Savior-Corruptor

by Sam Sisavath

  The commando stared back at her, maybe wondering why Allie was looking at him so closely. “You got a problem, lady?”

  “No,” Allie said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then.”

  The truck rocked slightly as it came to a brief stop. When it continued, it was turning. She’d lost count of how many times they’d done that.

  “Where are we going?” Allie asked Dawson.

  “You don’t need to know that,” the detective said without looking up from cleaning his glasses.

  “I know you don’t believe me, but I don’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Then you don’t need to worry.”

  “I do, because you have about fifty SWAT guys surrounding me.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s just fifteen.”

  There were five of those fifteen inside the armored vehicle with her, with the rest outside.

  Three had climbed into a huge SUV waiting in the parking lot with a driver already inside, so that was four—nine total. The other six, she guessed, were in the trailing vehicle. She’d only spotted one as they rushed her out of the rear station door and into the transport. Ironically, it was the exact same parking lot that she’d been brought out last night to meet with Archibald Marshall, and then later “escape.”

  Not that it mattered very much how many commandos were in the truck or outside to make sure she didn’t go anywhere. Allie couldn’t do anything with her hands cuffed anyway. (At least they’d switched the cuffs from behind her back to in front, to make the trip easier on her.) And then there were the leg manacles they’d put on after she’d been put inside. Walking, never mind running, was going to be very cumbersome with chains on her wrists and ankles.

  And then there was the matter of fifteen SWAT commandos armed to the teeth.

  Yeah, she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. At least, not without some help.

  Oh, who was she kidding. She was going to need a lot of help to get out of this one. Maybe Archibald Marshall might have some ideas. Could she count on the man to pull her out of custody a second time? Where did his influence stop?

  Marshall had seemed pretty convinced, even before they met last night, that she had been set up. Why he was willing to go through the trouble of letting her do all the legwork, while keeping him up to date via Frank, was another mystery in a long line of mysteries. One of these days, she’d have to sit down and have a good, long talk with the man. She had a feeling he knew a lot more that he wasn’t telling her.

  That was annoying. Really, really annoying.

  But that was for another day. Hopefully it would happen because then it would mean she’d gotten out of this jam.

  Jam? More like a ten-car pileup, with you at the very bottom.

  There were no windows in the back of the transport, so to prevent total darkness there was a single shatterproof lightbulb encased in metal framing near the top of the wall that connected the rear with the front of the vehicle. There was a slat that could be opened, but it was shoved tight at the moment. The lightbulb was dimmed, providing just enough illumination for Allie to make out the hard faces of the men assigned to watch her. There wasn’t a young one in the bunch—all in their late thirties or early forties. Apparently the Wells City Police Department put a premium on experience.

  They’d been moving for about twenty minutes, with the caravan—she couldn’t confirm, but she assumed it was them and two escort vehicles, one in front and one behind, both full of SWAT guys—turning more often than it was going straight. Allie concluded that was on purpose, with whoever having put the route together—Dawson, maybe—keeping things unpredictable just in case someone might be out there waiting for this opportunity to break her out.

  No one’s out there waiting to break me out. No one.

  Or was she missing something? Was there someone orchestrating all of this in an effort to rescue her? She still didn’t think it could be Hank or Lucy. Especially Lucy. The teenager wouldn’t know how to even begin setting something like this up, and Hank was half a country away.

  This isn’t about me. It can’t be.

  Right?

  Dawson thought differently. Or maybe he was telling the truth when he said everyone was being moved and she just happened to be the biggest priority among her fellow jailbirds. But she didn’t think so. The detective suspected that this had to involve her, and he wasn’t the only one, considering the manpower being spent. The other detainees were also being moved but by uniformed deputies.

  It was almost enough to make a gal feel special.

  Almost.

  Allie looked over at Dawson again. He was still cleaning the lens on his eyeglasses with the same now-stained cloth. “You have a family, Detective?”

  “That’s really none of your business,” Dawson said without looking up. He seemed to take pride in getting that cloth over every inch of his lens, even though, from Allie’s perspective, he was making more of a mess than actually cleaning them.

  “Just trying to make friendly conversation.”

  “You can stop.”

  “You still think this has something to do with me, don’t you?”

  This time, the detective didn’t answer. He held his glasses up and squinted to check the clarity. Dawson decided they still weren’t clean enough and went back to work.

  “It doesn’t,” Allie said. “I don’t know what’s going on, and that’s the honest truth.”

  A smile creased Dawson’s lips. “Lady, I don’t think you’d know the truth if it was standing right in front—”

  A loud THOOM! cut Dawson off in midsentence.

  At the same time, the armored truck lifted into the air and careened onto its side, smashing into the asphalt street with such force that Allie, Dawson, and the two SWAT guys flanking them went flying across the narrow space and into the three other commandos across from them.

  She wasn’t sure when the lightbulb cut out, but suddenly the entire rear of the transport was bathed in darkness as Allie struggled to right herself. She’d been tossed straight into the same commando she’d exchanged words with earlier and could feel the man scrambling frantically underneath her while the others did the same all around.

