by Brian Savage
Taking the stairs two at a time, he drew his weapon, the other hand gripping the rail and using it to pull himself along. She was on the third floor, apartment 333. Based on the size of the building, he figured her apartment would either be on the far side of the building or, he hoped, the side he was running up now. He passed the door to the second floor, and nearly leaped the entire landing to the first step of the next flight up.
He slowed as he neared the third floor, taking a second to listen as he looked through the thin pane of glass and down the hall. He saw dark red carpet, old-fashioned with zig-zag designs in black and brown. He checked the nearest door to the stair well. 337. Perfect. He followed the wall two doors farther on and spied a red door, cracked open.
He listened for a second before easing the door open with his right hand. He took in the short hallway into the apartment. To the immediate left was a small kitchen. Under the cabinets and above a bar-high countertop, Jack could see into a small living room area. The walls were rental-special white. A black couch was pressed against the wall under the only window in the small space. Down the hall, he could see a small bathroom, with a towel draped over the door. On the right side of the hallway, past a Van Gogh print of Starry Night, he could see what he assumed was a bedroom door, closed. He made his way past the kitchen, clearing the living room as he passed.
Brant made it to the apartment door breathlessly, drawing his weapon and falling in behind Jack. He moved into the living room, checking the blind corner, and Jack clearing the small bathroom simultaneously. They converged on the closed bedroom door.
The door opened in, hinges on Brant’s side. Jack nodded to Brant, who slowly checked the door handle. Unlocked. He nodded back to Jack, both bodies tense like springs under pressure. This action had been practiced hundreds of times; no space was allowed between their bodies when they moved through the door. Brant opened the door and took the exaggerated step necessary to clear the way for Jack, who moved right behind him so closely he pushed through the tail of Brant’s jacket.
The door slapped against the wall, a corner-fed room, slamming the handle through the thin drywall of the cheaply renovated apartment. The girl sat straight up in bed at the sound of the intruding agents. Both weapons trained on her in an instant. She froze, wide-eyed at the pair, faces hard, jaws clenched. She didn’t speak, too surprised to say a word. She raised both her hands slowly from beneath the blanket. Her hair was a mess, but the green eyes which now looked into Jack’s were the same as the picture he had spent so long studying.
Jack took a deep breath, willing his taut body to relax as he slowly lowered his weapon. “Clear,” he said, the magic word that lowered his partner’s weapon as well. “Will you go shut the front door?” he said to Brant.
“Sure, boss,” Brant replied, giving his partner a sly smile and a wink.
Jack just shook his head at him as he passed him on his way into the hall. Jack looked back to the girl. Her hands were still in the air, her face a mask of fear and anger. “I apologize for the intrusion, but we had reason to believe that your life might have been in danger.”
“You mean before you two broke into my apartment and pointed your guns at me?” she said, the fear leaving her face and replaced by a more defiant look. Her hands stayed in the air.
“Do you know Joshua Harraves, Miss James?” Jack asked, ignoring her hands and her sarcastic remark.
“Yes,” she said, not volunteering any more information than the simple one-word answer.
She wore a large tie-dye shirt, covered in logos that had been altered with colorful markers. The Pillsbury Doughboy, now a chubby devil, colored red and complete with horns and a tail, sat center on her chest. Jack paused. He knew from experience that most people would rather fill empty space in conversation than sit in uncomfortable silence. Many had sat before him spilling their guilty thoughts all over the silence. The girl just sat, looking back at him. Her pretty green eyes were shiny as if full of tears. Her hands, still in the air…Jack sensed an almost imperceptible shiver run through her body.
He decided to break the silence. “Joshua Harraves was killed earlier today.”
Her hands drew slowly into her lap. She took a small, open-mouthed breath before pressing her lips together firmly. Those eyes, which now sparkled with tears, scrunched shut as she dropped her head and sobbed.
Brant walked back into the room and leaned against the door jamb. He placed his hands in his pockets.
Jack waited a respectful amount of time for the girl to stop crying. She used the blanket still covering her lap to wipe her tears. The bed-head ponytail atop her head bounced with each of her sobs. Jack noticed her smooth, tan leg, just peeking out from under the edge of the blanket. He averted his eyes, noticing Brant looking at him, raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated gesture, of what Jack considered his immaturity.
Jack glared at him before turning his attention back to the girl, almost completely recovered now from her crying.
“Was he…was he terminated?” she asked, looking up at Jack.
“No. He was found dead in his apartment,” Jack replied.
“Shot dead through the head?” she said, an edge to her hoarse voice.
“Would you mind telling me what made you ask that?” Jack asked, tilting his head slightly to the right.
“He was terminated, asshole, how else would he have been killed?” she snapped, wiping her nose on the blanket.
“He was found shot through the head in his apartment. He wasn’t terminated,” Jack said firmly.
“Wherever he was found, the Corporation terminated him,” she said, leaning forward and enunciating every single syllable.
“Why do you think that?” Jack said, locating a square clothes basket behind him and taking a seat. He crossed his left leg over his right, and leaned back against the wall.
