My eyes dart down to the knife jutting out of my body. Obadiah's knife.
She moves through the doorway...
With quivering hands, I search through my coat pockets, my fingers alighting on the item I need.
The door is closing...
Grasping hold of the dagger and taking a deep breath, I slide it carefully out of my chest. The pain wrenches at me unbearably, blood gushing out. Gotta act fast.
The door meets the lintel with a metallic clunk.
I pull the DNA sleeve over my shaking palm. As my gloved hand touches the dagger the phase technology activates, the blade shimmering as it vibrates with incredible speed.
Summoning my last ounce of strength, I fling the knife towards the door. The weapon sails through the air. Where it should have rebounded off the metal with a clang, it slides through the solid material like butter.
A piercing scream resonates out from inside the building. A banshee's cry. A simpering death knell.
I lie back on the roof, the last of my blood leaking from my chest. Black mist crowds in from the eaves, my vision submerging in darkness. Time to die.
- x -
“This whole thing is just one mess piled on top of another.” The blond-haired detective turns to his partner, throwing his cigarette butt into the ashtray in frustration. “I can't make head nor tail of it.”
His partner, a tall bald man, peers down at the papers strewn across the desk.
“Eight dead – as far as we know – three of whom could be the perp,” explains the blond man, lighting up another cigarette. “The P.I. – Locke – seems to be the most likely suspect, but there isn't any clear motive. Plus, two of the bodies have weird head injuries – the coroner says she needs to examine them further.”
“Hmm... it does look like a messy one,” responds the tall detective.
“You haven't heard the best of it,” mutters his partner. “Some suit from a research company is breathing down my neck, asking lots of questions. Wants to know about the device of the woman's wrist, but I haven't told him that it got sliced in half by the knife that killed her. The commander ordered me to keep him happy – no excuses.”
“Sounds like it's raining data chips in the commander's office,” snorts the bald man derisively.
“Hey,” shouts a superior officer from the doorway. “Falcon, Harvey. The tech-heads are spilling out of Cannervale - get down there and help out.”
“Great,” says Jed Falcon in annoyance, grabbing his jacket and running a hand through his blond mane. “Dumb cyborgs.”
Roy Harvey glowers at him silently with his tech-enhanced eyes, slamming a magazine into his firearm.
“Oh – sorry,” apologises Falcon, realising his error.
“Don't worry about it,” relents his partner.
They exit the office – the case will have to wait.