  “We’re under attack!” someone shouted. It might have been Dawson, but the voice was just a little too shrill to be the veteran detective. “Jesus, we’re under attack!”

  No, it was definitely not Dawson. One of the SWAT guys.

  “Stay calm!” someone else said from somewhere behind Allie. She had no idea of distance or spacing, so it could have come from the commando (or was that Dawson?) that had landed on top of her in the crash.

  Allie wasn’t the only one stuck in the dark trying to get a grip on her surroundings. The barrel of a rifle jammed into her ribcage, and Allie almost screamed. She would have thought it was intentional—the owner’s way of keeping her in line—but everyone was moving so much, with arms and legs and the cold parts of weapons being thrown everywhere. Not being able to see a damn thing as they attempted desperately to adjust to their new positions certainly didn’t help any of them.

  She managed to find the floor—was that the wall or the ceiling? How many times had they rolled over?—and righted herself somewhat, even as boots stamped around her, one coming dangerously close to crushing her fingers. She jerked her hands up from the cold metal floor to prevent that from happening. Commandos—and Dawson among them—were scrambling against her huddled frame, hot, warm breaths striking her in the arms and neck and face from every direction.

  A radio on one of the commandos squawked, and a voice shouted through the speakers: “We’re under attack! Command, we’re under attack! Send help! I repeat, send help right away!”

  Instead of a reply to the desperate shouts for assistance, there was just a loud squeal like metal fingernails scraping against a chalkboard. The radio had cut out.

  Was that by accident? Or was someone jamming their signals?
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  “Get off me!” someone shouted to her right.

  “I’m trying!” someone else said from behind her.

  “Calm down. Stop moving and breathe. Breathe!” A third voice. Dawson. She was sure it was Dawson that time, trying to settle everyone down. “Give it a second. Let your eyes adjust.”

  There was an echoey click followed by a beam of light slicing through the back of the overturned truck. It struck Allie in the face before veering away a second later. One of the commandos had found his flashlight and was moving it around.

  In all the chaos, Allie couldn’t recall if there’d only been one explosion or more. The caravan was clearly under attack, but how far-reaching was the assault? Was it just the armored vehicle she was in that had been taken out or the escorting SUVs as well? If the call for help she’d heard earlier was any indication, then there were still some SWAT mobile enough to radio out.

  The buttstock of a rifle glanced off her temple as a commando stood up too quickly. It wasn’t on purpose—or, at least, she didn’t think so—but it hurt nonetheless. She reeled slightly, falling down on her butt as a large black-clad figure turned around. The same SWAT she’d been trading words with earlier.

  The man might have snarled at her when he said, “Stay down. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Like what? Allie thought, the chains on her arms and legs jingling as she struggled to get back up into a crouch, before retreating toward the wall that separated the rear and front. She hadn’t bothered trying to stand up. If they were under attack—and all signs pointed to exactly that—then the floor and as far away from the doors was the safest location, especially in her captive state. Thank God they’d landed on the roof of the transport; if it’d been the side, she’d be struggling to maneuver around those metal benches with their very hard edges right now.

  “You guys hear anything?” the one with the flashlight was asking.

  Two more clicks, followed by two more flashlight beams spearing the darkness around her.

  “Explosions,” another SWAT said.

  “You heard explosions?” the first one asked. “More than one?”

  “Yeah. I think two, or three.”

  “Which one is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Gunfire?”

  “Maybe.”

  She hadn’t heard any gunfire. Or had she, but just didn’t remember?

  “What was that?” one of the commandos said.

  What was what? Allie thought. She hadn’t heard anything.

  But the commandos apparently had. They were all standing now and were turning toward the back of the truck, reflexively lifting their rifles at the same time. Dawson was among them, his pistol in his hand, but he’d lost his glasses in the tumble—

  BOOM! as both transport doors blew open.

  Jesus! Allie’s mind screamed as her ears began ringing from the blast.

  Three of the commandos standing between her and the doors were tossed backward by the concussive force. Two others, standing too close to the doors, took the full brunt of both metal objects as they swung dangerously inward at incredible speeds. Goggles shattered as bodies crumpled like falling dominos.

  Allie had gotten lucky. She was too far from the explosion and was spared the impact, and aside from the continued thrumming noise in her ears, the only pain was one of the commando’s Kevlar helmet smacking into her knee as he landed. The others were sprawled on the floor in front of her, their rifles scattered—

  Rifles! Their rifles!

  Allie reached for the nearest one—the M4A1—lying on its side, and had almost gotten her hands on it when a voice shouted, “Stop!”

  She did, freezing with one hand hovering over the rifle. Allie looked up at Dawson, squatting in the middle of the truck. Like her, he’d gotten through the explosion in relatively one piece, though there was a cut along his temple and blood oozed from it. He looked noticeably unsteady, as was the hand that held the gun pointed at her. If he hadn’t shouted, she might not have heard him over the ringing in her ears. Even so, Dawson’s voice sounded almost like a fading echo.

  “Get back!” Dawson shouted. “Get back now!”

  The detective was shouting at the top of his lungs. Even as she scooted back to obey his command, Allie understood why: She wasn’t the only one whose ears were ringing. They were probably bleeding, too, just like Dawson’s right ear was. He probably didn’t feel it, but Allie could make out blood dripping down the side of his face.

