The Most Dangerous Dame

I smiled. “No wonder your moll is so sweet on you, Poddar. With lines like that, you’re bound to keep the dames swooning.”

His frown returned. “I still don’t like the idea of letting him keep the drugs, Mick. If we let that go then we’re as responsible as he is for ruining lives.”

I smiled. “Couldn’t agree with you more, Ace. Maxine?”

“Auto detonation ready, Mr. Trubble.”

A holographic screen sprang up out of her display console. On it was a grid with the position of the explosives pulsing in red. I pointed to the auto detonate button and nodded to Poddar. “You’ll do the honors?”

He gave a wry smile and shook his head. “I should have known.”

“Yeah, you should have. There’s no way I let Johnny Knuckles get his mitts on that stash. Not on my watch. Why don’t you show him how we feel about targeting women?”

Poddar pressed the button on the display. An explosion mushroomed in the distance behind us, painting the night sky in lovely shades of red and orange.

Poddar leaned back in his seat with a satisfied smile. “I can only imagine the look on Johnny’s face.”

“Yeah.” I grinned as the streets and buildings blurred by. “Sometimes I love my job.”

Chapter 3: Mean Ol’ Broad Part Deux

Sergeant Johnson was in the weapons division of the United Havens Special Forces. Since actual warfare is mostly synthetic, he didn’t see much action in the skirmishes with the Outer Havens. Still, he managed to get his arm blown off in an explosion while repairing a Tesla cannon. He got his discharge and never looked back as he made his way to New Haven, where he manufactured iron at his own shop called Johnson Arms. In a town where everyone packed heat, he never had to worry about a shortage of customers.

He was at his workbench in the back when we strode in. Sparks rained on his fireproofed shoulders as he soldered on his latest lethal masterpiece.

“Mick Trubble.” He lifted his face shield, revealing dark goggles and a bearded face underneath. He smiled. “Give me just a minute.”

“Take your time, Sarge.”

The lobby walls were lined with an assortment of firearms. Mostly military grade, but a few high-tech doodads for the tech savvy who preferred style over substance. Glass shelves were packed with various ammo clips and Tesla cells for the mech-powered heat.

I took a look at a brand new Thompson, the preferred weapon for goons and gangsters. The cylinder-shaped magazine carried a couple hundred rounds before emptying. All that ammo was probably why most of the suckers had such bad aim.

“She’s yours for a song.” Johnson removed the headgear and welder’s apron, revealing a sweat-stained shirt covering his burly frame. His left arm was a clunky collection of gears and pistons. Most folks went for flesh-colored synthetics, but ol’ Sarge built his arm himself and wore it proudly.

I shook my head. “Not today, Sarge. Don’t care too much for heavy iron. If I can’t get outta a jam in seven shots or less I’m toast anyway.”

Johnson wiped his forehead with a grimy rag. “I hear you. But a lotta folks aren’t as forward thinking as you are, Mick. Those Thompsons sell like hotcakes. I actually have contracts with certain outfits around town. My work doesn’t jam or overheat like some of the junk those other so-called gunsmiths try to pass off.”

I set the Thompson back on the rack. “Well, that’s why I came to you, Sarge. You were highly recommended.”

“I appreciate it. Hope you like your new piece. But since you’re into handguns, I thought I’d show you a few other choices. You know — in case you’re looking for a handy backup.”

I patted my flogger. “I already got a Replacement Killer. Been using it as my main piece temporarily. But hey — no harm in looking.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Right. Check these out.”

A segmented section of the wall flipped over to reveal a cache of assorted handguns. Most of them were mech-enhanced, but there were a few old school revolvers as well.

“Clap your eyes on this one.” Johnson handed over a mean-looking piece. “Rare piece of work there. Hard to find because—”

“Because it’s issued by the Secret Service.” I peered down the sights. “It’s a Bond 953 special tactics handgun. Usually biologically bonded to the owner, so it won’t work for anyone else. This one has been hacked and modified, no small feat.”

I clicked a button on the grip. A holographic screen sprang from a transmitter on the rear sight. I turned slowly, scanning the room in sweeping patterns.

“Automatic targeting with smart scan threat detector along with x-ray, infrared, and night vision sensors. Fusion rounds are powered by a Tesla cell that can fire 200 electrolaser bursts without overheating. Dampening muzzle and variant bullet magazine optional.”

Johnson stared, and Poddar gave me a sidelong look. I handed the heater back to Johnson.

“Pretty impressive,” he finally said. “Not too many know the exact specs on Service weaponry. Unless they’re former SS, that is.”