Agent Hill: Powerless

by James Hunt

  Bryce glanced over to his neighbor, Johnny, and noticed his agent on an unintentional path to a group of armed men. “Johnny.”

  The noise brought Johnny out of whatever daydream he was caught in. “Shit. Thanks, Bryce.” Johnny pulled up the screen and notified his agent. “Vinny, you’ve got a lot of action happening at the intersection of Karmanitskiy and Troilinskyiy. No firearms in the group, but quite a few blades.”

  Every single agent in the field was putting him- or herself at greater risk of exposure the longer this went on. As well trained as these guys were, Bryce knew that with the amount of people in the city and the longer they went without any supplies of food and water, the more desperate they would become. All it would take would be one stray ricochet to bring an agent down. No amount of training could prepare you for something like that.

  Chapter 2

  The room was dark and damp and smelled of shit. The width of the box was less than an arm’s length, but Ben had given up trying to maneuver around what little space he had. He just sat in the corner, tucked in a ball, doing his best to stay out of the mess he’d reserved for the corner opposite where he sat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen sunlight—or any light, for that matter. He could have been trapped inside for days, weeks, or months. But he knew it couldn’t have been that long. While his urine stung when he peed, he was still secreting water.

  Whenever Ben felt his mind slip into the blank space of insanity and madness, he forced all his concentration onto his family. His whole body would shake, his eyes squinted shut, looking at the faces of his daughter, his son, and his wife. He just wanted them to be safe. He just wanted to make sure they were all right. That’s all that mattered to him now.

  The door to his cell opened and blinded him with the whitest light he’d ever seen, revealing the slop and mess he’d been living in. His face was slightly bruised, and his lips were chapped and split. He knew his body was dehydrated, but everything had become so foggy that he sometimes forgot how he’d arrived in the tiny death cell.

  Two pairs of arms lifted him from the ground and dragged his motionless body out of the cell and into the white light still blinding him. Slowly, the light morphed into blurred shapes, and he felt himself being pulled into another room and set on a chair. The room was clean, and he became aware of the polished-steel table in front of him.

  More figures entered. Ben couldn’t see their faces, but the shapes of their bodies started to come into focus. They looked more like people and less like the shapeless aliens that had extracted him earlier. One of them was talking to him. Ben could hear his voice, but it was nothing but mumbled jargon. It wasn’t until the hard smack across his face, stirring him awake from his stupor, that the man’s words finally reached his ears in the coherent manner in which they were intended.

  “Mr. Hill,” the man repeated. “Where is your sister?”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in, and the features of the man standing in front of him finally came into focus. The man was tall—taller than anyone he’d ever seen before. The face was hard, emotionless. Behind the emotionless man was a large piece of mirrored glass. He caught a brief glimpse of himself and recoiled.

  “Where is your sister, Mr. Hill?” the man repeated, keeping the same robotic tone as before.

  “My family. I want to see my family.” Their faces came to his mind slowly, like a beached vessel rising with the incoming tide. The longer he concentrated on them, the higher the water rose, lifting his mind from the muck it’d been stuck in for the past several days. The tall man paused then snapped his fingers, and the mirrored glass transformed into a window. Inside, Ben could see his wife, Becca, his son, Matthew, and his daughter, Ella.

  The three looked healthy but tired, especially his wife. She sat in the corner while the kids played on the floor with a few toys. She bounced her knee, chewing her fingernail with an obsessive nervousness that she reserved for moments when she felt stressed.

  Ben rose from his seat, the restricting hands no longer keeping him down. His eyes watered, and his bottom lip quivered more intensely the closer he moved to the window. He pressed his hands against the glass, his fingers and palms spreading flat. “Becca.” The word came out as a whisper, followed by the names of his children. He patted the window with his hand. The glass had the feel and thickness of concrete, each hit with his palm doing nothing more than creating a dull smack. He beat the glass harder, his voice rising, screaming their names. But no matter how hard he beat the glass, no matter how loud he screamed, they never looked up. He was invisible to them.

  Tears and snot dribbled down his face as the two guards pulled him from the window, leaving nothing but his smudged fingerprints on the glass. When he was forced back down into his chair, the stone-faced man snapped his fingers again, and the window returned to the mirrored glass, where Ben saw his reflection once more, but in a graver state than before. “Bring them back. I want to talk to them, now!”

  The tall man stepped around the table and sat on the edge, right next to the dribble of spit that had flown from Ben’s mouth. He pulled a napkin from the inside of his suit jacket and wiped the table down, restoring it to the same pristine cleanliness as before. He folded the napkin up and left it rested neatly on the table.

  Before Ben had time to react, a hard right cross knocked him out of his chair and onto the ground. The blow brought back the dizzying confusion and blurred figures from before. He wobbled on all fours, his arms and legs almost too weak to support him. The left side of his face felt numb, tingly, and swollen. He looked up from the floor, and the blur of another fist crashed into his nose, knocking him backward.

