Dead On Prime

BREAK THE LAW [2]

If not for the rain outside, the warehouse would have stayed dead silent. The kid didn't mind. Not entirely; he welcomed those five policemen standing gormlessly, because it at least meant they wouldn't try mauling him all at once. But he couldn't sit around all day and enjoy the moment of peace, however fleeting, however undeserved. He needed a reaction. Needed to take action. Fast.

The cop across from the kid -- and inevitably, the one who barred off the only open entrance -- leaned forward. No doubt a part of some scare tactic, but the kid didn't feel like explaining how hard he'd failed. "You're in no position to make demands," he said firmly, and earned nods from his cohorts. "Now do as you're told, or you'll face some serious consequences."

"No, I won't."

"This is the last time I'm going to tell you --!"

"Don't use guns on me." The kid flexed his bandaged fingers for the whole quintet to see. "It wouldn't end well for you."

"Don't test us!"

"I'm not. I'm trying to help you." The kid shrugged callously. "Granted, it's not as if I have any obligations to help you out. But, given the consequences you might face afterwards -- coupled, more importantly, with how little you know about me -- do you want to take any unnecessary risks?" He pressed two fingers together to mime a gun barrel, then took aim at the lead policeman. "Take the mercy, or else somebody in this warehouse is going to take a hit. I guarantee it." He swept that finger gun over all the other policemen; one of them actually cringed and sank backward.

Only one. And yet, none of them opened fire.

"You've got spunk, kid. But you've crossed way too many lines for one day. Now, shut up and come quietly. It's time we take you down to --"

"Drop the act. I know you're not real policemen." The kid raised a finger. "First: you may have gotten your hands on the right uniforms, but those are the wrong raincoats. The DCPD has been rolling out new, high-visibility coats thanks to all the rain lately -- which means that you should be in neon instead of black." He lifted another finger. "Second: I caught a glimpse of the sidearms you impostors are using. Lethal, but not standard issue -- partly because your models don't have the magazine capacity of the genuine article." He held up his ring finger. "Third: none of your hats have the DCPD emblem." He shrugged again. "I could go on about the other evidence, but I think I've proven my point. So, let's focus on what really matters. Sounds like the right choice, doesn't it, Riemann?"

The lead officer flinched. "What did you just call me?"

"Riemann. As in Carl Riemann. As in the street thug masquerading as a cop and spearheading this little operation." The kid unzipped his jacket. A white dress shirt and black tie lay bare, though an extra tug revealed the crest woven atop his heart: a gold-trimmed coat of arms, emblazoned with both a howling dragon and shining stars. "I'm a student at Cantor High, and I've seen you and your cronies -- and you, specifically -- slinking around there and elsewhere. Keeping an eye out for anyone you can abduct under the pretense of law and order. Or, more appropriately, any 'mark-bearers' that have made the news lately."

Riemann gripped his hat and grimaced.

"If it were any other person, they might have been the next victim of your human trafficking sting. Even so, I took steps to make sure I was one of your next targets." The kid showed off his bandaged hand once more -- and in tandem, he twisted that gold coin through his fingers. "You couldn't keep your eyes off me. Though I suppose I do look pretty suspicious, don't I?"

None of the "cops" answered.

"Not in the mood for humor, I see. Honestly, neither am I." The kid caught the coin in his palm, but quickly clamped his hand into a rumbling fist. "You've taken part in so many crimes, impersonating police officers is the least severe on the list. I'll make sure you see justice for every last one of your sins -- but before you're thrown behind bars, I'll have you answer for the one you committed against me." He slid forward, and the heat in his hand -- in his whole body -- only spiked. "My friend has gone missing, and I'd wager it's thanks to you goons. So, I suggest you start talking. Tell me where he is. Who you're working for. And above all else, why."