by Dwayne Gill
“No one seems to be working today,” said Cane. He couldn’t find any movement in the windows facing them. “I don’t like this.”
Lynks and Calvin agreed.
“It seems too well put-together,” said Lynks.
They were looking for suite 218, so Cane could guess which window it was by counting. He looked across the street from the building, which housed a sandwich shop. He noticed the roof and how good a vantage point it would offer.
“Are we doing this?” asked Lynks.
“How bad do we need this computer?” asked Cane.
“It’s not worth getting killed over,” said Lynks.
“It’s daytime,” said Calvin. “I’m telling you, these guys don’t like to make a scene.”
“What if Calvin and I strolled down the hallway?” said Lynks. “If anything seems off, we walk out the other side and keep going.”
“Me?” asked Calvin. “Why me?”
“If Cane walked through, even if they didn’t recognize him, he’d still look suspicious,” said Lynks.
Cane still had eyes on the rooftop, though his angle prevented proper inspection.
“Okay,” said Cane. “But if you see the slightest hint of danger, get out of there.” He handed Lynks a gun. “Just in case.”
Lynks nodded, grabbed a small duffel bag, and threw in some items they might find useful. Calvin put on a baseball cap and they exited the vehicle. The marked men knew what Calvin looked like, but he’d never been at the top of their to-do list, so he thought it was unlikely they’d recognize him. However, the extra precaution couldn’t hurt.
◆◆◆
Lynks and Calvin used the side door and stepped into an empty hallway. The suites they passed looked vacant, which made Lynks suspicious. If someone were setting them up, they were walking right into it. He signaled to Calvin, and they took the stairs to the second level, which looked equally barren.
“This looks bad,” said Calvin.
“Let’s look inside 218. We’re almost there.” Floor-to-ceiling windows flanked each of the suite doors, so it was easy to inspect the interior. Every office they passed was empty. If Wembly’s office looked vacant, maybe they could sneak in and grab his computer. Given enough time, Lynks may be able to access it without Larry. He’d at least try.
Suite 218 was abandoned, like the others. Lynks pushed his face to one of the windows to have a look inside but saw nothing suspicious.
“Can you pick this lock, Calvin?” asked Lynks.
“I sure can, boss. But let’s break the side window. We can punch a hole in it and unlock the door from the inside. Much easier.”
Lynks took a short metal bar out of his bag, shrugged off his jacket, wrapped it around the bar, and speared the window. It didn’t give on the first try, but on the second it punched a neat hole through. He used the bar to make the hole big enough to fit his arm and unlocked the door.
“You got it,” said Calvin.
“Well, here goes,” said Lynks. He clicked the door open and swung it slowly inward. They stepped in and looked around, though there wasn’t much to see. The office didn’t seem like much of one; there were no desks or any other furniture, only a couch and coffee table. Lynks walked over to the table and saw a few brochures, one of which stood out to him. It belonged to a company called BioFare, which specialized in making special equipment and weapons. They had a contract with the federal government.
“Well. I’m pretty sure we know where they’re getting their EMPs from,” said Lynks.
There was a locked closet to Lynks’s right, and he was about to suggest Calvin pick the lock when he heard a noise. He looked at Calvin, who was standing in front of the entry door, but before he could say anything, a large man entered from the hallway and grabbed him from behind, choking him with a forearm. Calvin never had a chance to defend himself.
“You have weapon?” he shouted at Lynks. The behemoth had a Russian accent. Lynks froze, and the giant’s grip around Calvin’s neck tightened. The man’s huge arms dug in under his chin, causing his face to turn red.
“I will kill him,” said the Russian.
Lynks reached behind his back, and extracted the gun. He held it like it was hot, only two of his fingers touching it.
“No. Eject magazine,” said the Russian.
Lynks did as he was told and showed the man the clear chamber. Eguns displayed a green light when they were empty.
“Open the bathroom door and throw both inside, then close it,” said the Russian.
Lynks was getting more worried by the second. The Russian agents in the States were known to be violent and sadistic, and this one looked the part. He threw the gun and magazine inside and shut the door, then returned and faced the man.
