And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  With his right arm pulled up by the gun strap, the commando tried to grab at his side arm again with the other hand, but the attempt was awkward from such an angle. Then his survival instinct overrode his attempt to get the secondary firearm and he began trying to free his neck. His gloved hand clawed helplessly at the makeshift noose but finally his body went limp. Ethan let the man fall.

  He removed the commando’s thigh gun from it’s holster. It was too dark to check, but he trusted there was a round in the chamber, given the man’s apparent military training. He stuffed the gun behind his waistband at the small of his back and searched the man for some form of ID or other weapons.

  He heard the faintest sound of static in the quiet darkness and stilled, one hand on the man’s side pocket. What was that? He leaned forward and heard a voice coming from a receiver inside the man’s helmet.

  “Team check; who fired?”

  “Negative on Tinman.”

  “Negative on Priest”

  “This is Zodiac. Shot came from level four. Hex, do you copy?”

  There was a slight pause and another voice came through. “Hex do you copy? Shit, shit, shit! Hex must be down – proceed to fourth!”

  Ethan felt his chances for escape fluttering away. He called the elevator with a quick jab on the button, praying the decrepit machine wouldn’t die on him now. He flipped over his unconscious attacker and continued his search, finding two sets of handcuffs – although they were unlike any he’d ever seen. He snapped one around the man’s wrist and fastened it to the wall railing, then attached the second set around Hex’s booted ankle and secured its other end to the handle bar of the hallway door.

  The slow clank of the elevator was like sweet music to Ethan’s ears and he hurried to finish the task of binding the man. Then he straightened and pulled the handgun from behind his back, aiming it at the elevator as the door crawled open; it was clear. The doors began to move again and Ethan stepped his foot in the track, halting their progress. When they opened in response to the intrusion, he kicked over a nearby trash bin and rolled it between the sliding doors.

  Loud footfalls ascended and descended the stairs, and Ethan backed away from the sound. Then the hallway door began to swing open and Hex’s leg moved up and out in response to the pull on his ankle. The stretching of Hex’s extremities yanked him from his slumber.

  “He’s chained me to the damn door!” The man began struggling against his bonds and yelled out as his comrades continued to pull on their side of the handlebar.

  Ethan didn’t have time to bask in smug satisfaction at his resourcefulness. He was, after all, still stuck on the fourth floor. He looked down the corridor. His only escape route was through that window, so he sprinted for it. He passed his own room, knowing that everything he’d left on the table was forfeit. When he got to the window he returned the gun to his waistband and yanked on the lock. It relented, finally, and Ethan placed his palms against the frame to slide it up.

  Without warning, a crushing blow slammed into his chest and knocked him down, glass showering over him like a deadly hailstorm, cutting and nicking him in a dozen places. Before he could even open his eyes or comprehend what happened, a heavy form dropped onto his body. An unseen fist plowed two quick blows to Ethan’s jaw and he spent a few moments staring at explosions of painful light. When his eyes came rolling back to the front, he was face to face with Death.

  A member of the tactical unit stared down at him behind a green glow that emanated from ocular cavities in a black metal helmet. The helmet was nearly identical to the one worn by the commando Ethan had chained to the wall. But this one was different; sporting the shape of a skull. It was a great deal more menacing.

  “You’re coming with us, Mr. Tannor.” A rough no nonsense voice came from behind the mask. Then the man piped into his head set, “What’s your status, Priest?”

  Ethan couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but the casual way in which Death moved told him that quartering Hex hadn’t held the team up for too long. He tilted his head back, viewing the world upside down, and saw three other members of the squad swooping in from the elevator’s ceiling hatch.

  He thought about going for the gun at his waist, but now he was outnumbered four to one; he’d never been a math wiz, but even Ethan knew the odds of fighting his way out of this situation were nil.

  One of the men in full combat gear came closer, and despite Ethan’s distorted perspective from the upside down view, he could tell the guy was enormous. He felt his gut clench with the first tremor of real fear. Ethan turned his focus to the rest of the group down the corridor and saw them busy shouldering Hex onto his feet.

  “So this is the mark, huh?” Mr. Gigantic pointed the business end of his equally intimidating weapon at Ethan.

  Ethan recoiled on impulse beneath the front sights of the gun, but he wasn’t afforded much room for movement under the weight of the squad’s apparent leader.

  “Yes he is, Priest. This is our boy.” The Grim Reaper patted Ethan hard on the head then followed it up with front and back hand slaps across the face.

  Ethan winced as his already sore jaw took the second assault. Blood pooled in his mouth and he spit it at Death’s mask before even pausing to consider the ramifications. He was saved from instant reprisal when the door to room 403 burst open and a man’s face poked out.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Even in the dim light, Ethan could see the man’s expression change the instant it registered that he’d walked in on a nasty situation. His eyes bulged, and his mouth sagged open, then he began stammering. “You … you can’t be here – I’m calling the police!”

  Technically, Ethan was the police and he hadn’t faired so well. So he knew his buddies wouldn’t stand a chance. At any rate, by the time the boys in blue did show up, he and this team of elite soldiers would be long gone.

