The depot was a small warehouse in the eastern part of Ponyville, near the vague borderline between the Dockside and the Everfree Districts. It stood in the middle of a mostly-empty lot of dirt and weeds, with a heavily cracked driveway leading up to the five doorways, as if somepony had just dropped the building there and forgotten about it. Inside the warehouse, three of the available parking spaces were occupied. Two of them were occupied by a pair of trailer trucks, neither of them sporting logos. The third was the white van, which had received new fabricated license plates.
Five griffons and four ponies milled about the depot. Two unicorns were currently applying a fresh coat of yellow paint to the getaway van with spray cans. The others were sitting in a group around a card table in front of one of the trailer cabs, playing poker and taking chugs of cheap cider. Their laughter and voices mixed with the blaring of a rock and roll song playing from a radio in the corner and the rain pattering against the roof. Each of the thugs had a gun either on their person or within arm’s reach, a mix of hoofguns and shotguns.
Daring was laying on the cold concrete floor in the corner, a few feet from the poker game. Her captors had removed her from the net, but had cuffed her front hooves behind her, tightly bound her wings and legs with strong cord, and secured a blindfold over her eyes. They’d also removed her hat and shirt; the memory of the griffon’s rough claws groping and harshly stroking her body as they stripped her made Daring’s stomach turn.
At least they didn’t gag me, she thought bitterly, testing her bonds. The ropes were tied tightly and secured with strong knots that didn’t budge a bit. The cuffs were police-issue, which meant that they carried a charm for disabling her magic and sapping her energy; her limbs were sluggish to respond to her commands, and the familiar static electricity-like tingling of magic energy traveling through her wings was uncomfortably absent. The blindfold was made of black cloth, and while some light leaked through the material, she couldn’t see anything except the folds in the cloth.
“Okay, boys, next hand wins her hat,” one of her captors said, shuffling the cards.
“Hey, maybe we should get the bitch on her and take her for a quick bounce,” one of the griffons guffawed, a slight slur already evident in his longer syllables. “Bet she’d scream real loud.”
“She’s certainly got a big mouth,” another griffon said. Daring recognized his voice as one of the captors in the van. “You should’ve heard her cursing all the way here.”
“Bet she sucks great with it!” another pony said, causing the entire company to burst into raucous laughter.
Daring scowled towards the voices and let out a quiet growl. Anything you fucks put in my mouth is gonna get bitten off, she silently promised, even as her stomach clenched and her heart beat a rapid tattoo against her ribs.
She took in a quick breath, then slowly exhaled all of the air in her lungs, relaxing all of her muscles. She’d pulled her legs and wings apart while her captors were binding her; relaxing now gave her some wiggle room. Not enough to slip out of her bonds, but enough that it might help her escape.
When she was in the Family, one of their favorite pastimes was learning how to escape from bonds, a skill that she had quickly become adept at. She had also learned how to hide useful equipment on her person. And one of those tools, one that she never left home without, was going to help her.
She flicked her tail up, feeling it brush against her cuffed hooves, and started to feel through the strands of hair. She grasped what felt like a simple snarl in the hair, and deftly untangled it. She paused to listen for any signs that she was being observed, but the sounds of the poker party continued unabated, her captors too engrossed in their game to pay much attention to her.
What had felt like a simple tangle in her tail hair unwrapped to reveal its contents: a hoofcuff key and a razor blade with a plastic covering on the edges. Grasping the key, she started to maneuver it into the keyhole of the cuffs. Her heart continued to hammer against her chest, and she concentrated on keeping her breathing slow and quiet.
Phil’s coming, she promised herself. He’ll come. He’ll find you.
Sirens wailing, Trace raced through the streets of Ponyville at high speed, weaving around traffic and dashing through traffic signals and stop signs. Flash followed as close behind as he dared, leaning hard into the turns and frequently squeezing the brakes as he directed his bike in between cars.
“The cap’s not gonna be happy about this,” Trace commented as he steered around an oncoming truck, causing the other driver to blare his horn at them. The wipers on his windshield fought a valiant battle against the rain.
“Worry about her later,” Phillip grunted from the backseat.
