The Minus Faction, Episode One: Breakout

by Rick Wayne

  "Was he right?"

  "Who?"

  "Ethan." The lieutenant walked over and pressed the 'DOWN' button on the elevator panel. "About the discharge already being approved."

  The doctor shrugged. She looked at the man in the chair. The captain's eyes were closed and his head was tilted to the side. "How does it work? Do you just . . . reach out or something?"

  "Not out. In. You have to contract your mind and peel it away, almost like going inside out." John figured it wasn't a good time to talk about the rush of light or the crazy things he saw during the leap.

  Amarta nodded. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She kept looking back and forth between the man in the chair and the man standing.

  "I don't suppose it's an accident you put me in the head of hospital security." The elevator doors dinged open and Regent pushed his body in. "A little revenge?"

  "That would be unprofessional of me."

  "What are you going to tell him?"

  "The lieutenant? I'll tell him the truth. The episode with Corporal Gonzales, the responsibility, was too much for him. Also, that he fainted. Both are true."

  "But not related."

  Amarta shrugged.

  "Colonel Philip might reassign him. Send him somewhere less stressful."

  "Really?" Amarta feigned innocence. She watched the numbers on the elevator display go down. "I hadn't thought about that."

  John smirked. He liked the doc. She didn't fuck around. And she wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty to make things better for her people.

  "Besides, we're just borrowing him, right? It's not like the hospital is going to be assaulted, or whatever he's here for."

  The elevator doors opened. Nine men in black body armor were spread around the ground floor with semi-automatic rifles raised. They kept the nurses and janitorial staff and visitors and volunteers sitting on the carpet or standing along the far wall. A row of white SUVs sat in the drive ready to haul everyone away.

  Ayn was in front. She walked right toward the captain's body unconscious in his chair.

  The lieutenant pushed the chair forward to meet her. A few clouds had moved in, but it was still bright.

  Ayn held up papers. "This man is wanted on a matter of national security."

  John smiled at the doc, who stood speechless. Then he looked at his adversary.

  Game over.

  T Minus: 050 Days 12 Hours 46 Minutes 19 Seconds

  Dr. Zabora stepped in front of Ayn. "Is Colonel Philip aware of this?"

  "With all due respect to the colonel, this is above his pay--"

  "Oh please!"

  "It's all right, Doc." The lieutenant put a hand on her shoulder.

  "Thank you, Lieut--" Ayn looked at the young officer, then the unconscious captain, then back to the lieutenant. Her lips parted. She looked him in the eyes. She whispered, "It's you, isn't it?"

  Two MPs in green fatigues appeared around a corner and reached for their sidearms.

  "No!" The lieutenant called. "It's okay. Stand down. Have everyone stay back." No one was going to get hurt because of him.

  Ayn stared speechless.

  John studied the invaders. They had snub semi-automatic rifles, pistols, bullet-proof vests, and flash grenades. Two even had shotguns. "You sure brought a lot of firepower for a paraplegic in a wheelchair."

  Ayn did her best to hide her amazement that Regent was speaking with the lieutenant's voice. "You have quite the service record. I wasn't going to take any chances."

  "Ma'am," one of the armed agents urged.

  Ayn gathered herself. They were on a time limit—seven minutes to get in and out. She moved around the wheelchair and pushed it past the lieutenant. "You can't hide in there forever, you know," she whispered.

  "Who says?"

  Ayn turned. "Your conscience." She was serious. She pushed the captain's slumped body across the lobby.

  Another elevator opened.

  "What the hell?" Ethan stood in front of a small group of patients. He rushed out and stopped in front of the wheelchair. "What are you doing? Where are you taking him?"

  One of the armored agents moved forward and hit the nurse in the back with the butt of his short rifle. Ethan yelled and went down. Weapons were cocked. Everyone froze.

  Except for the soldiers in the elevator, the ones Ethan had brought to say goodbye to their friend. Five wounded veterans walked forward to stand in front of the captain. They were joined by two sitting in the waiting area. The patient platoon formed a line between the hospital information desk and the elevators.

  Ayn opened her mouth to object as the next elevator dinged and four more veterans appeared.

