Yesterday's Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  “We better do this fast,” I say.

  Felicity nods. “Malcolm take point. Suppressing fire. Clyde and I will flank out behind you. Arthur, can you use that sword?”

  “Erm,” I start.

  “He can’t.” Aiko apparently has no compunctions about eviscerating my pride.

  “What I thought,” Felicity says.

  Did no one else see me take out Punin? That was all me.

  “Arthur, you and Aiko take a defensive position inside the stairwell with Tabitha and Devon. Keep Kayla safe.”

  Another lightning bolt slams into the doorframe. Rubble flies. And I’m not about to turn down a job out of harm’s way. Aiko and I nod in unison. Devon is sobbing now.

  “We move in five.” Felicity holds up her hand, fingers extended. “Four.” One finger down. “Three.” Another. “Two. One. Go! Go! Go!”

  Malcolm charges forward, screaming, firing, the gun juddering and blasting in his hands. Felicity and Clyde follow hot on his heels. Felicity has her gun held out, Clyde his bare hand. The cavalry.

  I heave Kayla up. Aiko heaves Devon back as she makes a leap for the stairway opening. The world in front of us explodes in noise and light. Fire blossoms. Lightning crackles. Figures flit back and forth through space.

  We’re on top of the building’s roof. Malcolm brought the whole thing down—a jagged corrugated blanket over a thick layer of rubble. Our exit is a splintered hole punched through cross beams and metal sheeting by a small shaped charge.

  I don’t know where it is Malcolm shops, but something tells me it isn’t the local supermarket.

  Malcolm hunkers behind a large steel beam. He fires blindly across the Thames. His bullets chew up the riverbank. Felicity squats beside him, head bowed. Clyde has scrambled to the far side of the building. He takes cover behind a chunk of collapsed wall and spits out batteries from beneath his mask.

  Even the way he’s moved has changed.

  “Where’s Jasmine?” Aiko is lying flat on the stairs beside me, eyes peeking above the top riser, water lapping against her shoes, peering over the lip of the bottom step. “She was up here with Malcolm. Where’s she gone?”

  I scan left, right, trying to find her.

  “Oh shit. Oh no.”

  “What?” Aiko looks at me.

  I point. At the far edge of the collapsed building, on top of the remains of the roof, Jasmine lies flat, hands over her head as bullets whistle over her head. She’s totally exposed. No cover. And her leg… Below the knee of her jeans, her left leg is a bloody ruin. I can’t even see the foot.

  “Fuck!” Aiko brings her hand to her mouth.

  It feels like my heart has stopped. It’s only a matter of time before the Russians hit her. Or we do by accident.

  “Oh Jesus… Her leg.” Aiko seems overwhelmed.

  She’s only seventeen. She’s just a kid pulled into this horrendous fucking mess. And this was my plan. I put her here. I brought her here. Her goddamn parents probably only live a mile away. And I brought her to a firefight.

  “I’m going to go get her,” I say.

  Aiko looks at me. “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “I have to.” I don’t know how else to put it. This is a simple necessity. And I cannot live knowing I didn’t try to help here. I just can’t.

  “You keep your arse right here and hunker down like a sensible—”

  I don’t hear the rest. I’m busy running.

  SIXTY-NINE

  I make it about six yards. Something flares past me, grounds to my left. A massive shock runs up my leg, lifts me into the air like a rag doll. I somersault in the air. The world spins. I come down on my back.

  Corrugated aluminum does not a comfortable landing make.

  I roll over, groan. Blood dribbles from my mouth. I don’t know what I bit. Maybe everything.

  “Arthur, what are you—?” Felicity is yelling at my back. But I can see Jasmine. I have to get to Jasmine. I stagger up and forwards. I half hurdle, half dry hump another girder. I roll. Another blast of something or other. I’m bucked up into the air like a lightning-powered donkey kicked me in the gut. I fly with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

  That may be slander from the sack’s point of view.

  I’m out of cover now, an open stretch of metal between Jasmine and me. Even the walls have dropped away. Jasmine’s shouting something, waving at me, but my ears are ringing, and I can’t hear a word.

  I make it to my feet, stumble forward. A flash of white light to my side. A Russian appears. I spin. A fist comes at me, connects on my jaw, sends me sprawling backwards.

  Not this again.

  Another flash. A boot to my midriff, floors me properly this time.

