“I didn’t do it,” he says.
“Whatever. You want to waste your life hocking chemical-sprayed marijuana on a street corner, that’s your business. I’m not here to arrest you. Just ask a small favour.”
“I ain’t no snitch!” he protests, “Piss off, lady.”
“Or,” I reply, “we can do this the hard way, because let’s face it; not a great idea selling weed down the street from a national security agency.”
The dealer considers it, then asks what the favour is. I unholster my service weapon and offer it to him.
“Take this. Cause a distraction. I’m sure you have some petty gangland cause to avenge. If you don’t, you might be salvageable after all.”
The dealer takes the gun, turning it over in his hands- shocked and appalled this is happening.
“Serious?” he asks.
“Believe me. In a few minutes, they’ll be chasing me. Won’t give a damn about you.”
“And…why would I do this?”
“Because I need something to draw attention one way, before I draw it another. I don’t arrest you for drug trafficking, and you go back to your happy, if slightly pointless, existence.”
It is probably the strangest request of all time, but the dealer agrees. I tell him to hide when he fires the gun, ten minutes from now; to do it near the Hoover Building, fire three shots and lose the evidence.
Returning to the FBI headquarters, I greet the security guard outside, clutching the small plastic bag from the pharmacy close. I pass security, who doesn’t question me, unlike my first, second and third days. I am one of them now.
Recalling the elevator to the lobby, I exhale what could be my final breaths of freedom. A lift headed back to my floor arrives first. Several people returning from a late lunch pile on.
Thankfully, I will be spared the overcrowded ride up. I am headed for the basement, where I will kill the building’s power, ascend the stairs and fulfill Jordan West’s vile instructions.
In my head, I hear Maya.
It is not too late to turn back, Ro.
Unfortunately, Auntie; that’s no longer true.
The basement of the Hoover Building is dead, in comparison to all the floors resting on it. Still clutching the pharmacy bag, my hip feels lighter with the empty holster. To rectify its missing weight, I hold the bag on the same side, and hope the dime dealer on the corner of 11th will hold up his end.
Reaching a corner in the hallway, around which the electrical room sits, I take cover against it, peering up the adjacent corridor. The room itself is guarded by two burly men, and I regret leaving my gun with a common criminal.
I don’t kick myself for long, because three gunshots ring out above me. Garbled commands pour over the security guards’ shoulder radios, and they break from the door, running right towards me.
As they clear the corner, I launch my fist into one’s face, bringing my knee up into the other’s solar plexus, then return to finish the job on the one clutching his eye socket. Seconds later, both men writhe at my feet. Footsteps pound in the lobby above as several agents probably pour toward the front door, anticipating a terror attack.
All clear.
Rearming myself with one of the guards’ guns, I bolt for the electrical room. A few well-placed kicks, the door flies inward. Inside, circuit boards and a transformer fill an otherwise empty room. I have no plans to permanently disable the building, only slow its operations down so they can’t stop me.
Flipping the gun so its handle is a blunt weapon, I slam it into the electrical box door, crumpling it. Another couple impacts, it busts open, and I do the same to its innards.
The darkness which befalls the whole floor reminds me of the night Tim claimed Maya, and took her to the afterlife. Outside in the hallway, emergency lighting activates along the floors; yellow spheres on either side, providing guidance to the failed power system.
More feet pound above me; I may only have seconds to get clear. I return to the corridor, running the opposite direction from the one I came, until I reach a staircase. Sliding my wrist through the plastic bag’s dual handles, it falls down my forearm, freeing both hands to grip the stolen weapon in front of me.
I have to be out of here before those guards are roused.
Each step up the seven floors is one rock in a mountain of my Hell. My forehead drips and regret washes over every fibre of my being. Contrary to Maya in my head, there is no turning back.
Why did they pick me, Tim?
I can’t help but ponder Death’s response as he sat at my kitchen table, consoling my runaway thoughts.
I think, he said, in times of very few options, we look to the best and the brightest of us to lead the way, but rarely consider the burden placed upon those few.
I’m hardly the best and brightest now.
Returning to my floor, the bodies number fewer, but move more urgently. I beeline for my office, but am stopped by a gruff voice calling my name.
“Knox!”
Hardwick. My partner is frazzled, running along the guided floors to join me. I usher him into my office, because seconds are precious, and I can’t risk him being among the group who finds the unconscious guards in the basement.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask, “I got here, and it was chaos.”
“Not sure,” Hardwick says as I close the door behind us and set the plastic bag down on the desk. My office lacks emergency lighting, forcing me to partially open the blinds. “There were gunshots outside, and then the power went down. We dispatched a team to the basement to fix it.”
The seconds may be even tighter.
Putting hands on his hips, Hardwick exhales. For the first time, I can see the sense of duty which holds him to this job, regardless of everything it has cost. Under the rough exterior and grumpy attitude, he only wants to protect the people he works with.
Which makes what has to happen next so fucking unfortunate.
“I have to tell you, Knox, I-”
I don’t give him the chance to continue talking, because this is what needs to happen. Unholstering the gun I stole downstairs, I train its lethal end between his eyes. At this range, there would be no chance of dodging the bullet.
