[Holly Lin 01.0] No Shelter

by Robert Swartwood

  I take another step back, so I’m right on the edge. I readjust my grip on the rope. The wind keeps slapping at my face, howling in my ears, the air cold and sharp. And before I know it I take another step back and drop down, extending my arms above my head, still gripping the rope, holding on but not as tight as I go down, down, down, until my feet touch the bumper, maybe a half foot of bumper, but enough so I can put my toes there.

  Headlights splash me. I raise my head, thinking the unit has already arrived, wondering how many seconds I have to reach for the holstered Glock before the tractor-trailer’s driver jerks the wheel again and sends me flying.

  But the car belongs to a civilian, just an average person heading home or heading to work.

  I bring both sections of rope together, grip it tight with my left hand, then lean forward, slowly, until my right hand grasps the latch. I jerk it up and pull the door open and immediately jump back as bullets tear into the door and disappear into the night. A half moment passes where I see the car behind us has been hit, white splats marking the windshield, and the driver slams on the brakes, swerves to the right, the cars behind blaring horns as they swerve to get out of the way.

  The gunfire is still heavy, unabated, and the tractor-trailer’s driver decides right then to jerk the wheel again. This time it’s to the left, and the door swings open even wider. Then the driver swerves back to the right and the door I’m using as a shield comes undone and opens and before I know it I’m off the bumper, hanging against the side of the trailer, holding onto the rope as tight as I can while feeling it slither between the thin fabric of my gloves, burning my hands, the highway now racing underneath my feet.

  Hanging by the rope on the side the trailer, I’m aware that the gunfire has stopped. I’m aware light is spilling out onto the highway directly behind us, light coming from inside the trailer, and there are shadows there, at least two of them, standing at the edge.

  The driver—who must surely see me dangling behind him on his left—jerks the wheel again, and again, and again. His purpose is to make me lose my grip, send me to the asphalt. Like Atticus said, they will not stop the tractor-trailer until the threat has been neutralized; even when the unit shows up they won’t stop, because they would rather be a moving target than a stationary target.

  So the driver is doing everything he can to buck me off. But I don’t let go. Instead, I reach with my right hand and grip onto the rope and spin myself so I’m facing the side of the trailer. I plant my feet square against the unmarked side and then start to move, first to the left, then to the right, to the left, to the right, making a pendulum, giving me force, giving me momentum, the wind screaming past me at eighty miles an hour, the tractor-trailer passing cars and trucks, and then I’m as far left as I can go and I move right, move right, move right, and before I know it I push off with my feet and go airborne and soar for an instant, half an instant, a quarter of an instant, the rope growing even more taut in my grip, and I hold on and swing around the door and straight into the brightly lit gaping maw of the trailer.

  I come in feet first. An agent is standing there, and I knock him to the ground. I let go of the rope and hit the floor and scramble back to my feet while the other agent steps forward. He shoots at me just as I turn away—the bullet puncturing the side of the trailer—and I turn back and grab his arm as he shoots again. He tries to move the gun toward me, right at my face, and I give him a little leeway and then slam the gun back into his nose, drawing blood, and he falls just as the first agent climbs back to his feet.

  I reach for Atticus’s special gun. I shoot the first agent in the neck, then turn and shoot the second agent in the neck. One of them tries to take a step toward me but the tranquilizer darts work fast. A few seconds and already the stuff is spreading through their systems. Their eyelids grow heavy. Their heads roll on their necks. Their legs give out from under them. They go down.

  I stay in a shooting stance for a moment, just standing there, holding my breath. Slowly, very slowly, I lower the pistol.

  Atticus must sense the sudden silence, because he asks, “Holly, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. There were two in the trailer and they’ve been taken care of.”

  “How long before you find the flash drive?”

  The front end of the trailer is filled with filing cabinets, two rows facing each other. Two desks are positioned against the sides, chairs underneath. A mini-fridge, a large cardboard box full of food, laptop computers set up on the desks.

