by Estes, David
Minda reads them, her dark eyes dancing across the page. “Hmm…,” she murmurs.
“What is it?”
“Just something I remember. The consortium has been at this for a long time, carefully planning, biding our time. There was a lot of downtime involved, but we maintained regular communication through the Agriculturist’s Forum, even if there were no updates to report. Sometimes our conversations became casual. We talked about ourselves. I remember JoseCuervo and BloodyMary getting into an argument about religion one time. Jose was a devout believer and Mary…well, she was an atheist.”
A bubble of surprise pops inside Benson’s stomach. “But she specifically mentioned God, almost as if she’s trying to get the attention of those who know her best.”
“Yeah, that’s weird,” Minda agrees. “And she told those she loves to seek His help for answers. Why would she say that if she doesn’t even believe in Him?”
“Look above,” Janice says, jumping in, pointing at the body. Benson finally looks, immediately wishing he hadn’t. But he doesn’t pull his stare away, because his mother seems excited by something. “She said look above.”
The truth of his mother’s statement hits him in the chest, and he can tell Minda figures it out at the same time, steely focus returning to her eyes. “The ladder,” she says. “We’ve got to get the body down.”
The process takes a grueling few minutes, as both Benson and Minda refuse to let the body drop from such a height. Regardless of the mistakes this woman made, neither of them want to desecrate her body. She deserves better, as they all do.
Benson’s thankful for Minda in the moments after they lie her on the floor. His hands are shaking, his stomach roiling, but she takes on the job of searching the body for a clue. Although he can hear her gagging several times, she doesn’t stop until she says, “There’s nothing. Whoever killed her would’ve searched her body. And she couldn’t have known they’d hang her from the chandelier anyway.”
Benson knows she’s right, but that doesn’t mean the note wasn’t a clue. He clambers up the ladder, ignoring Minda’s shouts to wait. Up close, the chandelier is far less beautiful. The gold is tarnished, covered in a thin layer of dust. The crystals look fake, like plastic.
“Benson,” Minda says from below.
“Hold on.”
He runs his hands along one of the long gold pipes that form the base of the fixture. The metal is smooth and cold against his skin. His fingertips graze past a raised edge, and then backtracks. An imperfection? Only one way to find out.
He pulls at the metal, as if trying to wrench apart a wishbone. At first the metal sticks, but then it gives way, the crystals clinking against each other wildly. Something shoots from the piping and drifts to the floor.
“What is it?” Benson hollers down.
“Paper,” Minda says.
While she unfolds the note, Benson descends to meet her. They read the second message together, silently:
To the Consortium, may this message find you alive and well, despite what I’ve been forced to do. I had a feeling they were onto me, but I managed to barricade myself in my office long enough to write this note. When I give myself up, all communication with me will cease. I will hide this somewhere on my person in the hopes that you might find it after I’m gone. They have my family—that much is clear. I’ve tried contacting them multiple times today, but have received no response. Unfortunately, their abduction is what alerted me to my precarious situation. I fear I may have left a virtual footprint by accident this morning when I was searching through confidential files in the system. They will threaten to torture and kill my family, and I will spill my guts to save them. It won’t save me, but I hope their innocence will spare the lives of my husband and child. I can only hope I don’t get the rest of you killed, and that the mission can go forward as planned. I will give them enough information to save my family, but no more. I will not give up the key. That is the very least I can do. Please forgive me for my stupidity and failings.
I have mere minutes before they get to me, but I have one more piece of information, that I discovered before they found me out. The excess food DOES EXIST. But it’s gone. It was shipped overseas somewhere, the trail is unclear where. Someone is trying to hide it fr
The rest of the note is cut off, as if she was forced to end it abruptly, rushing to hide it in the chandelier. When Benson looks at Minda, there are tears in her eyes. “It could’ve been any of us,” she says. “But Shay had one of the more dangerous positions, and she took risks we never should’ve expected her to take.”
“I’m sorry,” Benson says.
“Me too.”
As they turn to leave, Benson notices the way Minda stops and starts, as if unsure whether to just abandon her friend’s body. He takes her arm, guiding her away, and she seems to gain strength with each step to the roof, contacting the Hawk with expert strokes on her holo.
No one speaks as the drone whisks them away from yet another tragedy that Benson somehow feels is his fault.
~~~
Back at the safe house, they are reunited with Harrison and Simon and their newest team member, the heroic Lola, and they share stories of their missions.
“Why did Jarrod send you on such a wild goose chase?” Benson asks.
“It wasn’t Jarrod,” Harrison says. “It was Wire. That was exactly the sort of game that he likes to play.”
“Wasting our time,” Simon says.
“Little bastard,” Minda adds.
“That about sums up what I think of him right now,” Harrison says. “He could’ve got us killed.”
Benson looks away, memories of his friends filling his mind. How are they going to find them now?
As if reading his mind, Minda says, “We’ll figure out another way.”
Although Benson appreciates her optimism, her words are unable to stifle the underlying sense of sadness that fills the room, one that’s only overcome by the fact that they’re all still alive, and by Lola’s constantly licking tongue, which none of them can deny is the best medicine for melancholy in the world.