“You?”
I am not a monster.
“I’m sorry, Stephen.”
I am doing this for a reason.
“You work for West?” he asks. The question is a knife, driven for my abdomen. The imaginary pain does not deter my shaking weapon, but it fucking hurts more than anything.
What reason is that?
To save Emily Rickard.
I am not a monster.
“Put your hands above your head, and get on your knees,” I command. There is no justification in the world for going along with this, and I won’t insult him trying to make one up. “Now!”
Hardwick fights every shred of resistance toward lunging at me, as I had to the first time I spoke with Patrick Barker.
In the end, he obeys, because I’m not afraid to shoot him.
“You won’t get away with this, Ramona,” Hardwick says, the back of his head to me. “You won’t make it out of the building.”
Likewise, I am incapable of listening to rational thought at the moment, bringing the butt of my gun down into Hardwick’s skull. As he collapses on the ground, lost to the rest of these events, I am so sorry.
What’s more, I’m not. If the worst happens, he will be spared scrutiny.
Circling back to the door, I lock it, then drag Hardwick’s unconscious form behind my desk. Emptying the plastic bag’s contents onto it, I set about preparing the chloroform. Deciding against the vinyl gloves- I’ve already given myself away, and they won’t find much on damp gauze- I douse the rough material until it drips between my fingers, accounting for the amount it will dry before meeting John Hazel’s lips.
Returning to the door, I look back at Hardwick, whose shoes stick out past the desk’s boundaries. The rest of him is obscured. I turn the lock and leave th
e office, bunching the wet cloth in my fist.
I gun for Hazel’s office, where a senior agent emerges as I begin to knock. He greets me by my given name and I smile back, not remembering his.
The Director waves me in with a smile of his own, and I enter, keeping the bunched fist behind my back. The thud in my chest is louder than ever; so intense, it’s a wonder Hazel doesn’t hear it himself.
“Ramona,” he says, sitting on the front of his desk, knees buckled to hold him upright. He must have gone without the braces today. I point my eyes forward; a blank slate, like I always thought I was.
Turns out, I possess fear in royal fucking abundance.
“Anything to report?”
“Not much,” I respond, “It’s a mess out there, sir.”
Hazel crosses his arms, chuckling; it is all I can do to not let the tide of terror in my heart show on my face.
“You’re telling me. I’m being told the gunshots outside are unrelated. Could be a gang thing. There are no witnesses. Strange, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“Yes, sir.”
“We have our best engineers looking into the electrical situation right now, but it could be a while before it’s resolved. Hopefully, we’ll get some answers back before then. Speaking of which, have you seen Agent Hardwick? I have a small task I would like you two to take care of while we wait for this situation to be sorted out.” His words all run together like my breaths.
“Ramona?”
The world is dead, but I have to be alive to see its end.
Wake up, Knox.
“Yes, sir,” I say, “Sorry. Rough week.”
Hazel chuckles, tells me I’m doing solid work, but the world is a wind tunnel and I am passing through it.
“Did we learn anything new from Barker?”
Ask Ryan Royce.
I can’t divulge my findings yet. I need to see West’s instructions through, save Emily. I need to build a case against the detective, or risk destroying his life on Patrick Barker’s word.
“Agent Knox?”
Before I can follow up, the phone on his desk rings. Its tones pierce my panic like a needle goes through a balloon. Everything in me screams to admit what I’ve done as his hand reaches for the phone.
My worst anxieties tell me the guards have been found.
The Director turns his back to me, and I can’t wait any longer. Rushing him, I close the soaked cloth around his nose and mouth. I anticipate struggle; a flailing arm nearly knocks the phone off the desk, weren’t I to pull him out of the line of sight of anyone walking by his window. Hazel fights me, but the element of surprise weakened him, and resistance is short-lived.
Lowering him onto the floor behind his desk- as I concealed Hardwick behind mine- I have completed two of Jordan West’s three objectives.
Only the third and hardest awaits.
The elevator to the fourth floor opens in front of me. Like the seventh I came from, it has been emptied of agents as they were mostly elsewhere to begin with; leaving only a few guards to watch over the Bureau’s prisoners.
Gripping Hazel’s swipe card, stolen from the inner breast pocket of his blazer, I have access to the entire building. The breadth of clearance privileges and national security in the palm of my hand is what will get me out of the FBI with Patrick Barker.
You think after Jim Partridge, they would have learned something about internal security.
Only barebones personnel remain on the floor, and within moments, they are all incapacitated by my hand. Drawing my weapon on my belt, I swipe Hazel’s badge at the cells, opening the room Barker has been imprisoned since we captured him .
When the door is ajar, and he stares back at me, our discomfort with each other is immediate and profound; my revolting heartbeat is only drowned out by several other prisoners banging on their cell doors, yelling indecipherably.
If I were them, I would want answers too.
Barker’s face is badly bruised and bandaged where flesh broke under my beatings; but he has received bare medical attention in the meantime, which is more than he deserves.
“Ah,” Barker smiles, “I was wondering when you were coming by.”
