by Jacob Hammes
“Maybe we can still get a jump on this guy,” Marcus speculated.
Chapter 29
John was almost done with the thirty minute drive to Stone Mountain, Georgia, where he planned on finishing out the remaining steps of his plan. The place was just east of Atlanta and home to thousands of tourists a year. Due to the time of the season and the increasingly bad weather, John suspected it would be a ghost town. The park never really shut down but the limited park rangers would give a Special Forces operative who had been working in the mountains of Afghanistan for the last part of his life little trouble.
As the park came closer, John started looking for frontage roads. It would be easiest to keep the vehicle hidden and hike in from one of the numerous logging or access roads that blazed their trails through the pine trees. The sound of the rain against the window told him that it was going to be a miserable hike in through the park. It would, however, provide him with all the cover he needed.
The park’s main attraction was the giant dome of granite that jutted out from a basin of green grass like some asteroid that had landed millions of years ago. If it were an asteroid, it had since been ground smooth by the elements. A cable system pulled a cart up to the summit, offering a commanding view above the trees of the city of Atlanta. One side of the mountain held a massive carving honoring the confederacy while the rest of the mountain, if not decorated with small amounts of graffiti, was sterile.
John did not care about the mountain itself, he was interested in its guts. Before the gold rush took everyone west, every single hill in the eastern United States had someone digging in it. Stone Mountain was no exception. Below its ludicrous carving and smooth exterior ran a warren of mines. Though John did not have a working knowledge of the place, he had visited one of the mine shaft openings when he was a child.
The opening overlooked the small flowing river to the east, though over the years the vegetation had most certainly blocked both the view of the river and that of the mine shaft. Fortunately John remembered exactly where the opening was. When he had been a young man he had fallen and gashed his cheek in the rough entrance of the cave. He remembered its entrance and then the steep decline beyond. It was a perfect place to finish this off.
Finally coming upon a suitable frontage road with a minimal amount of hiking, he parked the car as far into the foliage as he could. John shouldered his backpack, now stuffed with supplies, picked up the fifty pound sack of salt that he had purchased and struck out into the woods. Overhead, lightning split the clouds and thunder broke through the soft patter of rain. In John’s head, none of that mattered. In fact, he was singing a song to himself as he walked, oblivious to the proximity of the storm’s rage.
“I’ve got a quarter and you’ve got a dollar, let’s go see a movie…” he mumbled, not really hearing what he was saying.
“Let’s go see a movie.”
Chapter 30
Two hours passed and Marcus was getting tired of being at the house, unable to go out and just find the guy that they were searching for. Unfortunately, unless John acted out with one of the Relics in his possession he would be impossible to find. That one person had a Relic was not enough to trigger the sensors of a satellite fifteen thousand miles above the earth’s surface, which is why antique shops and museums were most often identified as possible weapons caches in the early stages of the Division. The fact that a murder triggered a big enough spike, in this case, to register was amazing enough. Marcus didn’t question how the seemingly impossible device operated, he was just glad it existed.
It was getting late and the rain was getting heavier. The team was becoming anxious and obviously needed some sort of relief from the monotony of the stakeout. They could do nothing but wait patiently for the financial records of Tiffany Flipske, hope that she showed up and hope for the best. If the team needed anything, it was hope.
The tenth time Marcus looked in the fridge made something inside of him crack. He had figured out just what the team needed.
“Who wants pizza?” he said, walking into the living room where everyone was watching sports recaps from the days that they had missed. Those not paying attention to the television were messing with their tablet computing devices. The universal response to Marcus’ question said everyone could go for a slice.
“I’m going to get us a few pizzas. Is pepperoni fine?”
“I don’t like pepperoni,” Bishop announced. “It’s bad for the pores.”
“Pepperoni it is,” Marcus said in response. “Who has cash?”
The team looked at one another briefly, wondering who was going to be the first one to fork out their hard earned money. Always the gentleman, Bishop stood and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.
“I’ve got money, don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’ll be my treat, since you’re buying us all drinks when this is over.”
“I can agree to that,” Marcus answered, patting his friend on the shoulder.
It was a quick twenty minutes before the pizza arrived. The police officer outside was switching out with someone new when the pizza delivery kid rolled up behind the black government SUV taking up the entire driveway. The new cop, a burly man with red hair sticking out from beneath his patrol cap, seemed happy enough to be there. It would probably be an easy job for the guy on duty, sitting outside of someone’s house reading a book until something went down.
Marcus was happy for the extra support from the local law enforcement.
Bishop jumped to his feet when he heard the delivery boy knock at the door. The poor teenager looked like a drowned rat in the relentless onslaught of rain. Somewhere far off, lightning was flashing in the growing dusk and this poor guy was stuck with what had to be the worst job in the world at that particular moment.
“Forty dollars and thirty cents,” the kid said, pulling the pizzas from inside the insulated sleeve. Bishop scoffed at the amount and said something about how pizza used to be cheap before paying the kid and taking the pizza back to the kitchen. The smell made everyone’s mouth water.
