To Iceland, With Love

by I. C. Springman

at one another, looked at Jane. Willa stuck her head in the door, singing “Shit hitting fan. That is all.”

  “Go,” Jane waved them away. “Seriously. All the way. Consider that an order. For old time’s sake.” They went.

  John scooped up the guns the girls had collected, tucking a couple into his waistband, but holding onto James’s Glock. “If you’re threatened or hurt,” he continued, as though he had all the time in the world, “anger can give you the energy and motivation you need to straighten things out, make things better. It’s when you hang on to rage and feed the hostility that it can hurt you. Would you mind closing the door, sweetheart?”

  Mind? I thought you’d never ask.” Jane closed the sound-proof door and leaned against it with her head to one side as John wheeled, aimed directly at James’s chest, and coolly pulled the trigger.

  The shot reverberated and James rocked backward in well-deserved pain.

  “Rats,” Jane said. “You know? I forgot to tell you. He’s wearing Kevlar today. But thank you, darling. When you’re right, you’re right.” She drew a deep yoga breath and let it go oh so slowly. “I feel so much better.”

  James spoke through gritted teeth. “Congratulations. You just made the record books for worst career move ever.”

  “Then you won’t mind if you never see us again,” Jane said, opening the door. “See John and Jane run. Wait – what’s that?” She bent to pluck something from the floor. The Jolly Roger thumb drive, which had almost gotten lost in the scuffle. “Oh look! Speaking of pirates.”

  “I saw it and thought of you,” John smiled.

  “John,” Jane said, as pleased as if he’d given her the Hope diamond. She tucked it into her breast pocket and gave it a little pat. “Good luck charm.”

  “It was a test, Jane,” a recovering James managed to gasp. “And you are failing. You have failed. Both of you. You’re done. And that goes for your entire Sesame Street gang.”

  “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too!” Jane vamped. “I believe that, actually. At least, I believe you’ll try. Everything else is a fairy tale.”

  “Last chance,” James warned, watching as his prize pigeons prepared to fly the coop, with his future in tow. “Come clean, let sleeping peons lie, and you can spend the rest of your days hanging out with Ken Lay on that private sunny beach.”

  “I am so not buying it,” Jane shook her head in supreme disbelief.

  “And Jane makes all our major purchase decisions,” John said.

  “Suit yourselves,” James growled. “Your funeral.”

  The music had died to a whisper so it was possible to hear John and Jane quite clearly as they walked away.

  “Wasn’t it Yogi Berra who said you have to go to other people’s funerals or they won’t come to yours?”

  “It ain’t over till it’s over.”

  “Déjà vu all over again...”

  35 Endgame

  The phones were ringing off the hook in the control center, but otherwise the place was a tomb. Jane’s crew had left a Post-It note on the elevator and a body in front of it.

  “Other kids playing post-office in break room, don’t trip over new guy, Vinnie looks great in drag, call me sometime, Whitney. PS - Don’t forget to duck @ 11:45.”

  “What time is it now?” Jane asked. “You know, that guy’s paramilitary.” She inspected the new guy’s body armor. Noted the helmet a few feet off and the goose egg on his forehead. “Where’d he come from?”

  “11:44. And they don’t travel solo. Stairs?”

  At that moment the elevator chimed.

  “Uh –“ Jane glimpsed more helmets and body armor as the doors began to part. Felt her neck snap as John snatched her past a palm tree, around a corner, and out of sight.

  “Mamba Leader One, this is Mamba Leader Five, we have a man down at main base, do you read, over.”

  John pulled Jane toward the exit sign at the end of the hallway, silently marking time with the muzzle of the Glock. Three, two, one.

  It was a pretty impressive blast, given what Vinnie had had to work with. Smoke, alarms, sprinklers, overhead sirens, and flashing lights followed. Glass everywhere. Leaving chaos behind, Jane and John got to the stairwell and started down. Only to hear a door flung open a flight or so below and dozens of men in battle gear headed their way. John and Jane reversed course and scrambled upstairs instead, hiding in the shadows at the very top of the steps leading to the roof. The entire contingent emptied into the Darkwater suite. As soon as the door closed on the last of them, John and Jane vaulted over the railing and hurtled downward as fast as they could go.

  “John Boy, that you?”

