Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  Going prone, he scooted to the opening and pushed it wide with the barrel of his rifle, trying to avoid the constant whack and thump of the incoming rounds.

  Again, the marshal let loose with a dozen shots. This time, instead of men hugging the walls, he spied a stack of boxes. “What the hell,” he blurted, just as a rifle barrel popped over the top and snapped two shots into the door above his head.

  “Smartasses,” he cursed, surmising the attacker’s tactic. Someone had found the room full of accounting records and was using boxes of paper files as a mobile bullet stop, inching the heavy stacks forward little by little as they advanced on the boiler.

  Shutting the entrance and moving away, Griffin sat with his back against the wall, drawing deep breaths of air. “I don’t know that I can hold them off. You should destroy that thing. I’ve got a feeling those guys out there aren’t going to use your creation for humanitarian purposes.”

  “How should I destroy it?” William asked, staring down at the case.

  “I’ll shoot it,” Griffin offered, raising his rifle.

  “That might work, but I doubt it,” William countered. “This case is constructed of nearly one inch of titanium and woven carbon fiber. It was designed to survive an airplane crash. I don’t think your gun is big enough.”

  Holding up one finger to signal a hold on their conversation, Griffin edged to the threshold again and fired a dozen rounds into the hallway. The boxes were closer now, about 20 yards away.

  Several rounds were fired in response, some of the larger caliber rounds penetrating the steel door with enough force to ping off the pipes inside. One of the battered metal tubes began hissing steam. It gave the marshal an idea.

  “Can you hack into the hospital’s boiler system? Can you set off the alarm to let my friends know where we’re holed up?” Griffin asked.

  Staring at his backpack and remembering the thug tossing his laptop inside, William stammered, “Yes, I suppose. It might take a while.”

  “Do it!” Griffin commanded, moving again to shoot down the hall and hoping to buy the software geek more time.

  William began typing, his fingers shaking so badly he had difficulty with even the most basic commands. Outside, Griffin could tell the attackers were getting close. Their prize almost within reach, a steady stream of bullets began ripping and tearing into the room. Again, the marshal rolled toward the opening and jerked the trigger. He had to slow them down.

  Staying exposed longer than he should have, Griffin felt a stinging sensation across his bicep, one of the incoming rounds ripping a trench through his flesh. “Fuck!” he yelled, turning away and grasping the painful wound.

  “You’re bleeding!” William shouted, peering up from his laptop.

  “I’m okay,” the marshal snapped back. “Set off that damned alarm!”

  “I can’t,” the executive replied a moment later. “The power to the console is down. I can’t hack into something that is switched off.”

  “Then do the right thing and restore the power. Tell that creation of yours to turn on the juice!”

  Griffin couldn’t believe the reaction of the man next to him, Foster seemingly reluctant to save his own skin. “I don’t know if I should do that.”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The electrical grid is my hostage. I always planned that if I were caught, I would use that as my final bargaining chip,” William confessed.

  At that moment, a single man burst through the door, weapon blindly spraying lead.

  Griffin’s foot shot out, kicking the assaulter’s ankle hard enough that the man lost his balance. Swinging in a wide arch, the marshal’s other boot sliced through the air, knocking both of the shooter’s legs out from under him.

  As the gunman fell, Griffin fired three rounds through the open door. An agonizing howl echoed outside as the marshal advanced toward the man he’d just upended. One brutal kick to the temple reduced the headcount in the boiler room back to two.

  Staring directly into the computer guru’s eyes, the marshal announced, “You might want to rethink your exit strategy, dude. A hostage does you no good if you are dead.” After a few deep breaths, he repositioned the corpse and used its weight as a prop against the door. “That won’t help much, but we won’t get surprised again.”

  The cardboard bullet stop was now within a few feet of the doors, close enough that one of the attackers poked the barrel of his weapon through the opening and loosed an extended stream of automatic fire.

