Troopers Jhonny Diaz and Ed Hickey sat in a late model Crown Vic. They were GeneCrimes best. Today their job was to arrest fourteen-year old Ryan Rivers. Waiting outside of Ryan’s high school, Diaz and Hickey hoped that no one got to the kid first. They wanted the collar. It would turn out to be a good day.

At two on the dot, the final bell rand. Teenagers streamed out of the building. Diaz pointed at a lanky kid, “That him?”

“Yup,” said Hickey.

“Never forget 12-12-12!’

The pair of cops walked up to a school bus Rivers was waiting in line to enter. “Come here. We’d like to talk to you.”

The cops talked with their hands. First they frisked the kid, then cuffed and stuffed him into the back of their cruiser. His crime? A genetic deficiency.

Two mass murders in two years rattled the state. The people wanted the carnage stopped whatever the price. The Constitutional Public Safety Department dissected the shootings from every conceivable angle. The chief medical examiner called in Sanford Watts. Watts was a geneticist from the state university’s medical school. Geneticists had been used to solve crimes before. DNA evidence went mainstream years ago. But this was a step in an entirely new direction.

Guillaime Barbier delivered Budweiser. Sometimes he stole cases of the suds. Little Brother, the security cams at work caught him. The distributorship fired him and he went postal. Shot up the warehouse like he was in a Western. Then he turned the gun on himself.

Jared D’Orlando was a withdrawn loner with an apocalyptic mom. She had an arsenal. He liked FPS games. Had he been born twenty years earlier and played Mortal Kombat, he wouldn’t have had the balls to turn a local elementary school into a live action X Box game. But he went on a spree raining lead upon flesh and bones. The body count was more than a score. Most of his victims were little kids. Never forget 12-12-12!

Watts examined DNA samples from Barbier and D’Orlando as well as other massacrists like Colin Ferguson, James Huberty, William Calley, and Jared Holmes among others. 90% of them carried an extremely rare variant of the warrior gene that Watts dubbed the “commando gene.” A statistically significant percentage of those with the commando gene committed violent crimes against persons.

A decision was made behind closed doors. It was Executive Order 13-009. The public would have approved (never forget 12-12-12,) but the Constitution wouldn’t. So double-oh-nine was all hush hush. GeneCrimes was formed.

Rivers Ryan had the commando gene and a date with a holding cell. Diaz and Hickey had bagged their quarry and brought him into a sally port at One Public Safety Plaza in New Jerusalem. They were star so they didn’t have to do any paperwork. Junior troopers were stuck with that drudgery. They’d come up with some trumped up charge that would allow them to hold the kid. It was Miller Time. But before they could head out for a celebratory beer, Major Eckert corralled them. Eckert was in charge of GeneCrimes. “Boys, I need a favor.”

“Governor Ned’s in a tight primary race. Judge Horan’s opposition research folks have caught wind of double-oh-nine and our whole operation. Any word of this gets out and we’re in serious trouble. Never forget 12-12-12!”

That was GeneCrimes’ unofficial motto; the date of the D’Orlando shootings. Eckert went on. Apparently a bounty hunter named Chevy Burby found out about double-oh-nine and is feed info to Horan’s people. He needs to be silenced.” The major drew his index finger horizontally across his neck in a throat cutting gesture. “You Puerto Ricans are good with knives, Diaz. A Colombian necktie would send the right message.” Diaz was a cop wannabe since he was eight. And he got his dream job. Hickey couldn’t do anything with a soils science degree and joined the force soon after college. They both became loyal foot soldiers and were malleable by the higher ups. They knew their stuff, but they’d always follow orders.

GeneCrimes couldn’t just pull people off the street and test them for the commando gene. But they could test the inmates in the Constitutional Corrections Facilities. So they did. No one gave a shit about their rights. Carriers had paroles denied, time tacked on to sentences for phony infractions. “Inhumane!” some argued internally. But there was no cure for the commando gene. You had to keep these people off the streets. Never forget 12-12-12!

Male blood relatives of carriers in the prison system were put on a list. First, the ones who had visiting privileges. Then, officials asked inmates for names of family members. These were prioritized by age and other factors. For example, Joel Ryan’s son, Rivers was young and lived in an old Swamp Yankee mill town with terrible schools and less t look forward to after that. He was a high-risk carrier. Five teams of two agents roamed the state checking off names from the list.