“What now?” asked Lynks.
The Russian picked Calvin up off his feet and slammed him hard to the floor. Calvin gasped and grunted, hurt, but now able to breathe again. “It’s time to have fun,” said the Russian. Then he sprinted at Lynks.
◆◆◆
Cane was climbing the fire escape to the roof of the sandwich shop, trying to do so quietly, which was impossible using the old equipment that groaned and creaked every time he applied pressure. He watched above him for a head, or worse, a gun to peek over the top, but so far it had been clear. Maybe he was wrong about his hunch, but he didn’t think so. Regardless, he wanted to have the roof cleared for Lynks’s and Calvin’s sake.
He was at the top now; all he needed to do was climb from the ladder platform onto the roof, but he eased his head up first to have a look. He saw something. Feet, in the distance, on the opposite side of the roof. It was a man lying on his stomach, perched and ready to fire. Cane knew he had to hurry; Lynks and Calvin were in the building already. He lifted himself onto the roof, thirty yards from the sniper, pulled his pistol out of the holster, and tiptoed along the roof. He was already pondering whether to kill the guy right away or subdue and question him.
Cane was ten yards from the assassin when the man rolled to his left, onto his back, drawing a pistol at the same time. Stunned by the man’s speed, Cane dropped to one knee and rolled to his left to make the man’s shot more difficult. Cane heard him fire and saw the aftermath of the bullet striking a wall in the distance, and before the man could shoot again, Cane put a round into the wrist of his gun-hand, causing him to scream in agony and drop the weapon.
Cane decided at the last moment to let him live, only because he recognized the assassin. He approached the wounded man and stood over him.
“Connor,” said Cane. It was his fellow trainee and Lynks’s former tormentor. There had always been unspoken tension, and, to be honest, jealousy of Cane, that lingered between them. Cane held no grudge from their childhood, but for Connor to try to kill him and Lynks while working for Amos was unforgivable.
Connor lay on his back while tending to his shooting hand, then made eye contact with Cane. He smiled, the same smile as the man at the warehouse, a mocking look of amusement. What Cane didn’t notice was more significant. Connor didn’t recognize him. He might be familiar with Cane from sketches and know who he was, like the other marked men, but he didn’t know him. Of that, Cane was certain. For better or worse, they had spent their entire lives together from birth. Neither would ever forget the other’s face.
“Who are you?” Cane asked.
Connor looked at him. “I know who you think I am.”
“You’re not the Connor I knew,” said Cane.
He smiled. “I’m much more.”
He moved fast, much faster than Cane remembered him being capable of. He pivoted with his left shoulder and swung his legs to sweep Cane’s feet. While it wasn’t successful, it bought Connor time to get to his feet and grab Cane’s gun hand. Connor pushed him backward, both men trying to gain their footing on the loose surface of the roof. While Cane backpedaled, his foot caught a protruding fan, and he fell, Connor falling with him and landing on top. Cane was only worried about the gun in his right hand for
now.
Connor took advantage of his superior body position and kneed Cane in the ribs several times. Cane grunted, trying to block out the pain, but the knees hurt. He tried to lift his own legs in retaliation, but Connor positioned himself so that any blows Cane landed would have a minimal effect.
Cane punched with his left hand, but Connor lowered his right elbow and pressed his forearm against Cane’s face. Cane had to swing the momentum of the struggle. He surprised Connor by letting go of the gun in his right hand while biting down hard on the gunshot wound on Connor’s wrist. Cane felt his teeth sink in; he could feel the warmth of blood in his mouth now. As Connor tried to pull his wrist away, Cane countered by applying pressure in the opposite direction, causing the flesh to rip and tear.
In desperation, Connor did what Cane hoped he would do; he forgot about the gun. Cane snatched it with his right hand, swung it up to Connor’s ribs, and squeezed off a round before Connor knew what was happening. Cane watched as the bullet exited through Connor’s back, near his left kidney; a bullet traveling at that angle would do irreparable damage. Cane released his bite and pushed Connor off him, who rolled over on his back. Blood was already forming at his lips.
