Weaponized

by Nicholas Mennuti

  He couldn’t be happier to see Kyle right now.

  But it’s still too early to make his presence known. He tosses his bag down the tunnel, slides the rifle under his armpit, puts the handheld in a jacket pocket, and descends.

  Kyle searches the office, checks corners, looks behind furniture and under the desk.

  He slows down; he knows he’s not thinking, just going on blind instinct. Robinson never does anything by instinct, he thinks. You’ll never stop him unless you think like him.

  He backs up, sees the closet door in the left-hand corner. He tries the knob and it turns. Before he steps inside, he takes a moment to wish Fowler had left him a gun instead of a cell phone.

  He hits the lights, sees Mr. Vibol’s cardboard crypt of files and his shabby shirts and blazers. He checks the perimeter, then goes down on one knee and feels around the carpeting.

  He stands up, moves to the corner. There’s something strange about the way the carpet lies. There’s something worth investigating here.

  He pounds on the area with his shoe and hits steel.

  “The hell is that?”

  He finds where the carpeting begins, starts pulling it up. He rips up section after section until he exposes the steel grate.

  He digs his fingers under the lid, pops it up, and is enthusiastically saluted by the slim nose of Robinson’s rifle.

  “Kyle,” Robinson says while surfacing, gun-first. “I’d almost given up hope.”

  Kyle backs—actually falls—into the corner, overcome. This is really happening, he thinks. Really happening.

  “So we’ve got some catching up to do,” Robinson says as he leads Kyle into Mr. Vibol’s office. “My situation’s changed since we last met. Things are always so fluid in this line of work. What do you say to one last job together?”

  “I think I’ve done enough for you.”

  “Kyle, you’ve got to stop acting as if our deal was so one-sided. It’s such a profoundly negative way to reflect on your experience.” Robinson steers him toward the window and crouches down on the right side. He places Kyle on the left. “So. Bring me up to speed. You got yourself arrested, I hear.”

  Kyle nods. “Turned myself in.”

  “How’d you get loose?”

  “Took a hostage.”

  Robinson laughs. “Sometimes you have to.” He pulls a disposable phone from his pocket. “I’ve had a few changes myself. First off, my shoulder is fine. Thanks for not asking. Second…Lara has very suddenly left my employ.”

  Kyle lowers his head. Anything not to give Robinson the pleasure of his reaction.

  “It was a mutual decision a long time coming,” Robinson says. “We’ve both got the same gift, you know. You and I. Everyone close to us dies, but somehow we keep going. Know what they call that?”

  Kyle can’t bear the thought of Robinson being right. How can you live in a world where someone like Robinson can be right?

  “They call it luck. We’ve both got it,” Robinson says. He racks the rifle, then points his gloved finger across the street to the conference room’s window. Li Bao appears as a dot addressing a congregation of specks.

  “Can you believe it?” Robinson says. “Millions of dollars to shoot at a dot. It truly is God’s work.”

  Kyle counters, “You know that glass is double-paned and bulletproof, right?”

  Robinson gestures with his head. “Around the window trim. Already taken care of. While you were off the past few days being me, I was doing prep work. The window border is lined with plastique and a charge.” He holds up the disposable phone. “You dial the number, the charge goes, the window blows, and I get my shot.”

  “You? As in me?”

  “Yes. You make the call.”

  “No way. No.”

  Robinson crouches on one knee, moves in closer. “Kyle, I’d like to advance a radical proposition. You take Lara’s place. You be my new public face. Think about what we could accomplish together. Even better, think about what you could accomplish if you were like me. Unencumbered by laws, nations, treaties, stockholders. I exist in a world where none of that matters. You could be pure again. You don’t have to go to jail, don’t have to worry about Chandler. You really want to go back home and live in that world again? You’re not like those people. They don’t understand you. Or you them. I understand you. I really do.” He smiles. “I’ll get you a new passport, a new identity, more money than you could ever need. I can get you anything you want. I’m the magic man.” He laughs. “Think about it.” He checks his watch. “Thirty—actually, twenty-eight seconds for you to decide. The job is yours if you want it. All you have to do is make this call.”

