already made. He and his brother like to make us feel we're part of a collective, as if we've got some say in the business side of things. Truth is, the Danskys would put a bullet in the back of any of our heads if it turned out to be financially rewarding.

  "I don't see why we should trust this little runt," I say, still acting my role.

  "Trager, your sense of suspicion is both welcome and gratifying," Brett replies, smiling, "but while Martinez may look like something you'd wipe off your boot, he's still the man with the keys to the kingdom. The gangbangers, survival nuts and warmongers out there are queuing up for some Banana City boom-boom, and we're just the guys to sell it to 'em." He looks at Martinez. "Right?"

  The greaseball smiles sickly. "Absolutely, señor. Just say the word and I'll set the wheels in motion."

  Jonny straightens up, putting the rifle down on the table, and moves over to stand next to his brother. "Where are they gonna want to do this?" he asks.

  "The docks, I think. I will get in touch with them and arrange a place, date and time, but they will be bringing the shipment in by boat, so the pay-off will have to be done there and then."

  Brett nods in agreement. "OK, let us know the details, as and when. We'll wait on your call."

  Martinez turns to go, then hesitates. "There is one other thing, Señor Dansky," he says slowly. "My contacts said they have come into possession of more of the... specialised equipment."

  Brett and Jonny make eye contact for the briefest of seconds and something unspoken passes between them. It goes unnoticed by the rest of the goons - you could kick any of them up the ass and it would take their brains a full minute to assimilate a reaction - but the crackle of nervous energy visible in the glance they share piques my interest. It's not something I've ever seen before. The Danskys looked, well, frightened for a moment. There's no doubt that the brothers knew instantly what Martinez is talking about, and it's something they've dealt with before. The immediate desire to gabble questions has to be suppressed. I'll have to pick up as much as I can between the lines without arousing any suspicions.

  Brett coughs, clears his throat. "Is that right?" He's struggling to reassert his authority.

  "Yes," Martinez answers. From his expression, there's no suggestion he's aware of the subtle shift in power, but you'd have to be pretty dense not to spot it. I'm beginning to think the dirtbag is as good an actor as me. "They say they are willing to sell for a special price. You still have your buyer who collects such pieces?"

  Brett looks again at his brother before replying. "I... I haven't spoken to him for a while, but... yes, I can get in touch with him."

  "From what I understand, I believe he would be interested in this shipment. My suppliers tell me they are antiques, recently discovered. A good find. And a good profit for yourselves, I think."

  "We'll contact our buyer, tell him we may have something for him," Jonny says, a touch too quickly.

  "See that you do. An opportunity like this does not often come up, eh?" Martinez heads towards the door, opens it and turns back to us. "You shall hear from me soon, señors. Adios, and here's to good business!" He grins and disappears into the city.

  Silence descends
on the warehouse. The inquisitive demon inside me won't be denied for any longer. "Specialised pieces?" I say as casually as I can, holstering my gun beneath my jacket. "What the hell was he talking about?"

  Brett looks at me as if he is seeing me for the first time. He blinks, then attempts to wave the question away. "Just some stuff we've sold on in the past. There's a collector we've dealt with a couple of times that has a particular interest."

  "What's that?"

  "Weapons of torture," he replies. "Thumbscrews, blades, that kind of thing. Y'know, from South-Am death squads. Banana City has a good supply of it."

  "Torture? What in grud's name does he want with those?"

  Brett shrugs. "Drokked if I know, and quite frankly I don't want to know, but I'm sure you can guess. As long as he pays the massive mark-up we make on 'em, that's as far as my interest goes."

  "So who is this guy?"

  Brett and Jonny once more lock stares, but neither of them answer.

  It's late as I make my way across sector along the still- crowded pedways. The city never sleeps. As dusk falls, when the respectable cits are tucked away in their cosy apartments, a different kind of citizen emerges, with a different kind of business to attend to. Pimps and dealers unglue themselves from the shadows, quietly hawking their wares: sugar, Uncle Umps, stookie, cigarettes, coffee beans, young bodies. Gangs of Uglies loiter menacingly on street corners, preening and showing off their boils, while in the depths of dimly lit alleyways, vagrants gather around spluttering fires. Gangbangers roll past in souped-up vehicles, hanging out the windows and passing comment on the pedestrians. The clubs are heaving, pounding music cutting through the night, the freaks and weirdos crawling out of whatever hole they spent the day in to queue up outside and impatiently wait to gain entrance.

  Somewhere, perhaps a couple of miles away, a siren blares before it is cut short by a burst of gunfire and the dull thud of a small explosion. No one even looks round. To live and survive in Mega-City One is to grow immune to the turbulent surroundings, to internally adapt some kind of insanity filter that acts as a blinker. Those that fail, that buckle under the pressure, can lose their minds from sheer sensory overload. Better to ignore the craziness, to let it fade out into the background, otherwise you'll end up straitjacketed in a kook cube, drinking your meals through a straw.