Leviathan

by Nicholas Gagnier

  Hanging over the armada of vehicles dispatched to apprehend us, a black cloud unlike any storm I’ve ever witnessed hangs low in the air. Its exposure is such that even against the dark sky, it is distinguishable. Appearing as a squid of gaseous tentacles, enormous shadow limbs descend from its center mass. Two of them hook to the bottom of one frontline SUV. The chassis is flipped high into the air, arcing over all the others, landing in a roll down the middle of E Street. Traffic caught in its trajectory spins and brakes to avoid colliding with the airborne vehicle. Several idle cars are taken out or sent spinning away as it comes to a stop.

  The black cloud does not stop there; reaching for the bottom of a second vehicle, another SUV is spun into the air. Agents attached to it fly off, while others inside are hurled into the Hoover building’s facade. Windows and bricks fall away in pieces, plunging to the ground below.

  The authorities- whose apprehension of me was certain until a moment ago- yell commands and bark conflicting orders at each other. Director Hazel, already disoriented from the chloroform, is whisked away into an even higher state of confusion. The otherworldly assailant continues flipping cars and absorbing bullets as I shout at Barker to veer left.

  Even if I manage to fulfill Jordan West’s wishes, my life is over. Emily will live, and be free, back with her parents.

  I will die to accomplish what I set out to do.

  “Move!” I yell as Barker’s pace slows.

  Helicopter lights continue to follow us, even as the FBI’s ground forces are ripped apart. Reassuring myself this is all somehow for the greater good, I push Barker on, sprinting in the direction of Georgetown. I think the lights might chase us forever, their circular beams illuminating circles of sidewalk around my feet.

  Losing hope, despair is alleviated by those lights beginning to move erratically, losing sight of my position; I glance up to find one of the cloud’s limbs wrapped around the chopper’s tail. The airborne vehicle lurches, pitching down, before being pulled back by the shadow limb. Where it disappears between buildings, a plume of fire and ash rises into the sky.

  “Go! Go! Go!” I scream at Barker, pushing past fleeing civilians, trying to ignore wailing sirens. The former altar boy sprints ahead of me, but I keep the gun out, moving with my arms; just in case he tries anything.

  I can’t waltz up main streets the whole way, or I’ll lead the FBI right to West’s doorstep. That would normally be a good thing, but won’t offer the chance to clear my name.

  I’ll just be gunned down like the rest of them.

  At the corner of 14th, I spot a parked sedan, and push my prisoner toward it. Looking around- the black cloud has either decimated the forces in pursuit of me, or they have lost sight of the rogue FBI agent- the streets are void of life. Like the whole world fled in a single direction, few people stuck around to see how this sorry tale ends.

  Bringing an elbow into the backseat window, glass is sent flying through the interior. Clearing away the jagged edges with the same joint, my hand reaches for the driver door’s lock, pulling the pin upward. Once inside, I allow Barker entry to the passenger side, and set to work hot wiring the ignition.

  “Know what you’re doing?” the altar boy asks.

  “Shut up,” I reply. Unhooking the ignition with my pocket knife, I yank out wires, stripping away their ends. The car chugs to life; we pull away from the curb toward the Georgetown address West relayed to me.

  Turning onto K Street, down 18th and back onto Pennsylvania, it would be a straight shot to my destination- if it weren’t for a fresh round of pursuers rounding the corner of 23rd from the south. Armed agents in SWAT gear cling to open passenger doors, chasing me out of the District Commons and back onto the main road.

  Shit.

  I hit the brakes, skidding into the oncoming lane. A van almost plows into me; it only grazes us, allowing the SUV on my tail to make unwelcome gains.

  “What the fuck?” Barker cries, looking behind him. West’s protege is the least of my worries. Maneuvering around cars, drifting over yellow lines like they are merely suggestions; traffic around the sedan reacts to avoid the erratic driver plagued by the law’s full force bearing down on her.

