Project- Heritage

by Rob Horner

  The straining started a low throbbing in his head, like the early stages of a headache. Then a faint buzzing coming closer, becoming clearer, were the thoughts of others.

  They’re above us, Sherry thought, holding her free hand to her head, feeling the same incipient headache.

  Travis altered his focus, panning upward, and immediately caught snatches from two people who seemed to be coming down. Of course, a stairway.

  —good excuse to get away from him. He’s starting to scare me—

  That came from one mind, a man’s mind, young, black…

  Crap! Sherry thought, he’s a federal agent.

  Travis nodded, picking up the thoughts and images from the other mind. His point of view was higher. He wasn’t taller, just higher up the stairs, behind the first agent. —wonder what’s so important we had to leave— Another agent.

  They both are, Sherry thought, suddenly more afraid.

  But there were other things to hear higher up, in the room to the left that might be a monitoring station. Two men, talking, their words as clear to Travis and Sherry as if they stood in the room with them. But more than their words, images and perceptions, memories, understanding…

  Two men, as different as night and day. One a naval officer and the other…the other…

  Oh my God! Travis thought. He killed Angela!

  Sherry felt Travis’s grief and marveled that it wasn’t the grief of a lost lover, but more a shock and horror at a loss of life and the brutality with which it was ended.

  And then, My mother’s free?

  Travis shook his head, anger replacing grief, a need to do…something. She’s free, and it’s all in Illinois.

  At Great Lakes, Sherry confirmed.

  That guy, that agent, Travis thought, straining, he’s planning to kill the captain.

  Why would he want to cut off his hand? Sherry wondered.

  As Agent Travers stepped up to Captain Ortega above them, as Travis looked for a way to help the Captain, a new mental voice intruded on their perceptions.

  —sneak up behind them and just—

  Turning at the unheard voice, both sailors gasped at the sight of a nondescript white man, well over six feet tall, twice as wide in the shoulders as Travis, and dressed conservatively in jeans and an open-collar, short-sleeved shirt.

  “Hold it right there,” the man said, his right hand reaching conspicuously behind his back.

  “Who are you?” Sherry asked, her voice a frightened squeak.

  Agent Black, the answer came to them.

  “You don’t need to do this, Mr. Black,” Travis said, his words startling the man so much that he checked the motion of his hand, letting it rest on his right hip.

  Can you get to him? Sherry asked, trying to keep up with Travis’s racing thoughts as he worked for a plan that would allow him to dispose of the intimidating agent.

  “How do you know my name?” the man asked, regaining his composure. His right hand started moving again, closing around…

  …the familiar grip of a 9mm pistol…

  …whatever he was reaching for. Slowly, so as not to appear too threatening, he withdrew the pistol from the waistband of his pants.

  Sherry shook her head as Travis’s thoughts pounded into her. Combined with her own fear and a new sound, a wailing siren, growing louder, she felt completely disoriented.

  Get hold of yourself, Travis said to her. Close off the rest of us if you have to.

  Travis’s thoughts…they whirled like a maelstrom, ideas forming, set aside or discarded, attack plans played through five or six different ways, a conceptualized method of disarming the federal agent. His mind worked like a supercomputer, seeking answers, finding paths.

  What do you want me to do? she asked, no longer trying to follow his thoughts, trusting him to do what was needed.

  We need a diversion.

  “Well, what have we here?”

  The sudden sound of yet another voice—this one deeper—almost caused Sherry to scream. Coming up behind the first agent was another, shorter man with a coffee complexion.

  Agent Kirkson, Travis informed her. He wasn’t having any trouble maintaining contact with Sherry, making his own plans, and scanning random thoughts from those in front of them.

  “Agent Kirkson,” the first man said, “I caught them sneaking around out here. If I’m not mistaken, these are the two we’ve been looking for.” The large agent fully withdrew his formidable pistol, though he held it pointed at the ground, not yet threatening them with it, just trusting in its presence to keep them in line.

  Sherry found the sight of the weapon more than enough to frighten her. Despite everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, nothing convinced her of their danger like the sight of that pistol.

  “Good work, Agent Black,” the second man said, his voice mellow and soft. Turning his attention to Travis and Sherry, he added, “I trust you’ve come to turn yourselves in and aren’t in the mood to cause us more trouble.”

  The larger man continued to watch them, his brown eyes never straying from Travis’s face. Sherry could tell by the low thrumming of power that coursed through her body, that Travis was approaching an explosion. His body tensed with barely controlled energy, though it didn’t seem to be coming from anger. Rather, he was like a capacitor, charging with energy that he would use in a controlled fashion, rather than being used by it.

  “I’ll keep watch on them,” Agent Black said, the barest hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “You go let Agent Travers know they’re out here.”

  The mention of the destructive agent, the one upstairs who’d killed Angela Bassett, who’d orchestrated the kidnapping of her mother, and who was even now planning on killing a Naval officer, broke Sherry free of her paralysis. Above all else, they had to stay away from that man.

  But what could they do?

  The big agent still had his pistol. And even though he wasn’t openly threatening them with it, he was still too far away for Travis to reach before he raised and fired it. The way he held it so casually against his leg bespoke great confidence in his ability to do just that.

