Razor Burn

by O. J. Anderson

Table of Contents
Chapter 7, part 1; part 2
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
appear in this issue.

Chapter 10

Carl, the Entry Team Leader, jogs across the road to Razor’s truck, parked half a block away from Cyborg’s apartment building. He pokes his head in the passenger side window. “We got the whole block sealed off and two sniper teams in place.” He points to two rooftops. “The power’s ready to be cut. He’s on the third floor, last door on the left. Been in there for the last six hours.”

“Good,” Razor says. “Let’s do it.”

Carl nods and jogs back to the black Op vehicle.

Kate sits stiffly, wide eyed, like she’s just seen a ghost making lewd gestures at her. She’s been this way since she saw Razor all decked out with weaponry; she is either incredibly turned on right now, or incredibly afraid of what’s about to go down.

“Be cool,” he tells her.

“What’s going to happen?”

“It’s about to turn into World War Three.” Razor loads a belt into the M-60 machine gun, slams the feed tray shut. “He’s probably got at least a dozen armed goons up there with him, spracked out of their minds on rice. If we’re lucky they’ll end up killing at least half their own before we even get inside.”

“And if you’re not lucky?”

Opening the truck door, he throws a leg out and says, “Then I’ll have to do it all myself.” Razor closes the door and says through the open window, “Keep your head down. I’ll call you in when it’s clear.” Then he speed walks toward the building and makes a radio check with the insertion team.

“Red 1, this is Razor. How do you read me?”

Loud and clear, over.

“Go.”

Seven black figures pour silently from the rear doors of the Op vehicle and glide into a staggered column behind Razor. They head in through the front door, which is held open by a brick.

Inside, the smell is garbage and alcohol. Taped to the wall at the bottom of the stare case is a hand-scribed sign that reads: CD PIRATE 3rd FLOOR, with an arrow pointing up. Below that is a drawing of a skull and crossbones that looks more like a mushroom and two dog biscuits.

The sound of boot soles lightly tapping up the steps.

Carl radios back to cut the power when they hit the second floor. Seven circles of light appear along the walls and steps in front of Razor as he advances on the third floor. And when the team arrives at the last door on the left and see another sign: CASH ONLY, they know they’re in the right place.

Razor is just about to kick in the door and rock ’n roll with the machine gun, spraying the place with five hundred rounds before even setting foot inside, when a tiny hatch in the door slides open and an unusual voice says, “Aye there, matey. What treasures can I fetch for yee?”

Razor looks back at Carl. Shrugs. There are no other sound coming from inside. Something’s off, he thinks, flicking the gun’s safety lever back onto safe.

He kicks the door in.

The insertion team squirts through the doorway and the room buzzes with big dots of red laser light. The room, sparkling wet and glimmering crystal in all directions, looks like they walked into an ice cave.

Someone says, “What the hell, man?” One of the team members is kneeling on his chest, pointing the muzzle at the hostage’s forehead. “Get off me.”

The insertion team then sounds off once all the rooms are clear. Action stops. No shots fired. Razor leans the M-60 against the wall and takes a better look at Cyborg. He’s wearing a red bandana on his head and an eye patch. White baggy shirt. Thick leather belt with a large brass buckle.

“Carl,” Razor says, “have the power turned on.”

A minute later the lights flicker back to life.

A bank of computers along one wall begins beeping and buzzing, red and green lights blinking, monitors flashing to sky blue. The room is crammed full of computers and parts, new and old, some still in the box, others look as though they’ve been beaten with a sledgehammer, circuit boards, cables, drivers, keyboards on the floor, wiring, tools, and compact disks. Disks are everywhere; every single horizontal surface is stacked with CDs and clear plastic cases, in some places as high as the ceiling.

* * *

Razor wolfs down a nice cold chicken breast sandwich on whole grain, a quart of his special savory green olive and thyme yogurt, and two bran muffins topped with dried banana chips before heading into the interrogation room.

The Chief’s on a rampage, behind his desk screaming into the phone as Razor passes by. Another encephalitic junky — slightly more decomposed this time — with no skin on his neck and chest was found under a pile of trash behind a diner.

Razor lifts Cyborg by the ear. He slaps the photo of Tod Curtis onto his greasy forehead, then drops him back in the chair. “Recognize him?”

