They saw the cluster of emergency lights ahead a full minute before they could see the actual turnoff leading uphill towards their destination. Four ambulances and a single police cruiser were parked on the grass expanse to the right of the tarmac side-road. A fortnight ago, during the heavy rains, the five vehicles would have needed towing free out of mud – but the last ten days of summer sunshine had left the ground hard and secure.

​

Instead of continuing uphill, Conway had Holson draw to a halt on the grass near the other emergency vehicles. The two following cruisers parked alongside and everyone got out of their cars together. Conway moved straight for one of the officers near the ambulances.

​

“Arno, what’s the score?”

​

The mid-twenties Asian woman regarded him with a mixture of relief – at Conway’s arrival – and horror – at what she’d seen today.

​

“Estimate at least a hundred and twenty dead in the rear garden. Unknown number inside the building. It’s hard to make a count, because so few of the bodies are whole. Nine people were dragged out of there, and four of those have already died of their wounds. The woman who made the initial call to us is in that ambulance with another survivor. Those two were the only ones able to speak. Everything I got out of them was in the report I made.”

​

Conway nodded and offered a reassuring: “Good job. I want you to go back to them and get the best description you can of this… thing. I’ll join you in a minute.”

​

Arno left, and the lieutenant turned to the officers who had driven here with him. He opened his mouth to speak – only to have his words die when an ambulance hit its siren and tore off down the highway.

​

Inwardly, he said a prayer for whoever was inside.

​

Holson, Finlay and DeLacy stood alongside the two officers from the middle car of their small convoy. This pair were Foster and Moran – both six-footers, possessing scrawny builds, sunburnt complexions, blue eyes and curly black hair; both were in their thirties and they were as smart as a pair of bookends. Their eerie similarity to each other suggested they might be brothers, which they weren’t. Scuttlebutt around the force was that they were a secret couple and that their endless stories of womanising were a disguise. For straightforward, general police work, Foster and Moran were adequate. Put them in a firefight and you knew they’d watch your back. Ask them to investigate something and they’d be clueless.

​

“What’s the call, LT?” Foster asked, his words preventing Conway from beginning his explanation.

​

Moran added: “All we’ve been told is multiple 187’s. Haul ass to the Crawford Mansion and await details.”

​

Conway levelled a shut-the-hell-up glare at the pair and replied: “The chief filled me in over the radio about five minutes ago. Welcome, guys, to the worst day of your lives.”

 

*     *     *

 

“Twenty minutes ago, we received an emergency call from one of the guests fleeing a huge birthday party at Crawford Mansion. It was so wild and weird, it wasn’t believed at first. When two cars were despatched to the estate, they expected to find a hoax and to arrest the caller. They weren’t so lucky…

​

“Elwood Crawford owns the whole place, together with a huge chunk of the tech industry. His speciality is robotics. The party was for his nephew, Leon, who’s eighteen today. The kid has a genetic disorder, and apparently he’s small, weak and can barely walk; he spends his time in a wheelchair, taking his meds and wasting away. His father died when he was two and his mother cares for him full-time. Uncle Elwood decided to give Leon a present that would enable him to experience running, climbing, acrobatics… you get the picture. He and his tech team built Leon a robot…”

​

“Sounds like an episode of one of those afternoon soaps,” put in Finlay. His impatience was obvious.

​

Conway continued, oblivious. “So they set up a big party. Up to two hundred guests – all rich – plus some celebs-for-hire. A limo picks Leon up from his home, where he lives with his mother, and he’s brought to the mansion… Then things turn to shit. Before Leon can be given his present, someone else takes control of it. Maybe a guest, someone working at the party or an intruder. Whoever they are, they’re bat-shit insane: they decide to kill everyone. From what I’ve heard, we have at least a hundred bodies, some dismembered, some torn to shreds. It’s a fucking bloodbath.”

​

For a few seconds, no one replied. They were taking in the magnitude of what they had heard. The lieutenant went on.

​

“When the first car arrived, the two officers went in… The second team reached the house in time to hear gunfire and see half of one of their buddies thrown through a window. This is lunatic sci-fi bullshit, but it’s happening. It’s as real as real gets… Team Two called for backup and did a circuit of the house, aiming to guide other survivors out. They say the big garden behind the mansion looks like hell itself. They tried to find survivors: but so far, we only have a handful.

​

“More teams have arrived since. Injured have been carried down here, clear of the mansion… But no officers have seen the robot or the perp who’s controlling it.”

​

“Is this a terrorist thing?” Becka Holson asked.

​

“Your guess is as good as mine right now.”

​

“What about SWAT, are they on the scene?” said Finlay.

​

“For the last two hours, our SWAT teams have been locked in a fire-fight with the Horean Cartel. Getting their asses kicked, by all accounts. There’s also a huge fire in the Cabens district, and teams of our men are protecting firemen from rioters there. The big Freedom of Speech rally is tying up more officers. We’re spread pretty damn thin today. Senior officers don’t want to come to a bloodbath and put a dent in their careers, so I’ll be in charge. No doubt the Chief will want reports every five minutes, but if he’s so concerned, he can drag his lard ass down here and join us. Any more questions?”

​

The new officer didn’t hold back. “First, sir, I get that this Crawford wanted to make a toy for the sick kid… Why the hell did he build what sounds like a damned war machine?”

​

“If he’s not torn apart, we can ask him. Me, I’d’ve got the kid a Playstation.”

​

“And second,” DeLacy asked, “do we have the firepower to stop this robot?”

​

“Our priorities are to cordon the mansion, retrieve any more survivors we can, get electronic eyes and ears on the building, and wait for a team from the army. Unfortunately, they won’t be here for almost an hour – but they’ll have weapons that can blow the robot to shrapnel.”

​

“What if the robot attacks our cordon?” rasped Foster.

​

“We hit it with everything we have and do the job ourselves. That thing and its controller cannot be allowed to escape – imagine what would happen in a school or a shopping mall.”