  “I’m not sure. It might be a while.”

  “You have two minutes, maybe less.”

  “Until?”

  “Until the cavalry arrives. Oh, and Holly? They’re coming fast, and they’re coming strong.”

  Fifty-Nine

  I start with the desk on my left, ripping open and dumping drawers, papers and pens and paperclips scattering everywhere. The same with the desk on my right, only difference here are some Pop-Tarts stashed in a far corner of the bottom drawer, an old issue of Men’s Health.

  The driver keeps swerving from one lane to the next. I feel like I’m on a boat on a tumultuous sea, like I’m back on that yacht where I thought I witnessed what I did but obviously did not.

  As I start on the first filing cabinet, tearing open the top drawer and sorting through the files, I ask Atticus how much more time.

  “A minute, if you’re lucky.”

  Slamming the drawer shut, opening the next one, yelling, “Nova, where are you?”

  “Ready when you are.”

  “Can you slow them down?”

  “Not all of them.”

  “How many?”

  “Right now looks like three.”

  Tearing apart files, throwing out papers, finding guns wrapped in plastic bags, bullets concealed in dime bags, until I come to a drawer that has cell phones and discs and pieces of hard drives—

  And flash drives.

  “Holly,” Atticus says, “you have about thirty seconds.”

  Quickly sorting through the bagged items, looking for a printed name, a flash of gold, I say, “Nova, do your magic.”

  “I’m trying, I’m trying.”

  Nothing in this drawer. I slam it shut, open the next, find even more bagged items. I start whispering a mantra—“Come on, come on, come on”—and then I slam the drawer shut, open the next one.

  Nova: “They’re right on your tail.”

  I pause and glance up. Three black BMWs are spread out, each taking a lane.

  I reach for the Glock but then stop, realizing that won’t work, at least not yet. I hurry forward, stepping over the agent with the broken nose, gripping the one steel desk and pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing, until it starts to move. It weighs a ton but it starts to slide across the floor, and I push it toward the back, the three BMWs gaining ground, I push the desk until I reach the edge and then I push some more and the front two legs drop over the side and I keep pushing until the rest slides over and the desk tumbles front over end to the highway.

  The desk hits the asphalt, bounces back up spinning in the air. The middle BMW tries to swerve out of the way, but all the driver does is jerk the wheel too hard and the spinning desk lands right where the turning wheel is and jams there and causes the car to flip.

  Nova, his voice loud and hurried: “What the hell was that?”

  The two remaining BMWs continue on like nothing’s happened, taking up the space the third left behind, keeping pace with each other as they come even closer. Both passenger side windows lower. The upper parts of bodies pop out, submachine guns in hand.

  I pull the Glock, aim not at the men or the windshields but at the BMWs’ grilles, at their front tires. I pop off a half-dozen rounds, enough to give me some time, and I turn back around, run to the other desk, pull it from the wall and then flip it over just as the men in the BMWs open fire.

  Crouched behind the desk, feeling the vibration of every bullet, I yell as loud as I can: “Nova, get your ass up here and tak
e care of these cars!”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t give a shit! Just don’t let them kill me!”

  There’s a lull in the gunfire. I look around at the two tranquilized agents, both still knocked out cold.

  Keeping low, I crawl back toward the nose of the trailer, to the filing cabinet with the bagged electronic items. I start sorting through them, tossing out bags, tossing out more bags, until I slam the drawer shut and go to the next cabinet.

  Nova says, “I’m going to be so pissed off at you if I get killed doing this,” and then I hear the steady staccato of gunfire.

  I pause to peek over the desk. Nova’s pickup trails the BMWs, Nova leaning out his window, gun in hand, shooting at one of the cars.

  The tractor-trailer swerves again, from left to right, and gravity finally has its way and sends me falling to the ground. I knock my head on one of the filing cabinets, see white for a moment, and then I crawl forward again, open up the next drawer, start sorting through it.