Like clockwork, as Marcus shoved the first piece of pizza into his mouth the radio buzzed to life. It was Phillip on the other end.
“Hey boss,” he said, sounding a little too proud of something. “I got your records. It looks like Tiffany checked into a hotel this morning a few hours after she got off the plane. She is staying just down the street in the Atlanta Marriot. We finally got a break!”
“Great,” Marcus said. “Henry, how close are you?”
“We just sat down for dinner, but we will head out straight away. We should be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Sounds great,” Marcus responded. “Good work, Philip. We will meet you two at the communications suite in half an hour. Get Tiffany and get out, Henry. There’s a big possibility that if we know where she is, so does John.”
“Sounds good, boss, See you soon,” Henry said. It was finally starting to come together. With the sister in custody, the possibility of John finishing his maniacal plan would be nil.
Marcus grinned. If he could keep the sister in a safe place, he may be able to lure John into a trap and take him down safely.
That was when everything started going wrong.
“Who’s coming with me?” Marcus said. It stopped everyone in their tracks. They had all expected to go. “We can’t all leave. What if John shows up here looking for dear old sister? We could just grab him and this entire thing could be finished.”
“I’ll stay,” Cynthia volunteered. “I’m sick of this rat race anyway. Have fun, Marcus, I’ll eat all your pizza.”
“Yeah, me too,” David said. “If I have to hang out around one more Relic this week, I think I might actually puke.”
“The team is back in action, baby!” Marcus said, giving Bishop a high five. “Let me use the restroom and we’ll head out, Bishop. Tell the suit in the car, will you?”
“Can do,” he said. Bishop grabbed another piece of pizza and headed for the door so he c
ould warn the DOD agent. The rain could not stop what he was feeling inside. It was about time they got to work and Bishop was pumped. He wanted nothing more than to get the madman behind their stressful week.
The door bumped shut behind Bishop, effectively cutting off the majority of the sound of pounding rain as it pummeled the driveway. No one noticed the sudden burst of static as he left. They had all been too preoccupied with filling their empty stomachs with wonderful, gooey pizza. It was only after Cynthia had finished dishing herself up a piece that she noticed the reception on the television had gone bad. The high definition channel was nothing but snow.
“Good choice,” Cynthia said, smacking the side of the television. “I choose to stay behind and I don’t even get cable.”
A soft hum, barely audible over the static and distant rumble of thunder, came from the speakers near the television. Cynthia turned an ear toward them, straining to hear what was coming through.
“I don’t feel very good,” David announced at the same time. “I think I ate a bad slice.”
Cynthia shushed him and moved closer to the television. Her suspicious behavior put everyone else on alert. Something was amiss and as if they were acting on a singular conscience, everyone felt it simultaneously.
“I swear I’ve heard this before,” she said as she inched toward the television. “It sounds like music and I swear I’ve heard it.”
“I think I’m going to puke,” David said, making his own way into the kitchen and readying himself over one of the double sinks.
It struck her just as the familiar clack of a pistol rang out from somewhere beyond the house. She remembered that music from the cave in Afghanistan. In between blinks, trying hard to tear herself from the sound to see what had happened outside, she saw herself back in that cave. The snow turned to shapes on the television and suddenly thousands of faces were staring at her. They were beckoning her to touch the screen. Each of them was tortured, sorrowful. She swore that she was looking into hell yet she could not turn away.
The lights were flickering and a second shot rang out from outside. Marcus tore out through the bathroom door, still buttoning himself up. He was shouting something at Cynthia but she could not hear him. All she heard was the music. All she could see were those faces.
“Get a hold of yourself,” Marcus said, shaking her violently. She blinked again, forcing her eyes to focus, and the faces were gone. David was gagging uncontrollably in the kitchen, unable to do much but hunch over the sink, the television was playing creepy music from before World War II and there were shots fired outside. Something was terribly awry and whatever it was, it was coming down on them like the rain itself.
“Get it together,” Marcus whispered forcefully. He had his own pistol out and ready, pointed toward the entrance to the house. The music was still playing as he tried to help her get a grip.
“Did Bishop come back in?” he asked. She could see that there was a little too much worry in his eyes.
A cold chill ran down her spine.
Henry was just getting the check from the waitress when the radio he was keeping by his hash and eggs started crackling. It sounded like someone was there but he couldn’t quite make out any voices over the static. Like someone had been crackling a candy wrapper over the open air, the noise was more annoying than anything. There must have been some pretty nasty weather to cause that sort of disturbance.
“Anyone there?” he questioned into the hand microphone. No one responded. “Hey, Phillip. Marcus. Anyone there?”
Again the only answer he received was silence.
“Looks like comms are down,” he told Stephen. The big black man hissed a sigh of disapproval as he stood up.
“Yeah, well my girl will soon have that problem remedied, trust me,” he said.
“When did you two start dating, anyway?” Henry asked. “You kept it quiet for quite a while. I must admit it was a surprise to see you two so close in Afghanistan. I guess the threat of death will do that to someone, though.”
