by Joseph Storm
“We look for chip,” the mercenary said, pinching his thumb and forefinger to a tiny square. It was a preview of the mysterious contents inside the package.
Joe Striker nodded, as he slowly emptied the other drawers. The man in black turned his back, tossing massive piles of papers from the closet. It allowed Joe a window of opportunity to make his move. He knew that he would have to act fast or risk a confrontation in the middle of a danger zone.
Having run out of drawers to empty, Joe methodically rolled the mail drawer along its creaky track. He thumbed his fingers through the pile of letters, feeling the stiff package against the tips of his skin.
Lifting the tightly sealed package from the drawer, he moved it towards his control. The mercenary in black turned around.
“Hold!” the man called out.
“No...this nothing. Garbage,” Joe pleaded.
“Me,” he replied, ripping the package from Joe’s hands. He used a letter opener that rested on Joe’s desk, slitting the well-sealed tape open, freeing the contents to be fully examined.
He placed the opener down. Striker’s hand carefully lifted the sharp object from the shiny wooden surface.
The mercenary dumped out a small microchip. His eyes got big, as if he had found Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. The reward for finding such a prize included a promotion from the goons of the cadet squad, to the elite Authoritarian Guard.
Realizing that he discovered what they were after, Joe Striker tightly gripped the sharp letter opener. He thrust it toward the back of the mercenary’s head. Unfortunately, before he could strike, the mercenary was able to call his two partners in the nearby office, “Target locate!”
The sharp, stainless steel object sailed right into the back of the mercenary's head. It severed the medulla oblongata, ripping a perforation between the brain and the spinal cord. The injury caused an immediate shut down of the autonomic nervous system. A last gasp filled the air as loudly as his last words. He hit the floor, losing control of breathing, circulation, and muscle function. The mercenary was dead on the spot.
Joe Striker dug into the man’s skin, yanking the bloody weapon out. Two mercenaries entered the room. Joe quickly grabbed the microchip, slipping it into his pocket.
“Chip?” they asked, peering down at their superior on the floor.
“He collapse! Help up!” Joe tried to convince them.
Both mercenaries secured their place in the room. One shut the door briskly behind him, locking it from other eyes in the hallway. They approached the dead mercenary, examining the wound in his head. “You kill? We no tell...give chip,” one of the mercenaries said. He held out his hand.
“No chip,” Striker said emphatically.
“We give one chance,” the man said, holding up his communication radio in a threatening manner. “No one ever know.”
Joe thought for a moment. “Ok,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled the chip out, extending his hand to the mercenary with the radio.
An eager, opportunistic smile crept across the man’s face. He reached out for the chip. Before grasping it, Striker closed his open palm into a fist. Joe punched the mercenary upward towards the nose, sending splintering bone into his tiny brain.
The other mercenary reached for his gun. Joe grabbed the floored mercenary’s radio, using the extended antenna as a weapon. He plowed the standing man to the floor. Striker held the communication device into the air, as the mercenary blinked his eyes in fear. Joe Striker plunged the antenna down through the eye lid of the man, poking it through. He dug into his eye.
The mercenary still showed signs of life, causing Joe to yank the antenna out. He pulled the man’s bloody eyeball with it. Striker snapped the appendage from its cord, causing the man in black to suddenly stop moving.
Joe Striker rose to his feet. He opened his palm, examining the microchip in his hand. Whatever is on this small piece of worthless plastic, better be earth shattering, he told himself. Because it cost me everything.
He pulled out his smartphone, placing the microchip in one of the many portholes available. Nearly everyone on the planet had a phone, as it replaced everything that could be held in hand: credit cards, books, social security cards, drivers license, etc. The phone was mandatory to survive in that day and age. On that day it would change Striker’s life.
He activated the power. The chip’s contents came to life before his very eyes. Joe scrolled down the many sets of files which contained every name, plan, and blue print of an American Armageddon. Sickness filled Striker’s stomach, as a folder titled, EMERGENCY, revealed itself in bold letters. The pure disregard for human life was right on the screen. It even included the spot where he had been buried alive.
The most disturbing file was the sibling’s burial ground. It was such a cold title, one void of specifics, such as the children, wives, and husbands that would fill such a place. There was a GPS map of wasteland, non-fertile ground in the middle of Sorka’s Virginia forest. The location was further past the congressional burial ground.
Joe Striker cringed. He slammed the phone into his pocket, realizing that it was official proof of his wife and child’s death. The only thing left was to retrieve the bodies, hold them in his hands, and say goodbye. It was the last goal that kept him going. Afterward, his life would no longer have purpose.
******
Commander Xavier tried to phone the mercenaries that were sent to retrieve Striker’s body. There was no answer.
“What the hell is taking them so long?” he wondered. “Did they go on a fucking joy ride?”
He slammed down the phone, checking the log book at the front gate. His one eye focused on the numbers which sent cold chills running through his body.
“You!” he called out to the man at the gate.
“Yes, commander?”
“22550...how long ago did he check in?”
“Not know.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“22434 check him...he away from post.”
A suspicious look crept across Commander Xavier Sin’s face. “Sound the alarm!”