  Griffin dove for the gap between the double doors, grabbing the red-hot barrel and shoving it skyward until the owner yanked it away. The odor of cordite and scorched flesh quickly permeated the boiler room, the marshal’s hand now badly burned. Somehow, he managed the latch, but knew it wouldn’t hold long.

  Pissed, in pain, and wondering what in the hell was taking Kit and the cavalry so long, Griff reached for his vest and snatched off the short cylinder of a flash-bang grenade.

  Hefting it in his good hand, he reached for the pin just as a voice from the hallway called out.

  “Marshal Storm! Marshal Storm! We have no fight with you. Hand over the football, and we’ll let you both live.”

  Glancing at William, the marshal mouthed the word, “Football?”

  Pointing at his indestructible case, William whispered, “He means this, Marshal. More importantly, I recognize that man’s voice, and I know who is outside.”

  Marshal Storm nodded his understanding. “I have a better idea,” Griffin shouted back. “Throw down your weapons and raise your hands, and I won’t kill you. Every cop on the Pacific Coast is heading this way. There’s no way out.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for backup, Marshal. The police are either dead or evacuating the hospital. Don’t be a fool. Hand over the case and live. It’s not worth your life.”

  Griffin motioned William to take the laptop and football and get behind the nearest console. He then pulled the pin on the flash-bang, tossed it into the hall, and slammed the door shut again.

  As the metal canister rattled across the corridor’s floor, Griffin dove over the console, landing beside William just as the device detonated. The resulting shock wave dazed the defenders while completely disorienting the attackers. As he tried to regroup, Griffin shook his head to clear the mental clutter, looked up and spotted a large ventilation grate above him.

  Knowing it would take the men in the hallway a bit longer to recover their senses, Griffin hopped up on the desk and removed a knife from his vest. A second later, he pried the wire mesh away from the opening. Sure enough, the overhead tunnel was big enough for a man to crawl through.

  Exchanging his blade for a flashlight, Griffin hoisted himself into the crawl space to see where the metal passageway lead. He could feel chilly air flowing from somewhere, a good sign.

  “You can’t leave me here,” William whined from below.

  Lowering himself back to the console’s surface, Griffin dropped down beside the terrified man. “I have an offer for you. You have five seconds to make a decision.”

  The marshal explained his scheme in four sentences, William’s eyes widening at the lawman’s suggestion. “I have your word?”

  “Yes, I’m willing to make a deal with the devil. Do we have an agreement?”

  William nodded, “We have a deal.” His hands moved for the keyboard, fingers tapping out a drumbeat of instructions. Less than 15 seconds later, the lights in the boiler room flickered, the control room’s gauges and buttons springing to life. “The grid is restored. It will be up nationwide within five minutes.”

  “Good,” Griffin nodded, his weapon still trained on the door. “Give me your wallet.”

  Without hesitation, William reached into his back pocket and produced the expensive, leather billfold. With his weapon high, the marshal sprang over the console and rushed to the carcass still propped against the opening. Bending quickly, he stuffe
d the wallet into the man’s pocket and then removed the weapon and magazines from the dead man’s belt.

  As the marshal returned to the console, movement in the hall told him that the assaulters were actively recovering. “How long will it take for the boiler to overheat?” he asked William.

  “Hard to tell, but I would guess a few minutes at the most. I have shut off its safety systems while at the same time fooling it into thinking that the facility is about to freeze.”

  Griffin could feel the heat now, William’s instructions to the steam system having an instant impact. Less than a minute later, a yellow light on the huge tank started flashing. “Pressure is rising,” William confirmed.

  Movement distracted the marshal, someone from the hall trying to push the body out of the way with a wooden broom handle. The M4 answered, Griffin sending several rounds through the slit between the doors.

  “Why is the boiler getting hot?” Griffin shouted, playacting for the men in the hall.

  “They must have shot out the cooling system,” William yelled back, playing along. “It’s going to blow!”