“Fuck you,” she said, looking down at her hands in her lap.
Jack looked around the room. The apartment itself was small and cheap. One of the many renovated buildings in the First Ring. A remnant of a different age. No matter the new flooring laid, or the layers of paint added, the building just seemed out of place in the modern world of glass and steel. Her bedroom was small, like every other room in the apartment. The walls were white throughout, aesthetics being secondary to functionality and affordability. The only other items in the room besides the bed where she sat, and the clothes bin where Jack sat, was a wood dowel held up by two folding metal chairs, and on which hung what Jack assumed was her sparse wardrobe of mostly t-shirts and standard techie cargo pants. A small pile of underwear sat on the seat of one of the chairs.
“Why so hostile?” he asked, turning his gaze back to her slumped figure. “We came here to make sure whatever happened to Harraves didn’t happen to you.”
“You came into my apartment, guns drawn, to tell me that my friend was murdered a little while ago, and you think I’m going to sit down and serve you some fair trade tea and cookies with a goddamn smile on my face? Are you fucking stupid?” Her voice was angry and cold. It seemed to leap at him from between her pretty lips, but was, in reality, little more than a whisper.
“Touché,” Jack said quietly.
Jack and the girl looked at each other. Eyeing each other. Brant shifted position by the door uncomfortably; of the three of them, he was the least used to silence in a conversation.
“Miss James, I am going to have to ask you to come with us,” Jack said in a way that was obviously not something asked, or that could be refused.
“Why?” she said, sitting up straight.
“I don’t know why your friend was killed. I don’t know how you knew he was shot. Until I find a few answers to either a) find out your connection to his death, or b) make sure that you aren’t in danger yourself, you are going to come with me.”
Brant stood up from where he leaned in the doorway, ready to go. She glared at Jack from where she sat. Brant watched in interest the battle of wills between his partner and the prett
y girl. He had watched his partner talk more than one person into cuffs since coming to work with him, but the girl had an attitude and seemed to hate agents more than your everyday person. Way more than someone who works for the same company. He shifted from foot to foot apprehensively.
“I have to get dressed,” she said, seemingly succumbing to the inevitability of accompanying the two men in the room. In that instance, she felt the vulnerability of the situation. Nothing but a shirt and the blankets of her bed covered her tanned body. She drew the covers further into her lap, pulling them around and behind her. Jack maintained his gaze on her face. Why is he looking at me like that? she wondered to herself. She defiantly stared back into his pale blue eyes. His eyes are gorgeous, she thought to herself, before immediately shutting down the ridiculous thought. What the hell was wrong with her?
The agent stood. He told the other agent to go get the gasser. The younger agent appeared almost reluctant to leave, but acquiesced to the older agent’s command and disappeared down the hall. Jack turned back to Aeralyn.
“I’m not going to leave you alone. I will step out in the hall to allow you some privacy, but do not shut the door,” he said firmly, standing up and moving toward the door.
“I’m supposed to just trust you not to look?” she said, dripping with sarcasm.
He paused in the doorway, back to her. He turned halfway toward her and looked her in the eye. “Yes,” he said simply and softly. He stepped out into the hallway. She heard him lean against the wall and could barely make out the edge of his jacketed shoulder.
There was something about this man. He was different. The way he spoke to her hinted at kindness. She had never felt that from any man or woman she had interacted with, agent, officer, or soldier. This man saw more than most. She grimaced in an uncontrolled reaction to her inner turmoil. Even if he saw more, he couldn’t know; he didn’t really see.
Jack waited outside of the room, calming his racing heart. There was something about this girl which drew him in like a moth to a flame. Maybe it was those books the old man gave me, he thought, shaking his head at himself. Too many stories of love giving him over-romanticized thoughts while on duty. While on duty! He clenched his jaw and put his chin to his chest. He heard her move from the bed, the rustle of sheets and blankets, and the slight creek of a floorboard as she moved toward the clothing rack. His body tightened as he forced himself to think of other things. Anything other than her smooth, tan skin.
He bit his tongue.
The minutes ticked by.
He felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned his head, startled by the touch. “I’m ready,” she said to him.
He looked at her clean face, no sign of tears besides a light puffiness around her eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, reminiscent of her company picture. Their eyes met for a span of a few seconds, which seemed to last minutes, before Jack came back to reality. He looked down at her clothing. The cargo pants that seemed like they would be baggy on her small frame hugged her hips and thighs before widening out slightly to hang over her branded sneakers. She wore a baggy hoodie over the same tie-dye shirt she was wearing before. He noticed that, like before, she wasn’t wearing a bra. He quickly brought his gaze back up to her face.
“Yeah, my eyes are up here,” she said, her rebuke much softer than the earlier sarcasm. She bent down and picked up a canvas messenger bag from the floor beside the door, slinging it over her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he muttered, turning and heading for the front door. She jogged a few steps to catch up and match his stride in the hallway. He turned left toward the stairs, and she stopped right outside the door.
“Hey!” she called after him. “The elevator is this way.”
