Ransom X

by a b

  Chapter 63 Anonymous Monster

  Legacy growled to a stop under a flagpole, metal clips rattled against the hollow pipe in a nervous titter. He ignored the welcome sign, instead drawing his weapon and moving quickly to the large central building. The satellite dish mounted on the shallow rake of the roof gave away the fact that this was the central command area. Everything that came into or went out of that compound dialed in through that aging iron monster pointed anonymously out into the night sky. He wondered if the man who’d invented the technology understood what kind of sick doors it would open up? Of course by those standards, the person who invented rope deserved to hang many times over for the permutations of torture that he invited into the world.

  Legacy slipped silently into a side window. He needed to concentrate on silence. He hadn’t been that careful on the way up, in his haste he’d made no efforts to veil his approach. His first commander had told him that quick actions led to immediate mistakes, and he completely agreed. Only the imminent death of Laura pushed him into the mode of a strike force, no time for the luxury of deliberation. His fingers brushed the chair rail that lined the reception room about halfway up the wall. The hum of electronics in the next room carried through the solid wood.

  He changed course, he didn’t want the control room, he wanted the studio. A small side door marked “commissary” caught his attention. The doorknob had been repaired recently, and he could see no reason why this bunch would repair anything they didn’t regularly use.

  A click put him into a dark area filled with black curtains hung from the ceilings and weighted at the bottom with chains. He rushed down the length of the curtain, the force of the moving air making it ripple. At the end he was met with a pool of white light. A body hung from restraints. Legacy knew the characteristics of a dead body. He’d been a dead body once. Thirty seconds of stillness – it was the one stunning punctuation in his life and it was what made him keenly aware of the full stop of another.

  “Laura.” He inwardly sighed. He raced around and came face to face with the body. What he saw was unexpected. It was wrong in so many ways that his senses didn’t know where to start. Blade hadn’t savored this death, it was quick and ugly. This in no way resembled the kind of ending that Blade wanted to present his viewers. Her young and curvy body was encased in dark satin that deepened in color where damp. Blood soaked the front of her dress, it stuck against her skin. Her face was tear stained, dark lines ending at her chin then reemerged, as mascara stains became visible dark oases below the surface of the blood. It seemed like the makeup streaks won the race to the ground but were then quickly flooded over.

  A low growl brought Legacy back to reality. He looked off to his left at what the scent of blood had brought out to prowl.

  Legacy looked off camera, left. Wilkes watched the strange pantomime from headquarters as he examined the body. They had, of course, been studying the gruesome picture when all of the sudden, Legacy had entered. Wilkes showed his frustration openly, slamming his fists into his pockets. If only Legacy had arrived ten minutes earlier. Wilkes asked himself if he had put ten minutes of roadblocks in front of Legacy some time during the investigation that they were all now paying for? Wilkes was not one who second-guessed himself, yet all he found racing around his desolate synapses were doubts. He was going to have to stop that immediately if he was going to be of any use.

  This mission had turned into a mop up operation, and now Legacy’s presence there could push the group they were hunting to immediate flight, melting into the darkness. What else could possibly go wrong? Wilkes could only hope that Legacy had it under control and that there wouldn’t be any surprises.

  Legacy braced his body and stared into the camera’s lens. Wilkes didn’t see the danger until it entered the screen. A wolf or a dog, some kind of savage beast, leapt into frame and Legacy went down, twisting in what looked like a very specific kind of embrace.

  Legacy spun with the fluid movements of a bullfighter. He jerked upwards, his forearms framing the throat of the dog as it thrashed wildly, feet looking for some kind of solid ground. His mouth moved like he was talking to it. What the hell could he be saying? Wilkes thought, instantly admonishing himself for the question.

  Legacy felt the muscles heave beneath his locked arms. He had the dog firmly in a ranger grip he’d learned to subdue children. It was not the kind of memory that disengages a person from past reality, rather one that brings it all flooding back. With a quick effortless move, he dug into the well-defined musculature of the dog’s neck and made a quick turn, rolling the head like his forearms were conveyor belts moving in opposite directions. Snap. The rage and fury that had been coursing through the dog’s body moments before drained, lagging only slightly behind the physics of consciousness, before finally flickering out.

  Chapter 64 Legacy’s Embrace

  Legacy dumped the body on the ground unceremoniously. On a slightly incongruous impulse he decided to name the dog Dead Max. He didn’t have much time, and the roaming dog told him that his adversary was expecting him – or at least expecting trouble. A dog like Dead Max wasn’t trained to differentiate between different types of prey. Anything that didn’t smell like his master was fair game – Dead Max would have to be chained up most of the time to protect the other residents of the camp.

  Blade probably let them run free at night, partially as an insurance policy against any of his own crew getting themselves in trouble by breaking curfew. It seemed that the punishment for not following Blade’s exact timetable might be death. Legacy’s speculation didn’t change the fact that there were many missing people on this compound, not the least of his concern was the proprietor.

