Scott Medbury - Inga

“Breathe,” he said aloud as he gripped the steering wheel. “Just find the robot. Deactivate it and remove the card… then go to the cops and explain everything.”

Of course he hoped tracking down and deactivating the rogue robot would help mitigate his killing the two men, in the event self-defense argument didn’t work, but more pressing in his mind was preventing further loss of life. He had seen what the robot could do in glorious living color, and it wasn’t pretty. It would have to be destroyed; there was no doubt.

While removing the card and a complete reprogramming would be enough to completely mitigate the chance of future problems, human law would require punishment and in this particular case, multiple murders of humans would require nothing less than ‘execution.’

Redfern picked up the GPS tracker. If the robot had been in sleep mode, it wasn’t anymore. The blip was now on the move and showed the killer robot was on the loose somewhere on the East side.

He propped the tracker on his dash and eased back into the traffic.

It had taken several hours for the Chicago PD along with a couple of members of the Organized Crime division to question Molenski. Finally, they conceded that the Russian seemed to have been the victim in this particular circumstance. From all appearances, his enemies had devised a particularly sophisticated assassination attempt by a robot.

The Russian had cooperated fully with the man in charge, Commander Burlinson, who was in fact on Molenski’s payroll, but it was clear that the case would be referred to the FBI as the AI factor moved it into federal jurisdiction.

When he’d told them about the murderous robot, it was as if he’d shoved a wasp’s nest up their ass with a long stick. A breach of the robotics laws was rare, especially a murder attempt, so what they had initially thought of as a standard mob hit turned into something with far wider ramifications.

Molenski was careful to implicate Ivan. By the time he left, Burlinson was under no illusion that the bodyguard had been in on the whole thing and that Molenski wanted him apprehended before the FBI got their hands on him.

Of course, the Russian didn’t really think that Ivan was involved in the plot. The assassination attempt was the work of the Columbians, of that he had no doubt. No one else had the resources or the motivation. He would deal with them in his own time.

Ivan, though, had let him down badly. Had betrayed him in his moment of need, despite everything that Molenski had done for him.

Still, one good that had come of the whole ordeal was that Ivan had prevented him from finishing Inga with another gunshot. Now that he wasn’t swept up in the emotion of his near-death experience, he saw how much sweeter it would be to deal with the beautiful Inga lookalike in his own sweet time. And he would make Ivan watch.

Molenski was sure he would find the odd couple, but sending the cops on his payroll after them was a backstop in the unlikely event his traitorous employee escaped his reach. If he was apprehended anywhere within the city limits, it would be easy enough to use his connections and grease a few palms to give Ivan and the bitch the welcome home they so richly deserved.

After the cops had quit the estate, the hunt for Ivan and Inga began in earnest. Molenski’s tech experts got busy hacking into the phone company’s systems to trace his phone and searching for the stolen Dodge.

While he was waiting, Molenski watched the surveillance footage of the Dodge speeding up the ramp of the underground parking lot over and over, peering intently at the black and white footage of the two absconders.

After twenty minutes, Molenski was informed that Ivan’s cell phone had last been detected a few suburbs away and hadn’t moved for hours.

“Don’t bother sending anyone; he’s not an idiot. It’s been dumped. What about the car?”

“Better. Courtesy of the vehicle tracking you paid for, we have an exact location…”

“Is it still moving?”

“No sir.”

“How long has it been stationary?”

“Three hours or so Mr. Molenski, at a wrecking yard on Kedzie Avenue.”

“He’s gone,” said Molenski. “But, let us go and find out who has my car and what they might know of our friend and his passenger. Give me your phone…”

Molenski quickly dialed a number.

“Andre, it’s me. I need you; something has come up. Be ready in 20 minutes.”

Molenski took three men and they picked up his lieutenant Andre Chichenko on the way. Now that Ivan had departed the scene, Molenski wouldn’t have admitted it, but he felt a little vulnerable without his constant and very competent shadow.

Andre though had been with him since not long after he arrived in America and was his head of security; he would adequately fill the shoes of the traitor.

Dimitri Molenski was quiet and thoughtful during the drive to Kedzie Avenue. That didn’t make the four men in the car with him relax. If anything, it put them more on edge, even the seasoned Andre.

An angry Molenski in full flight was much more predictable than his quiet alter ego.

The deal Stan Lewinski had made for the Dodge that afternoon put him in a good mood. Once the rebirthers paid him, the windfall would fund his betting for a whole month. He decided to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels on the way home, both to celebrate, and to dull the razor-sharp tongue of his wife… for a few hours, at least.

He started to pack up for the evening. These days he usually stretched his workdays for as long as he could – the less time he had to spend with his shrew of a wife in the evening, the better! If he’d been twenty years younger, he might have clawed his way out of their dead marriage. But he wasn’t. He was old and he was tired and pretty much just counting time, socking away as much money as he could for his grandchildren. Besides those kids and the horses, what else was there?

Whistling, he put on his jacket and hat and bent to pick up his briefcase. He stopped halfway and cursed, aware suddenly of the urgent need to take a piss. That’s how it was these days. No warning. Fine one minute and on the verge of wetting his pants like a toddler the next.

He straightened, groaning a little, and was about to head to the John when he heard tires on the gravel driveway.

“Who calls on a man at this time of night?” he asked in disgust.

He stalked to the door, ready to serve the unexpected visitor a warm slice of ‘fuck off’ pie. A long black Mercedes crawled up the drive and pulled up outside his office, lights on and engine running.

The sleek stretch limo looked out of place in his boneyard, and its blackened windows lent it a sinister air. Trying to look braver than he felt, he stomped down the steps and glared at the dark windows.

“I’m closed!” he yelled, in his best crabby old man voice.

Nothing. Feeling disquiet, Stan stalked to the front of the car and held a hand up to shade his eyes from the glaring headlights.

“I said, I’m closed!”

The car revved suddenly, and the old man jumped quickly out of the way, clutching his chest. A second later the engine and headlights were switched off. The rear doors opened, and four men got out.

“What are you, wise guys?” he yelled, trying to sound braver than he felt. “You’ll give an old man a heart attack.”

“Forgive my driver,” said the shortest of the men in a heavy Russian accent. “He is still getting used to the new car.”

“Well, I was telling you I’m closed, so if you wouldn’t mind turning your nice big shiny car around, I’ll be going home. You can come back tomorrow.”

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, Stan could make out the man who had spoken. He was well dressed and smiling. His smile did anything but put the old man at ease.