Finest Hour

by Dr. Arthur T Bradley

  He leaned forward and let his backpack fall to the floor. The man’s compound bow could still prove deadly in the crowded store, but pitting arrows against buckshot was not a winning strategy. Dropping to one knee, he carefully fed fresh shells into the belly of the shotgun. Letting him reload was Leatherface’s second mistake. His first had been picking a fight with the wrong man.

  “Sergeant,” he called, trying to catch his breath, “if you’re thinking of running, now would be a good time. You’ve got my word, I won’t shoot.” He tightened his grip on the shotgun, ready to blow the man to hell and back.

  No one answered.

  Tanner stood up and scanned the room. There were dozens of places to hide, and avoiding a knife in the ribs was going to require a slow steady search. He stepped around an overturned table that had been stacked with t-shirts and hats. To his left was a series of small alcoves filled with knickknacks, picture frames, and CDs recorded by local artists. None struck him as a suitable place for a grown man to hide.

  The opposite wall was lined with windows, most of them already broken out by vandals. He instinctively glanced back over his shoulder, fearing for a moment that Leatherface might have already gone out one of the windows in order to sneak up behind him.

  He hadn’t, and probably wouldn’t, for two very good reasons. First, the glass on the floor would give away his advance as well as it did Tanner’s. And second, Samantha would shoot the bum in the back if he stepped foot out of the building.

  Tanner advanced into the next room, ready for any kind of ambush the soldier might set. Every step was as uneventful as the one before it—no tripwires, no carefully set snares, no bear traps waiting to snap his foot off. Instead, he found only a collection of moccasins, plastic hatchets, toy dinosaurs, and all manner of stuffed animals. Along the back wall was a partially open door with a sign hanging above it: Bathrooms.

  He stepped forward and bumped the door open with his foot. On the other side was an empty hallway with a men’s bathroom on one side and a women’s on the other. Both doors were closed. He inched forward and tried the knob on the men’s door. It turned easily enough, and the door swung inward with a slight creak.

  Other than a urinal, an open toilet stall, and a sink, the room was empty.

  He crossed the hall and tried the women’s door.

  Locked.

  As Tanner debated on the best way to clear the room, a loud crash sounded from inside the room. He stepped back and leveled the shotgun. Apparently, even Delta Force weenies could be clumsy.

  Buckshot might not penetrate the door particularly well, but it would most definitely blow the lock. An instant before he pulled the trigger, he detected a large shape dropping down from the ceiling behind him. There was nothing Tanner could do to stop the shotgun from firing, and by the time he brought it around, Leatherface was already on him.

  The man came in, slashing the ASEK knife back and forth. Tanner instinctively pushed the shotgun sideways, parrying the blade with the stock of the weapon. Leatherface whipped it back, narrowly missing Tanner’s gut before he once again batted it away. Realizing that he couldn’t possibly block every strike, Tanner debated on whether to put a little distance between them or fight for the knife. Leatherface made the decision for him by lunging forward, the blade driving straight for his heart.

  There simply wasn’t time to move his large frame out of the way, so Tanner did the only thing he could. He dropped the shotgun, parried the back of the knife hand with his left palm, and struck inside the man’s wrist with his right fist. Together, the two opposing strikes broke the man’s grip and sent the knife clattering down the short bathroom hallway. The technique couldn’t have been more perfectly timed, and Leatherface stood completely dumbfounded. One second the knife was there; the next it wasn’t.

  Tanner’s mouth curled. “Learned that trick from an old aikido master.”

  Leatherface snarled, popping a short jab, followed by a vicious hook. The jab caught Tanner in the nose, but he managed to duck the hook. As he straightened up, he sliced in with a short uppercut, but before it could land, Leatherface lunged forward with a headbutt. The blow was right out of Tanner’s playbook, and it sent him stumbling back.

  Having taken two solid shots to the face, his nose was leaking blood like a cheap garden hose. Worse yet, it was starting to swell, something that he knew would eventually interfere with his vision. Hoping to turn the tables, he drove a knee up toward the man’s gut. Leatherface managed to step inside of it, taking most of the impact on the back of his thigh, painful but not debilitating. He swung a ridge hand up into Tanner’s groin, followed immediately by an elbow to the side of his head. Both made contact, and both hurt like hell.

  Doing his best to ignore the pain, Tanner reached around and pulled the man’s head toward him. He had squeezed the life out of someone before, and he wasn’t above doing it again. But Leatherface would not be taken so easily. Before he could be drawn in, he drove his knuckles deep into Tanner’s throat while using his other hand to push away. It was the perfect defense against a hip throw, but that wasn’t what Tanner hand in mind. Instead, he stepped forward, hooked his foot around the inside of the man’s lead leg, and scooped it off the floor.

  Balancing on only one foot, Leatherface started to tip. He instinctively grabbed for his opponent, but that only made things worse. Tanner lurched backward, driving both men down to the floor. The Judo throw, known as Kawazu-gake, was so dangerous that it had been explicitly banned from competitions, and for good reason. Two hundred and fifty pounds of angry violent offender dropped onto the smaller man, driving him into the concrete. Leatherface groaned, and there was an audible snap in his right elbow.