  Ethan's attacker took three steps back. He raised his rifle. The nurse watched from the floor as one of his patients, Specialist Mark Strus, stopped in front of the gun without a word. The barrel was an inch from his chest. Mark had a head injury. He wasn't always thinking clearly.

  The crowd was silent as the wounded soldiers took defensive positions. Three had prosthetic limbs. Two were in wheelchairs. One dragged an IV stand. The rest carried a deeper trauma.

  A few civilians at the back of the room snuck away down a carpeted hall.

  Ayn raised her papers in the air. "This man is want--"

  "Let me see." Marine Master Sergeant Dominic White was an old Afghan vet who often visited his son at the hospital. He and John had met in the cafeteria and bonded over old war stories. Dominic was dressed in civilian clothes, but he had the poise and demeanor of a drill instructor. He held out his hand.

  Ayn didn't move.

  Another elevator opened and four more vets stepped out, stopped, and surveyed the scene. They stood with the rest. Fifteen in all. John looked up and down the line at his friends—Corporal Sharleen Banning, Specialist Ron Hall, Major Dawn Jackson, and the rest—people he'd gotten to know well over the last several months. They formed a living barricade around his motionless body. Ayn was the only intruder behind it.

  Regent helped Ethan off the floor. "You sure can throw one helluva going-away party," he joked.

  "Thanks." Ethan grimaced as the lieutenant helped him to a chair. "I think."

  "Listen, all of you," Ayn began.

  "No." The master sergeant wouldn't let up. "You listen. This man isn't going anywhere with you. Not like this. Not without proper orders."

  "That's right, Lieutenant." Dr. Zabora stepped forward. "Shouldn't we get Colonel Philip down here?"

  Ayn turned to John. "They don't know how this is going to end. But you do." It was a threat. She was putting everyone's safety on him.

  John squinted. He studied Ayn's face, but it was a blank. He couldn't tell if she was bluffing. "You're a real piece of work, lady."

  "I've seen your service record. You don't get to judge me." Ayn stepped closer and lowered her voice. She dropped the facade. "You were right, you know. About that symbol. Not only did I get an earful, I got an official reprimand for asking a question no one said was out-of-bounds." She waited for that to sink in. "Whatever that symbol means, whoever is behind it, they have influence at the highest levels. And if your story is true, then they have similar influence over the Russians. It's safe to assume it doesn't stop there. Think about what that means. For the entire world. For democracy. For everything you've fought for your entire life.

  "I'm not asking you to trust me. Just look at the facts. Think about it, Captain. You have the perfect means for--"

  "For what? Winning the spy game?"

  Ayn was incredulous. "A man with your background can't possibly be this naive."

  John looked to the horizon. "You want to know what I think? All right. I think the people behind that symbol have convinced the entire world they don't exist. I think you can't hope to stop people like that from inside the system. I think you're smart enough to know that, which means you're not bringing me in and wherever I'm headed is so dark, I'll never see the light of day." He turned back. "That's what I think."

  "If you run, we'l
l chase. We won't have a choice. You won't be able to walk into a bank or cross a border or see your family. Ever."

  John nodded with the lieutenant's head. He looked around at all the silent soldiers guarding his body. He hated to leave his friends, but he wouldn't let anyone else get hurt because of him. And now he owed it to them to keep running. Somehow, he'd make good on their gift.

  "Time to go, Lieutenant." Amarta took the chair. She shot Ayn a look, a no-holds-barred gloat.

  John smiled at it. He liked the doc.

  "Take him out the back." The master sergeant was a rock. "We'll hold them here."

  The lieutenant pointed to the hospital guards, his men, as he stepped away. "Barricade yourselves in the station. Get the security footage to Colonel Philip. And if you can't, put it on the Internet."

  "You're making a huge mistake," Ayn called. "This will only make things worse. For everyone."

  The lieutenant ignored the spy and followed the doctor down the hall toward the rear entrance.

  Ayn called. "They'll come for you!" Then she cursed and pushed through the line of soldiers to rejoin her team. She snatched the radio from the arm of the closest agent and clicked the button. "Eagle, this is Agent Rand. I need aerial surveillance and a mobile unit for immediate pursuit."