  Past the third landing, John looked back to see a friendly face under a raised riot shield.

  “Dooley? Wish I could stop and shoot the breeze –“

  “That the Mrs.? I heard tell she was a knockout,” Dooley craned over the banister to try and get a better look.

  “Give Miss Peg a kiss for me,” John peered up through the gloom from several floors below. A shot rang out and he hastily withdrew.

  Dooley straightened up to confront the shooter, a street-tough Columbian in his rock-ribbed thirties. “I don’t remember hearing anyone say ‘Halt or I’ll shoot.’”

  “Out of my way, old-timer.”

  “Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?”

  “All I know is a dude back there said the dude down there is worth a million bucks.” The youngster tried to muscle past all 250 lbs of Dooley, who calmly stuck out a drill sergeant’s foot. The shooter surfed to the next landing on his face.

  “I meant me, Junior. Show a little respect. That dude down there is the reason my kids didn’t grow up to be orphans. And you don’t want to be pointing that thing at me, son,” Dooley said to the shooter, who was spitting blood and aiming in the wrong direction. “Cause you and your kids will be thanking me some day.” His words were validated by a flurry of gunshots and a couple of screams. He pulled a packet of beef jerky out of his flak jacket and held it out to the younger man as a peace offering. “’Course if they was bad hurt, you wouldn’t hear a thing.”

  John and Jane had reached the bottom and an inflection point. No more stairs. Two doors.

  “Lobby,” Jane said. “Windows, wide open spaces, civilians.”

  “Garage,” John said. “Underground, cover, getaway cars.”

  “Camera,” Jane pointed.

  “Christ,” John said, and promptly shot out the lens. “We’re probably ahead of them, but let’s take it easy. Stand back.” He opened the heavy door slowly, waved the Glock in the opening. Nothing. “I’ll go first.”

  “We could go together.”

  The door on the landing above clanked open softly. Jane squeezed off a round. The door clanged shut. “Okay, okay, after you.”

  With his back against the wall and Jane behind him, John opened the door with one hand, flung it wide and dove down a ramp toward the nearest object – a large, square pillar. Seeing nothing in the way of movement and hearing no hail of gunfire, Jane somersaulted down the ramp after him. The parking garage stretched out for almost an acre in all directions, but a low ceiling gave the place a close oppressive air that was not alleviated by bright white paint or too many fluorescent bulbs, buzzing overhead like deranged hornets. Crouched beside a van in the handicapped section, they assessed the situation. One hundred yards to the exit, which was obstructed by a rolling metal grille and an automated barrier arm. No sign of any Darkwater troops. The lot was full, so they would have cover most of the way. A lone pedestrian stood waiting for the building elevator.

  Bent double, they sprinted for the sunshine. The only thing between them and freedom was the metal curtain, through which they could see a sidewalk, the street, traffic, an alley near at hand. A truck double-parked next to a fire hydrant right outside. “Terminator Pest Control,” it said. “What’s Bugging You?�
��

  “This baby is not moving,” John decided, after heaving at the grille a time or two.

  “There must be a switch,” Jane put out her hand to open a yellow electrical box on the wall to the left of the grille.

  “Jane!” a woman hissed from the window of the truck. It was Whitney, in a white coverall and a shower hat.

  Jane felt the bullet glance off the electrical box before she heard the report from the assault rifle that fired it. The last thing she saw before she hit the concrete was Whitney holding up her cell phone. Call me, she mouthed. Seeing Jane was unhurt, John vaulted a waist-high concrete barrier and methodically squeezed off a round every time a black helmet broke the line of sight. Jane rolled behind another pillar and stood up. Darkwater soldiers were jumping off the ramp, crouching in the elevator, lining up outside the grille.

  Jane locked the M4 in semi-automatic, peeled a flash grenade off her ammo belt, and nodded to John.

  “This is going to be a blast.”

  “Pineapple in the side pocket?” John suggested.

  She let fly toward the elevator, yelling “Grenade!” and spraying the area with about a third of her clip. As the mercks scattered, she made it to John’s side of the barrier.

  “Hon,” Jane said, pulling another pin, on a concussion grenade this time. “If you want to go ahead and get the car, I’ll be right with you.”

  36 Blow It Up

  Upstairs in the Darkwater interrogation room, the fact that he was alive and had been freed in very short order did not