“Alarm, commander?”
“Lock the place down, we have an intruder on the grounds.”
“Yes, sir,” the mercenary said, activating a button, which triggered an ear piercing alarm through the area. The mercenary called into a microphone, “Lock down!”
******
Joe Striker made his way through the maddening crowd. He hurried through the panicked hallways, heading into the parking lot entrance. Gates of steel blocked the garage exit doors, sealing off any chance of escape. It wasn’t going to stop him from trying.
He went to approach his vehicle, passing Becky Fox and the mercenary. “What is going on?” she asked.
“Alarm...intruder. You stay...no move,” he said, as he caught the sight of Joe Striker opening the door of the SUV that he drove in with.
“Comrade!” he called out to Striker.
“What?” Striker barked back quickly and thoughtlessly.
“No Russian accent?” the man in black asked. “Accent American! Fake!”
A panicked Joe Striker went to reach for his gun, as the mercenary beat him to it. “Hands in air,” he said, calling into the radio. “Intruder ID.”
Joe looked back towards Becky. He could tell that such a woman was no friend of the mercenaries. Having been a reporter for a number of years, Becky squinted her eyes. She knew that Joe looked familiar. It suddenly hit her. The footage of the injured soldier laying on the hospital table, begging to go back for more replayed in her mind. His face was battered, though the same passion still glimmered in his brown eyes, just dulled a little. Striker. Congressman Joe Striker! He can’t be one of them, she thought to herself. Realizing that she only had a moment to communicate, she mouthed to him, “Striker?”
A shocked look came across Joe’s face. He nodded quickly. Looking down towards her sharp, pointy heels, the desperate man tried to send a subtle hint. It was a long
shot, worth a try.
The look of helplessness on Striker’s face, indicated that he was the only other person that didn’t worship this troubling regime. It was obvious to Becky that Joe’s fate, might be decided in the next few minutes. She wasn’t about to let the final outcome go against her interests.
******
Commander Sin arrived in Striker’s office. He stepped over and on the men whose dead bodies lined the floor. “Useless pieces of shit,” he said. “Unstoppable force my ass. Why do we have this elite guard if we never use them?”
Xavier focused on the emptied envelope resting on the desk. He read the name written across the top: Congressman Joe Striker. It was a person who he became quite familiar with in the last 48 hours. He gritted his teeth in anger, blaming himself for not finishing the job. Xavier knew that the stain of the failure would splatter upon him. He would have to explain himself to Leader Judas, however, it was Mika Sorka that would hold him accountable.
At least there was no longer a question. The mole’s recipient was officially fingered, as was the unidentified man who haunted the scene of Xavier’s killings. Silence him and it would all be over.
“He survived!” Commander Sin said in disbelief, replaying the scenes of brutality in his head. He pleasurably relived the raping and killing of Striker’s wife, in addition to tossing him into the mass grave. “He’ll crawl from the grave, eh? At least we know the swine sticks to his promises!” Xavier had to avenge his reputation after such disgrace, hunting Joe Striker down, before Striker could hunt him.
All of a sudden, Xavier’s radio sounded with the voice of the mercenary, “Intruder ID!”
Commander Xavier Sin’s eyes lit up, “He won’t escape again!” he yelled, trampling the bodies of the mercenaries, exiting his way to the scene.
******
“I promote to guard!” the mercenary said excitedly.
“You’re just a pawn in the end,” Striker said.
“No, my friend...the end come for you...” he barely could finish his statement, as his eyes rolled up into his head. A rush of air sailed from his throat.
A shocked Joe Striker looked back at a teary-eyed Becky Fox. She wore the look of personal disgust, while balancing herself with one healed shoe.
The mercenary dropped to his knees, landing on his stomach. Becky’s sharp heal was now an official part of his head.
“I just killed a man!”
“You’ll get used to it,” Joe said. “The bigger the scum bag...the easier it gets.”
Becky continued to stand still, watching in guilty horror. Commander Xavier bolted into the parking garage with a team of mercenaries.
“Over there! I want them alive!” Xavier yelled.
“I swore to myself...I’d never do it ag...I’m not a killer!” Becky interrupted herself.
“If we don’t get moving...you’re gonna join him. Get in!” Joe yelled, as he jumped into the SUV, flinging Becky’s door open.
Becky Fox peered back at the armed squadron rushing towards her. She removed her other heel, tossing it behind her, entering the SUV.
Joe started the vehicle, “Buckle up...I get the feeling...it’s gonna be one hell of a ride.”
A startled Becky locked her belt in, repeating to herself. “What have I done? I came here to get the story...not become it. Not again!”
“On the scale of sins committed today...take my word for it. It will be the least of them,” Joe said, as he put the vehicle in drive and raced towards the steel gates. The SUV accelerated faster with every inch that it approached the sealed exit.
Commander Xavier Sin aimed a shotgun at the vehicle. He blasted out the back window, though the glass absorbed the blow. It allowed the SUV time to drive out of range. “Don’t we have anything more powerful around here? Call in the jets...nuke the bastard!”