  There was a click of static. "Confirmed. Mobile unit is en route. ETA, eight minutes."

  Ayn paced in anger. She looked at the barricade of stoic faces. "Did anyone actually call the colonel, or are we all just going to stand here forever?"

  § § §

  "Where are we going?" Amarta sat in the passenger's seat of her late-model sedan. John's body was slumped in the back seat. His chair was in the trunk. The lieutenant was driving.

  "There are traffic cameras ahead."

  The car passed a strip mall, a tire shop, and a row of fast food restaurants.

  "Then shouldn't we be going a different way?" The urbanity of their surroundings contrasted everything that had happened, that was happening. Amarta felt out of place, like it wasn't real. It seemed like they were running out for a quick salad rather than from pursuers.

  "Nope." The lieutenant was calm. He looked into the rear-view mirror, then he turned in front of a car dealership and followed the traffic down a shallow hill.

  "I thought you weren't going to turn yourself in."

  "I'm not." The light turned yellow and John accelerated through the intersection. "I'm turning you and the lieutenant in."

  Cars honked behind them and Dr. Zabora turned her head. A white SUV weaved around the other cars on the road. It was gaining. Her heart jumped and she gripped the seat. It seemed real again. "How did they get here so fast?"

  "Put your damn seatbelt on." John took a turn at high speed. Everything in the car shifted. Tires squealed.

  Amarta righted herself and fumbled with the seatbelt. They were on a side road. To the left was a multi-storied office building. To the right, a large home improvement store. The unpainted asphalt ended at a retaining wall that sheltered some dumpsters and held back the hill above. Houses poked through the trees.

  The doctor pointed. "Look out!" A black sedan turned at the dumpsters and headed straight toward them at speed.

  "About time," John grumbled.

  "What?" Amarta looked back and saw the white SUV take the corner and come up behind. She turned back to the front. Engines raced. No one was slowing down. This was it! "Oh Jesus. Captain!"

  Regent swerved left at the office building and bounced down the ramp to an underground parking structure. Amarta heard screeching tires.

  John had an advantage over his pursuers. This was home turf. He knew the building. He had been sitting on the roof watching the sunrise just two weeks before. He knew that under the concrete and behind the hill, cell service was spotty. And there were no cameras.

  John sped down the ramp and stopped the car in the middle of the central drive. Most of the spaces were taken. Fluorescent light shone overhead. Concrete pillars held the building aloft. A red sign in the corner marked the stairs. The air smelled of oil and exhaust.

  The doctor looked around. The way in was also the only way out. They were trapped. "Captain?"

  "Stay in the car." John got out and walked away from the doctor as their pursuers screeched to a halt behind them.

  Doors opened. Armed agents piled out, two from the black car and four from the white SUV.

  "Get on the ground! Now!"

  Regent was surrounded. Six men, weapons raised. Special agents. Ex-military. Ex-SWAT. Well-armed. Well-armored. Well-trained.

  John knew the type. By any account, they were good.

  The agents kept shouting. "DOWN! On the ground! On the ground!"

  The lieutenant raised his hands behind his head and waited as they stepped closer. All but three kept their weapons on him. One took Dr. Zabora out of the passenger's seat and screamed at her to get on the concrete, which she did as daintily as she could with shaking hands. The other two pulled John's body from the back seat. His limp feet dragged.

  "On the ground!" The agent in front of John kept yelling. He had heavy eyes.

  The others were taking his cues. He must be the leader. Regent didn't move.

  "On the ground, Lieutenant, or I will shoot you."

  That's good, John thought. Use tough words. Heavy Eyes had the right technique. He had experience. He walked with shallow steps and kept his focus and his weapon on his target.

  "This is your last warning." The man stopped. His semi-automatic was level with the lieutenant's center mass. "Get on the ground or you will die."

  Those words, delivered forcefully with six ready rifles, had probably never failed to induce compliance. But Regent was the ocean on a clear day. He didn't move, and neither his face nor his posture revealed his thoughts. To the men stalking him, he was a reclining lion yawning at his hunters. Did he not understand? Or did he just not care?