Though Cane didn’t like Connor, he didn’t deserve this. Cane refused to believe he killed his fellow trainee today. This man was something different. While Connor was decent in combat, this man possessed power and ability far beyond that of his old nemesis.
Connor was barely hanging on but still smiled mockingly at Cane. “If you’re not Connor, then who are you?” asked Cane.
“I’m no one,” he said. “And neither are you.”
Cane watched him expire and walked over to him. He was afraid to look, but he had to know. He pulled back the sleeve of Connor’s shirt to reveal the marking. It was there.
Cane walked to the ledge where Connor had perched his sniper rifle. He knelt down and lifted the gun, seeing what Connor was looking at. He aimed at the second floor near room 218, saw Lynks fighting with a huge man, then dropped the sniper rifle and ran as fast as his legs would take him.
◆◆◆
The Russian ran at Lynks like a madman. Lynks tried to dodge out of the way toward the bathroom door, but the man covered the distance faster than Lynks could move. The Russian’s left shoulder caught his midsection, a glancing blow, but it spun Lynks to the ground as the Russian tumbled past. Lynks tried to crawl to the bathroom door, which he knew was his only hope, but the man was up already, and he grabbed Lynks’s right leg and pulled him back. Lynks kicked at the Russian, who laughed at him. Then he bent over, grabbed Lynks’s shirt with both hands, and lifted him into the air until he was in a standing position.
Lynks tried to resist; he was punching and kicking, but the man was solid as a wall. Lynks was no fighter; he was decent with a gun, but he didn’t fare well in close-quarters combat, especially against guys this big and strong.
The Russian head-butted him hard, so hard that he almost lost consciousness. He could taste blood. He felt another blow to the head, and by the third he was numb. For a moment he thought he was going to die, but out of nowhere, he felt himself fall to the floor. The Russian yelled out in pain.
Calvin had gotten up, found a pen, and stabbed the Russian in the side, right under his left arm. Lynks writhed around, and Calvin tried to pull him to his feet.
“Come on. We gotta go,” Calvin pleaded, but Lynks couldn’t move. The Russian was recovering; he extracted the pen and was laughing maniacally. Calvin grabbed Lynks by the collar and dragged him toward the front door, but they weren’t going to make it. The Russian sprinted forward again, and Calvin braced for impact.
Right before the Russian reached him, the man’s expression changed from a look of ferociousness to one of apprehension. Lynks saw Cane step in front of Calvin, shove him to the side, and plunge a knife into the Russian’s midsection, falling backwards with him as he tumbled forward and rolled through the door of the suite. Cane flipped back into the suite and got to his feet.
Lynks thought it was over, but apparently the Russian still had fight left in him. In fact, he looked more amused than ever. After getting up wobbly, he removed the bloody knife from his midsection, tossed it to the side, and laughed. He banged his chest and walked forward.
“Move Lynks back,” said Cane. Calvin quickly dragged Lynks away.
The Russian swung at Cane, who dodged it easily and retaliated with a punch to the nose. It stunned the man, but only for a second. He came at Cane again, only to be parried again, and Cane dug his thumb in the Russian’s pen wound. In desperation, he tried to grapple Cane and move him back to gain an advantage, but Cane jabbed him in his throat. The Russian stopped and tried to catch his breath.
Cane pulled out another knife and moved forward, and the Russian made one last desperate stand. He swung at Cane again, this time aiming for his midsection, but Cane met his fist midair with the knife, which plunged between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers. Cane extracted the knife and stabbed him quickly, repeatedly, in his stomach and chest, then stuck the knife in the man’s right temple as a finale. The Russian was dead before he hit the floor.
Cane walked over to Lynks and knelt over him. “You okay?”
Lynks could hear him, but his head was swimming. He tried to gesture thumbs-up but wasn’t sure how it appeared.
“Calvin, let’s get him to the first floor, then you go pull the car around.”
