Minion

by John David Anderson

  “That’s a big gun,” Zach whispers.

  “Only takes one finger to pull the trigger,” I reply. I think about the backpack full of cash still stashed in the car. I’m not sure I brought enough to go around.

  Mickey and Tony nod to each other curtly. “You want to settle up now or at the end?” Tony says, scratching at his chin with the top of his cane. Mickey shrugs.

  “Let’s just get it over with.”

  Then Tony turns to the group of hit men, heavies, and goons circled around him. “Listen up, people,” he booms. “Somewhere around here is a steel-eyed freak that calls himself the Dictator and probably a whole bunch of those goose-stepping, metal-faced rats at his heels. Lucky for us, today we are in the extermination business. This Dictator fellow, he plans to hijack the TV at six o’clock, which, as many of you know, is when The Simpsons comes on, so I’m afraid we are going to have to cancel his evening plans.”

  The Romanos laugh. The Maloneys don’t. They have agreed to work together, but old habits die hard. Tony gives a signal, and three dozen guns are unholstered and pointed houseward. I look up at him, eyebrows raised, just a little nudge to say, Don’t forget why we’re here.

  “And one more thing,” Tony calls out. “Benjamin Edson is being held hostage somewhere here as well. Skinny. Orange beard. Probably dressed in a Hawaiian shirt.” Tony looks at me for confirmation and I nod. “He’s this kid’s father and a close personal associate of mine, so he’s not to be harmed, understood?” He looks across the divide at Mickey. “Got anything you want to add?”

  Six Fingers scratches his head with his lonely digit, then turns to his men. “Let’s do business,” Mickey says, then motions for his men to move in. Tony does the same, and thirty armed henchmen suddenly swarm up the drive and around the house, SWAT-team style. Several of them bunch around the front door. I follow behind Tony and stand on the porch by the swing. There is a mat that looks to be at least thirty years old, imploring us to wipe our paws. A wind chime with only two tubes left clangs solemnly above us. I try to look through the windows, but they are crusted with filth on the outside and blocked by dark curtains from the inside. I guess there could be a supervillain in there somewhere. Tony stares at the door, takes a moment to adjust his tie, then raises his cane, as if he’s going to knock.

  Instead there is a flash of thunder and lightning, and Tony’s cane kicks up in his hand as the front door explodes, shattering inward in splinters. The crime boss gives the top of his cane a twist, and I hear it reload with a click as his henchmen pour inside.

  “It’s mostly for show,” he says, then squeezes himself through the hole he’s made.

  I wait out on the steps for a moment, holding my breath, listening. I expect to hear an instant eruption of gunfire. Shouting and grunting and grappling and the kabloom kerpow of some epic confrontation. But there is only the sound of boots pounding on hardwood floors and doors being thrown open or kicked in as both Tony and Mickey’s men inspect every room. After thirty seconds, I step inside.

  The place looks like it hasn’t been lived in for years. Sparsely furnished with moth-eaten chairs, a thick layer of dust on every surface. Cobwebs decorate every corner. It smells like a shoe closet. From the Dark Ages.

  “Quaint,” Zach says, running his finger along a grimy window ledge.

  It doesn’t take long for thirty armed men to search a five-bedroom house. Mickey finds a spot on the musty sofa and settles down, pillowing up a plume of dust, inspecting his nails, his machine gun straddling his lap. After only a matter of seconds, Rudy, whose nose is still a little purple, gives the all clear.

  “Dere’s nobody ’ere, boss,” he says.

  “You checked every room?” Tony says. “Maybe we should get a jackhammer and bust through the floors, just in case. Could be a secret passageway or something.”

  “Or maybe dis little rund led us on a wild goose chase,” Rudy says, looking at me with a gap-toothed grin. He and I will never be best friends, I guess.

  “He has to be here somewhere,” I say, desperate now. “I was told to come here. We have to find him.”

  “There’s still the barn,” Mickey suggests from the couch.