  Glancing at my rearview for the first time, I realize there are not one, but two giant vehicles in pursuit. The sedan barrels across the median, sending cars in the opposite lane skidding to a halt. I barely avoid collision with a pickup, swerving around it with only centimeters to spare. Unfortunately for the FBI vehicle directly behind me, it cannot avoid the stopped Ford impeding its path. The second barely misses adding to the pileup, screeching around the crumpled metal bringing Washington’s busiest road to a full stop.

  “We’re fucked!” my prisoner cries in the seat beside me. Again, his protests are worthless in light of the Herculean task before me.

  I have shaken one of my problems.

  Just as I return to my rightful lane, wondering how to deal with the other SUV in my rearview, the black cloud makes its reappearance. A giant shadow arm hooks to the bottom of the large vehicle, thrusting it sideways. Due to their velocity, my pursuers are not simply vaulted horizontally, but high in the air, twirling with merciless speed. Connecting with the ground, the vehicle shatters into red plumes, black smoke and flying debris, all accompanied by thunder inside its explosion.

  We lost them.

  Was that thing Tim?

  I can’t explain what my eyes witnessed; I only know it saved me, and how few things in this universe would even attempt rescuing me from my own stupidity.

  “Think they’re gone?” Barker asks beside me.

  I don’t have the chance to answer him. From one of the first intersections after crossing into Georgetown, a third black SUV launches itself from the corner of 30th and M. Its grill plows into Barker’s door with reckless abandon, sending the sedan spinning across lanes until another car hits us, slowing its trajectory.

  Coming to a full stop, I groan inside the smoking pile of metal. The passenger side rendered an unrecognizable mess, Barker rubs his head in the seat next to me, having sustained yet another injury.

  The man’s face is slowly becoming that of a monster as he is beaten down and disassembled. I ask if he’s alright, but don’t really care; because looking out his broken window, I look up to see a sight which makes my heart sink and hope forever abandon me.

  Stepping over pieces of glass strewn all around the sedan, my partner walks towards me, gun drawn.

  “Ramona, get out of the car!”

  He is alone, but I am defenseless. He is armed with only a pistol, but I am disoriented and no match for him.

  “Step out of the car with your hands above your head! Both of you!”

  I have failed.

  Head pounding, knees weak, I follow Hardwick’s commands, lifting the handle. Barker’s side is so mangled, he has to climb over the console dividing us, out the driver door.

  As my legs straighten, I take in a hundred sets of eyes watching me from the periphery behind Hardwick. Some of the bystanders cover their mouth in shock at the scene playing out in this quiet neighbourhood.

  I would be right there with them.

  Hands in the air, I look over at Patrick Barker, whose leg bandage needs changing and is only powered by adrenaline now, due to his debilitating injury. Glancing back at Hardwick, I know my only chance lies in convincing him.

  “Stephen,” I say slowly, “you have to listen to me-”

  “Shut up, Knox. Throw your weapon to the ground, kick it towards me.”

  When this is done, he leans down, picking up the gun I stole from a security guard in the Bureau’s basement. Securing it in his holster, Hardwick trains his own back on me.

  “Stephen, Emily Rickard is alive. I would not have done all this if it wasn’t to save her fucking life!”

  Hardwick says nothing, only returning a scowl.

  If I don’t make my case here and now, Emily will die and I may never get the chance.

  “Please,” I implor
e him, “you have to believe me, Stephen. Royce is involved! He was one of the boys in the Los Angeles photos.”

  My partner squints over his gun.

  “Wait, what?”

  “I swear to fucking God. It’s true, Stephen. Jordan West called me. In my office. He told me if I didn’t bring Patrick Barker to him, he would kill Emily when the time limit expired.” I have to convince him. “That’s why I couldn’t come to you. That’s why I had to knock you out; so you wouldn’t have to answer for anything.”

  “Back the fuck up...Royce?”

  So preoccupied with proving my innocence, I didn’t account for the weight of that particular revelation.

  “He told me,” I say, gesturing to Barker, “I confirmed it with the Los Angeles photos, right before West called with these instructions.”