Chapter Twenty-Four
She knows it was self-defense, but still.
The man will never take another breath, will never walk another step, will never blink his sightless staring eyes ever again.
Destiny did that. Her. It’s not just her fault that he’s dead, like the others, but actually her that did the killing. She remembers the fear and uncertainty in his eyes, the way his hand shook holding the gun. Although he was helping the Destroyer for some reason, she doesn’t know why, only that the guy she killed was no killer.
And yet he might have killed her if she didn’t act. He might have killed Michael Kelly. She had no other choice.
Destiny does not feel bad about what she did, and that scares her the most. She feels almost triumphant—sickened a little, yeah—but oddly victorious. Two guys, one her, and she’s the one left standing.
The guy on the floor has finally stopped groaning, but he’s still clutching his shoulder tightly, trying to stop the blood flow. Her knife’s handle protrudes between his fingers, stemming the worst of it. His eyes go wide when she stands over him, his gaze dropping to her hand. “No,” he pleads.
What’s he so worried about? she wonders. Oh, she realizes, noticing the gun in her hand. She doesn’t even remembering picking it up. “I’m not going to shoot you,” she says. “As long as you cooperate.”
The man bobs his head frantically.
“Get something to put pressure on the injury,” Michael Kelly says.
Destiny stares at him. “I’m getting you out of here.”
“First get him patched up. Then we go.” His words are firm.
“Is that what he would say to you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Michael says. “It’s what I’m saying to you.”
Instead, she tucks the gun in her waistband and scrambles around behind him, starting to work on loosening his bindings. They’re tight
, a convoluted mess of knots and twists, and her fingers seem useless against the coils. “Destiny, right?” Michael says. His voice is lower, more soothing, but she can sense a weakness in it, like it takes significant effort just to form the words.
“Yes,” she breathes, still fighting with the ropes.
“You’ll need the knife.”
Of course! A hysterical laugh bubbles up in her throat, but she swallows it down, admonishing herself for her own stupidity.
“You can’t just pull it out,” Michael says. “The blood’s going to come fast.” A random image forms in her head: A little girl shaking a fizzer can; pressing the button to open it; laughing gleefully as the sweet bubbly liquid sprays out in a foamy arc. A memory from her childhood. Is that what it will be like when she removes the knife, except with blood instead of fizzer? The thought makes her slightly dizzy.
Michael takes her pause to mean uncertainty. “He’ll die. He’s not a bad person. He tried to help me.”
“His pants,” Destiny says.
“They’re thick,” Michael agrees. She can hear the scratchiness in his voice now, too, as if his throat is raw and dry. How long has he been here? She tries to count backwards to the day the news story came out about his rumored death. Two weeks? Three? She can’t even imagine the torture he’s undergone at the hands of the Destroyer. Less than a day was more than enough for her.
Grabbing the bottom of the guy’s pants, she pulls with all her strength. At first the material holds, a dark well-manufactured synthetic material, but then the slightest of tears forms. The imperfection is enough to destabilize the fabric, and she manages to rip a line up to his knee. From there, she wrenches it around his leg, until she splits the bottom of the pant leg off completely.
“Good,” Michael says. “Now the other.”
She was only planning on doing one, but she immediately sees that he’s right. Even folding up the severed fabric will only create a tourniquet half a finger thick. Her arms scream at her, but she ignores them, clenching her fingers over the second pant leg. It takes longer than the first, but she eventually does the job, her fingers shaking with expended energy when she finishes.
“Why are you doing this?” the guy asks as she crawls the material over to his shoulder.
“Because I’m not a killer.”
“You killed him.” The guy is pointing through the door, but Destiny doesn’t look.
“It was an accident. And he had a gun.” She gets to work, wrapping the first pant leg tightly against the skin above the knife, making a full circle and tying it off.
“He wouldn’t have used it.”
“You’d swear to that?”
The guy goes silent, and Destiny takes that as a no. She ties the second pant leg opposite the first, forming a semi-cocoon around the knife handle. When it comes out, the dual-tourniquets should close over the wound, cutting off the flow of blood.
She realizes Michael hasn’t spoken in a while, and she looks over at him. His eyes are closed. “Michael?” she says.
“Yeah?” he responds, not opening his eyes.
“You okay?”
“Never better,” he says, and she’s glad to hear a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He’s beat up pretty bad, but he’ll make it if she can get him out of here soon. She still can’t believe that Harrison was so close to his father and never knew it. In a weird sort of way, she’s excited to tell him. Once his father is safe it seems like something they could laugh about.
“I’m going to pull the knife out now,” she says, more to herself than anyone—a self-motivating order.
“Do it quick,” Michael rasps.
“Oh god,” the guy says, clenching his teeth and closing his eyes.
She stands up, places both feet firmly on either side of the guy, and bends over, clasping the knife handle with both hands. And the knight did what no one else could; he pulled the sword from the stone. Her mother’s voice is crisp and clear in her head as she remembers her favorite childhood bedtime story.