Diaz & Hickey were the stars, but the duo of Rob Aselton and Philip Decker weren’t far behind. They had only one less collar on the big whiteboard in GeneCrimes’ basement HQ. Law enforcement was in Decker’s blood. His dad worked homicide for years. His mom’s dad drove a paddy wagon almost a century ago. Peter, his older brother was Border Patrol. Paul, his younger brother, was a correction’s officer. Philip was close to Paul. They lived nearby and their kids were close in age. They’d grill together and watch roller ball on Paul’s HD big screen. After several beers one night, Philip mentioned his new assignment in passing. Paul didn’t pry. Philip didn’t let slip all the details. Nevertheless, Paul got the gist. Carriers of the commando gene were singled out for special treatment. Never forget 12-12-12!

Paul Decker patrolled Cellblock C at Constitutional Max. One of the inmates was Omar Foreman. Hired muscle on the outside, he’d done good time and was up for parole. It was denied. He did not know why. Decker and Foreman were friendly, well, as friendly as Cos and inmates can be. Foreman tells Decker his woes. Decker offers a possible explanation as t why the parole board shitcanned his request. Never forget 12-12-12!

Two weeks later, there was a jailbreak. Foreman was a free man, fugitive, on the run. There was a price on his head; $250,000. It was a different world from the one he left 14 years earlier. Smart phones. Barely any pay phones. Smoking bans. Homeland Security. Chevy Burby.
Burby was literally a human bloodhound. A bounty hunter, he was able to track his prey by scent. A strange cocktail of Angel dust, meth, and coke heightened his sense of smell. Foreman was able to elude the authorities, but he could only escape the nose of Shane Burby for so long. The bounty hunter caught up with him trying to board a Chinatown bus at Union Station. He hauled him into his Monte Carlo SS. 454 cubic inches of power were under the hood. They hauled balls through surface streets and onto I-95.

“Shit, man. I ain’t going back into the system. They’ll never let me out alive.”

“Tough shit, Omar. I’d bring in my mother for 250K. That’s the price on your head.”

“Dead or alive?”

“Dead or alive.”

“Then kill me. I’m dead anyways. Might as well make it official.”
“No can do. I’d lose my license. “
“Awwwww, let me tell you my story. You wouldn’t believe the crazy shit going down. A few months back, they bring in some docs to test us. They won’t tell us what for. Then I got to my parole hearing. I served good time! But they denied me. I was talking to one of the guards and he said they was lookin’ for some commando gene and if you have it, they ain’t letting you out. ‘Whaaat?’ I says. He says some mad scientist located some gene that says whether or not you a threat to go postal. Shit! I remember some preacher who visited us at the Hotel Graybar. He said that either you a saint or a sinner and you can’t change that no matter what you do. Only a cracker would think that you don’t have, whatchoocallit, free will. He should go to the hood. Tell some of the mofuckers I grew up wit’ they can’t do what they want.”
Burby was listening to the rant. “This is all very interesting, Omar. But I’m trying to figure out how to spend $250,000.”
“It’s not just inmates, man. They starting to pick cats up off the street. It’s un Constitutional. If I was a lawyer, I’d sue Ned Dumont for this shit. Make enough to buy an island, too.”
“Dumont, huh? Normally he’s a bleeding heart. Makes it hard for my biz. I’ve been wanting a piece of him.”
Thus, a plan was hatched. Burby turned Foreman in and collected a quarter of a million. He promised Omar that he could get him out again and soon. Meanwhile he planned to blow the lid off this scandal. He also got his hands on The List somehow and started smuggling some dudes on the list over the border into New Moscow. (That’s what they called New York after Russian Gangsters became the de facto rulers and the elected officials became puppets.)
Alas, Eckert was right. Burby was burly, but Diaz was quick with a knife. It was easy to hunt down the bounty hunter. His particular drug regimen was well known in certain circles and few pushers had the inventory to allow him to one stop shop. A big dude was hard to put down, but Trooper Jhonny prevailed and gave him a Colombian necktie; just like the major ordered. Never forget 12-12-12!
Two days after Diaz and Hickey picked up Ryan Rivers, his mother went to the local PD to report him missing. The desk officer entered his name into the computer and it said to contact the Constitutional Public Safety Department. Soon after, two men in black arrived to talk to Mrs. Ryan. Never forget 12-12-12!
About the same time, Diaz and Hickey were at GeneCrimes HQ to get a new name off the list. Never forget 12-12-12!

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