Project- Heritage

by Rob Horner

  The Mustang overshot the gas station and had to stop at the light, waiting for a commuter bus to pass. Then it shot out into the road, big engine roaring.

  There was traffic on Dam Neck Road. There was always traffic on Dam Neck Road, even on a Sunday morning. Nothing was going to change that. Judging by the flow of cars ahead of her, she would be able to stay in front of the Mustang through three or four traffic lights, but her luck would run out eventually. The simple fact they were willing to shoot at her in broad daylight showed their ruthlessness and lack of concern about witnesses.

  This was what Travis thought they could defeat?

  It was hopeless. So hopeless.

  Yet still she drove, her eyes resting briefly on Travis’s flushed face.

  For him, she would continue to fight. As long as she had breath within her body, she would fight for him.

  And maybe, she thought suddenly, fighting was exactly what she needed to do.

  The Mustang was still behind her, jockeying for position amongst the other motorists. No matter how nimble the little Focus was, the other car could match her zig for zag. It had a wheelbase thirty percent larger; it could handle curves that would force her to slow considerably. So how could she fight it? What could she do that might get that car off her ass?

  She couldn’t make it explode like the power converter at the warehouse. Her conscience balked at the idea of killing, even when it seemed likely she might be killed if she didn’t. She couldn’t ignite the gasoline tank, but maybe there was something else she could do. If only it was possible, with Travis unconscious.

  Assuring herself that she had a few moments of unimpeded road ahead of her, Sherry reached her right hand for Travis’s left, which lay limply in his lap. A part of her mind said this was foolish. He was unconscious; how could he augment her power without having any to use?

  But the blue and green lines appeared immediately, filling her vision, so startling she eased her foot off the accelerator as she fought to see the road through them. The blue lines surrounded her, coming up from the hood and through the dashboard. The green lines were more prominent but dimmer, a haze in the air. She held onto his hand, hope rushing through her. The Mustang was so close that she couldn’t see its grill. She goosed the accelerator, giving herself another inch of space, and concentrated on the mirror.

  The Mustang was a living, breathing mass of blue lines, electric currents running along a thousand wires, powering a hundred different electrical systems within the car. What would happen, she wondered, if those systems suddenly received a surge of electricity? She doubted the car would explode; it had too many fuses for that. But she should be able to do some damage.

  Narrowing her eyes, she forced the strange power to reach out and touch the red car. Travis groaned, and Sherry worried her efforts were draining him, taking energy from him to fuel her actions. The realization almost made her stop, but the thought of what would happen to them, to him, if they were caught renewed her resolve. A final push and she felt the connection, surging electricity through the sports car.

  Letting go of Travis’s hand, clearing her vision of the distracting lines of transmission and current, Sherry returned her attention to the road just in time to avoid rear-ending another slow Sunday-driving Gramma. Making the blind spot check so habitually that she wasn’t even aware of it, she moved into the right lane, slipping past the slower car, before moving back to the left. With the road clear ahead of her, she studied the rear-view.

  What she saw gladdened her heart.

  She didn’t know what her surge of power had done to the car, but it had been effective. The Mustang was pulled head-in slantwise to the side of the road a quarter mile behind her, both its driver and passenger standing in the street, gesticulating like angry Italians.

  “Yes!” Sherry crowed, bouncing a little in her seat. Travis moaned again, reminding her of his pressing need for medical attention. His mouth worked slowly, his eyelids flickering, as he tried to rouse himself.

  “Shh,” she hissed at him, “just lay still, baby. I’ll get some help for you.”

  If Travis heard her, he didn’t answer, and Sherry had to turn her eyes back to the road.

  Where could she take him?

  What could she do?

  8

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Agent Travers shouted, banging his fists on the hood of the Mustang.

  “What the hell was that?” Kirkson asked, rounding the car to stand beside the other agent. Vehicles zipped by, riffling the cuffs of their slacks with the wind of their passing.

  “Beats the shit outta me! We were almost up their ass, then everything flickered. All the gauges spun, and the engine died.”

  Agent Kirkson moved back to the passenger side and knelt beside the car. Reaching into the passenger foot space, hard against the right side, he pulled the cover off the interior fuse box. Soft plumes of gray smoke wafted out of the compartment. The acrid scent of fried electronics stung his nose. He grabbed a 20-amp fuse at random and yanked it out. “Blown,” he said, standing up and showing it to Travers. “I’ll bet they all are.”

  “How the hell?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But it seems like a weird coincidence, doesn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?” Travers asked.

  “Weren’t you saying something about the monitor room starting to smoke right before you ran out?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So,” Kirkson said, “what are the odds of two electrical occurrences like this in the same day?”

  Agent Travers was silent for a long moment.

  “Okay, Kirkson, make sure you got your stuff out. We gotta get back to the office.”

  “I know. The police and all. But why did they show up in the first place?”

  Why indeed, Travers thought. It had to be that damned Captain Ortega. He’d called them, then delayed everyone inside Watchtower, giving them time to arrive. But why? What did he know?

