by Lee Doty
Smith looked questioningly at Jo.
Jo nodded, “The intel was always quick, comprehensive, and accurate. We need to move.”
Smith nodded, “Okay. I’ve got my operations chief here with four more agents in an apartment by the elevator.”
“You kick in the door waving super spy badges?” Jo asked.
“Picked the lock… empty unit.” Hawkins said from the speaker of Smith’s phone.
“Dirk Stone?!” Jo said, voice full of mock incredulity, “Is that really you? Is Chazzy with you?”
“Dr. McParty is in Virginia, Ma’am.” Hawkins said, “Nice to see you again.”
“How many empty units on this floor?” Jo asked.
“This is the only one, Miss Ferris.” Hawkins said.
“You need to clear that apartment. You need to do it right now.” Jo said, voice filled with a certainty that she felt only in retrospect. This was the voice of command, she thought, one she’d heard Crow use on every mission into the Hallow. It had been the only truth in that lie.
“With your permission, Doctor.” Hawkins said.
“Do it.” Smith said after only an instant of consideration. “Jo, what is our plan?”
Trust, Jo thought, Smith was giving her trust. She wasn’t sure if it made her uncomfortable because it might be a part of a ploy to manipulate her or because it made her feel guilty for how she’d been acting, or if that guilt was just a part of the manipulative ploy, or if she should feel guilty about suspecting Smith of the… Jo shook her head slowly. Second guessing was the surest way to both madness and failure. She pulled her mind away from deconstructing its own constructs and got back to work.
“Dirk,” she said with the same tone of commanding certainty, “Get your men out of that room and into the hallway. They need to be ready for immediate contact, but I think there’s a fair chance they can reach stairwell ahead of the Falcons. I want them one landing up and both silent and motionless. The Falcons will likely suspect the room because it’s empty and close to Jeremy’s apartment. They will likely hit it silently before they come here, or may hit the two rooms simultaneously, depending on how many teams we’re facing.”
“I’ll send the men into the stairwell.” Hawkins said, “But I’ll stay in this room with a volunteer and see if we can’t hold their focus for a bit… I’ve got two flashbangs and I’ll see if we can’t capitalize on them.”
“You are going to try an ambush.” Ash considered, “Alright, get your men moving and I’ll get back to you… I’ve got an idea.”
Jo turned her focus to the people in the room with her, “Jeremy, go across the hallway and see if you can flirt Miss Pollack into letting us use her apartment. We need to move out of this apartment immediately. You have weapons here?”
Jeremy nodded, “Just a pistol in my nightstand.” He said apologetically. “Deep cover… nothing heavy.”
“Then arm yourself and get your flirt on.” Jo said. Jeremy glanced quickly at Smith, then hurried away.
“Crow,” Jo said, “what can you do?”
“Wow,” Crow said from the phone on the table, “You enter the priesthood for a few short months and your best friend steals your job.”
***
OSI Headquarters, Rural Virginia, 2019
Chrome sprinted easily down the gently curving hallway, the dark mass of his weapon glinting dully in his lower peripheral vision. He ran, weapon at the ready, a few feet ahead of Zed, their tech. Both men sped down the hall, following the sporadic trail of blood that Shadow had been leaving, first from his wounds, then just the occasional trace of drying blood from his boots.
It would be soon, Chrome thought. Soon they would lose the blood trail entirely and Crow and Shadow would be untraceable. They would leave no tracks, make no sounds; they would be gone, if escape was their goal.
If the ambush would come, it would be soon. It would be soon because just as the end of the blood trail would be the last time Delta could track Phoenix reliably, it would also be the last time Phoenix would know where Delta would go without direct observation. If Crow meant ambush, it would be soon.
They ran on, ready. Chrome didn’t need to urge his team to caution; they knew. He didn’t need to warn them of the danger; they knew. Then, over the soft sound of their running footfalls and the easy sound of their breath under the exertion of the sprint, they heard it. The rattling rasp of something hard skittering across the linoleum tile floor of the hall. Chrome signaled the stop, his left fist raised in the air. Chrome and Zed stopped, each pressed against opposite walls in the hallway. Fifty feet behind them, Trunc and Fleet stopped in similar positions and turned to cover the hallway behind.