  There it is, Kyle thinks, the speech. The same one Chandler gave to me. Go to sleep, lend me your gifts; pay no attention to the man making the offer. Listen to the melody, not the lyrics.

  Only this time, Kyle knows enough not to say yes.

  “No,” Kyle says. “I can’t.”

  “Yeah. I figured you might say that.” Robinson purses his lips in disappointment, a sour petulant pucker, and then checks his watch. “So here’s your other option.” He points to Li Bao’s limo waiting right below their window. “Since there’s been all these assassination threats, Li Bao doesn’t travel anywhere without his family. He’s afraid to leave them vulnerable. Someone may snatch them to get to him. They’re in the limo right now. Wife and two kids. Waiting for him to come out of that conference room.” He smiles. “I’ve got a charge buried in that car. Another one of my errands. And they’re not gonna find it.” He shakes the phone in Kyle’s face. “Now, my charge may not destroy the whole thing. With all that armor…it’d take a nuclear bomb. But the charge will force everyone out of the car. And while they’re all terrified and running, I’ll shoot every single one of them down. One of Li Bao’s daughters is only three. She’ll be the first one I hit.” He checks his watch again. “Think about it. You make one call, only Li Bao dies. You don’t make the call, I kill the whole family.” He pops another piece of Nicorette. “Fifteen seconds to decide.”

  It takes Kyle two seconds to realize there’s no way to counter Robinson’s plan except to try to disarm him. It’s surely suicide. But Kyle’s reached some small peace with the fact he’s not leaving this room alive. “Okay. Okay,” he says. “I’ll make the fucking call. I’ll do it.”

  Robinson smiles, gives Kyle’s cheek a patronizing pat. “It’s the right thing. I’m proud of you. Li Bao’s daughter sure appreciates it.”

  Kyle nods, sizing up how he’s going to attempt to take out Robinson. He needs to find some way to briefly tilt the situation to his advantage, because he doesn’t have brute strength on his side. “Yeah,” he says, distracted.

  Robinson points the rifle out the window, adjusts the angle on the telescope. He’s not going to try to set up an exact shot, because once the charge blows, everyone’s going to scramble. He’s going to be shooting at moving targets, so he needs to have his scopes straight to deal with the awkward angle. He listens to his heartbeat, clockwork thumps against his chest. That’s how he knows when to shoot. His heartbeat.

  Robinson turns toward Kyle with the phone in his hand and, for a split second, brushes against his own boot, and in that rotational sliver, he unsheathes a triple-play military blade.

  He drives the knife into the center of Kyle’s stomach, rips it up and to the left, then goes up a few more inches and leaves it stuck inside.

  Kyle’s incapacitated and terrified. The horror outweighs the pain, because he can’t move, can’t gurgle out words. He’s frozen. Robinson stabbed him in that exact spot to arrest movement. The one thing not arrested is bleeding. That’s a steady stream, which is already soaking his legs and the surrounding area.

  “Don’t move. Another three inches and that blade’s in your heart.” Robinson runs his latex-covered hand through Kyle’s hair. “Listen. Listen. Calm down. I had to do that. But you’re not going to die. You won’t. I just had to be sure you couldn’t talk. Stop tryi
ng to talk.”

  Kyle can’t stop trying. He’s freaking out. He’s trapped in his own skin, and Robinson’s taken over the controls.

  “You’re gonna bleed out if you don’t stop,” Robinson says. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’re in shock. But it’s a clean wound.” He smiles. “I know how to do this.” He places the phone before Kyle. “Open and close your fist. You can do it. Open and close.”

  Kyle can’t move.

  “Open and close,” Robinson says. “Come on. Try it for me.”

  Kyle’s fingers spring to life, close into his palm, and then retract. He can’t believe it. Robinson is some kind of artist with a knife, able to rearrange your body so it responds only to him.