  Without warning, Hardwick turns his wrath on the prisoner I freed at the Spider’s behest. Grabbing Barker’s bruised neck in his grip, my partner pushes the former altar boy up against the carcass of my escape vehicle, now lying totalled in the street.

  “What do you know?” Hardwick asks.

  “Nothing!” Barker says, “I don’t know anything!”

  His back slams into the hood, fingers clawing at Hardwick’s hand, enclosed around his jugular.

  “I find that hard to believe, son! Considering you know enough to make us doubt an esteemed colleague of ours. Isn’t that right?”

  “No! It was just what Jordan told me to say!”

  “Is that right?” Hardwick replies, “I wonder what else you can be compelled to tell us. Where is Emily Rickard?”

  Watching him shove Barker up against the husk of the vehicle I stole, interrogating the former altar boy with his husky bark and the fear of death; for a second, I think my misdeeds have been forgotten.

  Nothing has been spoken of the black cloud protecting me, either. I have no answers for it.

  “I already have the address, Stephen,” I say.

  “You do?” Hardwick asks, unflinching in his aim toward Barker’s head. The muzzle against my prisoner’s temple, I would almost enjoy it under different circumstances.

  “West gave it to me. It’s where….it’s where I was bringing him.”

  “And you’re sure the girl is at this location?”

  He doesn’t turn to meet my gaze, and I won’t ask him to. My partner’s respect for me is gone; all this time and effort trying to earn it, thrown out the window.

  “Do you have a better lead?”

  Hardwick thinks on it, before lunging at Barker; stopping himself just short as my prisoner screams under the threat of pain. My partner releases him, and he sinks down the sedan’s husk, sobbing quietly.

  (What happened to being better than them, Knox?)

  “Get in the car. Both of you,” he commands, only stopping to rip off the hanging fender from his front end. I force Barker to his feet, piling him in the backseat, joining Hardwick in the front.

  “I really am sorry, Stephen.”

  My former partner- I can only assume prison awaits at the end of this insanity- says nothing, glaring at the open road. Behind me, Barker stares out the window, determined to keep his mouth shut.

  I join him in admiring the scenery; what could be my final moments as a free woman. I have handed Jordan West the agency’s reputation on a silver platter. Along with mine, Hardwick, Hazel’s and Ian Armstrong, he has driven a steak knife through it, cutting along the meat’s grain.

  All we can do is helplessly watch as blood spills onto the plate, knowing we will be eaten alive as well.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The warehouse Jordan West directed me to is, like the Los Angeles church, decrepit. It has long been abandoned, leaving me to wonder how the city has not knocked down the remains. If not the city, then the fire marshal. Parking in a small lot concealed between it and its neighbouring low-rise apartment building, questionable graffiti on the walls and rats running over its tarmac have long replaced any sense of worth the place had.

  Now, it exists as a stain on property values; a blight on the scenery, just as people have called the FBI building for decades.

  I don’t wait for Hardwick’s permission to exit the vehicle, pulling Barker from the backseat.

  “You go in, scope things out,” my partner says, “Don’t be getting any funny ideas about leaving, though.”

  Slamming the back door with more force than it requires to latch, I peer in the open passenger window. Muggy September air does not improve with sunset. The SUV’s air conditioning is screwy from the crash, and I had to lower the power windows to escape the smell of a shattered air conditioning unit.

  “What, not going to help me see this through?”

  “I’m going to stay out here. Make sure nobody unsavoury sneaks up on you. Might want this back, too.”

  Hardwick hands the gun he confiscated from me over the center console. Through the window, I grab the handle, pulling back with it. My grip around Barker’s bicep tightens; the altar boy looks bored, grunting at occasional dull pain through his leg.

  “Thanks for having my back,” I say.

  “Yeah, yeah. Go get our man.”

  Pulling Barker with me, I reach for the door. At the moment my arm exerts the necessary force to yank it open, a pit is rolled into the bottom of my stomach. Darkness swallows us, and the door closes, sealing my soul in its essence.

  There is no light for this place.