  The smaller man began to flail around in a desperate attempt to untangle himself. He scratched at Tanner’s forearm with jagged fingernails, leaving behind bloody grooves. Still gripping the man’s neck, Tanner fired a series of short jabs with his left hand. Though limited in their range of motion, the succession of blows broke Leatherface’s nose and ruptured his eyeball. With every strike, Tanner felt the man’s strength slowly fade. Unfortunately, his also started to wane.

  With his face being pounded into a mash of blood, snot, and swollen flesh, Leatherface finally squirmed free of the headlock and scrambled away. Tanner high crawled after him, catching the soldier as he climbed over a mound of children’s toys. Leatherface spun onto his back, kicking upward. Tanner grabbed the man’s boot and dragged him back a few feet before once again dropping down on top of him.

  Leatherface sat up and snapped his teeth together, hoping to latch onto anything that might bleed. Spittle sprayed Tanner’s arms and face as he leaned away, using one hand to hold the man back while blindly reaching behind him for some kind of weapon. His hand closed around a toy rubber snake, and he whipped it around, slapping it against the man’s face over and over. It didn’t do much damage, but it did cause Leatherface to roll back to his stomach.

  Tanner lunged forward, this time slipping the snake around the man’s neck. Leatherface tried to escape, but Tanner crisscrossed his hands, firmly setting the choke. With his airway now completely cut off, the man frantically tried to work his fingers between the rubber and his throat. But each time he did, Tanner leaned in and smacked his attacker’s head against the floor. By the third strike, Leatherface was out cold.

  Straddling him, Tanner snugged the snake even tighter, pulling the man’s head completely off the floor. He didn’t relax his grip until Leatherface’s bladder finally let loose, spilling a pool of warm urine under his belly. When he was sure that the fight was over, Tanner retrieved his shotgun and shot the man in the back of the head.

  It wasn’t necessary, of course. But if he’d said it once, he’d said it a dozen times: when in doubt, pull the trigger.

  When Tanner stepped from the gift shop, the first thing he saw was Samantha lying prone under the wheel well of the Hummer. She was looking down the sights of her rifle, but as soon as she saw him, she rolled free
and raced toward him.

  “Did you get him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened to your face?”

  Tanner touched his swollen nose. By the size of it, he figured he must look a bit like Karl Malden.

  “What are you talking about? I always look like this.”

  She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him.

  “You worried about me?” he said, patting her on the back.

  “No,” she said simply.

  He leaned away. “No? Why not?”

  “I don’t think any one person could beat you.”

  “Not even a super-soldier who carves off people’s faces?”

  “Not even him.”

  “Still, it was good to have you covering my back.”

  She squeezed him. “I’ve always got your back. You know that.”

  He nodded, feeling his throat tighten.

  She let him go and stepped back.

  “We didn’t even get to eat lunch.”

  He smiled. “We’ll eat in the car.” He turned and studied the cars scattered around the parking lot. “Let’s go see what we have to work with.”

  They discovered that two of the cars had dried human remains spread across their seats. The others had been abandoned, but none of those had keys in the ignition.

  “Well?” he said. “Do we take the easy way or the hard way?”

  “Does the easy way involve cleaning out dead bodies?”

  “It does.”

  She made a face. “Then I vote for the hard way.”

  “All right. Go and get the tool bag we found earlier. I’ll find us a car.”

  She hustled over and retrieved the bag. When she caught back up to him, he was standing next to a faded blue Honda Accord with a cracked windshield and tires that were nearly bald.

  “Really?” she said, looking at the dusty old car. “This was your first choice?”

  “What? It doesn’t have any rotting bodies inside.”

  “No,” she said, stepping forward and looking in through the window. “But’s it’s kind of old, don’t you think?”

  “We want old.”

  “We do?”

  “Sure. Anything newer will have all kinds of systems to prevent hotwiring.”

  “Oh.” She studied the car. “Is this where you show me how to steal a car?”

  He smiled. “I believe it is.”

  “Because one day my life might depend on my hotwiring a car?”

  “Correct again.”

  “All right,” she said, swinging open the door, “walk me through it.”

  Tanner gently pushed her out of the way and rested the back of his head on the driver’s seat.

  “Hand me a flat-head screwdriver,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She dug around in the tool bag for a moment and then passed him a screwdriver.

  “First thing is to get access to the wires inside the steering column. To do that, you’ve got to remove the plastic cover from under here.” He stuck the screwdriver in a small hole on the bottom of the steering column and torqued it sideways. Several concealed clips broke free, and the panel swung down.

  “Did you break it?”

  “Does it matter? It’s not like we’re planning on selling it.”

  “Still, there’s no reason to break things.”

  “You know, you may not be cut out to be a car thief.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a proud smile.

  Tanner grabbed a tangle of wires and pulled them free.

  “There are generally three sets of wires. One set goes to stuff on the left side of the column.”

  “Like the lights.”

  “That’s right. Another set goes to the right side to power things like the wipers and seat controls. The third set is what we’re after.” He yanked a bundle of red, blue, and yellow wires free from the others. “It goes to the battery, starter, and ignition.”

