KOP Killer by Warren Hammond Page A

Mota’s fine features were an unearthly mix of radiant light and shadow. He snored loud, deep sawing echoing off the walls.
    I looked to his right. From under the crumpled sheet, thick black locks spilled across the pillow. Mota wasn’t alone. And he wasn’t gay. She slept with her mouth wide open, a model’s face caught in an ugly pose. My piece shook in my hands. I had to fry them both. No witnesses. Whoever she was, she had to die.
    I tried to level my weapon.
    Tough luck, lady.
    Wrong place, wrong time.
    Shit fucking happens.
    I was on a mission, dammit. KOP needed to be conquered. This world had to change.
    I couldn’t steady my hands, my aim wobbling out of control. Sweat stung my eyes.
    I had to kill them. The mission required it. I couldn’t blink. Paul and I never blinked when we took KOP so many years ago. Fucking do it.
    But she was an innocent. You don’t hurt women, Juno.
    Conflicting urges yanked at me like a pair of monitors tug-of-warring over a fresh kill. My knees shook, and my heart pounded explosive beats. I couldn’t make myself pull the trigger. But Mota had to die. He wouldn’t stop until he turned KOP against me.
    Pull the trigger, Juno.
    But my trembling finger wouldn’t move. She was innocent.
    And with every second of hesitation, I felt the mission crumbling away. I wasn’t up to the job. I could see that now. I didn’t have what it took. Not anymore.
    I spun away, out of the door frame, and pressed my back against the wall. My lungs heaved for air. Must’ve been holding my breath.
    I moved down the hall, away from the snoring, into the living room and slumped onto the couch. This whole thing was a joke. I couldn’t take over KOP. I wasn’t even a cop. What was I thinking?
    Why did I even care? This world was beyond saving. People were mostly assholes anyway. I shouldn’t even give a shit.
    With total certainty, I knew the mission was dead. Dead, dead, dead.
    So was Niki. My Niki.
    And Paul.
    I realized I was dead too. My body just didn’t know it yet.
    I wanted the mad spark to come. The crazy sensation that could sweep me away from this world. I tried to summon it— come out, come out, wherever you are. It didn’t come. Even it had abandoned me.
    I held up my lase-pistol and studied it in the dark. This gun was all I had left.
    I brought the barrel into my mouth and sucked on the metal composite, my finger fondling the trigger.
    Still, the mad spark wouldn’t come. Fickle bastard.
    Do it anyway. Just fucking do it. I came here tonight to end this, and I still could. Pull the trigger.
    A tear trickled down my cheek. I couldn’t breathe, not with my nose running and my mouth stuffed with metal. Just do it already. My lungs felt ready to burst. I was getting light-headed. Dizzy. Do it!
    I pulled the weapon out of my mouth. Fucking coward. That was twice you couldn’t pull the trigger.
    I sank deeper into the cushions and dropped my shades down over my eyes. I listened to snoring from down the hall. I didn’t know how long I sat there. One minute? Ten? An hour? I couldn’t tell. But I stayed put until long after the tears dried and my nose cleared.
    I still tasted metal. I licked my shirt to scrape the taste off my tongue.
    A phone rested on the coffee table. Mota’s phone. He must have left it there when he went to bed.
    I called Maggie, holo-free. I got voice mail, hung up, and tried again.
    I was numb. From head to toe, nothing but numb. I called her again. And again.
    She picked up, her voice a middle-of-the-night croak. “Yes, Captain?”
    I kept my voice down. “It’s me, Maggie. It’s Juno. I’m using Mota’s phone.”
    “Why are you using Mota’s phone?”
    “I trashed mine, didn’t want to be tracked.”
    “Where are you?” Her voice turned urgent. “Why are you whispering?”
    “I’m at Mota’s place. In his living room.”
    A pause. “What?”
    “I came to kill him.”
    “Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with you?”
    “I really fucked up,