  “Good.” Robinson places the phone in Kyle’s palm. “Okay. Now, when I tell you the number, you’re going to dial it. You dial. The window goes. I get Li Bao. Then we get you fixed up. Okay?”

  Kyle’s face is a rictus of pain playing across his lips and forehead.

  Robinson aims out the window, glares through the scope. “Four-four-five…”

  Kyle shivers; he’s losing feeling in his legs. He’s bleeding fast and still trying to talk.

  “Focus for me. Don’t look down. Four-four-five…”

  Kyle punches in the digits with shaking, blood-soaked fingers.

  “Six-six-seven…”

  Kyle’s lungs start to seize; he hacks up blood and holds his side. Something’s not going right. This is happening too fast.

  “Six-six-seven…” Robinson repeats.

  Holy shit, Kyle thinks. I’m dying. I’m actually dying. Robinson lied to me again. He killed me.

  Kyle dials the next three numbers, getting progressively weaker with each digit.

  Robinson’s finger teases the trigger. “Eight-eight-four-nine.” He repeats it. “Eight-eight. Four-nine.”

  Kyle hits the first two digits.

  “Four-nine, Kyle. Four-nine. You can do it.”

  Kyle chokes back blood that erupts from his stomach and shoots up his throat.

  “Four-nine,” Robinson says, losing patience. “Four-nine.”

  Kyle looks at his hands. The color seems to have evaporated from his skin. The same thing is happening to the room itself; it’s gone gray and spinning.

  He figures he’s got less than thirty seconds before he passes out.

  He coughs, his chest heaves, and he punches in the last two numbers.

  On the street below, Fowler stands by Li Bao’s limousine talking with Li’s private security and waiting for Kyle to call.

  Suddenly, his phone rings. He flips it open, says “Hello,” but there’s nothing on the other end. “Kyle. It’s me.”

  He looks up toward the office window for signs.

  Before Robinson has a chance to question why the window didn’t explode, Kyle musters up his last reservoirs of incautious fury, the death drive of someone with nothing left to lose. He crashes into Robinson and throws him to the ground. The rifle goes spinning across the floor.

  Then Kyle throws himself out the open window—feetfirst.

  It’s a twelve-story fall, but he already ran the figures, knew the consequences if he didn’t jump in this position. There’s a knife jammed in his stomach, and if he lands on his back, his guts will literally fly out of his mouth.

  He knows exactly where he’s going to land. He’s floating toward a metal embrace with the roof of Li Bao’s limousine.

  Feetfirst, he prays. Feetfirst. Or at the very least, let me land on my knees. Either way, I’m breaking something on impact. It’s just a question of how high up on the leg.

  And landing on his knees it is.

  The alarm system in the limo goes into overdrive upon his crash. Something internal has gone haywire and it keeps repeating the same sound, like a concrete symphony, and in true city fashion, this gets all the other car alarms involved in a furious dialogue, an orgy of squawking, signifying nothing.

  Even though Li’s limo is bulletproof and armor-plated, a grown man who falls twelve stories and lands on it is going to leave behind some serious dents. Accordingly, upon Kyle’s impact, the roof caved in and curved like a government statistic. The windows spiderwebbed. The undercarriage—already hanging low—went right to the ground. Oil is streaming out, and the smell of gas is everywhere.

  “The fucking thing might blow!” screams one of the guards.

  Kyle can’t help but smile. His plan worked.

  Li’s security men immediately pull the wife and kids out of the backseat, rush them to the other side of the street, throw them to the ground, and ready themselves to be shields.

  Once they’ve settled the family, the agents look up, note what window Kyle dove from, and open fire on Robinson.

  Robinson turns to the side of the window, using the angle to his advantage. Bullets rip up the surrounding area, shredding the walls, launching clots of rotted wood and decades of moldy files from Mr. Vibol’s desk.