This was the fucking plan all along.
Do you not think everything I have put before you was meant to happen, Agent Knox? That shrine was meant to be found. Patrick was supposed to be caught and tell you the man you’re fucking is one of ours.
I am going to kill all of these people.
I will take my time with Royce.
“Do exactly as I say,” I tell Barker, “or I’ll kill you myself.”
Barker shows hands, and walks ahead of me, out of the cell block and past the interrogation area. Gun still trained on him, I instruct Barker toward the stairs, past limp bodies lining the lighted floors.
Taking an elevator would be suicide. So is passing the lobby landing, or the first two subterranean levels on our way to the parking garage. Instead, I push Barker one level lower, onto the floor where Records and Accounting are. Nobody cares to protect papers more than they do prisoners, and I am unsurprised to find the entire level empty.
“End of the floor,” I command Barker. “Move!”
My prisoner obeys. If he tries anything, I have the gun, but can’t run and hold onto him at the same time. He’ll have to abide by the honour system if he wants to live.
On the side of the building facing E Street, the building’s facade is higher, but jumping from it will mean a rougher landing. There are floors above us which I haven’t taken the time to learn what they hold, but nothing to soften our fall outside a row of windows, installed to brighten the Bureau drones’ day with some sunlight.
We reach it; just as I wonder how they’re not onto me yet, an alarm begins to blare above our head. It reverberates throughout the entire building, a low and intermittent horn alerting agents to a security breach.
Fuck.
Unplugging a CRT monitor from one of the nearby cubicles’ desks, I return to the double pane windows, launching the screen through it. The glass shatters, sending raw knives onto the sidewalk below. Clearing jagged remains from the frame, I instruct Barker to follow the ledge. Any second, FBI agents will swarm the floor, with expressed orders to kill the rogue one working for Jordan West.
“Move!” I tell him. Night is falling as I follow him out onto the ledge which barely accommodates one foot in its width, let alone two. Shimmying along the unbroken window panes, I thank whatever God there is for the power being disabled, or we would be sitting ducks.
“The Dumpster,” I tell him, spotting a wide container near a scaffolding. The building doesn’t get the repairs it badly needs often, but its rare blessing is ours as well. It is the only reason for the box to be there. “We have to jump into it!”
Barker does not argue. Upon positioning himself over the large garbage container, he leaps from the edge, landing on black balloons below. I follow suit, launching myself off the ledge once Barker has cleared the landing area. He helps me climb out, hoisting me over the Dumpster’s height.
Just as my feet touch solid ground, the worst occurs. From every side and corner of E Street Northwest, flashing lights, sirens and bodies flock toward me like a dark cloud, ensuring we will never escape. The whir of a helicopter reaches my ears only moments before vision is overwhelmed by dual lights shining down from the darkening sky.
In addition to FBI vehicles, several DCPD cruisers have joined the assault, blue stripes painted over their white cars screeching to a stop.
I scan the apprehending forces which have come for me. Men in full body armour, others in windbreakers with the yellow lettering across the backs outnumber me ten to one. Peering through the splash of blue uniforms exiting municipal vehicles, I don’t see Stephen Hardwick or Ryan Royce.
All there is, rather, is the full weight of justice bearing down, as I raise my hands in full surrender.
I am not a monster.
Chapter Fifteen
I have n
ever been in love.
That might be a weird thing to cross my mind, as a small army of bulletproof vehicles and colleagues dressed in riot gear confront me. Snipers take positions on rooftops, their crosshairs burrowing into my soul.
It might not be that odd a sentiment. Watching your entire life wash away in front of your eyes, assaulted by a hurricane of black and blue and blinding lights might make most people consider all the things they never got to try or accomplish.
I might have fallen in love once; I would like to think it never happened because I am too cold and detached to foster any sense of intimacy. I only seem to end up fucking men like Ryan Royce.
In truth, the opportunity was never there. I didn’t go places love is said to frequent, because I am a shut-in on my free time, and don’t spend weekends and a small fortune going out to bars. If I’m drinking, it’s by myself in a corner, staring into my wine glass; wondering how long before a trip to the store is warranted.
It doesn’t matter now. I have failed. Emily Rickard will die, and my guardian angel has abandoned me. I asked why the FBI hadn’t learned from the Partridge experience. They did. As evidenced by the sheer number of weapons trained on my heart, it taught them everything they needed to know.
I am not a monster.
Two agents help a recovering Director Hazel to the scene. My boss coughs and pushes through discomfort to help hold me accountable. Weakness begins at the knees, and I regret all of this.
I cannot meet the dismay in his eyes, but must.
Ian said you were fierce.
Hazel once believed in me.
Before I have to bear the full weight of his disappointment, there is a trembling beneath my feet; it is followed by the sound of water running, like currents of a river pouring over cliffs, landing in a basin below. It grabs the attention of everyone groundside, including Barker.
“What is that?” one agent asks.
“You heard it, too?”
“Look! Up there!”
Like everyone else’s head in the vicinity, mine turns to look upwards. When I finally see the point of the sound’s origin, it makes my jaw drop and eyes widen.
Leviathan Page 13