  He walked briskly around, surveying the blood that stretched out into the grout lines of the tile beneath his feet, making his journey around the possible evidence annoyingly long. He pulled on the straps from which the body hung. The knots were good, he’d seen plenty of knots in his day and these were the kind that almost seemed like a natural extension of the weave of the rope. Legacy wasn’t going to be able to get her down without a fight, and it was important that he did. Legacy stared at the camera, there was a message that he needed to send – and he knew the audience wouldn’t appreciate the manner in which he was about to transmit it. Nobody was going to understand, so he might as well do it fast.

  Wilkes couldn’t believe his eyes. He crushed an empty paper coffee cup in his hand watching the screen in horror. What in the hell did that idiot think he was doing?

  Had the stress of being in the field broken the man whom Wilkes had, quite frankly, always questioned the sanity of? There was no question that Legacy knew he was being watched as he walked from the frame after his eyes quickly dipped to the camera lens and purposefully tapped his nose twice. Then, he’d done the most disgusting thing that Wilkes had ever seen on camera.

  Wilkes had seen it coming from the moment he grabbed who he thought was Laura like the dog, reaching across her shoulders to get leverage. Her head spun like a compass needle searching for true north. He’d snapped her neck and left it propped on top of the stalk like a broken child’s doll.

  Wilkes hadn’t been able to watch after that. He’d turned away, toward the bullpen filled with agents ready to move on the mountain compound, turned back and shuddered while letting out guttural sounds of displeasure. Wilkes’ eyes painted the screen, side to side, up and down, thinking that under scrutiny the senseless image would vanish into the background, somewhat like the theories of physics that become invisible around the bullet, carried on the principles that define it.

  Then Wilkes heard something that almost made up for everything he’d witnessed. “That’s not Laura.”

  It was a low-grade agent who made the observation first, one that would be receiving a promotion soon. He ran to the monitor to study the face. It was, in fact, not Laura.

  He would learn later that the girl was named Snowflake, a fitting name for a thing of such beauty and fragility. She was a vic
tim of circumstance. Legacy would comment later that it must have been so unsatisfying to snuff out this life. It was hardly worth the trouble of cleaning the knife, but it would make it look like Blade was a man of his word. He’d kept his promise, and his schedule, two of the many things for which Blade was willing to kill.

  The truth exploded through the room. Everything entered slow motion around Wilkes, and nothing could be said or done quickly enough to satisfy the single desire brought into new focus by a few gleaming pixels on the screen. “Pull up tape of Blade with Laura, run hand geometry, and a comparative height analysis. We want to get this right.”

  “We already have that data on Laura, sir - “

  “Compare it to the execution footage.”

  Tapping keys had a wild new purpose; the chatter had something foreign and almost impossible seeping into the background. It was hope. Even with the renewed life of possibility, it was difficult watching the taped execution, seeing the knife flash in fire only to be extinguished by blood.

  “Laura’s almost two inches shorter by these calculations.” Wilkes clasped the man on the shoulders. “That could be a mistake.”

  “It isn’t. Tell the local agents to move the second they get there, helicopters land on site, no perimeter, no waiting for a net.”

  “Sir?” dared question one agent. The sledgehammer response came thundering down.

  “These are my orders, agent.” His voice carried a promise of crushing anyone else who had anything to say.

  Another agent in the crowded control room pulled away from a phone to give Wilkes an update. “They’re almost fifty minutes out.”

  “Tell them to push that to thirty. Our window could close at any minute.” He tapped the screen, right on the nose of the deceased. He’d been so used to seeing Laura dressed up in costume, every aspect of her makeup and hair changed so often that he hadn’t dreamed that the girl staring into eternity might be anyone else than the director’s daughter. He got the message.

  Legacy had turned the girl’s head to get Wilkes onto the right track, kick his cautious administrative style into action and put more boots on the ground faster. The nose of the victim was pierced; a small embedded diamond stud glinted under the hot production lights. The ridges next to the stud were planted, that took months of epidural growth – it wasn’t a recent addition. It was a different face.

  “Should we call the director?” It was the same agent who’d spoken before. A thin young man with a nose that filled his face and mocked his profile. The mop of blond hair that grew under his nose and the one that sprouted from his head grew in slightly different geometrical configurations.

  The agent stopped, had the phone poised in his hand.

  Before he could think, Wilkes was in his face, straining at his height to engage the man eye to eye. “Slap yourself as hard as you can, and then tell me why – if it’s that important to you agent.”

  Without hesitation the young agent raised his hand and struck himself across the cheek. The sound relieved any of the observers of the idea that it might have been a stage punch. These were men who knew the sound of physical contact. The young agent’s voice dropped far below the level of the public address that had initially gotten him Wilkes’ full attention. “He’s her father sir.”