  God, I hate teleporters.

  The air above my head is shredded by bullets. I turn, groggy. Felicity is emptying a clip into the air around me, buying me time.

  Goddamn she looks hot right now.

  I need to focus. Jasmine. I need to get to Jasmine.

  I roll, get to my knees. She’s just yards away.

  A flash of light. The Russian. Leo. His straw-blond mane wild. His face a picture of pure spite. He stands over Jasmine.

  I launch myself at him, as hard and as fast as my shaking legs will propel me.

  Lightning lances from a nearby wire, slams into Leo, through him, plunges down. Jasmine arcs her back, screaming. Her howl bubbles up out of frying lungs. I am in the air, caught in mid-air. Closer, closer, time a fraying piece of string. And I am going to kill—

  A flash of light. The Russian, Leo, disappears. Nothing. Thin air that I sail through. My hands clutching no throat, tearing at nothing.

  I slam onto the metal next to Jasmine.

  Next to Jasmine’s corpse.

  No.

  No. No, it can’t be. I shake my head, try to negate reality.

  She’s barely recognizable, blackened, twisted, caught in the final convulsions of agony.

  No.

  I pull the gun from its holster. And fuck these people. Fuck them all. Fuck my shitty shooting. Fuck water-soaked bullets. I am going to execute every last one of these motherfuckers.

  I pull the trigger. Nothing. I slide back the action on my pistol, watch the sodden round spill down. I fire again. Nothing. I eject that bullet. Again. Again. Damp rounds litter the air around me. Lightning sears the air. The wail of sirens rise. Again. Again. One bullet flies out of the gun. I see the dust it kicks up against the wall some of the Russians are crouching behind. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

  Fuck this gun. Fuck this shit. Fuck those fucking Russians.

  I wrestle the sword from its sheath. I remember the howl of agony on Joseph Punin’s face. I am looking forward to seeing that expression again.

  I stride forward, over the metal roof, over the mud, into the swirling, rising water of the Thames. And fuck cover. Fuck bullets. Fuck magic. I don’t care if they hit me, I am coming for them.

  She was just a child.

  Jesus, she was just… Jesus.

  The police sirens are a banshee howl now. A keening wail of grief given up by the world for Jasmine. I am fighting the current, fighting reality, fighting for vengeance.

  A policeman bellows, his message lost in my rage and the static from the bullhorn.

  A flash of light. Another. Another. The Russians retreating, driven back, and away.

  “No!” I scream at them. “No!” Stay and fight me, you fuckers. Stay and let me carve out your hearts.

  But they’re gone. The police are here. Men and women in black, armed-response uniforms—thick padded vests and faceless helmets. They level rifles at me.

  I stand in the river, and raise my hands, and I weep.

  SEVENTY

  Felicity takes care of it.

  She shows the police ID cards. She speaks to the people in charge. She calls their superiors, wrestles with jurisdiction, fights in pissing contests.

  To be honest I don’t really care.

  They have to pry Mal
colm off Jasmine’s body. He hangs onto her corpse, keening to himself. Tears streak his big face. They come to him quietly and he takes two policeman out, big fists plunging into guts and faces. It takes Aiko, struggling through her own tears, to let them move his arms away. He seems to have no strength for that.

  I feel hollow. I stand there, staring at the little black bag they’ve sealed her up in. It doesn’t seem right. Nothing seems right.

  We put the world back wrong.

  Or maybe the world has always been wrong. And maybe we just didn’t fix it when we had the chance.

  Maybe now is the chance.

  I try to seize hold of that, to turn grief to anger, to light the spark that drove me into the river, that led me shivering and shuddering to here, wrapped in a silver blanket.

  A shadow falls over me. I look up. Felicity.

  “How are you?” she says.

  Jesus. Felicity. I don’t… her and me… now, here, on top of this…?

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know.” I hear myself echo the phrase.

  “Were you right about everything?” she asks. I realize she’s serious, and if this were any other time I might smile at that.

  “Not everything,” I say. I’m still looking at that little black bag.

  “About the EMP? About the Chronometer?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m right about that.”

  “We have to stop them,” she says.

  “Now?” I don’t want to move. I don’t think I can move. The ember of rage is still trying to spark, but I’m too sodden with grief, the fight washed out of me and gone downriver towards the docklands and the English Channel.