The rattling sound continued but it was slowing. It was coming from the hallway ahead. Chrome gestured for the team to compress and advance. Trunc and Fleet advanced silently behind them. Fleet, their sniper, stopped twenty feet behind them, still covering the rear while Trunc, their Close-quarters specialist moved between Chrome and Zed to take point twenty feet ahead.
As they passed office doorways on either side of the hallway, Chrome and Zed cleared them while Trunc and Fleet kept the hallway ahead and behind covered.
Ahead, Trunc signaled stop as the item that was making the sound came into view around the curve of the hallway. It was a helmet, spinning erratically upside down in the middle of the hallway. It had slowed almost to the point of stopping by the time they saw it.
The helmet was the matte black ceramic and Kevlar of the Falcons, but it wasn’t immediately apparent if it was from Phoenix or HoldFire. Chrome did a quick mental survey of his memories of the hallway where both HoldFire and Tink had met their end: There had been five helmets, so this was either Shadow or Crow’s helmet.
Actively suppressing the desire to try to decipher whatever this message might mean, Chrome signaled a cautious advance and Delta moved forward like a single organism with a single, lethal purpose.
When they were twenty feet away from the slowing helmet, Trunc noticed the writing on the inner wall of the curved hallway. He called halt with a gesture, then whispered into the team channel, “Chrome, there’s a note on the inner wall… written in black marker.”
“Hold.” Chrome said. “This is where they’re going to spring their trap. Can you read the message?”
“Yes,” Trunc said, amusement coloring his voice. “It says ‘THIS IS WHERE WE WILL SPRING THE TRAP!!!’ in large block letters with three exclamation points and a little smiley. There is a helpful arrow pointing straight down and a drawing of four little stick figures lying on the ground with their eyes X-ed out.”
“Analysis?” Chrome asked.
“The drawings are successfully humorous.” Trunc reported, “The stick figure corpses have our names under them… the one of you has what I believe to be a little pile of poop on its head… there are little stink lines above it.”
Chrome felt his face turning red… not an embarrassed blush, but a pressurized rage that threatened to burst his eyes or make his ears bleed. He hated Crow, and not least of all because he was funny… he had to admit it… he wanted to see the picture. He wanted to grin or laugh… he wanted to murder Crow and poop on his head. Focus! He thought… the mission clock was running and he had to think clearly, had to act effectively. He cleared his mind and thought… Once he had, it took only ten seconds to understand Crow’s gambit.
“Stay frosty,” Chrome said into the team channel. “There’s no ambush here. Their aim is to delay us, maybe to make us careless for the next spinning helmet, which will be the actual trap. Move forward with all possible speed and caution.”
“Acknowledge.” Trunc said and began to jog forward at maybe half of his former speed. The rest of the team moved with him.
“Trunc. Unless you find some sign to follow, our path should be one of escape. Head for the exits and hopefully we will catch up to them.”
Delta moved through the hallways, navigating toward the exits.
***
Mis
s Pollack, Jeremy’s neighbor across the hall, was a statuesque woman in her early sixties. When she was younger, she’d done some work off-Broadway and had parlayed her experience into a teaching position in the musical theater program at Roosevelt University. She still had the commanding, extroverted presence of a stage performer and a matched love for the dramatic and the ridiculous. Jeremy often thought she’d be good at improv. Currently, she was putting on an act, a rendition of ‘indignant church marm’, and she was banging it out to the people in the cheap seats.
“Listen, Miss Pollack,” Jeremy said in his most reasonable voice, “It’s not safe here… please let me take you back into the…” Jeremy paused, the double entendre he must now commit making him not quite wince. Miss Pollack’s eyes sparkled and she didn’t quite grin, she was waiting to pounce. The game continued, Jeremy finished his sentence as best he could, “to the back rooms…”
Miss Pollack pounced, “Why Mr. King!” she exclaimed in a dramatic, cultured offense, clutching at her pearls, “Just because you are a devilishly handsome secret agent, apparently…” She let her gaze sweep across Jo and Dr. Smith as they stood in her small cozy living room, “doesn’t mean I’m just going to let you sweep me into the bedroom!”