The SUV smashed through the steel gate, tearing it from the sockets. A normal car wouldn’t have made it through such a blockage, though the SUV was designed to handle the most challenging of conditions.
Damaged, though still operating, Striker zoomed by the entrance gate. He smashed the guard hut to pieces, flattening the man inside.
“Two dead bodies in one day!” Becky cried out.
“A first?” Striker asked coldly, as he slammed the gas petal down.
“None of your business,” she said stressfully.
Commander Xavier ran out of the parking area, shaking his fists to the air. “He’s a dead man walking! A frigging ghost!”
“We send squad of cars immediate!” a mercenary assured him.
“No.”
“No chase?” the mercenary asked.
“Open your foreign ears! No need to create a scene on such an important day...Sorka would have my head!”
“Ghost escape?”
“No...in fact, if my suspicions are correct...he’ll come right back to us. He’ll walk straight into our hands.”
******
“Stop!” Becky yelled, as the car cleared the Rayburn House entranceway onto the busy road.
“Do you want to get out? I’m sure the dead guy’s friends would love to get reacquainted...with that cleavage and all,” he said, causing Becky to quickly button up her blouse. “Are you sure you’re not another one of the administrations’ groupies?” he asked rudely.
“Every bit as much as you’re one of the administrations’ goons! We all have to do things we don’t like sometimes. Pull over...I stashed a camera...we might need it.”
“I have all the evidence we need,” he said.
“Please...I’m a reporter...I can get a story to an objective news station.”
“Objective? There’s no such thing as objective! There never was...but at least the public always saw through the bullshit when it mattered! Times have changed. Forget the camera, I have something much more damning than a news report,” he said.
Joe looked into the rearview mirror. There were no government vehicles following them. He expected to be chased by land and air, though no action was taking place aside from the inauguration’s post festivities.
“You better hope so,” Becky said.
“Hope’s a thing of the past...facts only matter now,” Joe replied, as he peeled out again. He kept looking into the mirror, trying to find some sign of pursuit. “They should be on our tail by now...I don’t understand it. They wouldn’t just let us get away!”
“Maybe their forces are not coordinated enough. I doubt they expected this much trouble on day one,” Becky wondered.
Joe had a wonder-some look on him. “Keep your eyes out...this is far from over. This whole operation is too well planned for an oversight like this.”
“Maybe they’ll let us go. I mean...it was an accident...I didn’t mean to kill him....just injure him real bad.”
“Trust me...you’re the least of their problems.”
“If I’m the least...then what does that make you?”
“Their worst nightmare.”
“Do I want to know why?”
“No.”
Becky Fox peered out into the area. It was filled with jubilant crowds. A look of sadness crept upon her face. “The world will never be the same. I went to bed one night thinking that...no matter who won the election...there would always be some certainties about my tomorrow. By the time I woke up...it vanished before my eyes.”
“And it’s not over yet...I assure you that,” he said. “The Roman empire crumbled from within...I guess it was bound to happen eventually here as well. Nothing lasts forever. I found that out the hard way.”
“We are not Rome or an empire...in fact, we’re the exact opposite. We use our power for good...not gain.”
“And what was Rome before Caesar? A republic. One dictatorship flushed democracy down a toilet,” he said angrily. “The last time I checked...the end of term limits were promised by this administration. Elections can’t be far behind.”
A quiet awkwardness filled the vehicle. Becky Fox closed her eyes, wishing that she woul
d awaken from the nightmare, or be interrupted by a dream. Instead, Joe interrupted her attempt.
“By the way...remind me to thank you someday.”
“For saving your life?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then what for? We have no history prior to that moment.”
“For allowing me to die on my terms...not theirs.”
Another uncomfortable look filled Becky’s face. “With the mess that I’m in now...I think you owe me more than your death. I’m gonna need your life....and I think you’re going to need mine. Like it or not...we’re in this together now.”
Joe exhaled for the first time in many hours. He heard the words come out of Becky’s mouth, though he never felt more alone in his entire life. “I want to know something.”
“Depends on what?” Becky questioned.
“How’d you know it was me? You called me Striker. Did you recognize me from a congressional story?”
“Well, being the youngest congressman ever elected, did ring a bell. Though...what stood out in my mind...I remembered the sight of you laid out on that table...hurt, but so full of resolve. I guess I hadn’t seen that in a while...maybe ever. It changed my life...inspired me more than you’ll ever know. To see someone who believed in something enough to risk it all...and go back again. A true American hero.”
Joe looked down. “I’m no hero.”
“You are.”
“I was...though heroes expire. They lose their shine, along with the abilities that made them a hero in the first place. The ability to protect,” he said, pain dripping from his face and tone of voice.
“You’re still a hero to me,” Becky said, seeing an ounce of pain drift from Joe’s face. She looked away, embarrassed in her frankness. The girl hadn’t revealed so much of herself in a long time.
“You know so much about me...I don’t even know your name.”
“Becky Fox...news reporter for WFTV. Make that ex-news reporter.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Most people haven’t...and now...I’m pretty sure they never will. It was a small internet station, created to be free from partisanship and corporate influence. It was recently purchased, and I refused to play by the rules.”