Despite the chill she feels in her bones, her palms are sweaty, and she struggles to get a firm grip. The guy is making a strange, guttural sound through his teeth, spit bubbling out, and she realizes she’s slowly pulling the blade from his skin, causing him great pain. She takes a deep breath, locks her elbows, and then stands up straight, dragging the knife with her.
The man screams and his eyes fly open, but then it’s over. She presses the makeshift bandages firmly down, already feeling the warmth of the blood flowing beneath them. “Put pressure on it,” she instructs, guiding his opposite hand across his chest and forcing it to bear down on the wound. Sweat is running from his forehead to his lips and his breaths are coming in short gasps. “Thank you,” he manages to say, which is a funny thing considering it was Destiny who stuck the knife in him in the first place.
Not even bothering to wipe off the blood, Destiny races back behind Michael and saws at his tethers, cutting through them one at a time, her hands burning as the friction wears away several layers of her skin.
When she finally breaks through, Michael falls forward, unable to hold himself up. He bangs his shoulder on the ground, but is smiling as much as wincing. “Ahh,” he says, breathing deeply. There are angry red lines cut deep into the flesh of his bare arms and chest, an echo of where the ropes held him for days.
Destiny crouches down beside him. “Can you walk?” she asks. She doesn’t think she has the strength to carry, or even drag, a man of his size. He’s as tall as Harrison, and even more broad-shouldered, if not as chiseled.
“I’ll try,” Michael says. “But it might take some time.”
“I don’t know if we have time,” she says. “Do you know where the Destroyer is?”
Michael shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I think something’s wrong with him.”
Destiny whirls around to face the guy, who’s just lying here staring at the ceiling. “Who are you?”
“A doctor.”
“The Destroyer is sick?”
“Yes.”
“The other...” A pool of blood spills through her mind, but she blinks it away. “…guy was a doctor too?”
“No. A robotics specialist.”
It all makes sense now, and Destiny feels a zing of pride at having her theory confirmed, and knowing it was she and Harrison that inflicted the damage.
“Is the Destroyer dead?” This time the question comes from Michael, a hint of hope in his tone.
“No,” the doctor says. “He’s in bad shape, but we think he’s through the worst of it. He could wake up anytime.”
A shiver of fear runs down Destiny’s spine, like a branch trembling under a cold breeze.
“We have to go now,” Michael says. “Before he wakes up.”
Destiny wants to do as he says, wants to help him up the ladder and away from this horrible place forever, but she knows she can’t, not until she’s finished what she and Harrison started. “No,” she says. “I’m going to kill him.”
Michael’s eyes are dark and wary, but tired too, and he doesn’t argue with her. “We’ll go together.”
“You don’t want to do this,” the doctor warns.
Destiny cocks her head. “What are you so scared of?”
He bites his lip. “Nothing.”
“Get up,” she says, amazed at the coldness in her voice. Her entire body feels numb, moving automatically, her mind blank. She’s protecting herself from the fear, from the sadness, from the anger, a form of shock setting in, driving her forward.
The guy manages to get to his feet, and she aims the gun at his head. “Whoa! What the—”
“I’m not going to shoot you if I don’t have to.” In truth, she doesn’t know if she’d shoot him no matter what he does, but she’s hoping to not have to make that decision. “Show us where he is.”
As the doctor staggers forward, she shoves the bloody knife back in its holster and offers a hand to Michael, who takes it, pushing with one hand while she pulls him up.
“Hold on,” she whispers, although the weakened man doesn’t need her urging, immediately roping his arm around her shoulders.
He’s heavy, but his legs are helping, and she concentrates on keeping the gun on the doctor, more as a threat than a promise. The doctor turns right, and she realizes he’s leading her back to where she was once imprisoned, a place she’d rather not even think about, much less visit.
The door is already open, the lighting dim. On the same slab that Harrison was once strapped to, lies the Destroyer, his arms splayed at his sides, his eyes closed. He’s so motionless he could be dead, but then Destiny notices the slight rise and fall of his chest.
He’s only sleeping.
Her hand begins trembling as she realizes she’s so close to her goal, her nemesis helpless and vulnerable. She takes a deep breath, pushing it out between tight lips. She can do this.
“Over there,” she says, motioning with the gun to the side. The doctor moves aside, flush with the wall.
“We’re all dead if you do this,” he says.
“Explain,” she says.
He scrunches up his face.
Destiny’s tired of his secrets, tired of living in a world of fear, tired of the Destroyer doing anything he wants with no consequences. It’s time to end all of that.
She takes two steps forward, wanting to get close enough to not miss her shot but not so close that the Destroyer could hurt her if he wakes up. His hand moves slightly and she almost shoots a wild shot, but then takes another deep breath to calm her frazzled nerves. It was just a subconscious flinch, nothing more. Gritting her teeth, she raises her gun with a steadiness that’s contrary to the butterflies fluttering about in her stomach. Taking aim, her finger flirts with the trigger.
~~~
Something’s been going on. There have been distant, echoing shouts and a blast that sounded like a gunshot, but the Destroyer can’t seem to make sense of any of it.