  The tall man lifted Ben off the ground and slammed him up against the wall, his feet completely off the floor. The back of his head cracked hard against the concrete, sending another wave of pain through his skull. Ben did his best to focus, but the pounding in his head combined with the ringing in his ears made it hard for him to just breathe.

  “If you don’t tell me where your sister is, I’m going to bring one of your kids into this room, and I’m going to shoot them in front of you, and that will continue until you’ve either told me where to find your sister or you’ve run out of children.”

  “Chicago,” Ben answered.

  “Where in Chicago?”

  “3324 North Clifton Avenue.”

  The man let go of Ben’s collar, and he dropped to the floor. The two guards picked Ben up and carried him back into the dark cell from which they’d collected him. The door clanged shut, and Ben was once again sealed into darkness. He crawled back into the corner and curled up into a ball, shaking, the sting from his wounds still fresh on his skin.

  Why did these people want his sister? What did she do? He may have just sentenced his sister to a fate worse than his own, and for that he would always be regretful, but he hoped she’d understand why he did it. Matt and Ella were just as important to her as they were to him.

  ***

  Heath wiped the blood from his knuckles and tossed the dirty rag into the trash can. His steps were quick and precise down the hallway. The men behind him had trouble keeping up with his long strides and had to step twice as fast to keep pace.

  Rick’s secretary was just outside his door, and she gave him a smile as he approached. “You can go right in, Heath. He’s been waiting for you.”

  Heath nodded, and he straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket upon entering. He pushed the door open, and the men following him halted, standing outside the door as it slowly closed and fighting like children trying to sneak a look into the closet where the Christmas presents were stored.

  Heath had worked for men of all different varieties with different rules, but none of them aligned as closely with his own until he’d met Mr. Demps. He’d heard of the man long before he started working for him. In fact, it was a referral from another client that had brought him under his wing. That was nine years ago. After that, he decided that this was the last man he’d
render his services to.

  Mr. Demps was at his desk, looking over paperwork. The office was a mixture of concrete, steel, and wood. All polished, all clean, all simple. It had the same efficiency of space, materials, and content as the office back in New York. All that was missing was the skyline background. Heath dropped a report on Rick’s desk then kept his hands at his sides, staring straight ahead, waiting for Mr. Demps to finish.

  “I hope that’s good news,” Mr. Demps said.

  “I believe you’ll be pleased, sir.”

  Mr. Demps placed both palms on his desk, splaying his fingers out around the manila folder that was the report. A large ring with a ruby centered in the middle of it circled his index finger. He tapped it rhythmically on the flat desk. His eyes scrolled down the text of the first page like a computer processing information then fluidly moved on to the next page. The ritual continued until Mr. Demps reached the end of the report and set the folder aside. He folded his hands together and leaned back in his chair.

  “And we’ve confirmed this?” Mr. Demps asked.

  “Yes, sir. We double-checked it with her tax statements as well as the checking account. That is her home address.” Heath’s long limbs hung rigid at his sides, his spine thick and tall, like that of a redwood, towering above everything around it.

  “What assets do we have in Chicago?” Mr. Demps asked.

  “We have a mercenary team stationed there, sir. At least thirty men.”

  “Put them into action, and I want you to personally lead them in.”

  Heath broke his glance and looked down at Mr. Demps, forcing back a smile from his face. “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  The long lines of stone stretched for hundreds of yards. The headstones ranged in size from small crosses and concrete plates barely raised from the ground to massive mausoleums of marble etched with intricate designs of faith and family. The multicolored shades of grey contrasted against the bright tufts of green grass cutting between the graves.

  Sarah stepped lightly through the tall grass, most of the graveyard lying unkempt and wild, until she made it to two polished-marble headstones so close together that they were practically touching. The small sliver of space between the two stones acted as a parallel line stretching for infinity.

  Sarah ran her hand over the smooth marble, tracing the letters of the names etched in the stone. “Hey, guys.” Her words were soft, and she let her hand fall limply to her side. “I know it’s been a while since I’ve visited. Work’s been busy.”

  The concussive blasts of gunshots echoed somewhere in the distance, and her hand instinctively went to the pistol concealed under her jacket. Her body went rigid, and she scanned the area, searching for any threats that could be near. The shots were at least a mile away, and there wasn’t a body in sight, at least not a living one. She removed her hand from the pistol’s grip and formed a fist. “I’ll find them.” The words were resilient, harsh. “I’ll bring them home. I promise you that.”

  Sarah brought both hands to her lips and kissed her fingertips. She rested one hand on each headstone and closed her eyes. She searched for her father’s words, seeking comfort or wisdom or anything that she could remember about him.

  But the words never came. Their memories were fading from her. Their crisp figures began to blur. Remember. Her eyelids spasmed from the building pressure of forcing her eyes shut. For a moment, her father’s face came into view, and he smiled then turned to her mother, taking her hand, and they danced. But the vision flashed for only a moment before it was blurred again.