“Yeah, let’s worry about not dying right now,” Red said through gritted teeth, gripping the dashboard hard as Trace ignored a red light and hydroplaned across an intersection to the music of screeching tires and brakes. “If you love this car so much, Trace, why are you trying to wreck it?!”
“Relax, Sweetpea can handle worse than this,” Trace said, affectionately patting the steering wheel.
“Who...Sweetpea?” Red asked incredulously. “Who names their car?! And who names their car Sweetpea?!”
“I do,” Trace said, an edge of defensiveness entering his voice. “Train tracks.”
They hit the train tracks so hard that the rear wheels bounced off the road completely, the motion flinging Phillip and Red around the interior of the car like rag dolls and causing Red to hit his head against the headrest of his seat.
“Ow! For fuck’s sake, Trace, we—”
“Detective Evidence and Detective Herring, this is Chief Tumbler,” a voice spoke through the radio.
Everypony in the car fell silent, glancing at each other. “Do we answer?” Red asked quietly.
“Maybe if we ignore it, he’ll think that we can’t hear him,” Trace muttered.
“Turn around and come back to the precinct immediately,” Chief Tumbler ordered. “Both of you are associating with a criminal and are guilty of insubordination.”
Trace glanced at the others, then grasped the hoofset in his magic and held it up to his mouth. “Sir, we can’t do that,” he replied. “We have viable information that a pony’s life is in danger.”
“You will return to the precinct and submit to questioning, by choice or by force,” Chief Tumbler replied, danger in every syllable.
Trace frowned and clicked the mike. “Come and fucking get us, then,” he dared.
“All units, Trace Evidence, Red Herring, Flash Sentry, and Phillip Finder are to be arrested immediately,” Tumbler’s voice ordered. “Lethal force is authorized; if they don’t stop, shoot them until they stop, and then shoot them again. Currently headed east on Saint Megan Road.”
“Well, great,” Red muttered. “You had to go and antagonize him—”
A heavy blow struck the right side of the car and sent all three ponies lurching. Turning, Phillip saw that a police cruiser had pulled out of a side street and slammed into them, trying to shove them off the road. The cruiser began to drive alongside them and slowed down, the driver trying to align themselves with Trace’s rear right wheel.
Trace responded by braking quickly, causing the cruiser to shoot past them, then jerking the wheel hard to the right. He slammed into the cruiser’s rear left wheel, causing it to spin out of control, jets of water shooting everywhere. It tumbled into the sidewalk curb and rolled over onto its roof.
“One down,” Trace said, speeding past, Flash right behind them.
“There’ll be more,” Phillip grunted, turning to look behind them.
As if his word had been a command, another cruiser pulled out of a street to their left and began to pace them. The passenger side window rolled down and the officer inside leaned out, carrying a Trotson .45 submachine gun. With a twisted grin, the unicorn pulled the cocking lever back.
“Down!” Trace yelled. Everypony ducked just as the cop opened fire, the Trotson chattering loudly. The bullets slammed into the reinforced chassis and windows; the bulletproof glass cracked and splintered, but did not break. Trace swerved and smashed into the cruiser, but the other driver pushed back. The two vehicles engaged in a deadlock, grinding against one another. The passenger reloaded his Trotson; at this range, the bullets would smash right through the already-damaged windows.
Flash accelerated up behind the other cruiser and drew his sidearm. Balancing the bike carefully with one hoof, he took aim and fired off three shots, hitting both of the rear tires and blowing them out. The driver of the cruiser skidded, fighting for control, and Trace rammed him again, knocking the enemy vehicle into a lamppost and bringing it to an abrupt halt.
“They’re tracking us,” Phillip stated as they drove past the smoking wreckage. “We gotta ditch the car somewhere.”
“Agreed,” Trace said, turning left at the next intersection, with Flash close behind them. “We’re almost to Northway Drive anyway.”
“There’s a parking garage,” Red said, pointing at the four-story concrete building to their right. “We can shake them off there.”
Trace nodded and turned right, headed into the garage. They slid down a short ramp into the belly of the beast, weaved past several lines of parked cars, and started driving up the ramps towards the top of the building. Flash remained close on their tail; the screaming of sirens came from outside.