  “I don’t know, Kirkson. But right now, we need to act like wanted men inside a foreign country.”

  Kirkson’s face lightened, like way too much milk poured into coffee. Despite his obvious discomfort with that description of their situation, he asked, “So what’s the plan then, sir?”

  “First, we need to find out which hospital they took Captain Ortega to.”

  “But you shot him.”

  “I gut shot him to the right of center. If they got him quick attention, he should make it.”

  “Okay, that still doesn’t explain why you want to find him.”

  “Because, Agent Kirkson, that captain is going to give us a hand, even though he doesn’t want to.”

  Smiling at his own cleverness, though Kirkson had no idea what made the joke funny, Travers began walking back to the Exxon.

  Chapter 23

  Crisis

  1

  The events of only a few moments before played through Travis’s fevered brain, giving him no peace even in the realm of unconsciousness.

  He saw himself kicking the tall, white agent in the face with enough force to push him onto his back. Then he turned to follow Sherry. He didn’t see the three men coming out of the building and didn’t know one of them was so dangerous that he’d risk anything to keep them from getting away.

  He ran, eyes focused on Sherry’s back, concentrating on nothing more than reaching her and getting back to the car. They’d found out what they needed to know, thanks to their eavesdropping. They knew where to go, a place where they could find answers, and where they could find Sherry’s mother.

  Funny, but Travis was more interested in giving Sherry a chance at happiness, at wholeness, than in resolving the jumbled mess of memories he had of his own parents.

  Then came the first dull explosion, the unmistakable report of a gunshot. The bullet was aimed hastily; the shot went wide, not hitting either of them. And then came something terrible, a push so sharp and sudden it almost toppled him, yet brought with it a strange numbness, as if a laser had
drilled into his shoulder, cauterizing and anesthetizing as it passed through. It was with a strange sense of detachment that Travis realized he’d been hit.

  Sherry darted around a tree, and he thought of nothing but getting to her, even though the numbness faded quickly, giving way to an uncomfortable heat which grew to a molten stream of lava, burning the skin of his shoulder and arm. It wasn’t until something tickled his stomach that he looked down and saw the spreading patch of blood on his chest, running down his shirt, soaking it from the inside.

  The detached part of his mind, so curiously analytical, informed him that if he could see blood on the front of his shirt, it meant the bullet had passed through, probably doing more damage on its exit than on its entrance.

  Sherry said something to him, telling him he’d been shot. He replied with the first thing that came to mind, reaching for her with his left hand. His breath was getting harder to come by, his chest constricting, as the hot pain in his shoulder spread out, increasing with every step.

  His strength fled with each pump of his heart, riding the rivers running down his chest and back. Yet despite his growing weakness and the ever-tightening bands of pain around his chest, his thoughts remained clear. The grass they ran over glistened as if after a rainfall. The blades bent under their shoes but sprung back as soon as their weight was removed. Sirens, loud and piercing, grew closer and crescendoed. Two police cars raced by.

  His mind groped for her, seeking support along their mental connection, but all he could get were frantic thoughts of flight, fear, and worry. She worried for him. Why? The fire in his chest was fading now, like a bad dream, as shock settled into place. Robbed of feeling, a liberating sense of apathy settled in.

  She didn’t need to worry; he was all right.

  In fact, if he could just catch his breath, he’d tell her that, he’d make her believe.

  She asked him another question, which he answered. He was leaning against something, and there was a run-down small building in front of him. It looked familiar, like he’d seen it recently. Something tickled his thigh, but it was only the woman—what was her name anyway? —digging in his pocket.

  There was a swish and click, followed by a car door opening. That was good, Travis thought. He really needed to sit down.

  The world spun around him, as if it decided to give up its old axis and try a new angle. His feet were inclined to disobey, but he somehow made them move him around the open car door. The seat was a million miles away, much too low for him to get into. Maybe if he had a parachute…

  But then his knees went to sleep—at least, that’s how it felt—and Travis fell, and the car seat was rapidly coming closer, dimming, blurring, because his eyes couldn’t focus fast enough. Then something hard struck his head, and that was the last shock his body could take.

  Travis fancied he heard it, as he fell unconscious into the passenger seat of the Focus, like a word of resignation from his battered body.

  Enough it screamed, dragging him into fire-lit blackness.

  2

  Travis jerked awake, screaming in sudden agony as his wounded shoulder muscles pulled. The car swerved as Sherry looked toward him, startled by his cry, concern etching deep lines in her perfect features.

  The entire right side of his body felt useless and wasted while simultaneously alive with fiery pain.

  “Travis!” Sherry said. “Don’t move, you’ll make it start bleeding again.”

  “That’s not…the only thing that happens when I move,” he replied through clenched teeth. A fear like the shadow of Death clung to his thoughts, threatening to overwhelm him.

  Jesus Christ! The bastard shot him! In the back! Someone was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

  Talk like this, Sherry advised him.

  Good idea, Travis replied. It was painful enough just to breathe; the vibrations of speaking were an additional discomfort he didn’t want to deal with.

  Don’t worry, Sherry said soothingly. We’ll get you to a hospital soon.