  Tony and Mickey each summon their gangs, and the whole lot of us heads in that direction. The morning’s rainstorm has left puddles scattered about like land mines, and I seem to be the only one interested in dodging them. The penny is nestled back under my heel now, and as I walk, I try to picture Viola sitting on the park bench beside me, asking me where it went, not quite believing in magic but seeming to want to. She would like it in Montana, I bet. The sky probably lights up like Independence Day every night out there. Tony puts up his hand, and we all stop outside the door.

  The barn looks newer than the house. A large, boxy affair, windowless and sided with aluminum. A simple padlock holds the two giant doors shut, but another blast from Tony’s cane makes short work of it. A man takes either side as everyone else raises whatever weapon they brought, ready to unleash a hailstorm at whoever’s inside. I want to remind them all what my father looks like—but I keep my mouth shut. Beside me, Zach is already prickled, and I make it a point to take a few steps to the side.

  Tony nods, and the doors creak open.

  The barn is empty. No animals. No hay. No tools or equipment. Certainly no maniacal masked men in black jumpsuits. It even smells clean. Brand-new. We all step inside to look around, but there is absolutely nothing to see. There aren’t even any windows. Just an empty barn with a giant metal floor. A giant, smooth metal floor and four smooth metal walls.

  And a button.

  “Barns don’t usually have buttons, do they?” I ask Zach. But before he can answer, the button lights up and everything starts to vibrate underneath us.

  The floor starts to move. We are surrounded by the sound of metal grinding on metal. The sudden hum of electricity. The flip-flop in your stomach as your feet suddenly give out beneath you.

  It’s not a barn.

  It’s an elevator.

  And we are going down.

  The aluminum walls soon give way to reinforced steel, as the entire floor drops deeper into the earth. Everyone around me is suddenly tense, muscles jumping, eyes darting, wondering how far this thing goes and what we’ve stumbled into. At least it’s not a volcano.

  “Stay calm, fellas,” Tony says, though his cane sits ready in his hands. The barn floor is big enough to hold three times our numbers, so everyone spreads out, forming a perimeter. I stay near the center, next to Zach, the rest of the Romano family in front of me, the Maloney posse behind. The elevator finally comes to a shuddering halt, and we find ourselves in the corner of a huge, cavernous room, at least ten times the size of the barn above us. A trio of white vans like the one from the jewelry store robbery sits silent behind us. Several open doorways veer off into branching tunnels leading to god knows where. Banks of computers and monitors are stationed throughout the room, and a giant screen sits on the far wall. It shows a picture of the barn outside and the house surrounded by black SUVs. Smaller screens show other shots, from both inside and out, a huge surveillance system that I didn’t even notice. Just like the little black boxes that were supposedly watching me at St. Mary’s. The whole place reminds of my father’s lair, except much more ambitious. And without the dangling kitty poster.

  In front of the screens is a chair. And in the chair sits a man with his back to us, head gleaming from the glare of the overhead lights.

  “You’re here,” the man says, his voice echoing off the steel walls. I recognize it instantly this time. They kept playing it over and over on the news, and his voice got stuck in my head, like a bouncy bad pop song. I look around, but there is no sign of my father.

  We all step off the elevator and fan out, Tony’s men still taking the lead, Tony himself standing directly in front of me. The man in the chair swivels around to face us, his face hidden behind his mask.

  I know it’s him. Only villains swivel around slow like that. L
ike they have all the time in the world.

  The Dictator crosses one leg and leans back in his chair. “And you brought guests,” he adds, in a voice both annoyed and amused. He is all alone. Not even armed. I guess the sword was just for show. I take a step past Tony and stand at the front of the army I’ve brought with me, bought with a wad of hundred-dollar bills, probably this man’s hundred-dollar bills. What goes around comes around. Circle of life and whatever. “Where’s my father?”

  It’s not a question. I’m not near close enough to look the Dictator in the eyes, if I even could, but I don’t need to be. There are at least a dozen of Tony’s men behind me, armed with guns and knives and spikes and exploding canes. And another dozen of Mickey’s men standing behind them.

  From his chair, the Dictator snaps his wrist and checks his watch.

  “If you mean the professor, he’s just finishing up. It’s not even noon yet. We still have hours.”