“Just park it here,” Red said tersely.
“I hate leaving her like this,” Trace muttered, pulling the car over to the side slightly and stopping, turning off the engine. The trio piled out of the vehicle. Flash parked his bike behind them and dismounted, taking the shotgun out of the attached holster and slinging it over his shoulder.
“We can fly across to the next building and make it to Northway on hoof,” Phillip said. “Let’s move.”
The group ran to the edge of the building, to the short concrete wall that opened up to the outside. Red grasped Trace beneath the forelegs and took to the air; Flash took hold of Phillip and followed. As they flew over the street, they could see several cruisers stopped outside the parking garage, officers pouring out of their vehicles with their guns drawn.
They landed atop the building next to theirs, an apartment building. Dashing across the roof, they climbed down a fire escape on the other side to the alleyway below.
“Right, Northway is just a few miles,” Phillip said. “Let’s move.”
They turned to go, but a voice at the head of the alley called out: “Stop. Turn around slowly.”
They turned to see Prowl standing behind them in the rain, her revolver raised. Bumblebee was standing next to her, one hoof on his gun and a nervous expression on his face, panting through an open mouth.
“How did—?” Red sputtered.
“Saw you flying over us,” Prowl answered.
“Sarge, please,” Flash pleaded. “They’re trying to stop us. Daring’s in trouble.”
Prowl gave him a brief glare and he fell silent. Prowl looked at Phillip, who stared back evenly.
“Detectives,” Prowl said, not taking her eyes off of Phillip. “Are you sure that you trust him?”
“With my life,” Trace said without hesitation.
“And with Daring’s life,” Red added.
Prowl hesitated for a beat, then holstered her weapon. “That’s all I needed to hear,” she nodded. “You’re headed to Northway Drive?”
“Yes,” Phillip nodded.
“Then let’s get moving,” Prowl declared. She turned and took to the skies, headed up the alleyway. Trace, Phillip, Flash, and Red all followed.
Bumblebee brought up the end of the line, huffing and puffing. “Wish I was a pegasus,” he grumbled to himself as he ran through the rain.
“Where the hell are they?” Chief Tumbler snapped, the veins in his neck throbbing with rage as he stared at the map in front of him. Several blinking dots were gathered around a single parking garage on Southern Wind Street.
“They’re searching the garage now, sir,” a dispatcher said next to him, sweat trickling down the back of his neck as he pressed his headset against his ears. “They found the car and the bike, but no sign of them yet.”
“Tell them to turn that garage inside out if they have to, I want them found!” Chilled Tumbler roared, alcohol-scented spittle flying from his mouth.
“Yes, sir,” the dispatcher said.
“Sir, is this necessary?” Cold Case asked, watching from behind the chief.
“I thought you hated Finder and Do,” Tumbler grunted, not turning to face her.
Cold Case was silent for a moment, then said, “They need to be reined in, yes, but I never said I wanted them killed. And going after our own officers—”
“Shut up, mare,” Tumbler snapped at her, giving her a death glare that would’ve been much more effective if his eyes weren’t jittering about in their sockets, a clear sign of his drunken state. “Your job is to listen to your superiors. And if I say that a pony needs to be brought in dead or alive, then your job is to support that, fully.”
Cold glared at her chief but said nothing. “Good, somepony who knows their place,” Tumbler muttered. He licked his lips. “Fuck this shit,” he grunted, turning and exiting the dispatch room. “Let me know if they turn anything up.”
He stormed down the hallway to the set of stairs and clambered up them, grunting with every other step and hanging onto the hoofrail for support. He reached the top floor and walked all the way down to the office door at the end. Unlocking the door with a key that he extracted from his belt, he let himself into his office, already thinking of the bottle of Sweet Apple Acres cider that he had stowed in the bottom right drawer. A shot or three of that would make this all much easier.
But before he had even made it halfway across the carpet to his desk, a flicker of motion at the edge of his already blurry vision made him aware of another presence in the room. He spun around, one hoof going for his holster, then stopped when he recognized the other pony.