  “Holly,” Nova yells. “I’m taking on gunfire!”

  I peek over the desk again. The two men with the submachine guns have shifted positions and are now firing back at Nova.

  Springing to my feet, I tell Nova to get ready.

  “Ready? Ready for what?”

  I crouch down at the desk, plant my feet, and start pushing. This desk moves a whole hell of a lot easier than the last, moving like it’s on ice, and then it’s at the edge and it tips over and crashes down to the ground and slams right into the grille of the one BMW.

  Nova’s pickup swerves behind the BMW as it comes to a sudden halt, coming right around it, and the agent with the submachine gun in the last car swings back, starts firing at me.

  I dive back into the trailer, crawl up to the filing cabinet, just start tearing things out. More files, more papers, more bagged items of discs and cell phones and flash drives and—

  Holy shit, there it is.

  Wrapped in a plastic bag just like all the rest.

  A golden flash drive, one of a kind.

  When I speak, my voice is barely a whisper. “I got it.” I have to say it again. “I got it.” And again. “I got it!”

  “About time,” Nova says. He’s back there behind the BMW, swerving from lane to lane, trying to stay directly behind the car while the passenger keeps firing at him. “You ready to make your exit?”

  I stuff the flash drive in my pocket, pat it once to make sure it’s secure. Then I work my way forward, grab onto the rope, pull it until it grows taut.

  “Yeah, I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “What side?”

  “The left-hand side.”

  “My left or your left?”

  “Your left, Nova! Now come on, I’ll cover you.”

  With both strands of the rope in one hand, I grab my gun and fire at the BMW. Again I don’t try to hit the passenger or the driver but I want to slow them down, force them to swerve away, give Nova enough time to swing around them.

  Which he does, the black Dodge Ram coming on strong, speeding directly at me, and as the truck comes right up to the trailer I hear Nova’s voice in my ear—“Do it now!”—and I fire off one more round and drop the gun and reach for the knife in my pocket.

  I start running, sprinting as fast as I can, until I reach the doors and, gripping the rope as tight as ever, I jump out and swing toward the last BMW, the rope catching at the top and the momentum forcing me again like a pendulum toward the left-hand side of the tractor-trailer, where Nova is now, riding as close as possible, making sure I have enough space, and with one deft motion I flick my wrist and extend the switchblade and slice the rope until nothing more is keeping me up and I fall.

  Sixty

  The Dodge Ram has a nice open bed. Normally it’s empty, but just an hour ago Nova went to Walmart and stocked up on every single pillow and comforter they had. He loaded up the pillows in back of the pickup and placed the comforters on top of them, and while it’s not the most ideal thing to land on when just jumping out of a speeding tractor-trailer, it does the trick.

  I lie staring at the empty sky for a couple seconds. My heart is pounding. My body is shaking. I’m half-aware that both of those things have been going on this entire time, but what matters is that I realize it now and that I’m happy to be alive.

  The Dodge Ram has a partition on the cab’s rear window. Nova slides it open and shouts out at me, “You okay?”

  I open my mouth to answer but can’t speak. I try again and realize that I’m holding my breath, that I’ve been holding my breath. I release the breath and take a few large gulps of air before telling Nova that yes, I’m okay.

  “Good.” He slides an M4 through the partition. “Mind taking care of our company?”

  At once I’m back on autopilot. I sit up and grab the rifle and turn just as the tractor-trailer’s driver lowers his window and sticks out a handgun. I can’t tell what kind of gun—it looks like a .38 or a .45—but that doesn’t matter; what matters is that he has a gun and is now firing at us, a few random shots in the pickup’s direction, Nova swerving to the farthest lane and then back to fake him out.

  I lean forward and prop my weight on my knee and raise the rifle, holding it as steady as I can. I aim not for the driver but for the empty passenger seat and I let off a few rounds, the windshield cracking and then shattering, the driver leaning back so he can grab the wheel with both hands.