  I feel something huge step up beside me. “Give the kid back his dad,” Tony Romano grunts. “Then you and I can talk about how quickly you can pack up your things and leave New Liberty forever. Or, if you don’t like that,” he adds, lifting his cane to his shoulder, “we can pack for you.”

  I hear one of Tony’s men snort, but I don’t even crack a smile. Something is definitely not right here. The Dictator is just sitting there. Where are all his men? He had the cameras. He knew we were here. Knew how many of us there were, that we were armed. And yet he just sits there, calm as a pond.

  “And why would I do that?” the Dictator asks, still sounding amused.

  “Because you’ve gone and got everything all out of whack, see? We were perfectly content till you came along,” Tony says. “So I’m going to make you a deal. You shuffle all your tin-faced goons into those white vans of yours and drive off into the sunset, and Mickey and I will forgo our plan to see how far we can cram that mask of yours down your throat.”

  The Dictator drums his fingers along the arm of his chair for a moment as if in thought. “I’ve got a better deal,” he says.

  He snaps his fingers, and there is a flurry of motion as suddenly all Mickey Maloney’s goons turn their guns away from the man in the chair and onto Tony’s men, a dozen barrels viciously stabbing the Romanos in the back, taking them completely by surprise.

  I spin around, helpless as Mickey himself presses the tip of his oversized machine gun into the back of Tony’s head. Another of Mickey’s henchmen nudges Zach with the barrel of his shotgun and tells him to suck it up. Zach spits on the ground, but his spikes reluctantly retract. It takes only a matter of seconds. By the time I process what has happened, it has already happened.

  We have us surrounded.

  “Lose the magic wand, Tony,” Mickey orders.

  With a growl, Tony drops his cane, and the rest of his men follow suit, weapons clattering to the cold stone floor. Across the way, the Dictator covers the slit of his mouth with his gloved hand in mock surprise.

  “You turd-faced little goon,” Tony cusses over his shoulder through clenched teeth. “When I get out of here, I am going to take that special finger of yours and shove it so far up your—” But before he can finish the sentence, Mickey gives the head of the Romano family a sudden blow to the base of his skull. Tony flops to the floor like a three-hundred-pound sack of flour.

  From his front-row seat, the Dictator applauds. “You see, Michael,” he says, leaning in to address me, “it probably would have been better if you had come alone. But I couldn’t count on it.”

  I hear Mickey and his men laughing behind me. My skin burns and I’m chewing a hole in my lower lip, but there is nothing I can do. I can’t look a dozen men in the eyes all at once and convince them to do what I say. I don’t have that kind of power. I glance over at Zach, hoping for some help, but he’s on his knees with his hands on his head. The rest of Tony’s men are quickly huddled together in a circle and forced to kneel as well. I’m the only one allowed to remain standing, though Mickey keeps his gun trained on me, pushing me forward so I am only twenty feet away from the man in the steel mask. He’s wearing his uniform, just like in the broadcast. Dressed to impress.

  “Sorry, kid,” Mickey says. “It’s just business. Nothing personal.”

  “So glad you see it that way,” the Dictator replies, then brushes something under the arm of his chair. I know that gesture. I’ve robbed enough banks in my time to know where you keep a hidden alarm.

  I spin around with all the rest to see the four doors leading into the underground chamber open and at least thirty armed men enter the room. They all wear the same black garb as the Dictator. They all share his same taste in headgear, except, unlike their leader, they are armed with assault rifles. It happens so quickly that Mickey and his men are too stunned to respond. The faceless soldiers quickly surround the Maloney gang, now outnumbered almost three to one. Mickey’s machine gun is wrested from the fingers he has left as all his other henchmen are quickly disarmed.

  “What! What’s going on?” he shouts. “We had a deal!”

  “And now we don’t,” the Dictator replies coolly.

  “But you said if I helped you, you would give me New Liberty. You said you would leave and it would be all mine!” Mickey “Six Fingers” is practically spitting.

  “And I will leave,” the Dictator purrs from his chair. “Probably go live in the White House. Or Versailles. But I’m afraid New Liberty will not be yours. It will belong to everyone.”