  The man ducked back inside his room and slammed the door shut. They heard the lock engage a moment later. Ethan almost laughed at the futility of the gesture. The team leader gave a nod to the bulky man named Priest, who turned, squared himself, and brought his enormous boot up to kick the frail looking door. The locking mechanism tore from the frame as the door caved in, crashing into the back of the poor occupant. Priest went inside, and the sound of fist meeting flesh came from the room. When the quick assault stopped, Ethan guessed the resident of 403 was now lying in an unwanted dream state.

  Priest’s goliath-like form rounded the entryway of the room. He yelled down the hall to his squad mates, “Worm, Tinman – grab all his shit from the room.” He jerked a thumb at Ethan.

  “Which room?” one of them yelled back.

  “Whichever one the tracker’s in,” Priest shouted. “Or just start kicking in all the damn doors!”

  The death-masked commander leveled his green-hued gaze at Ethan. “So, Mr. Tannor, are you going to come peacefully?” The muzzle of a weapon pressed against Ethan’s shoulder, bringing him back to his current predicament.

  “Who the hell are you? What do you want with me?” Ethan gasped through the pressure on his chest.

  “We don’t have time for twenty questions. Dope him, Priest.”

  The Sasquatch named Priest pulled a syringe from the side leg pouch of his pants with one hand, letting his other drop the gun; it dangled against his torso as he pulled off the needle’s plastic cap and tossed it aside. Ethan felt queasy just eyeing the wicked looking point. Or maybe it was the beating his jaw had taken.

  The syringe filled with God-knew-what was jammed into Ethan’s neck. He struggled against the burn of the stinging liquid as it seeped into his skin, but he knew it was fruitless. His vision began to blur and then the weight on his chest seemed to lessen as he felt his consciousness slip away along with everything else.

  26 Full Rubber Jacket

  April 24, 1986, 3:41 AM

  A team of police and forensic specialists milled about in the dim hallway, performing their tasks with routine precision and d
edicated determination.

  “This is turning into quite the week,” a young blood officer said.

  “Yep,” Art responded, his eyes not moving from the wreckage by the elevator.

  It was well after three in the morning, but Art didn’t feel tired despite the long day. His instincts had not let him down; Art had asked one of the night dispatchers to page him in the event something like this happened at a pay by the hour motel. When he’d heard the news of an assault squad abduction at a hotel similar to The Cozy Clam, Art knew with certainty it involved Ethan.

  He rubbed the scruff that had formed on his chin then ran a hand over his bristled mustache, sucking in his lower lip as he pondered the fate of his friend. He glanced over at the hotel manager – if you could call this piece of shit structure a hotel – who was standing nearby, also examining and assessing the damages. Art could almost see the elaborate insurance scam forming in the man’s head, if the look on his face was any indication.

  “Was this the renter from room 408?” Art handed a photo of Ethan to the dubious looking character whose name was Marty.

  Art could barely conceal his disgust at Marty’s disheveled, unclean appearance. The man’s gut stuck out under a dirty tee shirt that was sprinkled with remnants of mustard. At least Art hoped it was mustard. In a place like this one could never be sure.

  “Yeah, that’s the guy; said his name was ‘Cash’ – if you can believe that.” He winked at Art.

  “Anyone get a look at the group of men who stormed the place?”

  “Just the guy you already know about on the stretcher over there.” Marty indicated the incapacitated figure being hauled down the stairs by three EMTs.

  “Thanks for your time.” Art left the manager by the elevator and strode down the hall. He entered Ethan’s empty room and gave it another quick once over. The bathroom still held Ethan’s toiletries, but other than that the room was clean except for a few clothes on the dresser and a Gideon’s Bible. Art did notice something strange – the covers on the bed were missing. Why steal the bed sheets?

  He exited the room with that question still on his mind and walked down the hall toward the shattered window, the scattered remnants of which crunched like gravel under his shoes. Art stuck his head through the opening and grabbed the rope that dangled freely just outside, yanking on it to confirm that it was securely fastened somewhere on the rooftop. He envisioned a member of the squad rappelling down and crashing through the glass.

  Art pulled his head back inside and was granted another visit with the hotel’s skunky smell floating in the air. Ethan must have really felt desperate to stay at a place like this. The remnants of mayhem on floor four proved Ethan’s fears a reality.

  He glanced down at the cheap carpeting and saw something amongst the broken shards of glass. It was a piece of clear plastic that had almost blended in with its surroundings on the floor. Art squatted down to inspect the item closer; it looked like the protective sheath for a hypodermic needle. His eyes darted around, searching for other clues, but found nothing else. The introduction of a sedative to the equation meant Ethan had put up a fight.

  Good for you, brother.

  The sedative also meant something else: Ethan probably wasn’t dead. This revelation helped calm the burning in Art’s stomach. He said it to himself again – Ethan’s not dead. But another word floated to his mind – Yet.

  “Detective Hansen,” one of the officers called out. “I think you should see this.”

  Art rose, joints creaking as he stood and lumbered over to the young man in uniform. “Whatcha’ got?”

  “We found this embedded into the drywall by the elevator.” The man held up a set of large tweezers for Art’s inspection; between the prongs was a small rubber pellet.