  The interior is small. Empty. Soulless, like me, but far more depraved than I was ever capable of being. Welcomed by several faces, none of the expressions awaiting us convey happiness or empathy. They are familiar, every one of them. There are at least ten, all males. Several are dressed in street clothes matching Barker’s. Two wear the same sweater as my prisoner. I don’t see Emily Rickard, but I do see them, and the resemblances are unmistakable.

  The boys from the Los Angeles photos.

  Counting in my head, I was right. Two of the boys are missing, including Jordan West and Ryan Royce.

  I do not know the names of these men, but recognize them under the chiseled jaws and effects time has on ten year old kids.

  They are rage toward the world, fully grown.

  I push Barker forward into the group, which brings the tally to eleven. Raising my gun, I target them one by one.

  “Welcome, Agent Knox,” the one dressed in a suit says. A few come to their brother’s aid, asking Barker if he is alright. Behind the suited man, the rest simply stare. “We have been expecting you.”

  “What is this?” I ask, continuing to vary my target, swinging the barrel wildly between them. “Where’s Jordan West?”

  “Mr. West will join us momentarily,” the suited man replies. “He told us to make sure you arrived safely, and were made comfortable.”

  “And Emily Rickard? I was told she would be here.”

  The man smiles.

  “Emily is being held at a safe house, pending the outcome of your negotiation with Mr. West.”

  “That wasn’t the deal.”

  I don’t know what I expected. A tradeoff. The civil conversation Jordan West claims to so badly want, but doesn’t play according to the rules to earn it.

  I can’t maintain professionalism any longer.

  “None of you are going to get away with this, you know,” I tell them. “Think you can just play God with people’s families, ripping them the fuck apart! Do you even understand what you’re doing to these poor people?”

  The rules would be trading Barker for the girl. But then, rules have never applied to Jordan West.

  I don’t even want to know the answer anymore.

  “You’re all sick,” I say, “Just a bunch of pathetic, twisted freaks, living out some revenge fantasy in which you mock the fabric of everything good our society is built on! Fucking assholes!”

  “I think you should calm down,” the suited man says, without a hint of empathy for my state of mind. Maya is dead. My guardian angel is nowhere near.

  I a
m finished.

  “Tell me where Emily Rickard is, or I will fucking shoot all of you in cold blood. Right here. I’m already going to prison, boys. I have no fear of taking you down with me.”

  I might be a monster after all.

  “What’s it going to be?” I ask, to the suited man’s blank expression. The hands around my gun tighten; my finger shakes at the trigger, causing the barrel to lift ever so slightly. “Go on, test me. I have nothing left to lose.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Ramona.”

  The voice behind me is immediately clear as it is true. I don’t want to turn around and face it; of all narratives in my head, the voice does not belong here.

  In swinging to face it, I cannot give the sight words.

  Stephen Hardwick, along with Ryan Royce, has me at gunpoint. Advancing toward me, my partner’s shoulders are relaxed, arm straight, aim deadly. The barrel of his service weapon is trained directly on me.

  Everything else is forgotten.

  Stephen Hardwick is complicit, and all hope is lost.

  “You?” I ask, echoing him in my office. Beside him, Royce is expressionless- no hint of the man who seduced me.

  Before either man responds, something presses against my face; it takes a second of struggling against it to realize someone snuck up behind me, throwing a plastic bag over my head.

  No oxygen to formulate thoughts or an escape plan, the gun falls from my hand as it reaches to help the other in freeing my airway.

  Air becomes sparser, hyperventilation burning through what remains. Within seconds, the only thing left to inhale is the plastic wrapped around my face.

  Knees buckle as my brain gives up struggling. Falling back, I am guided to the floor as the bag is pulled off my head. I choke on fresh air rushing into my lungs, but they are too compromised to process it, forcing it back up as gagging.

  Over me, silhouettes inspect my fluttering eyes and gasping posture. I hear who I think is Hardwick, ordering Emily’s captors to pick me up; time is short. But as something grabs me by both arms, hoisting me to my feet, I can’t fight the drowsiness, and fade to black.