  Mickey lunges toward the Dictator, but a swift kick to the back of his legs brings him to his knees, shutting him up. The Dictator’s men produce handcuffs, and soon they have both gangs shackled, the sound of metal teeth clicked tight together. Mickey shows the Dictator his reattached finger, but the villain laughs. “Take them to holding,” he says, “And keep the two groups separate for now. If they don’t cooperate, we will throw them in the same cell with a couple of wrenches and let them tear each other apart.”

  “You’ll never get away with this,” Tony says, his last word on the subject before the butt of a rifle bloodies his lip. It sounds strange, that turn of phrase, coming from him, but I guess he has as much right to use it as any. I throw Zach an imploring look as he and all the others are pushed, prodded, or dragged screaming and cursing away. One of the Dictator’s guards comes and stands behind me, gun in hand, nestled into my ribs.

  I could have been on a plane to Manitoba. Convinced the airport security that my frequent-shopper card from the Piggly Wiggly is sufficient ID. Instead I’m sixty feet underground in the middle of nowhere, the army I bought taken captive, my father still unseen. My house is a smoking cinder, my best friend is in handcuffs, and the girl I like seems like half a world away.

  Which means I have almost nothing to lose.

  “I want to see my father,” I say, doing my best to sound defiant, though it’s hard when you’re surrounded by men with guns.

  “And you will. Once he’s finished. I’m certain he will work even harder now that you’re here.” The Dictator finally stands up and walks toward me. He’s even taller than he looks on camera. He doesn’t have the stooped-over expression of a mad scientist type. It’s pretty clear he works out. He looks at me sideways, then reaches out and strokes my cheek with one gloved finger, and I jerk back. “What a waste, someone with your gift. Your father was an idiot.”

  “My father is a genius,” I spit.

  “Then we must not be thinking of the same man.”

  I pull away even farther. Having him suddenly so close to me, that mask and those eyes. The man just exudes creepiness. Guys like him, they’re the reason kids can only play in their own backyards anymore. “So what now?” I say. “Are you going to kill me?”

  The Dictator steps back and starts to laugh. A shrill, hollow screech that echoes in the cavernous room. “Kill you? Oh, heavens, no, Michael. I need you. You’re the last piece.”

  Needs me? What is he talking about? He needs my father and whatever he’s building. He n
eeds his hollow-faced goons. He needs his huge underground lair and his cache of pirated weapons and his stash of stolen cash. He’s got everything a supervillain could want. What does he need me for?

  “But we have a few more hours still, so for now . . .” He snaps his fingers again, and I feel the henchman behind me move, but I’m not quick enough to do anything about it. The pain in the back of my skull is sharp and sudden. I feel every muscle give way as all the lights blink out.

  I wake up to a herd of elephants stampeding behind my eyes, threatening to bust right through my corneas. My stomach rebounds off of my rib cage. There is throbbing in the back of my head, coursing down my neck, all the way down my spine to my very sore butt. I take a deep breath and try to focus.

  I am sitting in a chair, steel, of course, in the same room as before—the huge one with the screens and the spiderweb of corridors, the getaway vans and the barn-turned-elevator. Most of the lights are off. Only the one directly above me shines down. Thick leather straps bind my wrists to the armrests, leaving just enough room to waggle my fingers. My feet are duct taped to the chair’s legs. A rope is wound three times around my waist. I am anchored in place.

  And all I can think is, They’ve got the wrong guy.

  After all, this is the kind of mess superheroes always find themselves in. Except if I was a superhero, this would be nothing. I’d tear through these ropes like licorice. I strain once, just to be sure, but only succeed in hurting my wrists.

  I close my eyes again and wait for the elephants to settle down.

  It could be worse, I think. At least you are still alive. Just slow down and concentrate on getting free of these straps somehow. Then you can find your father and get the heck out of here.

  I open my eyes again.

  “Boo!”

  Every muscle jerks. The whole chair nearly topples over. I’m sure my heart is about to burst. The metal face that was pressed right against my face retreats a bit.

  “Sorry, did I scare you?” it says. “It’s the mask, I know. Kind of the whole point, really. Fear breeds compliance. Plus it helps if you all look alike. Never know who’s the real me. But you do, don’t you?” The man reaches up with his gloved hand and removes his mask, revealing his face.