  Sarah opened her eyes, and she felt a wave of tension release from her body. She had not realized the rigidness of her own muscles. The longer her parents were in the ground, the less she remembered them, and with it the feeling of shame grew. Out of all the things she could do, all her physical gifts and her skills, she couldn’t remember what her father used to say to her before she went to bed at night. She turned her back on the stones and trudged through the long grass toward the rusted iron entrance gate of the cemetery.

  Chapter 3

  Whatever North Clifton Avenue used to look like, Heath couldn’t tell. Trash cans were tipped over, with their contents spilled out onto the street. Doors were broken, windows smashed, cars wrecked into the lifeless power line poles, void of any electrical current.

  Any semblance of order and law had evacuated, and Heath felt the disgust swell up inside until it manifested in the twisted anger of his face. It was a sight one would see in the streets of the Middle East or some war-torn nation riddled with civil unrest. He nodded over to the unit of men on the left side of the street, and they marched down the sidewalk, armed with assault rifles and protected with Kevlar jackets.

  Out of his right peripheral vision, he could see a few scared faces look at them through the broken windows of what was left of their homes. These people were used to crime, but it wasn’t likely that any of them had seen something like this.

  One man came out on his front steps, wielding a knife. “Hey! Get out of here! Now!” His clothes were dirty and his hair as wild as the expression on his face. He took a few steps down the stoop from the apartment building, despite Heath and his men advancing into the area. “You hear me? We don’t need your help!”

  The man’s words had sparked the courage of a few others who had started to make their way out onto the stoops of their buildings. Heath kept his eye on the building numbers, searching for 3324, and he finally spotted it where the man with the knife on his stoop was shouting at them.

  Heath took the lead, keeping his rifle up, peering through the scope. The moment Heath placed his foot on the first step of the stoop, the man wielding the knife took a step back but then stopped in front of the door, blocking the entrance. “Hey, man, you can’t just—”

  The suppressor around Heath’s rifle couldn’t completely mask the sound of the bullet ejected from the muzzle and into the man’s heart, but the sight of blood spraying from his chest was enough to trigger a cascade of screams and slamming doors from the rest of the neighborhood’s onlookers as Heath stepped over the body and into the foyer of the building.

  The inside of the building was hot with the humid stench of filth and human decay. Heath’s face twitched in irritated spasms. Every second he lingered here, his body was poisoned by the unsanitary beasts that inhabited the area. The sooner he killed the bitch, the faster he could get out.

  Heath held up his hand as they approached Sarah’s door. He carefully scanned the frame for any potential explosives or trip wires, and once he determined it was clear, he placed a small bit of explosive on the doorframe, wedged right between the handle and the frame. He and the rest of his men stood back, and the bomb exploded into a mixture of wood and dust, sending the door flying backward into the room.

  Heath led the charge into the room and burst through the smoke. An old, worn couch and a kitchen table filled the living room. He passed a few pictures on the walls and made his way into the kitchen, where the counters were bare of anything but cobwebs. He lowered the rifle once he made it to the utility room, and the shouts from his men echoed through the small apartment, signaling that the place was empty.

  “Bedroom clear.”

  “Living room clear.”

  “Kitchen clear,” Heath said and joined the rest of his men in the settling dust in the living room. He went to the bedroom and pulled out the drawers of the dresser inside. All were empty except for one shirt and a pair of shorts. He checked the closet—nothing. He stomped across the living room and back into the kitchen. Only one plate, a cup, and a few pieces of silverware were in the drawers and cupboards. The fridge was bare and the freezer the same. He slammed the fridge door shut, and it shook the rest of the cabinets. With the condition the place was in, it looked like she hadn’t been here in months.

  ***

  The .45 caliber rounds spilled from the box in Sarah’s hand and rolled across the counter. She caught the majority of them in her palm before they hit
the floor, but a few clanged against the hard tile. She shook her head, trying to break up the clouds of fog in her mind. Her knees popped slightly as she squatted down to pick up the bullets, and she gave a light grunt when she lifted herself back up.

  “You need to take a break.”

  Sarah turned around, and Bryce had his arms folded across his chest. She returned her focus to loading the empty magazines. “Where are we at with locating Demps?”

  “Sarah, you’re exhausted. The only breaks you’ve given yourself are when you come to reload or grab some water or something to eat, then you’re back out in the streets.”

  “Well, I can’t let my hoes get out of line out there. Just trying to keep my pimp hand strong.”

  “Sarah—”

  “It’s my fault they’re gone, Bryce.” She slammed the loaded magazine into her pistol and turned around. “We don’t even know if they’re alive. What am I supposed to do, huh? Just sit around and wait for something to happen?”

  Bryce took a few steps forward and placed his thin hand on her shoulder, and despite its size, it felt oddly heavy. “I know you want to find them, but you won’t do them any good if you die of exhaustion before you get there.”

  Sarah punched Bryce’s shoulder, and he stumbled a few steps back. “Yeah, well, I can still kick your ass.”

  Before either of them could talk, Johnny came peeling around the corner of the armory, almost skidding into a pile of grenades. “Decoy house alarm just went off!”

  “Whose is it?” Bryce asked.

  “Sarah’s.”