by S L Shelton
As soon as he had John tightly cuffed, he walked over to his metal box and pulled out his phone, stuffing it in his pocket after checking the call log. He began to move back toward John when he suddenly stopped and looked into his box again, pausing over it briefly.
SNIP.
He abruptly launched himself toward me upon discovering his multi-tool missing, but he was too late—my hands were free. Just as he arrived over me, I pushed sideways and kicked out, the toe of my boot making solid contact with his wrist as I rolled. His heavy hand cannon went clanking to the ground.
He didn’t go for the gun; instead, he let his momentum propel him toward me in my roll. He fell down heavily on my side, his elbow striking my shoulder and chest. He tried to bring his knee up, but I had rolled too far for it to make contact. In desperation, I shoved one of the can-filled cartons between us and used the moment to push myself backward toward his metal box. I picked it up, accidentally dumping its contents, and used it as a shield as his foot came stomping down toward me.
I pushed him away with the box, sending him several feet backward. A stunned look appeared on his face; he hadn’t expected me to display such strength, I assumed. But he quickly regained his bearings and charged again, feet and fists flying as I struggled to get back to my feet and evade his assault.
He launched into a spinning back punch, connecting solidly with my cheekbone—but while his back was to me, I heard a metallic clacking sound. It dawned on me too late that he had produced a collapsible striking baton and was whipping it around with his other arm as he continued into his spin. My shoulder went up to try to deflect it, and though it glanced painfully off my shoulder, it still connected solidly with my head.
Panic welled up in me as the darkness started to close in like it had another time before.
Where was that? I heard my other voice ask tauntingly.
Then I remembered.
Amsterdam. Majmun. The Bosnian Serb thug who had tortured me in the Russian safe house.
As the darkness closed in, I felt my knees begin to buckle. Pain shot through my skull to the backs of my eyes. Then I suddenly remembered flame against my skin and the smell of my own burning flesh.
Rage exploded through my head and my chest like the torch fire that had burned me. I would not be weak again. I would not allow anyone to turn me into a victim. The rage bubbled up through my throat.
I heard my voice as if it had come from another room. “Fuck you.”
And the rage continued to rise. It stiffened my legs, tensed the muscles in my neck. The darkness stopped closing in on me.
Then suddenly, as if I were watching from above, I saw my body twist—frighteningly fast. Powerful climber’s hands grasped Gaines’s wrist before he could react.
The look on his face made me chuckle to myself. No fear—genuine surprise.
I heard myself again. “Fuck you.” My fingers pressed into the junction of bones in his wrist as if they were granite and I was holding on for dear life.
I felt and then saw his other hand whipping toward me. I watched as if a spectator as my arm flew up in defense—elbow and forearm—blocking his other blow, my grip still firmly around his wrist.
I saw pain in his face as he tried to twist away. I let him roll to the floor without releasing him, clearly sending more pain up his arm. He tried to bring his leg up for a kick.
“Fuck you!” I heard myself yell as I continued to float above the scene, watching as my knee rose of its own volition—giving me a brief flashback of the fight in the cargo plane above the Czech countryside. My knee caught the entire blow with a kick of its own, and then I was falling forward on top of him.
I watched from the ceiling as my head came crashing forward against the bridge of his nose, making it erupt with blood.
He tried to wrench his left hand free. I crushed down hard on his wrist, feeling the bones begin to separate and crunch beneath my grip.
“Fuck you!” I screamed.
I could feel my face flush with blood. From my ethereal position above the fray, I could see the veins in my neck and face bulging—looking almost as if they were about to burst, yet I also felt my body in a way I never had before—every nerve and muscle a precise mechanism in a complex system.
His other elbow struck down toward my head and shoulder, but my arm was there to deflect it before it reached its target, and then I followed it into the side of his head with a brutal punch. I lifted my head high and then let it fall again, pounding my forehead again into his nose.
I was suddenly more in my body again. Gaines was on the ground, choking on the blood from his nose, his wrists tucked under him in some sort of reflexive protective move.
I stood over him, eyes wide, breathing heavily, my hands still curled and tense, ready for more. He wouldn’t look up at me. It pissed me off.
“Get up!” I yelled.
With that, I kicked his back. He curled more tightly, but he flailed with his feet in a weak defensive move.
The rage just kept rolling in on me, crashing, one wave on top of another.
I jumped on him and began pounding his already-bloodied face. The spray of blood into my eyes just made me more angry, and I raised my hands, clasped together, ready to hammer double-fisted blows down on his face—but I heard something that made me stop, my hands still raised high above my head.
“Scott!” I heard the voice as if it were being yelled from a long distance away.
I stood, looking down at the bloodied mess on the floor in front of me. For a moment I tried to get my mind to assess my surroundings, but it wouldn’t focus. My body seemed to want to fight some more. I looked down at Gaines; he was wheezing through his broken nose. His mouth and eyes were now broken, bruised, and swelling.