  The BMW has swung around and is headed up our lane, directly behind us. The passenger is still hanging out his window. He’s not firing because he’s not at a good angle, and right now the driver is trying to do that for him, veering to the left.

  I turn the rifle toward the car and let off a few more rounds, the bullets tearing up the grille and the hood, the BMW swerving back and forth, giving me enough time to swing the barrel back to the tractor-trailer and aim at the front tire. I open fire and don’t stop shooting until the bullets tear away at the rubber enough that it blows.

  The tractor-trailer doesn’t explode or flip over like it would in the movies. Instead, the wheel goes flat. The tractor-trailer tilts with a jerk. It’s already going about eighty miles an hour, and now with the flat the driver slams on the brakes, which is something he shouldn’t do, not at that speed, because by jerking the wheel and slamming on the brakes it causes the momentum of the trailer to keep going, sliding toward the left, right at the BMW, the car unable to get out of the way in time that it veers straight into the median.

  I’ve exhausted the magazine. I lean back toward the partition and ask Nova for another. He hands me one. I replace the mag and then just sit there, the wind howling around me, the destruction already a quarter mile behind us.

  Despite the fact we’re hooked up by transmitter, Nova shouts out through the partition: “So you got it?”

  I pat my pocket, nod at him.

  “Good,” he says. “So now what?”

  Before I can respond, I hear the approaching chuck-chuck-chuck-chuck of a helicopter. I look up and see it there, what looks like a modified Black Hawk heading towards us.

  Nova increases the Ram’s speed. He shouts back at me to watch out and cover my face. Next thing I know he smashes the window with a hammer, shards of glass flying everywhere.

  “Hurry! Get in!”

  I climb in just as the Black Hawk’s door gunner opens fire on the bed of pillows and comforters.

  Sixty-One

  Nova hunches over the steering wheel, pressing his foot hard on the gas pedal. As I snap in my seat belt, I glance over and see the speedometer rising, going from ninety to ninety-five to one hundred. There are cars ahead of us and Nova starts swerving around them, the door gunner in the Black Hawk pausing in his gunfire so no civilians are harmed.

  “Atticus,” I say, “we’re not going to be able to shake this Black Hawk.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m thinking.”

  Nova says, “Well, fucking think faster.”

  We’re
on the Capital Beltway now, heading east toward Maryland. In another mile or so will be the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge. In another couple miles will be Andrews Air Force Base as well as more backup.

  Nova jerks the wheel hard, taking us around a tractor-trailer, and ahead of us there is a straight stretch of no traffic and after a moment more bullets rain down on us.

  Despite clipping in my seat belt seconds ago, I now undo it. I lower my window and lean out, bringing the M4 with me.

  Nova takes us from the far left lane to the far right, and I aim the rifle at Black Hawk, pull the trigger only three times, just a warning, a fruitless attempt because it only provides maybe a second or two of relief until the door gunner returns fire.

  We speed under an overpass, an exit flashing past us, Nova cursing and saying, “I should have taken that.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  He gives me an angry look, says, “I’m a little fucking busy right now, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Another straight stretch, another opening of no traffic, and the Black Hawk dips lower.

  Atticus says, “I’ve reviewed the upcoming highway exits and attempted to calculate a proper escape, or at least some way to ensure you more time.”

  “Yeah,” Nova says, “and?”

  “And I’m sorry to say right now it doesn’t look very good. Tell me, Nova, what kind of soldier are you?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “A simple one. Would you consider yourself selfish or selfless?”

  We’re out over the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge now, right above the Potomac, passing cars and trucks, Nova leaning on his horn to try to clear the way. The Black Hawk is still on our ass but the door gunner hasn’t fired at us in the past several seconds.

  “Well?” Atticus says.

  We swerve around another tractor-trailer and there is yet another open space ahead of us. The door gunner opens fire again, some of the bullets this time striking the top of the cab, whizzing down between us into the bench seat.