Cyborg peels the photo off his face, looks at it for a second and says, “No, man. I don’t recognize nobody.” He rubs his ear and looks up at Razor like a freshly kicked puppy.

With a name like Cyborg, Razor was expecting someone a wee bit more masculine that what he has here in front of him now. The kid’s nothing but elbows and Adam’s apple. Thin, wispy hair. Sunken, piss-yellow eyes.

“Well you better recognize him, or I’m gonna I’ve you a real close-up look at what goes on inside your ass.” Even Razor isn’t sure what he meant by that one, but it seems to work, judging by Cyborg’s puckering face as he processes the image in his mind.

He looks again, but his face is blank.

“Names Tod Curtis. You’re his dealer.”

“No, man. Nuh-uh.” He pushes the picture away and it slides across the table. “I’m in the music business. Come on, man, you saw my place. There ain’t no junk in there.”

Leaning in close, Razor says, “You better hope not.”

“Yeah, well, there ain’t. And you better call up your boys, tell ’em not to break any of my equipment. Or I’ll sue. That’s right. I’ll sue this place for everything it’s got. And you too. I’ll sue you. You already owe me for the door.”

“Your stolen equipment now belongs to Garden City, stupid.”

“What!” Cyborg jumps out of his chair. “You can’t do that. I said I ain’t dealin’. I done gone legit, man.”

Taking hold of his wrist, Razor bends Cyborg’s arm behind him and lifts him off the floor by is forearm so that all his weight rests on the shoulder joint.

Cyborg yelps.

“Bootlegging CDs isn’t going legit, dunderhead. Now, I’m done playing around with you.” Cyborg flies easily across the room, slams into the wall, and falls to the floor looking like someone spilled a container of chop-sticks. Razor picks him up by the throat and sets him back in the chair. “Start talking.”

“All right, look,” Cyborg says. “I’m an entrepreneur. I only started dealing to make a few quick bucks so I could start a real business. I only did it for like a year, maybe not even that long. But I don’t know nothing about this guy. Maybe I hooked him up a few times, so what?”

“He’s dead.”

“Got nothing to do with me, man.”

“And I got two more rice junkies just like him.”

“What can I say? Drugs are bad for you.”

“I want to know about your recipe.”

“What? Tic-Tacs? Man, I don’t know. Same recipe everyone else was using. Little of this, lots of that, dash of those, whatever I had. My stuff never killed nobody though. It wasn’t great, but it didn’t kill nobody.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know, all right.”

“No, it’s not all right. How do you know?”

“C’mon, big man, you think I’d be sitting here getting beat up by you if my Tic-Tacs was no good?” Cyborg shakes his head, hisses. “Most customers aren’t exactly the forgiving type. They don’t take kindly to gettin’ ripped off.”

“No, I suppose they don’t.”

“Already been stabbed once,” he mumbles. “Besides, no one wanted the homemade Tic-Tacs after the Candyman came to town. He shut down most the kitchens overnight. Everybody wanted his stuff, man. It was wild. That junk would take you to a galaxy far, far away, know what I’m sayin’?”

“The Candyman?”

“Some old dude.”

“Where do I find this Candyman?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, what did he look like?”

“Dunno that either?”

“What do you know, jackass?”

“I told you, man, I don’t know nuthin’. The Candyman came to town dealing really high quality smack and put the kitchens out of business for awhile. So I went into the music industry and here I am, another success story.”

“What do you mean out of business for a while?”

“’Cuz, man, the Candyman left. Word was he got taken down by you boys, but I guess not, since you ain’t never heard of him.” Cyborg smirks.

Razor steps back, leans against the wall, looking at the kid. He’s too stupid to be involved with any designer virus, that much is certain. He’s lucky he isn’t face down in the gutter puking his guts out. But this Candyman is another story. Anyway, that’s all he’ll get from this slug. Razor opens the door and waves the patrolman inside.

“He’s all yours.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Cyborg says as the officer begins to cuff him. “I cooperated. I cooperated, man. You gotta give me special treatment. I need special treatment...” His voice trails off down the corridor.

After they’re gone, Kate enters the room.

“Who can corner the market with pharmaceutical-grade dope?”

Kate says, “The Candyman can.”

To be continued...