Sly Cooper and the Gang In: A Long Lost Love

CHAPTER 7

Art Credit: https://twitter.com/VtnVivi/status/1268385263396564993

Murray sped down the airway, zooming over and under other aerial vehicles as he chased the helicopter that navigated above them in the level reserved for privately owned aircraft. Their timetable had been thrown off; without having to wait for regular transport, the 2 AM meeting at the South City Development for the power converter and coolant fan had moved up. Bentley projected the helicopter's flight path while Sly and Murray pulled into a dark corner across the street, hovering about 80 stories up and hoping no police craft would come by the shadowy skyscraper on patrol.

"Looks like they're loading it now," Murray pointed out, struggling to lean over the steering wheel for a better look. His breath fogged up the windshield, and Sly had to pull his sleeve down and wipe the glass for a clearer view.

Across from them, the eagle met with a stooped ferret and a tall fox that made Sly's heart launch into his throat until he saw the blonde hair peeking out from under the engineer's baseball cap. If only he was lucky enough for Carmelita to still be undercover . . . He'd rather have to see her around and pretend he didn't know her than have no idea where she was.

Wherever she was, he hoped she'd understand why he'd shifted gears to prevent this machine from coming to life. Maybe it was what she'd been working on when she disappeared. Interdimensional transport seemed like something that would draw her attention. Even so, every second he spent on this mission gnawed at him; he could practically feel the sand trickling down in her hourglass as he neglected her search, but Murray was right. She loved this city. He'd protect it, and with any hope, he'd find her in the process.

Sly shook his head to clear it. Focus, he reminded himself. If Clockwerk is behind her disappearance, pissing him off is the best way to get him to blow his cover. And maybe show his hand about Carmelita.

The South City Development staff signed off on the transport and the eagle's guards loaded the converter and fan into the helicopter. With a signal, he wrapped a feathered wing around a guardrail on the side of the chopper and they took off into the night, Murray hot on their heels.

"What's the play here, pal?" Sly asked Bentley through their audio link.

They only had one stop left. GearHeads Rotors and Gadgets. Murray's favorite, as Bentley promptly reminded them. "Once they pick up the cyclic gears, Murray will drop you on the rear corner of the landing pad. At this time of night, shadows cast by the skyscraper's neon sign obscure it from view."

Beside him, Murray nodded, already game.

Sly slid on his gloves for better grip. "I'll hook onto the chopper and swing in on takeoff."

"Do you even know how to fly one of those things?" Bentley asked. Sly could hear the doubtful frown in his voice.

"Sure. I watched Carmelita do it thousands of times. Besides, you can walk me through it, right buddy?" Sly made sure his grin was audible.

He knew he had Bentley pressing his temples right about now. "Oh, brother . . ."

Ahead of them, the helicopter touched down on the 112th story of a high rise in the middle of the junker part of the city. GearHeads was notorious around the racing ring for their high-quality products, but those from the finer walks of life avoided it due to its . . . unseemly patronage. Gamblers, bookmakers, dealers, and thieves frequented the place, and the establishment was known for sharing the purchase history of famous drivers so those watching the races knew which cars to place their bets on. Anything with the GearHeads stamp rarely wore out, so if a driver was willing to risk a visit–and a possible mark on their reputation–they practically secured their place at the top three in the lists. Luckily, Murray was one of the few ready to risk it for the biscuit, as he liked to say.

As his burly friend approached the spray-painted logo and the dark gray building covered in graffiti–some of which glowed in the neon lights of the nighttime city–Sly grinned. He was more than at home in this part of town. Maybe he'd run into Sylas; the old wolf was only a fixer on race days, but he visited his nefarious pals often enough when he wasn't running secretive ops for the city's higher-ups that if they'd had time to spare, Sly might've stopped in to say, "Hi."

The eagle and his guards, however, were not at home in these parts. They kept their heads on a swivel as the pierced rhino and tattooed hyenas met them on the landing pad.

"Those things are hundreds of pounds each," Murray noted, pointing out the three crates of cyclic gears the guards struggled to load into the chopper.

"If I land outside the city, think you can unload 'em?"

Murray nodded. "'Course I can! What do you think these guns are for? Sittin' around?" He flexed, and Sly laughed.

After he finished snickering, he cased the joint. He'd have to navigate the helicopter out of the city and close to their Safe House if they were going to have time to move it from the aircraft to the van . . . and ditch the aircraft in a separate, unconnected location.

Their window of operation was closing. The rhino and hyenas departed for the safety of the GearHeads production floor as a steady rain began to come down. LaTour's poor eagle stayed in the downpour until the gears were safely loaded, but the weather gave Sly perfect cover. Murray dropped him at the far corner of the landing pad, obscured in the shadows cast by the building lights, and he hopped lithely from the van's passenger seat onto the asphalt helipad, landing with expert precision.

The eagle gave the signal, and the chopper's blades began to whir.

Sly waited until it was a few feet off the ground and maneuvering clear of the landing pad before he sprinted forward and leaped–closing the distance between the helipad and the chopper–and hooked his cane along the steel foot runner. With a swing, he jumped and hooked onto the runner on the far side of the chopper, made sure he had a good grip on his cane and wrapped a hand around the handrail by the passenger door of the helicopter.

"Bentley, get ready to navigate!" he radioed and swung up into the chopper.

He landed a foot into the chest of the pilot and pushed him out the side window before he could defend himself. In the half-second that followed, Sly flipped a switch and killed the headlights. No one sees, no one knows. Behind him, the eagle blinked, pausing just long enough to recognize Sly from their earlier encounter before Sly elbowed him in the beak, grabbed his suit collar, and tugged him through the front seat and out the passenger door. Sly's stomach flipped as he swung briefly into empty space from the movement, and he found himself thankful for his cybernetics as he muscled himself back into the helicopter, shutting and locking the door behind him. Hope he can fly . . .

The three guards were a different matter. He ducked the first laser, sending it piercing through the windshield, and the helicopter started to go down.

One guard lost his cool and jumped out, angling free of the blades and pulling a parachute. Sly counted himself grateful. A loose end, but one less to fight.

Grabbing his seat for balance, he turned his attention to the two remaining goons. He poked his cane into the throat of the first one, leaving him gasping for air, before spinning the cane and using the butt of the staff to push the guard out the open loading door. Checking briefly to make sure the goods were safely tied down, he scooted to the pilot's seat, buckled in, and wrenched the directional stick, turning the chopper on its side and sending the final guard sliding out into the night sky with a foul phrase and a deafening scream.

"Now'd be a good time to tell me how to fly this thing!" he shouted to Bentley over the roar of wind and engine.

"I thought you knew!"

"I said I'd seen," Sly half-screamed as they hit free-fall. "Not that I'd done!"

Bentley rattled off a list of instructions Sly rushed to follow, and he let out a shaky exhale as the aircraft righted. "Good thing it's a quiet night," he muttered into the earpiece.

He'd no sooner finished speaking than blue lights appeared around the corner of the GearHeads skyscraper.