“Oh, it’s you,” he grunted. “What does Charlie want now?”
The other pony didn’t reply, except to step forward purposefully.
“Now wait a fucking minute,” Tumbler said, backing up. “What the hell are you—?”
In a blur of motion, the other pony raised his right foreleg up across his chest, then drew it through the air with a vicious slashing motion. After a moment of confusion, Tumbler noticed that there was a blade extending from the sleeve of the other pony’s suit, and blood was dripping off it. His blood.
It was then that he realized he couldn’t breathe: when he tried, all that he could produce was a gurgling noise as thick, heavy, hot liquid filled his lungs. He reached for his gun, tried to shout out, but all the strength left his limbs. The office tilted to the side, and he found himself lying on the floor, choking on the blood that was pooling on the carpet, trying desperately to stem the bleeding even as his vision faded.
The last thing that Chilled Tumbler saw before he shuffled off this mortal coil was his killer’s eyes staring down at him, as cold and black as the abyss that was opening up beneath him to swallow him whole.
The group arrived at Northway Drive, breathing hard from their run and sopping wet. The truck depot was within sight, a few blocks ahead of them.
“Why are you doing this, Prowl?” Trace asked, turning to the thestral. “The orders came from the Chief himself.”
“I don’t trust the Chief,” Prowl replied, turning back towards the others. “But I do trust all of you.”
“Yeah, you guys are awesome,” Bumblebee said, smiling through his pants.
Red flew ahead to quickly scout out the depot, then flew back. “No one’s outside, but there are lights on. Hopefully, Breaker was telling the truth, and this isn’t a trap. There’s a back door with a padlock, and it looks like one of the sliding doors isn’t shut all the way.”
“Okay, let’s move in,” Trace instructed. “And Phil,” he added, turning to Phillip. He reached underneath his coat, pulled out a spare pistol, and held it out to him.
Phillip blinked at the weapon, then slowly took it. The Moon Model S felt abnormally heavy and clunky in his hoof; the hoof strap fit, but was itchy, and the metal grip was cold to the touch. “You know I don’t like these,” Phillip muttered, pulling the slide back to make sure that there was a round in the chamber.
“I know,” Trace said. “But there’s going to be a lot of ponies in there, and hoof to hoof isn’t the best option. You’ve been damn lucky before, but it’s not a good idea to test the odds too much.”
Phillip nodded and tightened the strap enough so that the gun wouldn’t slide off his hoof. He tilted the weapon back to “safe” mode so that he could walk without difficulty and followed Trace up the sidewalk towards the depot.
They approached from the side, out of sight of the windows. Phillip, Trace, and Red went around to the front, while Prowl, Bumblebee, and Flash went around to the back. “Standard flash and clear,” Trace instructed. “You three wait for my light spell, then bust the door and head inside.”
“Yes, sir,” Prowl said. “Sentry, you have breaching rounds?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sentry nodded, extracting a couple of heavy slug rounds from the side saddle cartridge holder on the stock of his weapon and loading them directly into the breech.
“Good. Blow the hinges. We’re not wearing any flak jackets, so shooting out the lock is a bad idea; too much shrapnel.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sentry said, his hooves shaking slightly as he checked the chamber of his shotgun.
Prowl paused beside the door and made eye contact with both stallions. “Remember your training,” she advised. “Don’t think about what you’re doing. When the moment to act comes, you’ll be ready.”
“And don’t worry, Flash,” Bumblebee added with a genuine grin, patting his rotund belly. “I’m a bigger target than you, so they’ll probably be shooting at me first.”
Flash managed to smile, gripping the shotgun tightly as he pressed himself against the wall.
Out in front, Phillip, Trace, and Red stopped at the furthest left door, which was indeed partly open. Phillip crouched in front of the entrance, pulling a hoof mirror out of his pocket and sliding it through the entryway. “Three vans,” he whispered. “I see...at least seven hostiles. Two unicorns at one van, the rest in the corner, playing poker. Can’t see around the corner.”
“Armed?” Red asked.
“Pistols and shotguns,” Phillip said. “They’re just mucking about, not on guard. Don’t see Daring...wait…” He paused, squinting, then his eyes widened. “That’s her hat on the table. She’s here.”
