Palming his old wind-up wrist watch, left him by his Uncle George, ‘God rest your soul in your final reward, Uncle George,’ mused Drake as he kissed the watch and observed the faintly luminous minute hand, a long green line, pointing to six O’clock. It clicked a silent 12:30 as those carefully measured footsteps, made in soft tactical boots, padded ever closer.

‘The bastard is headed right for my car.’

From that cold place where he knew he had been made, the off-the-books and hung-out-to-dry Adjuster drew his hip gun with his right, slid it up in line with his shoulder, reached into his right inside jacket pocket, retrieved the suppressor, snugged it on to the muzzle, angry that silence was a necessity, adapted the cup & saucer presentation with the saucer hand braced against the inside of the heavy tire, and breathed easily. That soft tread sounded once, twice, three times. The figure of a roided-out young gun, not a cop but an ex-military shithead, visible from his V-d out chest down filled-out black BDUs, into soft black tactical boots, a Colt 1911 .45 APC, tied down to his right leg. No head was visible.

The man stopped, dropped his hand slowly to his bull-shit open carry rig, causing Drake to squeeze off one round from five yards, blowing the ankle of that boot out like a sausage bursting on a too-hot grill. The rover fell face down, smacking his head into the concrete as his dazed eyes locked on Drake.

‘Got a give it to you, Slick,’ mused Drake as he sunk a round into that block-like forehead under that blond buzz cut; so died a young bull who would never rut again. Drake crawled forward in a scramble, cursing his old knees, holstered his suppressed weapon against his own taste, and cursed inward, ‘Bad back, don’t fail me now—this is one big bastard.’

The sound of the big head smacking the concrete had made as much noise as the two shots. Grabbing the goon by the belt and dragging, made his back feel like it was blown—which it was. But he got the big boy back between the Jeep and the SUV. He stood up with a click and a pop, and was able to walk, if stiffly, up to the stairwell, smoothing his suit, forcing himself not to turn to see what a damned mess he had left.

‘Three rounds left.’

He hit the door, ‘That was one of the roving MCs. Thank God that wasn’t building security. I’d be a Scraplander then.’

Drake stepped into the stairwell and headed straight up. ‘Fourteen darned floors—knees don’t fail me now. It’s only thirteen minus the fictional floor… unless they actually sandwiched one into this sun of a bitch.’

He was pleased to feel the snug support of the knee braces as he marched up. His knees and back were too compromised to quietly stalk and move fast without scraping toe or heel. So he marched like he owned the place.

The 2nd floor door was left unsecured.

‘Damn, Hot Shot, you forgot your door spikes!’

The 3rd floor was left unsecured, ‘Gives me the creeps.’

The 4th floor door was left unsecured, ‘Fuck it!’

The 5th floor door was made at 12:34, and, truth be felt in his bones, he was feeling good. Walking stairs at HQ was paying off.

The 6th floor door opened as he reached the platform; a security bot rolled out. The upright go-cart with the bubble head, scanned his wrist with its blue ray and located nothing but his old wind-up watch that read 12:35. “Greeting Guest. Your are out of UA. In the interest of the George Washington Hotel, please submit to a retinal scan and I will see you back to your room.”

Drake was astounded, that this computer on wheels, that looked like a giant vacuum cleaner with carnival plushy claws for hands, was addressing him. He stepped to the robot, which caused it to rock on its wheels and it’s blue eye screen to brighten to red. Its voice, that sounded too British by half, responded, “Please, restore personal space.”

Drake crowded the thing, “Alright, Slick, so you’re hotel security?”

The machine stemmed, as autistic as its designer, he sensed, “Well slick, I’m UA Adjustment—outrank your ass!” Flashing his Universal App Adjuster Badge. “Is your hotel in adjustment?”

“I am not ‘Slick,’ Adjuster. I am Benjamin G. Washington, shift lead. The George Washington Hotel is in full compliance with all Hospitality and UA ordinances. In case of—”

Drake was already done with the machine. “Your office is on F1. We are on F6. How do you even get there?”

The machine rolled back on its wheels and began to indicate the floor behind him, “The elevator—”

“So you have no way of patrolling the stairwells—you’re on wheels?”

Benjamin G. Washington began to explain, “In compliance with Hospitality Exception 16:A—”

“Slick! You are wasting my time. I’ll use the stairs. You meet me down at the office, on the double—got it.”

“Yes Adjuster Drake Brule—”

‘I’m made,’ thought Drake, glancing at the badge in his right that was now logged in this damned tin can’s circuit board, as he drew his rip knife, in the ice pick, plunged the three inch tanto into the neck of the thing, hoping the brain chip was in the head, not the body, and decapitated Benjamin G. Washington, shift lead, as he complained, “Adjuster…” replaced by silence and the sizzle of something like an electrical shock stung his nose. He jammed the door shut by wedging the boxy feet of the machine in the corner, then continued upward.

The door to the 7th floor was left unsecured as Drake looked at the mostly plastic head and the disconnected wire and hose dangling from the neck. “Sorry, Slick.”

Upward past the 8th, 9th and 10th floor doors he tore, it dawning on him that the stairwell to the 14th floor would be a death trap.

On the 11th Floor he cut in, turned left, accessed the elevator, then entered. Within was a separate scan for 14th floor. ‘Thank God there is no 13th floor in this circus. What the hell, Benjamin, how about a helping hand. Drake pressed the single light-up “eye” panel to the elevator scanner, and it did not work.

He stepped back out in the hall and cut back into the stairwell, and hustled up the stairs to the 12th floor door. Before opening the door, he tossed the robotic head down the stairs, hearing it crunch, crack and clack. He then finally sheathed his yank tanto, a bit ashamed that he had forgotten it was still in the hand that carried the robot head, drew his weapon, and opened the door, rushing through to run his shoulder into the opposite wall, convinced the second roving MC was there.

‘Damn, that hurts, the shoulder is near frozen.’ He marched down the hall to the elevator, counting seven doors: ‘One, two, three, four, five—hurry—six, damn it!’ he snarled within as a tall red haired MC in brown BDUs, which totally lost empathy with Drake, that this stretched out twit wore a uniform that matched his ginger curls and beard. The man was a lefty, reaching for his 9mm Chromed out H&K, way too late, as Drake put one in the heart. The man froze and fell back, Drake pushing his gun hand to the floor under his boot as he hit the elevator button. Holstering his weapon, he squatted, grabbed the dying man by the shoulders and shoved him through the opening door, pressing his right eye to the scan plate. His back popped loudly as he straightened, but the pain was soothed when the female voice in the elevator assured, “Welcome to the 14th Floor, Jeffery Sacks. Please wait for the doorman who shall take your report.”

‘In like flint! Two rounds on suppressor then its rock and roll time.’