I kicked a stack of boxes to let off the last round of blows I still had coiled up inside me and then stormed out of the storage cellar and into the alley.
It was nearly midday. I breathed in deeply, leaning against the wall, trying to calm myself and then slid to the ground, still breathing heavily. I looked at my hands. They were shaking—skin had peeled from my knuckles, and they were covered in blood—a lot of blood
All sense of time and bearing was absent. I had no idea how long I sat there.
“Scott!” I heard from the side.
I ignored the voice as I continued to examine the bloody hands, wondering who they belonged to. They didn’t appear to be mine, even though they were right in front of me. I heard foot falls as someone ran toward me from the cellar below.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I lashed out with my bloody claw, grabbing another wrist. My foot went up, looking for something warm to crush. An arm rose up and blocked my kick, but I sent my opponent rolling to the ground. I looked him in the face…it was a familiar face.
The man lay on the ground, a few feet away from me, cradling his wrist with the other hand.
“Scott!” he yelled. “Snap out of it! It’s over.”
It was John. I was looking down at him. I didn’t remember getting to my feet, but there I was, standing over him, the blood back in my face, fists clenched, and breathing heavily through my mouth. I immediately plopped back down on the ground and dropped my head between my knees.
I was suddenly aware of everything around me, as if in a super-heightened state of being. It was almost as if I were stuck partially outside myself—unable to ‘re-seat’ fully within my body.
Without even looking up, I knew what was going on around me—how far the walls of the alley were from each other, how many windows looked down, the number of AC units facing the alley, and how many were running.
I was in an intensely heightened state of awareness—more so than I had ever felt before.
John stood, but kept his distance. I heard him as he walked into the cellar. I counted his steps as he disappeared into the half basement. In a few moments, I heard his voice as he approached the door again from inside. He was talking on the phone.
“…an asset. Medical
personnel and a cleanup unit,” I heard him say as he stepped back into the alley.
He closed his phone and put it back in his pocket. I could sense him standing near, though not too close to me. He squatted down in front of me, and I could feel him staring for long moments before he spoke.
“Are you injured?” he asked calmly.
I couldn’t find words yet.
“Scott. Are you injured?” he asked again, more insistently that time.
I still couldn’t speak, but I shook my head.
“Okay. Catch your breath. A cleanup team is on its way,” he said, staring at me a few moments longer before he returned downstairs to where I had left Gaines.
I felt the man’s presence at the end of the alley before I saw him. My first thought was that he was with the cleanup crew John had ordered.
He peeked around the corner twice, a phone to his ear—I knew then he wasn’t with John’s team. After a few seconds out of sight, he rounded the corner and started walking toward me.
John emerged from the basement. He looked at me, saw my attention was elsewhere, and turned to see what it was. He saw the man and slowly walked up the stairs to where I was. There was a sudden flash of recognition in John’s face.
“Down!” he yelled at me as he drew his pistol and began firing.
The man walking toward us drew a pair of silenced pistols from under his jacket and fired at John. I was on my feet and running to the other side of the alley, away from John—toward the other man.
“Scott! Get down!” John screamed as he dropped an empty mag from his pistol and slapped in a fresh one from his shoulder holster.
Masonry and splinters exploded around the doorway John was standing in. The man whipped one of the pistols around at me and began firing.
Running, I kicked off the brick edge of the building in front of me and launched myself sideways, trying to gain as much height as possible.
He raised his arm to match my course, but John began firing again and his attention got drawn away for just a split second. That’s all I needed to kick the gun that was pointing at me. I hit the ground hard but tucked into a roll.
John began running toward us. The man began firing at John again, sending him sprawling to the ground, before he turned his remaining pistol on me. I righted myself and dove for the pistol I had kicked from his hand. He got one shot off, striking the concrete next to me, when the slide locked back on his pistol—out of ammo.
My fingers reached the gun on the ground, but he slid forward, kicking it from my grasp. He popped up immediately before trying to stomp me, but I rolled away as his foot came down and then rolled back against his leg. Thinking I had an advantage, I reached around his leg with my arm to trip him. He produced a knife from behind him and tried to stab down into my chest.
I grabbed his wrist with my hand as it came down and then squeezed—and I could tell I was squeezing hard. It was almost as if I was having a seizure of some sort, clamping down on him without willing it. He grunted in pain as I crushed down on him, dropping the knife on top of me—thankfully, not blade first. I pulled down on his arm and then threw my leg up in a kick, catching him in the face. As he fell backward, I heard the car.
It entered the alleyway and stopped at the entrance briefly before accelerating toward us. The gunman pulled toward the alley wall, trying to extract himself from my grip, but I would not—or could not—let go. I let him pull me to my feet in the effort.
That was my first mistake. I should have let go immediately.
The car swerved toward us, smashing its front fender against the wall and then bouncing out into the center of the alley again. I let go of the man’s arm as the car reached us and threw myself backward onto the hood of the car, smashing my back against the windshield.
That was my second mistake. I should have jumped to the side.