  “Time to go,” Griffin announced with just enough volume that only Foster could hear. Both of them peered up at their overhead escape route.

  Before William could react, an alarm klaxon filled the room, a computer-generated voice sounding throughout the hospital, “Boiler at maximum pressure. Danger! Boiler at maximum pressure. Danger! Evacuate… evacuate… evacuate.”

  As the message repeated, Griffin lifted William into the opening. “Go. Crawl like hell. There’s no way of predicting the size explosion this thing will make.”

  While the marshal watched William’s feet scurry into the metal tunnel, he tied the football to his belt. Just as he bounced to lift himself up, the door leading to the hallway crashed inward.

  Hoisting himself toward the shaft, Griffin glimpsed a tall stack of boxes fall into the room, followed by two men firing wildly. An instant later, he scrambled into the ductwork.

  Removing the football from his belt and pushing it ahead of his body, the marshal belly-crawled through the darkness at his best pace, motivated by the repeating alarm and praying he could effectively increase the distance between him and the imminent explosion.

  It seemed like he’d only managed a few yards when his whole world suddenly tilted, followed by a thunderous roar. The searing temperature from the blast was so intense, Griffin thought for sure the soles of his boots were going to melt.

  When the duct stopped shaking and the heatwave subsided, the marshal resumed his journey, hoping the boiler’s detonation hadn’t caused a collapse of the structure.

  Three minutes later, he bumped headfirst into William’s shoes.

  “You okay?” the marshal asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just catching my breath while you caught up. We have reached a ladder going upward. I think it leads outside.”

  “Let me go first,” Griffin responded, squeezing past the smaller man.

  With the football firmly in his grasp, the marshal mounted the rungs. A few steps later, he recognized a faint shimmer above. The light at the end of the tunnel, he mused.

  He touched a heavy metal screen, the parking lot street lamps gleaming through the mesh. It took all of his remaining strength to push the cover open.

  “Come on up, the coast is clear,” Griffin yelled back down.

  The marshal extended his hand into the hole, helping William out of the subterranean passageway. The software mogul slumped to the ground, struggling to control his breathing and steady his pounding heart. The duo found themselves a good 200 yards away from the hospital, surfacing into a small, fenced area that contained several large pipes and other utility equipment. “At least the hospital is still standing,” Griffin mumbled, nodding toward the main structure. “The boiler was underground, some distance away from the primary building. I don’t think we hurt anyone but those guys outside the door, and I doubt anyone will miss them much.” Sirens shrieked in the distance, two large firetrucks racing across Harbortown’s parking lot with lights flashing. “Looks like we might have started a fire,” the marshal observed.

  William, clearly exhausted, ignored the emergency vehicles, strained to sit up, and peered hard at the lawman. “Are you going to honor our agreement, Marshal?”

  Griffin nodded, “Yes. You rest here and stay out of sight. I’ll be back shortly. I’m a man of my word, Mr. Foster. I expect the same of you.”

  Nodding, the executive rested on the concrete, sighing with relief as the adrenaline dump began to dissipate, his body still trembling from the life and death drama he had narrowly escaped. “Oh, I am not going anywhere, Marshal,” William mumbled, reaching for his cell phone as he watched Griffin walk away.

  Kit paced back and forth at the edge of the new police safety line, while a fire marshal inspected Harbortown’s structure and gave the all-clear for the gathering SWAT teams to enter the building.

  Seeing Griffin pull Foster down the stairs leading to the basement, she had tried to follow but had been pinned down. Eventually, she pushed back as more and more shooters invaded the main corridor. Later, the Assistant US Attorney had tried to rally the few cops she’s encountered during her retreat, but the entire facility was in chaos.

  Given the volume of gunfire, everyone both inside and out was in an absolute panic. The policemen on site had been torn between stopping the shooters and helping civilians reach safety. Initially paralyzed by the bedlam, they eventually organized and began the evacuation of the hospital. Luckily, the building emptied quickly; the upper floors, packed with unmovable patients, was placed on lockdown.