Calvin nodded. They both carried Lynks downstairs, observing to make sure there were no more surprises.
When they reached the side entrance, Calvin retrieved the car.
Cane looked around; the streets were empty. No one was walking now, and he realized that people must’ve heard the gunshots on the roof and panicked. They were running out of time; the cops would show up any second.
Calvin screeched to a stop, and as Cane loaded Lynks into the back seat, they could hear sirens approaching. A squad car slid to a stop at the sandwich shop, its lights flashing.
“We need to get him to a doctor,” said Cane, looking down at Lynks.
“I know just the one,” said Calvin, glancing back from the driver’s seat. “Hang in there, buddy.”
Trouble In Paradise
Monday, 9/11/2028, 10:00 a.m.
Washington, DC
“How did this happen?” Harvey Foster was furious.
Amos knew this was coming; he dreaded making the call to Foster once he found out about what happened in Chicago. The local police were on the scene immediately, so there was no hiding either of the bodies. The Russian inside the building wasn’t the problem; he had no markings. However, the man on the roof, Connor, was a concern for all involved. He wasn’t only a marked man; he was supposed to be in prison.
Now, Foster would have to scramble to keep this under wraps; the Chicago PD had already informed the FBI about the marked man found on the rooftop. Foster intervened when he caught wind of this, thankfully before the entire department knew of the rooftop man’s identity, and was trying to figure out what to do next.
“Do you realize how bad this is?” said Foster. “If someone finds out about Connor and the other assassins… This only comes back to me. There’ll be questions.”
Amos realized how bad it was, but he was sick of Foster’s whining. “Who all knows about this?” he asked.
“About what? Connor?”
“Yes,” said Amos.
“Just the Chicago PD officers that worked the scene, and Todd, my deputy director.”
“Well,” said Amos. “Take care of it.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Foster. “I’m having to clean up your mistake.”
“We had a chance, and we took it,” said Amos. “I won’t apologize for that.”
“Well, lay back and let me do my job,” said Foster. “And this girl, Kristy? Stay away from her. I’ve got Hart on it, and we don’t need another screw-up.”
Amos longed to plunge a knife through the cocky FBI agent someday,
when this was over. Foster thought too highly of himself. He’d been helpful to Vinson over the years but also thought himself more important than he was.
Amos wanted Cane badly; it was personal now. He would get his man to keep following Hart, there was no question about that.
◆◆◆
Hart entered Foster’s office and slipped into a chair to wait. He didn’t want to be there, but Foster asked him to come in. Foster was ecstatic last night after hearing Barkley’s revelation and the follow-up with Quinton, but Hart was still skeptical of his boss. If anything Bowman said was true, he had good reason to question Foster.
Barkley was in the main lobby, waiting for him to finish their meeting so they could go visit the Campbells. Hart figured she was poring over old documents about the Blue Rose Killer. She had talked about nothing else.
Foster stormed in, slammed the door, and lumbered behind his desk. Evidently the chipper mood from last night had worn off. “Hart,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
“Everything all right, sir?” asked Hart.
Foster was perspiring and seemed very distraught. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Yes. Just dealing with the usual nonsense.”
Hart nodded like he knew the drill, but he didn’t. He wasn’t cut out for office work. He belonged in the field.
“I looked at the girl, Kristy, from the Blue Rose Killer case,” said Foster. “It seems peculiar that Cane would be involved in that, doesn’t it?”
“After what we’ve learned the last few days, I wouldn’t say that,” said Hart. “I think Kristy just got in his way that day. I don’t think he went out of his way to help her.”
Hart knew this was a blatant lie; Cane could not have gone more out of his way.
Foster looked through some photos on his desk. “I see. Barkley told me about some other missing children stuff she found him involved with too. Seems like he had a midlife crisis or something.”
Hart couldn’t be sure, maybe he was being paranoid, but he swore that Foster was fishing for something. Perhaps he wanted to make sure Hart wanted Cane as badly as before? He played it safe. “Whatever good he may have done doesn’t excuse the bad, sir. Just my opinion.”