Jack stopped and turned back toward her, walking back toward the apartment. “Oh, yeah,” he said, walking past her. She followed, questioning him.
“Did you run up the stairs?” She had to walk fast to keep up.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Why?”
“I thought something bad was about to happen to you. Felt, I guess, is a better word. I felt like something bad was about to happen.” They stopped together at the elevator, which slid open before them. They stepped in, and almost in tandem, turned, leaning against the back of the square metal box. She looked to her left, up at the agent’s face. She saw the slow, green blinking of his implant, her eyes following from the black metal, to the strong jaw line, to his lips. She took a deep breath, turning back to face forward.
An ad played on the inside of the elevator doors, trapping them in the metal box, to watch a male enhancement commercial. Jack felt extremely uncomfortable. He chanced a look to his right at the girl. She was looking straight at his face, a huge, sideways smirk on her lips. He turned back to face the ad, shaking his head at her amusement. This girl was something else.
She was the first one out of the elevator when the doors finally released them. She walked out, head high, like she had won something from his discomfort. He found himself having to jog a few steps to keep up with her now, until she stopped in front of the shattered glass door. Two small robots zig-zagged their way around the foyer, vacuuming up pieces of glass.
“What the hell happened here?” she said, mouth agape.
“I couldn’t be bothered to unlock the front door,” he said, walking by her and smirking.
She hurried after him. Brant had pulled the gasser up to the curb right below the steps. Jack pulled open the back door and motioned for her to get inside. She hesitated outside the vehicle. She could see the sleek black interior. It looked cold and uninviting. She looked back to Jack’s face. He held no expression, but she felt warmth from him. Warmth she had found so absent from most other people nowadays.
She pulled her bag across her chest and slid ass-first into the vehicle. Jack followed, not pushing her along the bench seat, merely forcing her to move lest she be in an uncomfortable proximity to the agent. She sat against the far door, legs tightly together, her bag clutched tightly in her lap. Brant eased the gasser back into the street and through the people milling about.
“I guess I should have asked this before I got in, but where are you taking me?” She watched Jack’s face, now tinted blue by the gasser’s cabin lights.
“D.I.E. headquarters,” he replied.
“To the interrogation cells?” A hint of the earlier defiance crept back into her voice.
“Do I need to interrogate you?” Jack said, turning his head from the window to her face. She looked down into her lap.
“What was Joshua Harraves to you, besides a coworker?” Jack asked, curious for more than one reason.
There was a slight catch in her voice when she quietly replied, “He was a close friend. We had gone to school together. Programming, at Infosys University.” She began rolling and crumbling an edge of her bag together, kneading it in either a nervous habit or to stave off tears.
“Were you two involved romantically?” he asked, studying her down-turned face.
“Why is that important?” she said angrily. Jack could see a few blue-tinted teardrops splashing on her bag.
“Not that I think you did it, but love has cost many people their lives.” He looked away. “A lot of hurt comes at the hands of those you never thought could do you any harm.” The distance in his voice was sympathetic and spoke from experience. Aeralyn looked up from her bag at Jack. She sniffed, and wiped the tears from her cheeks with her fingers.
“No,” her voice was clearer now, stronger. “We were never involved romantically. We worked together, studied together, and just enjoyed each other’s company. Nothing more.”
“The good ole friend zone,” Brant muttered from the front seat. He wasn’t overly fond of this girl. There was something arrogant about her, something that immediately earned his distrust. That, and his partner’s apparent interest in the girl outside of the investigation, had set him on edge.
“Did you say something, Brant?” Jack said, leaning
forward in his seat.
“Oh no, just repeating an old rhyme I heard somewhere, ‘He thrusts his fist against the post…’ and all that.” Brant glanced up in the review mirror. He saw Jack lean back in his seat, turning most of his body toward the girl.
“What were you working on yesterday afternoon?” Jack asked.
“For the company?” She thought for a moment. “Aerial systems, I think.”
“Anything specific?”
“Updates to navigation systems. The work ticket said a few aerials had flown to the wrong locations.” She looked out the window.
“Do you watch or listen to the news feed?” Jack asked.
“No. It’s mostly a bunch of shit,” she replied, not turning from the window.
“An aerial flew into a guard post on the Third Ring. Killed a guard,” he said, voice becoming a bit more stern. “Do you know anything about that?”
“No, I don’t,” she said, turning to meet his gaze with a glare.
“Would Mr. Harraves have had anything to do with it?” he pushed.
“No, he wouldn’t, and I resent you for asking such a ridiculous question.” Her voice broke a bit. “He’s dead.”
“There were three people logged into aerial systems yesterday during the attack. You, Harraves, and one other we already talked to—”
She interrupted him mid-sentence. “Aren’t the socialists known for this type of attack? They could have easily hacked the system,” she said, pointing out the obvious.
Jack pulled the small, folded photo from his jacket pocket. He handed it to her. “This is a screenshot from the aerial’s camera system. I was able to print this off before the email, along with the video, magically disappeared from my work email, and my personal email.”