“We started a few weeks back,” Stephen said. “I’ve always had a crush on her and she asked me to go have a drink with her one night. I figured it was casual but I wasn’t about to turn that down. Ever since then, we’ve been pretty close.”
“Could have fooled me,” Henry answered. “In fact, you did fool me. I think you had Marcus going, too.”
“Yeah, well he’s pretty business oriented and we didn’t want to rub him the wrong way. He is our boss, after all.”
“Please, you think he’s got more sway than I do? Look at me—better looking, far more intelligent, and superiorly aged.”
“Regardless,” Stephen hesitated. “I think I really like her. I didn’t want it floating around the company that I have the hots for someone I work with, especially Brenda. I mean, look at me. I’m tall, black, speak in a horrible accent and I’ve got one of the best looking full-blooded American women in existence. What would people think of me?”
“That you’re good in bed.”
“Great in bed, actually. And I couldn’t have that rumor floating around the division.”
The rain was so heavy the two got soaked just running from the restaurant to the vehicle they had parked curbside. Lightning ripped through the cloud covered sky and the thunder that echoed between the buildings shook the glass as it galloped past. They were happy the government had met them with a small SUV and not a sports car. Apparently their intuition was better than Stephen’s. He would have sprung for the Maserati had it been available.
The radio was still crackling as Henry blasted the heater and drove off into the rain. Even in the downpour, Henry was sure he could make it to the hotel in less than fifteen minutes. If they could get the radio working by then it would make the whole operation that much easier. Stephen was on the phone with Brenda working on the problem, but with all of his flirting Henry doubted they would make it any better
Suddenly, his face got very serious. The smile that creased his lips went rigid and formed a tight line from one side of his strong jaw to the other. Something was wrong.
A few second later Stephen turned to Henry and made a solemn statement.
“Something has happened.”
Bishop did not think to check the credibility of the new policeman parked outside the house as he strode through the rain to ask the suit whether or not he would be accompanying them on the way to pick up Tiffany. It did not strike him as strange that the man would be standing in the rain at the beginning of a long shift; many men liked the rain and he was covered from head to foot in a bright yellow, police poncho. What made the situation worse was that Bishop had no rain cover. Ten feet without cover and he was drenched to the bone.
The man in the vehicle saw him coming and rolled the window down halfway. He didn’t like the rain as much as the policeman, obviously.
It was a bad idea to bring the pizza. It was already drooping and soggy.
“We just got word that Tiffany is staying at a local hotel,” he announced. “She is in the Marriot. It’s not even a mile from the Four Seasons. Marcus and I are headed out to help recover Tiffany and get her to the Four Seasons. Did you want to go with us or stay here in case her crazy brother shows up?”
“I think I had better go with you,” the man in the suit said. “Besides, you’re not going to be taking her into custody. The Department of Defense is.”
“Okay, well we are going to leave in a few minutes. I just thought I’d give you a heads up.”
Suddenly, Bishops left ear exploded in pain at exactly the same time the window in front of him shattered into a hailstorm of glass shards. His body reacted before his mind could and he nearly dropped to the ground out of fear and confusion. He fumbled for his gun at the same time wondering whether or not he had been struck by lightning.
Bishop wheeled around and fell with his back against the car door, still trying to get the pistol out of its holster. Before him stood a wall of yellow—it was the police officer in his ridiculously bri
ght poncho. At first, Bishop wondered how he had gotten to the car so quickly but as he looked up he realized the man was holding his pistol at arm’s length, its steaming barrel pointing through the window of the car.
Blood was leaking down out of the shattered window and Bishop could see the top of the suit’s ruined head.
“What the fuck!” Bishop screamed at the policeman. He looked like he was crying. He was crying, though whatever tears were falling were quickly taken away by the barrage of rain smattering against his face.
“I can’t stop,” the policeman said. “He is making me do it.”
“Who,” Bishop tried not to scream at the man in blind rage. Confusion made him stop in his tracks. What the hell was the policeman talking about?
“I can’t stop it!” Officer Daniel O’Brian screamed. His lips were peeled back against his gums in rage—thick, slobbering, shaking rage.
Daniel lowered his pistol and in one quick motion pulled the trigger. Once again reactions took the place of rational thought. Bishop had no time and couldn’t think of anything to do but to instinctively cover his face with outstretched arms. He hardly made a sound before the blast of another round shot through the air like the bark of thunder in the distance.
The bullet went through both of his hands before it entered his skull and blew out the back.
His hands fell to the ground spilling blood into the puddles the rain had created.
The policeman could not control his body. He fought the trigger squeeze with everything in his soul, every ounce of strength. It didn’t help that he had just killed two innocent men and now his autonomous body was turning toward the house of people he was supposed to be protecting. If only he could turn the pistol on himself he would do so. Nothing was working properly.
“Jesus,” he screamed as he walked. It came out as a bloodcurdling, gnarled cry from a man whose very soul was in pain. “Stop it! Stop it! Someone kill me.”