The car stopped as I impacted, throwing me off the hood and to the concrete. I tried to push sideways, but there was too much forward momentum, and I had the wind knocked out of me.
John began firing at the windshield as soon as I was clear. With the barrage of fire, the driver could not pull forward. He instead backed out of the alley, slamming into the walls as he went. The other man was not to be seen. I had to assume he had jumped into the car when it had stopped and I was flat on my back sucking wind.
At least they weren’t going to run over me. That was a plus.
John fired his last round into the windshield and the slide on his gun locked back. He dropped the mag before smoothly popping in his last one, flicking the release and letting the slide go forward again. He held his aim on the entrance of the alley until he was certain the vehicle would not return and then he lowered his gun and ran toward me.
“Are you alright?” he asked as I rolled to my side and sat up, my ribs throbbing from the smack against the windshield.
“Where'd the Terminator get to?” I asked.
“He got in the car,” John replied. “Are you alright?”
I moved my feet and legs, stretched my arm across my chest, and then nodded.
He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“How far are you?” he asked into the phone urgently. “We just got hit, and we’re sitting out in the open. Sooner is better,” he snapped, clearly not liking what he had heard.
“Grey sedan, broken windshield. Two men,” he said in response to their questions.
“Great. Two minutes,” he confirmed and hung up.
He looked up and then down both ends of the alley. I reached for the weapon on the ground—the one that still had bullets, and then got shakily to my feet.
He looked at me then and shook his head.
“What?” I asked, shaking from the adrenaline.
He just continued shaking his head and walked to the alley entrance, tucking his weapon into his holster as he reached the street.
I heard police cars in the area, and they seemed to be getting closer, judging by the sound. Certainly a Saturday shootout in Burbank would draw local law enforcement, but it made me tired just thinking about the questions.
The cleanup team arrived at the alley entrance only moments before the police. I looked up and saw badges being flashed and one of the government vehicles pulling in to block access at the other end of the alley.
A few moments later, John was walking back toward me, a black SUV and two sedans following close behind him.
Men in suits exited the sedans and the SUV discharged three men in coveralls, looking like emergency response crews except for the lack of insignia or any other identifying mark. One of them kneeled next to me, setting a medic’s kit on the ground beside me. The other two hurried down into the cellar, pulling a wheeled gurney between them.
“Look at me,” the medic urged.
I looked up and he lifted my eyelid and shined a light in my eyes. He reached his hand around to the back of my head and felt the knot that was rising there. It stung, but I didn’t react. I was still angry. The rage wouldn’t bleed off for some reason.
When his hand returned to his medical box, his latex glove had blood on it. He extracted a few items and moved around behind me and busied himself with treating the cut.
Once that was completed, he reached for my hands. I jerked them away and looked up at him, seething. His expression didn’t change. “Let me see the abrasions on your hands,” he said plainly.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw John standing next to the lead vehicle, watching me. It made me self-conscious about my actions, so I extended my hands and let the medic examine them. He used a sterile wipe and cleaned most of the blood from them, then treated the four knuckles with the worst of the abuse.
When he had finished, he closed his box and walked over to John. I heard him say something about a concussion, abrasions and “nothing to worry about.” I had nearly gotten my breathing under control when the other two medics appeared from the basement carrying the gurney. Gaines was strapped to it, sporting a breathing tube in his nose and an IV
attached to his arm.
As they rolled around the vehicles they stopped, and I saw John leaning over Gaines, talking to him. One of Gaines’s splinted arms reached up and touched John on the chest. I saw John smile before patting him on his shoulder and said something. I couldn’t make out what it was.
Once they loaded him into the back of the SUV, it drove past me and out the other end of the alley. The men in suits began pulling equipment from the cars and disappeared into the cellar.
John came over and sat next to me; he had his phone to his ear again. He looked at me for a moment, and when I didn’t turn to meet his gaze, he handed me the phone.
“It’s for you,” he said.
It took me a few seconds to gather myself together enough to take it from him. While I struggled, he sat patiently, waiting for me. I finally reached over and took it.
“Yep,” I snapped curtly into the phone.
“Scott?” I heard a woman’s voice speaking softly, sympathy dripping from my name alone. It was Dr. Hebron.
“Yeah,” I said, some of my anger melting away.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I repeated, lying.
“I hear you’ve been in a fight,” she said. More sympathy. No judgment.
“You could say that,” I replied stiffly.
“How are you feeling right now?” she asked.
I was still trying to gather my thoughts, but my pause must have taken too long because she started speaking again.
“If you need help coming down, I can be on a flight in a matter of minutes. You don’t have to do anything. There’s no need to figure anything out,” she said.
I paused too long again. I was really having a hard time finding my voice.
“Okay. I’ll arrange for transport. I’ll see you in a few hours,” she said.
“No!” I snapped. The glue in my brain had finally allowed my mouth to respond. “I’m coming home. I’ll see you when I get there.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, probing my response for sincerity. “I can be there in a few hours. You can get some rest. You don’t have to carry this all the way home.”