  Then another thought struck her. Travis wanted a distraction. Would that help him reach the gunman?

  Desperately, while the two agents spoke, Sherry scanned the area again. The empty room downstairs. The monitor room. The server room, which also contained a power source, perhaps a converter.

  “Sure you can handle them?” Agent Kirkson asked, a sneer on his face despite his soothing voice.

  Now the big agent smiled. “Look at them, willya? They look like two deer, caught in the glare of a pair of headlights.” He tapped his pistol lightly, meaningfully, against his leg. “They won’t try anything.”

  Do something now! Travis thought at her as Agent Kirkson turned away.

  Sherry concentrated, recalling the lines of power flowing out of that energy source. She couldn’t throw power into it; it probably served double duty as a regulator to make sure a lightning strike didn’t fry the whole system. But what if she sent a surge through its output?

  Travis was counting on her. Their fates were tied into getting away from these men. Sherry put everything she had into forcing their power into those glowing blue lines. She felt the drain on their systems. Travis staggered as she pulled…something…from him. She hoped it wouldn’t ruin his plans.

  Fast as thought, the power surged from their bodies and penetrated the conformal coating and insulation of the thick cables. Merging with the flowing current, it shot at light speed into the sensitive server racks and the equipment in the monitoring room.

  Her efforts were rewarded as a loud thump came from the server room above, and the wall of the building shook. Agent Black reacted to the sound as Travis lurched, dragging Sherry forward.

  “They’re out here!” Agent Kirkson shouted.

  A rising warble of sirens intruded onto her thoughts. They were louder now, coming closer.

  Agent Blac
k heard them as well, and his head whip-sawed from the building, to the sirens, then back to Travis, who stumbled toward him. His right hand twitched, the gun coming up, reacting to the movement as a threat, a response of years of training. A split second later and he checked his reaction, other instincts causing him to reach out with his left hand to steady the young man.

  Then came the explosion.

  Travis released his hold on Sherry’s hand, and she blinked as the lights faded.

  Reaching for the offer of support, Travis grabbed Agent Black’s left hand. Planting his feet, leaning back, he used his weight to pull the larger man off-balance. A deft shifting of his feet put him beside the agent, then behind him, as the agent was half-twisted to face the wall of the building.

  Travis grabbed the agent’s right wrist, forcing the arm down. At the same time, he brought his right knee up, driving it into the sensitive area behind the man’s elbow. The bone snapped. The big man screamed, and the pistol fell to the ground.

  “Run!” Travis shouted. “Back to the car!” Setting his foot back on the ground, he was prepared to let the unarmed agent go free. But he hadn’t counted on the agent’s own hand-to-hand training.

  Sherry took Travis’s advice, sprinting around the grappling men. Despite the pain in his arm, Agent Black hooked his left leg behind Travis, then threw his weight backward, toppling them both to the ground.

  The maneuver should have placed Agent Black on top of Travis, his weight crushing the breath from his opponent. But Travis turned his body to the side as they fell, so the agent landed beside him, rather than on top of him. Travis was forced to relinquish his hold, and both men scrambled in different directions immediately after landing.

  Travis rose to his feet as Agent Black tried to do the same. The injured arm hampered the agent when he foolishly tried to use it for a brace. Travis took advantage of the agent’s hesitation, stepping forward and launching a snapping front kick into the larger man’s face. Travis’s foot connected with enough force to drive the agent over backward, where he lay still, unconscious.

  Travis turned and began running after Sherry.

  “Stop them!” someone—probably Agent Travers—shouted as three men ran around the side of the building.

  The sirens were much louder now, much closer, coming down Tomcat Boulevard toward them, and coming fast. Sherry couldn’t see any lights yet, and siren noise traveled a fair distance, but it wouldn’t be long. Maybe they could help?

  Something small and buzzing like a bee whizzed past Sherry’s left ear, giving off a distinct sensation of heat. A split-second later she heard the roar of a pistol, and her heart jumped in her chest.

  Dear God! They were shooting at her!

  Reaching the wide bole of one of the few trees between the buildings, she slipped behind it, every instinct screaming at her to keep running, logic forcing her to remain in place.

  She heard another deafening roar, followed immediately by a cry of pain, which rocketed not just into her ears but also into her head.

  Travis! she screamed in her mind, risking a glance around the bole of the tree. She saw the agents all tangled up back at the warehouse, and then was almost knocked off her feet as Travis collided into her, his face a mask of fear and growing pain.

  “You’re hit!” she heard herself say.

  He shook his head at her, not denying the injury, but telling her they had no time to examine it.

  “I’m still on my feet,” he gasped, reaching for her hand. He pulled her away from the tree, passing behind the unused building just as two police cars raced by the front. Those weren’t Shore Patrol cars. They were white, with gold lettering, flashing blue and red strobes on the roof—Virginia Beach Police cars.

  A third gunshot sounded behind them as they turned the corner of the abandoned building.

  They’re going…to their cars, Travis informed her. Don’t know about the cops but can’t let them keep us here.