“Right,” Trace nodded, lighting up his horn. “Red, get ready to open the door and give ‘em the news.”
Red stepped up and grasped the rusty door handle. Phillip took his place next to the door, gripping his pistol in both hooves. Trace gathered energy into his horn, generating a ball of light at the tip.
“Ponyville Police!” Red shouted through the opening. “Come out with your hooves up!”
There was an instant uproar from inside, several voices and stamping hooves mixing with the clicking of weapons.
“I don’t think they’re coming out,” Red commented dryly to Trace. Trace nodded and lowered his head slightly.
“One,” he said, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Two...three!”
Red yanked the door upwards as Trace fired the sphere forward into the garage. Everypony turned their heads aside as the ball of light exploded outwards with a great flare like a star being born. Several voices from inside yelled in confusion and shock, giving them the cue to enter, weapons drawn.
The two unicorns that had been standing beside the van were staggering, hooves over their eyes. One shot each from Red and Phillip dropped them both. At the same moment, the officers entered. Bumblebee in the lead, Prowl slightly behind him and to his left, and Flash bringing up the rear, using his wings to levitate slightly off the ground so that he could fire over his partner’s heads.
A griffon, blinded and enraged by the noises, charged towards the sound, raising a .357 revolver. Prowl promptly put him down with a quick headshot. The officers rounded the cab to find three griffons and one pony standing around a poker table that was covered in scattered cards, plastic cups, poker chips, and a familiar green cargo shirt and pith helmet. The goons were already drawing guns and opening fire, shooting wildly from their hips. A shield of energy instantly blossomed from Trace’s horn, protecting the officers as they opened fire. Five bullets and a single round of buckshot all struck true, and all four thugs fell, dead or dying.
Together, they rounded around the cab and faced into the corner. A single unicorn had backed into the corner, holding the bound and blindfolded Daring up in front of him as a shield, pressing a pistol underneath her jaw.
“Drop it!” Prowl barked. “You’ve got nowhere to go!”
“Take another step and I’ll blow her head off!” the unicorn shouted.
Phillip kept his gun hoof up and steady, aiming at the gunpony’s face. But the target was too small; a squeeze of the trigger in between the rapid beats of his heart would be enough to put a round through Daring’s head instead of her captor. Daring’s teeth were gritted and her chest rose and fell rapidly with heavy breath. He tried to say something to reassure her, some kind of taunt that would force the gunpony to drop her, but his throat had dried out and his tongue wouldn’t work. He swallowed, gripping the gun tightly.
Flash’s eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything that he could use. His gaze fell on the poker table and paused there. His subconscious sounded an alarm in the back of his skull; something wasn’t right. He made a quick count: seven chairs, seven plastic cups of cider. Four bodies around it, which meant three more players. The two unicorns standing near the van hadn’t been sitting there, and if this gunpony and the other griffon had been...he did a quick mental calculation and realized that there was one pony missing.
Some instinct made him look up and behind them. A small black griffon was perched on the rafters above them, holding a Trotson with a drum magazine, lowering a talon from his eyes. The griffon brought the weapon around to bear, aiming down at his distracted comrades.
“Behind us!” Flash shouted, spinning around. In a smooth, controlled movement that he’d practiced a thousand times in the academy, he guided his shotgun up to the target, placing the bead right over the griffon’s chest, and squeezed the trigger. The weapon kicked in his hooves, barking like a thunderclap, and the griffon tumbled off the rafter like a sack of potatoes. The other officers turned their heads to see what had happened.
The gunpony holding Daring, trying to seize some advantage out of the turn of events, took his gun off Daring and aimed it at Phillip. But as soon as the gun was no longer aimed at Daring, there was a click and Daring had her hooves in front, one cuff open and the other dangling from her left wrist. She let out a shout of rage and struck her captor in the chest with an elbow strike, winding him and forcing him to loosen his grip on her. She threw herself forward and down onto the ground.
Phillip did not hesitate. Three gunshots roared out of his weapon. The gunpony jerked with the impact of every bullet, his blood spattering against the back wall. He slumped to the floor, let out a final gasp, and was still.