  She bent down and looked at the mass of wires.

  “But how do you know which is which?”

  “Easy. The battery wire is almost always red. The starter wire is usually yellow or brown, and that leaves blue as our ignition wire.” He pulled the wires apart so that she could see them clearly.

  “Battery, starter, and ignition,” she said, leaning in to point to the red, yellow, and blue wires.

  “You got it.”

  “Where do they go in the dash?”

  “The battery wire goes up to the input side of the ignition switch. The ignition wire goes to the output side of that same switch. That way, when the switch is turned, current flows to the radio, lights, and that sort of stuff. Make sense?”

  “I think so. Power goes from the battery to the key switch.” She touched the ignition switch. “When you turn the key, the power goes out to the lights and stuff.”

  “Exactly. All we need to do is bypass the switch.”

  “Okay, but how?”

  “We tie the battery and ignition wires together.” Tanner held out his hand. “Cutters.”

  She poked around in the tool bag and came up with a small pair of dikes. He used them to cut and strip the ends of the red and blue wires, twisting the bare ends together. When he did, the lights on the console came on.

  “Hey,” she exclaimed, “you did it!”

  “You’re surprised?”

  “Not really. You’re one of the best criminals I know.”

  “And how many criminals do you know?”

  “Just you,” she said with her usual deadpan delivery.

  Tanner rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the wires.

  “Next, we cut the starter wire.” He snipped the yellow wire and quickly stripped one end. “If there were two starter wires, we’d just touch them together. But since there’s only one, we need to briefly touch it to the battery wire.”

  “And that’ll start the car?”

  “It should, but you have to be careful when sparking them. If your fingers are touching the exposed metal, it could burn or shock you.”

  “Which is it?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said it could burn or shock me. Which is it?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t really know.”

  “Then how do you know it will do either one?”

  Tanner held the yellow wire by the insulation and briefly touched it to the red wire. Bright white sparks flashed as the engine turned over.

  Samantha jumped back. “Got it,” she said, her eyes wide. “Keep your fingers away from the wire tips.”

  He grinned. “Is there any tape in the tool bag?”

  She pulled out a small roll of black electrical tape and handed it to him. He bit off several small pieces and carefully wrapped each of the exposed wires. Once they were safely covered, he tucked the bundles back up into the steering column.

  Samantha was already tossing her pack into the back seat.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said, climbing into the passenger side.

  “I suppose.”

  “Were you afraid of that Army guy?”

  He put the car into drive and started out of the parking lot.

  “Why would I be afraid?”

  “Because of the bad things he did. Cutting off people’s faces and all. Weren’t you worried that he might do the same thing to you?”

  “No one would hurt a beautiful mug like mine.”

  “Says the guy with a nose the size of a fishing buoy.”

  “It hurts, in case you were wondering,” he said, gently touching it with his fingertips.

  “Sorry,” she said in a softer tone. “Seriously though, doesn’t someone so horrible scare you? Even just a little bit?”

  “Sam, you should know by now that I’m the guy they call in to deal with horrible people.”

  “Right,” she said, eyeing the bloody scratches on his arm. “Because you’re just as terrible as they are.”

  “No, darlin’. Because I’m worse.”

  Chapter 10

/>   The audience was limited to high-ranking military officers, representatives from the Congressional Body, cabinet members, and other government officials. Vice President Stinson and members of the Cabinet sat onstage, flanking the podium on both sides. There were, however, three empty chairs, highlighting the absence of the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and the Secretary of Energy. Microphones had been positioned in the center of the conference room, both to record the speech as well as to broadcast it using the nation’s Emergency Alert System.

  As a round of muted applause finally died down, President Pike stepped to the podium and carefully adjusted the closest microphone. As he did so, Yumi Tanaka, sauntered over to one of the vacant chairs, smoothed her skirt, and sat down, crossing one elegant leg over the other. She seemed to be enjoying the spotlight, even if no one other than Pike could actually see her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice calm but serious, “it is with great concern that I come to you today. Unspeakable allegations were recently broadcast by someone claiming to be the late President Rosalyn Glass. To put an end to rampant speculation and rumor, I felt it important to address those allegations.

  “Let me begin by making it absolutely clear that the speaker was not Rosalyn Glass. As those of you who heard the broadcast can attest, the voice was intentionally distorted by computer technology to hide the speaker’s true identity. To explain this distortion, the speaker claimed that a digitized voice was necessary because the president’s true voice was no longer recognizable.” Pike shook his head lightly. “I can only hope that rational minds will recognize this to be a convenient coincidence behind which the perpetrators attempted to hide.

  “There’s no one in this room who loved Rosalyn more than I did.” Pike cleared his throat and took a moment to visibly collect himself. “But we must all accept that she is no longer with us.” He reached down and retrieved a green folder. “These are the official notes and findings of her personal physician, Dr. Tran, the same physician who worked tirelessly to save her life. While it is a violation of her privacy, I think Rosalyn would approve of my making this folder available for public review if it helps to put this matter to rest.”