  She hadn’t noticed it before, but as she continued to back up, with Dawson crab-walking unsteadily after her, Allie finally saw the smoke. There were clouds of them, and they hadn’t just come from the blast that had taken out the doors. There were massive plumes outside, their gray-white tint making them stand out against the darkness of the Wells City street. Whatever had happened out there, it’d involved smoke grenades. A lot of smoke grenades.

  She quickly grabbed her shirt with both hands and pulled them up and over the lower half of her face. Unfortunately, that still left her eyes exposed and they began tingling. She could already feel tears starting to well up in both eyes…

  Dawson was blinking too, but not from the smoke, even though she could see he was already starting to be affected by it, too. The detective was wiping at blood that had dripped into his eyes from the cut on his temple with the back of one shirt sleeve. A couple of the SWAT commandos that hadn’t been knocked out by the blast were rolling around on the floor, coughing their lungs out. Unlike Allie, they hadn’t been quick enough to cover their mouths and nose and were now suffering for it.

  “Don’t move!” Dawson was shouting at her. “You hear me? Stay where you are! Don’t do a goddamn thing!”

  His voice was still coming through as faded echoes, managing to make their way through the continued thrumming in her eardrums. And it wasn’t just her hearing that was in trouble. It was all her other senses as well. The smoke continued to stab at her eyes as she tried desperately to regulate her breathing from behind her shirt’s fabric—

  The truck rocked slightly as a black-clad figure stepped inside the vehicle.

  Allie saw the man—and it was a man, judging by his shape—over Dawson’s shoulder, appearing out of a swirling sea of smoke like some avenging specter of death. He wore all black, his face hidden behind a gas mask, its breathing apparatus like tusks jutting out from underneath his chin.

  “Dawson—” Allie said, but the detective quickly sensed the new presence too, and began turning around.

  The shadowed figure was armed with an MP5SD, and he smashed its buttstock into Dawson’s temple, maybe even in the same spot where Dawson was already cut and bleeding. The detective rocked backward and fell onto his butt, but somehow managed to maintain his grip on his weapon. He tried to raise it (Don’t, Dawson, you idiot, he’ll kill you!), but instead of shooting him, the attacker struck Dawson in the face, again with the butt of his weapon.

  This time the detective dropped to one side, his gun vanishing underneath one of the SWAT guys rolling around nearby.

  Smoke continued to flood the vehicle, tendrils like fingers swarming past the dark figure and surrounding Dawson’s limp body on the floor, before moving gradually toward her as if they were a living thing. Allie kept her mouth and nostrils covered, but it wasn’t nearly enough and she began coughing, the smoke gouging at her eyes and making every inch of her face burn and itch. She wanted desperately to rip at the skin.

  Fight it. Fight it!

  She tried to get up but fell back down on her knees, her chest heaving with every painful cough that sputtered out of her. She managed to look up as the dark figure stepped around Dawson’s body, then the commandos. One of them tried to get up, but the attacker kicked him in the helmet with a boot, sending the man sprawling. Another attempted to reach for his sidearm, but before he could manage it, the attacker slammed his helmeted head into the sharp end of one of the benches, knocking him out.

  The rest of the policemen remained u
nconscious, but she didn’t know if that was because of a concussion from the blast or the smoke. Because there was something in the smoke. She could feel it, making her drowsy at the same time it attacked her exposed skin.

  Fight it!

  You have to fight it!

  Allie searched for a weapon among all the bodies. There, the same M4A1 she’d been reaching for earlier. It was right in front of her!

  She was reaching for it when the gun seemed to slide away from her extended fingers. No, the rifle hadn’t gone anywhere. It was still there. So why couldn’t she grab it? Why was her vision suddenly so blurry and just blinking was difficult, never mind trying not to tip over—

  She tipped over and landed on one side of her face. She was closer to Dawson than she’d thought, because she could see the detective’s face just a few inches from her own. There was blood all over his broken nose and around his mouth, and more welling up around his forehead and dripping from both ears. How had he even managed to stand up earlier?

  And was he dead? Was he still breathing?

  She couldn’t tell because she was having difficulty focusing. Dawson was so close to her, and yet, she couldn’t even be sure if he was even still breathing.

  Focus, damn you! Focus!

  The dark figure had reached her. She rolled over onto her back to look up at him. (Or did she just turn her head slightly? She couldn’t be certain of that, either.)

  Was it Pete? Had the lying sack of shit come back to finish what he’d started on the road earlier? The man hovering over her now was about the same height as Pete and had the same build, but the eyes were different. Where Pete had blue eyes, these were hazel. Or were those brown? Gray? It was hard to say for sure, with all the smoke and the mask’s lens obscuring her vision.

  Although she couldn’t see the man’s mouth because it was hidden by the lower half of his mask, Allie swore the bastard was smiling as he hunched over her, knowing that he could do anything to her right now and she wouldn’t be able to stop him. How could she? She could barely lift her handcuffed arms, and just breathing seemed to take all the strength she had left in her body.