  John took in the scene. Heavy Eyes up front. Sheep One and Sheep Two dragging his body. Rango guarding the doc. Itchy to the left. Scratchy to the right. Scratchy wasn't a fighter. Must be a tech. He had his finger on the safety. He didn't trust himself with a live weapon. He was counting on the other five.

  John looked at Heavy Eyes. His motion was controlled but his eyes were full of rage. He was definitely good, but it was a kind of good Regent had watched wash out every year at selection time. It was have-a-home-life good. It was go-home-on-evenings-and-weekends good. And Heavy Eyes liked to bark, liked keeping people down, liked the job for all the wrong reasons. Probably why he was drawn to this duty.

  The unit clearly had orders to take John alive. The lieutenant was just in the way. If he interfered, they'd use force—non-lethal if possible, but a bullet if they had to.

  Six guys, all armed, armored, and ready to shoot. And without getting the lieutenant hurt. Or the doc. Or himself.

  That's a challenge.

  As the men dragged his body toward the SUV, as raised rifles crept toward the lieutenant, closing in for the takedown, Regent took a deep breath with the young officer's lungs. He closed his eyes and let everything fall away. He focused. He saw the old woman in the pit. He remembered her patient reprimands and the strange and dirty symbols on her robes. He saw light and scenes from his whole life clear as day.

  John Regent didn't have a wife. He didn't have kids he was trying to put through college. He didn't have a home. He didn't have belongings. He dreaded downtime the way corporate stiffs dread the Monday after a vacation. Downtime only settled his mind, and a settled mind only raised the demons of his past: faces of the people he'd killed, the friends he'd lost, his family. Doubts appeared from every shadow like whooping ghosts.

  For John, there was only the next workout, the next training op, the next mission. He didn't know anything else. Ethan, Dr. Zabora, his friends at the VA had all taken a risk for him, given him a shot. One single chance to get away. He wouldn't get another.

  He'd have to do something he'd never done before. He'd have
to wrestle the raging bull of a conscious mind. He'd have to keep one man down with half his thoughts and still have enough focus to fight off five more, and he'd have to do it without killing them. Or letting them kill anyone else.

  Probably impossible, he thought. But then losing wasn't an option. This wasn't for him anymore. This was for his friends.

  John ran it through in his head.

  Eight seconds.

  § § §

  Dr. Amarta Zabora was face-down on the concrete with a gun pointed at her head. She felt tears and running eyeliner. "John," she whispered to herself.

  The agents were screaming. They moved forward, rifles pointed. They had him.

  The lieutenant closed his eyes and Amarta figured the captain was letting him go. John had been right. It really was over. She watched the lieutenant's body slump and fall. She could see under the car as it hit the ground like a limp doll.

  The doctor moved her eyes to her friend. Two agents were dragging him toward the white SUV. She wanted to see his face. She wanted him to see hers. But the captain was still unconscious. His head rolled about. There was nothing.

  Amarta scowled.

  The guard over her made a little clicking sound. She glanced up at his face. He smiled at her and winked. Then he turned toward the others. They were all focused on their quarry. They weren't looking at the man at the back. Amarta watched in silence.

  It was ballet. Three moments of fearless, violent, coordinated ballet.

  A shove. The knock of a gun. The sound of a shot thrown wide. A crack to the head. A twist and a pull to the arm. A pop to the throat. A kick off the side of a car to launch a powerful aerial punch. A drop and sweep of the feet. Another deflection at close range. Glass shattering. A twist and elbow to the nose. The snap of a knee. The grab of a gun. Two shots, center mass—crack, crack—right in the armor. A gun-butt to the face: once, twice, down. Two more shots. Boom. Boom.

  The sounds echoed through the concrete structure.

  Amarta was pressed to the floor. She didn't move. She had goosebumps. "Wow . . ."

  She knew she'd never be able to tell anyone what she'd just witnessed, which was just as well. She'd never do it justice. She remembered her abysmal surgery rotation, her hands shaking the scalpel like an unbalanced washing machine, her decision later to go into psychiatry. She'd seen surgeons make swift, deft cuts in a patient's brain with less room for error than the width of hanger wire, just like how artists wave their arms across a canvas and, in one sweep of the brush, bring shape to life.