  Kit was beside herself, knowing her only friend was being pursued by a gang of ruthless gunmen, and she was powerless to help him. Just as she’d managed to corral enough armed police to charge back into the facility, the boiler’s alarm had sounded. The sergeant who led her hastily gathered response team wanted no part of an infrastructure explosion. The cops had to forcibly remove Kit from the building, the federal prosecutor insisting that they stay and rescue Marshal Storm.

  The blast literally shook the ground, a few windows on the first floor of the hospital exploding outward in a spectacular display. Fire alarms bellowed; the sprinkler systems engaged.

  At that point, Kit made another attempt to enter the damaged building, only to be held back by the same sergeant. “You can’t go in there, Ms. Carson. Who knows how much damage there is? The whole place might collapse any second. Besides, we know there are several shooters inside. We don’t know their status.”

  Now, she could do nothing but wait and listen as information slowly drifted from the crippled facility.

  Glancing out over the sea of anxious faces watching the disaster unfold, Kit noticed a familiar shape approaching the crowd. “No,” she whispered, a thread of hope filling her chest. “It can’t be.”

  The man kept to the shadows, finally waving her over.

  “Griffin!” she shouted when his face became clear. Running to his arms, she nearly bowled him over with her embrace. “You’re alive! Oh my, God! You don’t know how worried… where did you come from? Are you okay?”

  Then, she felt the wet blood from his wound, immediately turning to call over a paramedic. The marshal stopped her, saying, “I’m okay. It’s only a scratch.”

  She started to ask another question, but he quickly silenced her with a finger to his lips. “Can’t explain now. I need a car. Right now.”

  “Where in the hell are you going to get a car?” she started to ask, but he was already brushing past her. Still trying to grasp what was going on, the stunned attorney whipped around to follow her friend.

  Griffin stepped right up to the nearby sergeant and flashed his badge. “I need transportation. I have a lead on one of the shooters,” he barked. “I need one of your units.”

  The cop’s face took on a completely different expression at the mention of the gunmen who had just shot up the ho
spital. His first move was to reach for his radio to call in reinforcements.

  Griffin stopped him, “You’ve got your hands full with this mess. My lead may not be solid, and there are a lot of people that are going to need help here. I can call in federal backup if it plays out.”

  Fishing for his keys, the officer responded, “Clearly, I’m not going anywhere for a while. Here, take my cruiser. It’s the second one over there, number 2119.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bring it back ASAP.”

  With Kit struggling to keep up, Griffin hustled toward the indicated police car. Once they were inside, she insisted, “Okay, Mr. Mystery Man. What’s going on?”

  “Kit, I know you are going to have a million questions. I am not going to answer them. You are better off not knowing. If what I am doing backfires, I could end up in a prison cell. There is no reason for both of us to be behind bars,” he answered, turning the cruiser away from the curb. “Besides that, orange isn’t your color,” he teased, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

  He stopped a minute later, headlights shining on what appeared to Kit as some sort of utility junction. She inhaled sharply when William Foster’s head peeked over the fence.

  “Come on, Mr. Foster. Let’s get you out of here.”

  On unsteady legs, the computer exec wobbled toward the backseat. Kit watched in amazement as Griffin secured their passenger in the sedan, secured some personal items in the trunk and then pulled out of Harbortown’s busy lot.

  Kit’s head was reeling from cognitive overload, a million questions flooding her brain at once. Following the marshal’s lead, she sat silently and sorted out her thoughts. She knew Griffin well enough to know he’d justify his actions at some point in the future.

  “Take a right up here,” Foster suggested.

  Eventually, they turned onto a road, a sign indicating they were approaching the King County Airport. “Hangar number 21,” Foster instructed.

  Parking the police car outside the closed hangar, Griffin and Kit followed Foster inside. Flicking on a bank of light switches, a brilliant white aircraft appeared, its sleek nose and jet engines shining in the overhead glow.