Jo giggled, Smith’s gaze remained neutral, and Jeremy’s wince became full. It was indeed an art to be able to effectively deliver such an obvious reply so effectively. Miss Pollack was indeed an artisan of ironic flirt.
“I am not one of your Bond girls!” she continued gravely, “And besides, you all look like you could use some tea.” She swept gracefully toward the kitchen. “This is all so exciting! I’ve got Earl Grey, Orange Zinger, some Tension Tamer…”
“Ooh! Orange Zinger sounds exciting!” Jo burst out before fully considering her response. She realized it was odd only at Smith’s odd glance and added, “Uh… if it’s not too much trouble.” She turned to Smith and whispered, “It’s not gross or narcotic, right?”
“It’s just tea.” Smith whispered back. “What I wouldn’t give to have some of your exuberance… young people these days.”
“Of course not, dear.” Miss Pollack called from the kitchen.
“Miss Pollack, please be reasonable…” Jeremy continued his efforts to get Miss Pollack safely out of the way from the kitchen.
Smith gave a good natured roll of her eyes and muttered to herself, “This is the second weirdest night of my life.”
“Second?” Jo asked.
“The night you tried to kill me was easily the first.” Smith said with a contemplative nod.
“Oh… sorry.” Jo said with a small, pained expression.
“That wasn’t the weirdest part.” Smith said with a small smile, “About fifteen minutes after that, I had to explain the facts of life to your friend, Crow is it?”
“Yes… and really?” Jo giggled. “You don’t uh… not the, you know… not those facts, right?”
“Yes, really. Those facts.” Smith said gravely, shaking her head, remembering. “We didn’t get very technical, thank heavens. We might have had to, but Dr. Hawkins—Dirk— began laughing so hard that he made me lose it and we both started laughing like buffoons.”
“You are pulling my leg.” Jo gave Smith an appraising glance.
Smith shook her head, “Had to punch him dead in the face. Broke my wrist. Be sure to ask your friend about it if you both survive the night.”
“Oh, like I’m going to wait that long…” Jo said, shaking her head.
“Jo,” Smith asked softly, stepping a bit closer, imparting an air of speaking in confidence, “I can’t help thinking…” she paused, considering her words carefully, “I’m wondering if you’ve thought at all about the conversation we had this week… about Jeremy.”
Jo gave Smith a suspicious look, if the suspicion was that Smith was crazy. “Uhh… doc, we were over before I knew he was a spy trying to…” a sudden inspiration caused Jo to interrupt herself, “Hey, what was he trying to do, exactly?”
“Give you companionship. Be a friend. Show you the world. Help you to integrate with it, with people. Help you.” Smith said without a pause.
“When you say it that way, it sounds less sinister.” Jo said, “Of course you are a spy master… that could just be a slick lie.”
“Could be.” Smith shrugged. “But isn’t—anyway, do you remember when we talked about why you were breaking up with him?”
“Listen,” Jo said, voice more reproachfully firm, “If I was done with him before, I’m ten times as done now.”
Smith smiled, eyes sparkling. It was not the expression Jo was expecting. “Yes, Jo. That’s not where I was going. You remember talking about how he wasn’t ‘the one’ for you… how you were looking for the other half of yourself.”
Jo nodded, suddenly desperately afraid, yet not sure why. There were so many facts seeming to float in the air about her, hanging above her like bricks somehow suspended in mid-fall, waiting only for one careless glance up, one careless consideration that would break the spell and send them all crashing down on her. Uncatalogued memories, harsh and vibrant truths, knowledge of the blackest lies—all ready to fall at the slightest nudge, ready to unmake her, to bury her beneath their sharp-edged weight.