  Wilkes was angry that his decision was being questioned, especially by someone who didn’t understand the gravity of bringing the director into the equation. Interrupting the director’s bottomless grief was a poisoned proposition. Wilkes hadn’t secured Laura; he hadn’t even seen Laura. It was irresponsible for him to raise doubt about her execution. Everything in his years rising through the ranks of administration urged utmost caution with any news that increased expectation. He couldn’t win by playing this information early. He knew that he could only lose twice. The rookie didn’t know the game, and he acted automatically without regard for procedures, like a regular person.

  “He’s not sleeping.” The agent said quietly, like it was a detail that might tip his decision.

  Wilkes glared at the agent, his dense wrath balanced against the vaporous argument of good intentions. The only thing closer to career suicide than making the suggestion would be following it. Wilkes spoke quietly,

  “Make the call. And prepare a jet for the director out of Reagan, wheels up in twenty minutes.” Wilkes was a father, too.

  *****

  Blade looped the chain around the hitch on the rear axle of his motorcycle. It was more of a battleship than a bike, however, with a tread so wide that the tires resembled those of an economy automobile. The dual exhausts puffed out the first brown smoke off of a cold start.

  He heard the approach of Vorest and Mac, but he wasn’t concerned. The enemy was already in the air, borne on microwaves and rudder blades. Their airships would be above every road for a hundred miles, approaching like the vengeful thoughts of all of the lives they’d destroyed. Blade relished the chase. In reality, he was relieved that he wouldn’t be invisible any longer.

  His “gang”, now the size of a small jazz combo, met for the last time on the flat parking area.

  Vorest raged above the engines “What the fuck is going on? Who the fuck are they?” He pointed to the women bound and strapped down to the sled.

  “New friends, say hello ladies. Now where are your manners?” He said kicking a cloud of dirt into their faces.

  “Darci?” Mac said, causing her head to spin awkwardly toward the sound of his voice. She didn’t, or couldn’t, say anything, Mac wasn’t quite sure. Mac stood frozen, like he’d been completely erased from existence, drained of guts, heart and blood, only to have them replaced in his chest cavity with some kind of industrial foam-like emptiness. It pushed outward on his ribs. His eyes were slick black marbles, rattling from Blade to the sled and back. Each time he looked at Blade his smile seemed a little more menacing, like he was feeding it off of the pain from each look exchanged by the couple. He might have burst into laughter if Vorest hadn’t intruded.

  “We should get –”

  “I’ve got everything in my side bags. We keep the girls for insurance, fling them over a cliff once we’re free.” Blade cut him off, annoyed.

  Vorest stomped over “So you’re all set? You’re all packed, forgive the fuck out of me if this doesn’t look like you’ve been planning this solo.” He got too close and found his neck riding on the tip of a knife that Blade produced in a flash.

  “Have I ever fucked you over before?”

  Vorest took a moment of introspection. With so little cluttering his mind, it didn’t take long to conclude that the cold steel on his neck trumped anything that it could come up with. Mac was glad that he decided to take a diplomatic course. “Fuck you.” He spat on the ground.

  The knife disappeared as quickly as it was conjured; a trick that undoubtedly was the final piece of magic witnessed by those who’d lost their lives on that point. Bravery returned to Vorest – of course flagging so quickly under pressure perhaps bravery is not the right word – the bastard child of bravery scuffed the earth and grumbled every vulgarity that seemed appropriate for the moment. It was a long list.

  Mac was comforted by the streaming profanity, it created a vacuum in his mind and the pause gave him a chance to think about Blade’s question. He hadn’t really ever fucked over his crew. He’d left them to die, broken some bones, and buried one alive in Montana – something he totally deserved – but he’d never broken the code of conduct expected of a leader. If he’d ever betrayed them, he’d done it the right way and nobody ever noticed. If that didn’t garner him a little trust nothing would.

  Mac thought of the millions of dollars, and looked at the scowl on Vorest’s face, and came to a decision.

  He swung his leg over the bike as engines roared to life around him. Seconds later they were on the trail again, heading back down the mountain, sparks shooting high into the sky every time the metal from the sled skidded across a rock in the road.

  A dog bayed behind them. Mac thou
ght it sounded like it had undergone some kind of soul crushing loss. He could feel Darci’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look over. She was farther away now than she’d ever been, the intervening space was as great as the distance between the dead and the living.

  Darci heard the mournful sound barely over the guttural sound of the muffler. A hot breath washed over them when the engines revved between gears and the sound of the dog came in that momentary shifting silence. She looked over and saw Mac – her white knight – riding beside the sled looking forward, jaw set. She couldn’t take it. She cried out in a mixture of horror and devotion that no one should have to experience together, “MAC.”

  The sled veered, CLANK.

  The concussion jolted her into pained silence. She felt the metal sled hit something and saw stars, whether they were in the sky or from the sharp knock to the head she couldn’t be sure. A glance from the driver of the bike told her that the timing was no accident. Her silence would be appreciated, even if it were due to lack of consciousness. She was numb, and disbelief churned in an empty vessel leaving her heart to pump what felt like dry powder through her veins. Darci stole another look at the fat man bouncing on the springs of his seat. Then all of the sudden, he accelerated and disappeared from view.