  “They’re not gonna get away with it!” Sherry hissed. Travis began to slow, forcing her to shorten her stride to stay beside him. She opened her mind…and recoiled, frightened, as an almost physical wall of pain threatened to engulf her. Jesus! That he was still on his feet with something like that weakening him!

  Hospital, she thought. Got to get him to a—

  No! Travis thought to her, and even that small contact transmitted some of his pain. Bullet hit shoulder…nothing serious.

  You can’t know that! Sherry exclaimed, though she prayed he was right.

  Got to get away first. Worry about the rest later.

  Sherry saw the truth in that and forced her fears away for the time being.

  What if he died? How could she manage without him?

  None of that mattered. She had to get them away, whether Travis could help or not.

  With that in mind, she supported/dragged him the final yard to the blue Focus.

  “Keys?” she asked, breath ragged in her throat.

  Front right pocket, he answered.

  Sherry propped him against the hood of the car, looking worriedly into his face. A thin film of sweat had broken out over his forehead, making his skin glow sickly in the morning light. His eyelids were closed, the orbs behind them moving restlessly, as if in a fever dream. He was close to passing out, Sherry knew, and if he did that before she got him in the car, there’d be no hope.

  She felt time like a great hand around her neck, squeezing.

  The police were stopped in front of the warehouse, and some drama was playing out over there, but she had no time to worry about it.

  Her eyes moved down to the pocket he indicated, passing over the area of his injury. An involuntary gasp escaped her as she saw the blood, so much blood, covering his right arm and shoulder, running down his chest and undoubtedly over his back. The porous material of his shirt acted like a kind of gauze, sticking to the wound, slowing the bleeding.

  Travis needed medical attention soon or he might bleed to death, despite his assertion that nothing major had been damaged. A gunshot wound was still a gunshot wound.

  She forced herself to look away, reaching determinedly into his pocket and finding the small ring of keys. Only last night he’d joked about her driving his car. That seemed an eternity ago, so far removed from this moment as to be inconsequential. Yet she couldn’t help remembering it.

  Pulling the keys free, she was shocked by the shaking in her fingers that made the simple task of unlocking the passenger door almost impossible. She wasted what felt like hours forcing her thumb to the unlock button, which she mashed twice. The car beeped in response. She reached for the recessed handle.

  The door wouldn’t open.

  Cursing angrily, she pulled the handle again, with the same results.

  Looking down, she saw her thumb resting on the LOCK button, instead of UNLOCK. Moving her thumb over and pressing the correct key rewarded her with the swishing sound of the locks disengaging. She almost sobbed with relief as she pulled the handle again and the door flew open.

  Travis pushed himself away from the car, conscious enough to want to help.

  With fluttering, nerveless hands, she guided him to the open door, trying to think how they might manage getting him into the car when he barely had the strength to stand. When Travis lost his balance, falling into the bucket seat and striking his head on the roof of the car, Sherry could have screamed in frustration and fear. Instead, she lifted his feet into the space in front of the seat and slammed the door.

  Racing around to the driver’s side, she got in and jammed the key into the ignition, belatedly pulling her door shut. Savagely depressing the clutch, she checked that she was in first gear and roared out of the parking lot, turning right to enter the roundabout, then heading straight onto Hornet Drive, aiming for the back entrance to the base, which had no cross bars that would need to be lifted.

  Behind her came the roar of a large engine.

  She glanced in her rear-view mirror just in time to see the big black SUV ra
m the two police cars blocking the entrance to the parking lot. The large vehicle pushed through the squad cars as their occupants scattered, then took off down Tomcat Boulevard, heading the opposite direction. Immediately behind it came the red Mustang, following her. She glanced back at the road in front of her as one of the police cars peeled off after them.

  Travis groaned in the passenger seat, his head lolling back against the headrest.

  Oh God! What am I going to do? Sherry thought.

  Chapter 21

  Brian

  1

  “Sherry!” Victoria Galer shouted, propelling herself out of sleep, almost rolling off the couch.

  “Easy,” Billy said, grasping the older woman’s shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  The woman seemed inclined to argue the point, but then her eyes focused on her surroundings. It must be strange, waking up in someone else’s living room, lying on a couch, with two strangers gathered around.

  “I…how? Who?”

  “One question at a time, please,” Debbie said, smiling down into Victoria’s face.

  “Just like you, Hon’,” Billy joked, earning himself a scathing glance from his wife.

  Brian sat apart from the other three, not-quite relaxing in a brown leather recliner. Victoria had been brought in from the van more than three hours before. Now, at half past seven, Central Time, she was finally waking up.

  Brian had been shocked when the woman woke in the van; her words burned themselves into his brain. Did she really recognize him? Did she know his son?

  He tried to relax; the chances were slim. Hell, they were subatomic. If anything, she’d been reacting to something cooked up by her drugged imagination. There was no way she could’ve thought he was related to anyone she knew, was there? Brian racked his brain for what he knew of the woman. She and her daughter both hailed from Virginia Beach. The daughter had also been stationed in the city after her time in the facility, something that hadn’t happened before, as far as they knew.