Smith’s eyes found Jo’s, held her. “Who is Crow?”
A flash of fear, then the facts were around her, strangely comforting in their neutrality. “My captain.” She said softly. “We were a four person team. Tink was our sniper, Shadow our tech, I was the close-quarters specialist, and Crow was the captain.”
Smith’s eyes narrowed slightly. They didn’t lose the sparkle of amusement, but somehow grew sharper. “When you tried to kill me, the rest of your team and at least two other teams attacked the installation. They had us on the ropes, they had taken our external defenses down and were pushing in through the building. I think they meant to kill us all, and in spite of an unbelievable amount of defensive precautions, I think they might have succeeded.” Smith paused, bright eyes seeming to hold Jo’s gaze, a lifeline in a shifting storm of truth and lies, “But then everything changed.”
Smith waited for Jo to ask, so she did, “How?”
“Your friend Crow made a choice. He chose you over his mission objectives, over your masters, these Clerics.”
“How?” Jo asked, her unreliable voice a whisper.
“He made contact with me. I told him we were trying to save your life and he chose to help keep you safe.”
“How?” Jo repeated.
“He and the other two remaining members of your old team, they killed everyone on one of the other teams, then led the final team away. Before today, I was sure he’d been killed.” Smith snorted and rolled her eyes, “Turns out, he joined the priesthood… ironic considering both of your histories with false Clerics.”
“Well?” Smith asked after a moment of silence, during which Jo just stood, cocking her head as if listening to distant music.
After a moment, Smith touched Jo’s arm. She let Jo see the question in her eyes.
“Gunfire.” Jo said quietly. “Silenced. Close. I believe your men have been engaged in the stairwell or in the empty apartment. Have you heard from Jackie yet?”
Smith pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked it quickly, then shook her head.
“Miss Pollack!” Jo called softly, “I’m going to have to take a rain check on that tea.”
“What is it, child?” Miss Pollack said from the kitchen, voice concerned. The rustling clank of the teapot and cups stopped.
Jeremy stepped out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a red and white plaid hand towel. He gave Jo his full attention, but said nothing.
“They’re here,” Jo said, screwing the silencer back on the end of her stolen pistol, “It’s time.”
Jeremy turned back to the kitchen, holding out his hand. Miss Pollack stepped out and he took her elbow, guiding her back toward the short hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Your friend has a large gun for such a little slip of a
girl.” She said as they walked.
“Don’t worry,” he said, voice calm, “She’s really quite handy with it. We’ll keep you safe.”
“Are you two an item?”
“Now Miss Pollack…” Jeremy protested quietly.
“You should take her out. I think you’d make a charming couple.”
“I’m afraid that she’s a bit out of my league, Ma’am.” Jeremy said, intending humor, but there was a hint of resignation in his voice.
Miss Pollack patted his forearm, “Oh you poor little flower! Just remember that ninety percent of hot is confidence.”
Jeremy snorted, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Across the room, by the door to the apartment, Jo turned to Smith. “It’s time for you to go into the back room with them.”
Smith hesitated for a few seconds, her expression pensive.
“Okay, what?” Jo turned to fully face Smith.
“The next few minutes…” Smith started, then paused, “They are going to be important.”
“In the sense that we’ll all likely die?” Jo prodded when Smith stopped again.
“In the sense that you were a killer and will have to kill again.”
The words, though delivered gently, struck Jo like a physical blow. In her mind’s eye, she saw a wounded woman’s desperate eyes, the pistol Jo held up between them unable to protect her from seeing the fear, the pain, the sorrow she had caused. But what hurt most was what came next…
Smith saw the reaction, “Can you tell what the most important word was in that sentence? You were a killer: were.”
Jo shook her head, eyes blurring with unspent tears. In her hand, she held that same gun now… the same model in the same configuration.
“What you were, Jo, was not your fault. You were made to be that monster. That was not your choice, it was the choice of your masters, the people who built you to be a slave.”
“A monster,” Jo sobbed, the tears falling, “not a slave.”