Dropping the gun, Phillip ran over to Daring and tugged her blindfold off. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Daring said, uncuffing her other hoof as Phillip untied the rest of her bonds. “What the hell took you so long? I like bondage as much as the next mare, but I prefer we keep the damsel in distress routine to the bed—”
Daring’s sentence was cut off by Phillip pulling her into a tight hug. She hugged him back and kissed him on the lips, both of them shaking as the adrenaline washed through their systems.
Flash Sentry lowered his shotgun, clicking on the safety and shouldering the weapon. His eyes remained on the body of the griffon that he’d killed. Dark blood was spread across his chest from the multiple holes that the buckshot had ripped into him; his green eyes were open and staring at the ceiling, his beak hanging open as though in shock. Flash’s eyes went to the golden ring around one of his talons, then to the tattoo of intertwined hearts on his shoulder—one labeled “Cassie,” the other “Nicki,” and underlined with the word “Forever.”
“Nice shooting, Flash,” Bumblebee said, studying the scene. “Maybe we should sign you up for the PPD’s skeet shooting team.”
Flash shuddered. “Guys?” he said. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Prowl gently took Flash by the foreleg and guided him over to a corner opposite the others. Flash bent over and heaved, vomit splattering onto the floor.
“Let it out, Sentry,” Prowl said, gently patting him on the back.
“I’m sorry, ma’am—” Flash stated to say, then retched again and doubled over.
“Don’t be,” Prowl said. “There’s nothing to apologize for; killing another sentient being isn’t a normal thing to do. The first time I shot somepony, I went into shock; I wet the bed every night afterward for a month.” She paused, then added in a quiet hiss, “If you tell anypony, I will hunt you down.”
Flash came up for air and gave Prowl a brief salute with his wing, managing a weak grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now what?” Red Herring asked, pacing in a small circle. “We got Daring back, but the whole department’s gonna be after us now.”
“We could become fugitives,” Bumblebee suggested with a half-grin. “Jump a train, head on down to Manehattan or Fillydelphia, start dealing out vigilante justice to those who need it. Picture it: a group of former police officers, accused of a crime they did not commit—”
“Somepony smack him,” Prowl said, rolling her eyes. Trace gave Bumblebee a quick cuff over the head, silencing him.
“Do you still have those notes?” Daring asked, retrieving her shirt and hat, trying not to look at the dead bodies around the table.
“Yeah, here,” Red said, pulling the thankfully-dry folder out of his trenchcoat. “You think they’re in a code or something? I can’t make heads or tails of this.”
“I’m hoping our informant can help,” Daring said, tucking the folder into her shirt. “We’ll take these to them.”
“And we’ll—” Trace started to say, but was interrupted by the sound of tires pulling up to the building and stopping outside. Everypony froze. Trace walked up to one of the garage doors and peeked out the window.
“That’s the Captain’s car,” he breathed. “She’s stepping out now.”
“Any cruisers?” Phillip asked.
“No, looks like she’s alone,” Trace said. “She’s stopping outside.”
“Trace, Red, I know you’re in there,” Cold Case called from outside. “I followed your hoofprints from the garage. I’ve called off the search, I need you back at the precinct. Something’s happened, and you need to be debriefed.”
Everypony exchanged glances, none of them sure what to do. Trace pondered for a few moments, then turned to Phillip.
“You two get to your informant,” he said. “We’re going back to the precinct.”
“You sure?” Phillip asked.
“No point in running forever,” Trace said grimly. “When we leave, get moving.”
He turned and walked out of the open door. Red, Flash, Bumblebee, and Prowl all followed, all of them with grim faces that were quickly draining of color. Phillip and Daring remained inside. There was the sound of voices from outside, then tires crunching on gravel and driving away.
Phillip took a deep breath. “Let’s get going,” he said.
Daring nodded. Taking Phillip beneath the forelegs, she took off and flew out the door. Cold Case and the others were long gone. Banking northwest, Daring flew for the Apple Pie.
“I just want this over,” she breathed, her voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Me too,” Phillip nodded.