  You can’t do that, Travis argued.

  I’m not hearing that. You’ve been shot, for God’s sake! You need medical attention.

  I’m not arguing that point, Travis replied.

  Then what’s the problem?

  Every gunshot wound must be reported to the police. The call will be made before a doctor even gets to me.

  Sherry thought for a minute. So, the very people who shot at us, who shot you, will find out from the hospital, and they’ll be able to come and get us?

  Exactly.

  But Travis, you need—

  I know, he replied softly. His need for medical attention was more than just a physical thing.

  His mind screamed that he’d suffered a grievous injury and it needed to be treated. He needed to be told everything was going to be okay. He tried blaming that on a paranoid sense of hysteria, reassuring himself that so long as he could feel the pain it meant he wasn’t in danger of going into shock. The pain was a reminder that he was still alive.

  So long as he felt the pain, he would continue to live.

  The blood was drying on his skin, the material of his shirt forming a makeshift bandage. The thought of what it would feel like to have the shirt pulled away made him grimace, but for now it had probably saved his life. He wasn’t going to bleed to death.

  But there’s so much blood, Sherry thought to him.

  True. But it hadn’t done much more than soak his shirt and the waistband of his jeans before being stopped.

  What about internal bleeding? Infection?

  Damn her for being so intelligent.

  Compliment accepted.

  Travis couldn’t help but smile. And even that hurt.

  Well? she asked imperiously.

  We can try to find a small-time doctor. Someone who still works out of his home.

  In Virginia Beach?

  Maybe. If not, then a doctor’s house. All I need—

  What you need, Sherry interrupted, are x-rays, antibiotics…maybe surgery. You might have bone chips floating around. You could have fragments poking through your skin.

  My, what a pretty picture you paint, Travis thought back at her.

  And you’re not going to joke your way out of this.

  It was hard to do, but Travis resisted the urge to chuckle, knowing it would only cause more pain. Instead, he concentrated on his surroundings, noticing they were no longer on NAS Oceana.

  How’d we get away?

  Using images as well as words, Sherry told Travis about their escape. Though she wasn’t a braggart by nature, she couldn’t help a sense of pleasure at her accomplishments.

  Damn, you did good! Travis congratulated her. You saved our lives.

  Yeah, well, yours is still in doubt.

  Okay, Doc, tell you what.

  What? Sherry asked.

  First, get us to a drug store and buy the strongest painkiller you can find. And several bottles of juice and water.

  Why?

  The pain killer is obvious, I know. The water and juice should keep me from losing too many minerals from the blood loss.

  I…okay. And then what?

  Then, Travis replied, we can start looking for a home-based doctor to take care of me.

  Sherry lapsed into silence for several long moments, already heading for the left lane and the turn that would put her in the parking lot of the CVS drugstore she could see ahead.

  As she negotiated the Focus through the turn and into the parking lot, she asked, “Do you have any idea what to do after this?”

  Yes, he replied. We need to go to Illinois.

  3

  Time was slipping through his fingers! Damn the bitch! Damn her! How dare she get away from them? And damn that bastard Travis for not falling down when he was shot! How dare he not fall down?

  Agent Travers understood the thoughts weren’t logical, but he allowed the frustration and anger to run its course. Only after venting internally was he able to keep his face smooth and
his voice calm.

  He needed to be calm.

  Standing outside the Exxon gas station, waiting while Kirkson used the public restroom, he let his anger burn, relishing the sharp fire of his fury.

  Damn that old captain for grabbing his gun and preventing him from putting another round into Travis. Just one more would’ve done it, would have dropped him in his tracks. Then the bitch would’ve come running for him, yes, she would’ve, and he could’ve dropped her, too. But, no! That soft-hearted bastard jumped for his gun. And oh, how good it felt to shoot him.

  Feeling a measure of calm return, Agent Travers pulled his smartphone out of his jacket pocket. He felt good now, restored, serene. He could give a report in an even, matter-of-fact tone of voice.

  Using his thumbprint to unlock the phone, he tapped the icon for the agency’s proprietary security app, which activated the front camera on the device. First, he held the phone exactly two feet in front of his face. When it issued an audible beep, he moved the phone closer, so the little fisheye camera lens was six inches away from his right eye. After the second beep, he shifted it to his left eye. One more beep, and a text box opened. There was no security question to answer, no passphrase to which an answer might be guessed. Just a blank text box. Every morning a code-word was issued to all agency field operatives. It came in the form of a robo-call that could not be recorded and would not leave a voicemail. It was the agent’s responsibility to answer the phone at six a.m. or risk not being able to communicate with agency headquarters until the next code word was issued. Supposedly, those who failed to answer the phone were counted, and there was some form of repercussion for repeated offenses.

  Agent Travers never missed a call.

  With the security protocols completed, he dialed the number for the agency. He reported straight to the Director—there was no intermediary supervising agent for this project—so he needed to mentally rehearse. There would be no names used during the conversation, which should confuse any potential eavesdropper. Initials would indicate titles, and context would provide whatever other information was needed.