  When there’s a break in firing, Robinson peers outside and sees Kyle on the limousine roof, still on his knees, unable to move, holding his side and looking like a Pre-Raphaelite sculpture testifying to the nobility of suffering.

  Robinson smiles, an anarchic riot across his face; even his cheeks and eyebrows get involved, because, let’s be honest, this denouement is far more to his liking. Sure, the people who hired him to kill Li are going to either kill him for this or place him in indentured servitude for years. He knows it.

  That said, they’ll have to find him first, and that gives him a reason to indulge in his favorite activity: going liquid. He wasn’t created for a rooted world; it stifles his creativity. His line of work has always been an excuse for him to have the life he wants. Other people’s lives. Hundreds of them, all in different places.

  Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any more time to admire Kyle’s reshuffling of the deck; he’s got to get out. Not only has Li’s security reloaded, but Fowler’s run through the front door to get him.

  Robinson leaves the rifle by the window, darts to the closet, dives back into the tunnel, and leaps the last few ladder rungs. Once below, he pulls plastique and charges out of the duffel bag and leaves the rest behind.

  He tightens the loosened rifle strap around his neck and attaches the handheld television to the cord. He needs to watch Fowler to know when to activate the charges.

  He barrels down the tunnel, forced to run a five- or six-minute mile in a space with no air. It’s going to hurt; he’s going to feel every foot of it.

  Fowler explodes into the office, gun drawn, and lets off several warning shots. There’s no return fire. The room is empty. The fucking guy is gone.

  He sees Robinson’s rifle still at the window. The guy left everything behind and ran. Ran where?

  The window Kyle launched himself from is the only one in the office. Obviously, Robinson didn’t escape that way, and Fowler banged on every other door in the hallway and Robinson hadn’t run through to dive out one of their windows onto the street.

  No, Fowler thinks. Somehow he’s got to still be in this room.

  Fowler tosses the desk on its side, does the same with the filing cabinet. Nothing. Water-stained carpet and mildew. He moves to the closet, rips all Mr. Vibol’s clothes off the rod, kicks over the boxes, pounds against the walls and floor, looking for an opening.

  Nothing. Where did this guy go?

  He steps out of the closet and stands in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, breathless, furious. Robinson isn’t getting away from him.

  When Robinson shoots, he listens to his heartbeat. When he runs, he sings under his breath to keep time. Speeding through the tunnel, his sides splitting, phlegm pushing against his throat, he decides to go with Johnny Cash.

  Fowler goes back into the closet; something’s bothering him about the spot. He pounds on the floorboards, drops to his knees, and sees a small slice in the corner of the rug.

  He follows the cut, rips up the carpet, peels it back, and finds the
steel cover.

  While Robinson pastes more plastique, he checks the handheld and sees Fowler fussing with the lid.

  He starts sprinting, pushing himself harder. His calves and quads shake with effort.

  He spits out the running residue coating his tongue, wipes the sweat from his eyes, and increases the length of his stride.

  Fowler pulls off the steel, peers inside, and sees the ladder leading to the dark hole.

  “Son of a bitch,” he says, then punches in the number for Li’s security on his phone. “Robinson used a fucking migrant tunnel. Get anyone you can spare up to the office on the twelfth floor. I’m going down after him. We gotta move. He’s got a good head start on us.”

  Robinson reaches the end of the tunnel, glimpses the ladder back to the surface, pastes one more plastique bomb, and lays in the charge.

  He scales the ladder and pulls out another disposable cell phone that acts as the trigger.

  He has to slap himself hard across the face until his cheeks flush. He’s about to faint from oxygen deprivation, and this is not the time for him to pass out.

  Fowler drops to the dirt floor of the tunnel and freezes when he realizes how narrow and air deprived it is. There’s no way he can catch Robinson under these conditions. He’s got to swallow his pride and wait for Li’s security to arrive.

  Robinson hits the top of the ladder, pushes up against the steel grate.

  He punches the detonation number into the phone and waits to surface. He wants to hear the seismic rumble that presages the blast.