  The officer gave him the tweezers for a better look. It was the same type of bullet found on the driveway after the assault on Tobias’s property, and it confirmed what Art already suspected. This was the same team. Art knew it wasn’t unheard of for squads to use rubber bullets – they were often deployed by riot control officers to settle an angry mob with non-lethal force. For an unknown paramilitary group to be operating with such precision and be armed with this type of fire power meant something huge was in motion.

  Art gave the tweezers back to the officer. “Bag and tag,” he said and walked back to the window, staring out at the pre-dawn skyline with distant eyes.

  Ethan … where are you?

  27 Six Degrees of Manipulation

  April 24, 1986, 3:58 AM

  Smelling salts brought Ethan back into the realm of the living. Have I been dead? He sure as hell felt like it.

  “Wake up, pumpkin,” an unmistakable voice said from across the room. Ethan had heard that voice before, when he was being crushed beneath its owner’s weight on the grimy floor of The Knotty Beaver. It sounded no less menacing.

  The world around him began to focus as he wiped the grit from his eyes and blinked up at an unfamiliar face. Ethan’s head felt like he’d gone two rounds with a steel pipe and lost. He eased up in the bed but it seemed unstable beneath him and he saw that it wasn’t really a bed, but a military cot.

  The voice spoke again. “Leave us, Worm,” it said, and the face that hovered over Ethan with the smelling salts pulled away. A moment later, he heard the sound of a door opening and closing.

  Ethan was now alone with the man who’d worn the skull-faced helmet. He glanced around, his vision still bleary. The room was small, almost like a prison cell. In the corner he saw the bed sheets and top cover from his most recent lodging; they’d been tossed down like Santa’s bag. In the middle of the pile he could see some of the papers he’d been working on and a few of his belongings. Ethan guessed his gun wasn’t among the list of items bundled in the material.

  “Drink this.” The Reaper shoved a cup of foul smelling brine against Ethan’s lips and its contents spilled down his throat. The pleasantries were over.

  Ethan coughed and sputtered, pushing away the offending vessel with his hands. When it was removed he took the moment of peace to wipe at his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He blinked to clear the remnants of fog from his vision and saw Death unmasked.

  The commando was still in his black uniform, but wasn’t wearing any tactical gear. He studied Ethan with detached calm, his gray eyes impassive but bearing a hint of lethality. Judging by the height of the doorway, this man was perhaps an inch taller than Ethan, with a body frame similar to his own. But the way the man’s combat suit hugged his skin revealed that his musculature was more developed. This was someone whose sole purpose in life was military training – and, from the looks of it, his livelihood. If the man’s actions at the hotel spoke anything, he was damn good at his job.

  “Where am I?” Ethan croaked and the effort to speak sent shockwaves through his pounding head. What the hell did they give me?

  “Manhattan.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Just get up. The boss wants to see you.”

  “You have a name other than Death?” Ethan said as he tried to swing his feet off the rickety cot. His legs were weak and non-cooperative, but with effort they did as they were instructed, and he brought himself to his feet. The blood rush from his head set off explosions in his brain and his balance faltered. He managed to catch himself with his hands against the concrete wall.

  The commando grinned down at Ethan. “It’ll pass.” He went to the door and said over his shoulder, “It’s Jackman. Follow me.”

  Follow he did, but more by sound than sight. They walked down a long corridor and then Jackman stopped at a door that resembled the last five they’d passed by. He held it open for Ethan to enter.

  The interior was a combination rec room and mess hall. Tables lined a wall to the left, and on the right, five men were busying themselves lifting weights and training on floor mats.

  A few of the men stopped what they were doing and stared at Ethan as he walked through the room. The distinctive be
hemoth of the group – Priest, if Ethan’s memory was correct – stood at least a foot and a half over the rest. The man’s shirt was stretched almost beyond its capacity to hold his muscles, veins clearly visible through the taut material of his clothing.

  Ethan’s eyes shifted and made out a shirtless figure holding himself up on parallel bars and taking tentative steps on an unsecure ankle. Two circular bruises were visible near the center of the man’s chest, the purple coloration outlined with yellow splotching. Ethan had seen bruises like that before – on a fellow officer whose life had been saved by Kevlar. Ethan guessed this had to be Hex and he wondered who’d delivered the shots to the man’s bulletproof armor. Then he remembered the shootout at Tobias’s estate. This was the commando that poor policeman had shot before being gunned down in return. Ethan glared at Hex, who returned the look with a cold stare of his own as he kept testing the threshold of his footing.

  Beyond the injured man was a wall of windows which were painted black. He couldn’t tell if it was day or night. Two large double doors stood at the end of the room, and Jackman increased his pace, edging past Ethan to open one of them.

  Darkness greeted him here. With his head still twirling and the pervasive ache circulating behind his eyes, Ethan could scarcely make out the silhouette of a man with his back to the doors. He stood erect, staring down upon the city through floor to ceiling windows. Twinkling lights from neighboring skyscrapers and an intermittent glow from the orange embers of a cigar reflected upon the glass surface, illuminating the man’s visage like a ghostly apparition.