  “It’s four p.m.,” she tells me. “Two hours left. And we have traffic to contend with.”

  “And we’ll find them?” I ask. I want to be sure.

  “Yes,” she says. “Once I get back to Vauxhall Cross, I’ll get clearance, redeploy the troops we have ready for the EMP blast. We’ll have those houses raided in under five minutes. Those Russian bastards won’t be able to teleport without landing in a field of lead.”

  I look over at Aiko and Malcolm, wrapped together, fused in grief. “What about them?”

  “Even if I wanted to, do you honestly think I could keep them out of this fight now?”

  It’s said with kindness, with heart. I look up at her. At a good woman.

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I was only ever trying to protect people, Arthur. I swear.”

  It’s not wholly true. She was trying to protect herself too. Trying to protect her job. But it’s not wholly untrue either. And this is an apology. Of sorts. And here, now, intimate with loss, I am willing to be the bigger man.

  “I know,” I say.

  She smiles at me then. Not the powerful woman in a suit, not the director of MI37, but Felicity Shaw, a woman I know, a woman I admire, that maybe I… I don’t know.

  “Come on,” she offers me a hand, “want to go see how big of a new arsehole we can rip in Coleman?”

  I take her hand, stand up, and from somewhere inside me, I even find a smile.

  85 Vauxhall Cross. 4:57 pm.

  We march into MI6 like a storm cloud. The police cars that delivered us sit outside, lights still revolving, painting the lobby in the colors of urgency.

  The security guard that fell for my Coleman disguise is on duty. He looks at the influx, blanches, and rushes forward.

  “Can I see—” he starts, but Felicity bats him away with her ID.

  “I am Division Director, Karl,” she says to him, “and you do not want to fuck with me today.”

  And in that moment… I am so totally going to try to get back together with her if I get the chance.

  The metal detectors squawk as we push through. Karl the security guard doesn’t.

  We march down the corridors. Felicity leads, Clyde close behind her, his long legs and swift body propelling him rapidly. I take third position, Tabitha next to me, Kayla behind, Malcolm and Aiko taking the rear.

  It was a quiet, tense ride over. It’s a quiet, tense walk. Tabitha is balling and unballing her fists. She talks a lot of smack, but she usually doesn’t let things get to her this way. She didn’t even know Jasmine.

  “You OK?” I ask her.

  She doesn’t say a word, but her eyes flick to Clyde.

  So not Jasmine then. “He’s…” I start, but I don’t know how to finish.

  “Worse,” she says. “Lot worse. Since you left. Not blaming you.”

  It doesn’t help me feel less guilty to hear that.

  “Withdrawn,” she says. “Always,” she hesitates, reaching for the word, then she taps the side of her head, “connected.”

  I look at his tall back, head held high, hair swishing under the two leather straps holding the mask in place. “Does he…” I struggle to put the concern into words. I’m not even sure I should. “He understands what’s going on, right? He’s still… connected,” I use her word, “to here, to now.”

  “Yes.” Tabitha nods, but her face twists. A foreign emotion invades her features. She looks helpless. “But distracted. Other stuff. Too much of it.” She shakes her head. “He never was any good at multi-tasking.” The fondness that breaks through into the last statement only seems to make things worse. She grimaces again, tries to fix the scowl back on her face.

  “Maybe,” I start, “after all this is over… it’ll be easier. He’ll have time to process everything.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Tabitha says, “reality won’t exist.”

  She always was a chipper girl, Tabitha.

  We round a corner and come into MI37’s section of the building. It has changed significantly since I was there last night. About fifty women and men have been crammed into the space. They huddle around laptops like hobos around trash can fires. If hobos wore the off-the-rack suits preferred by myself and others on a government salary.

  Coleman stands in the middle of the room barking at people.

  “Tell that fuck from Channel Four he can stick to the script or I will personally crucify him. On a real fucking cross.” He spins. “Where’s my bloody five-minute warning broadcast?” Spins again. “Why the fuck hasn’t the Prime Minister called back? The urgency here is not hard to fucking understand.” He spins again. He sees us.

  “You!” He points at Felicity. “I realize you have managed to bungle every damn operation leading up to this moment, and you can count your remaining days in this office on your pinky fucking finger, but I thought you might have the brain cells required to—”

  He stops mid-harangue. His eyes fix on me. “You.” His voice drips acid. He wheels back to the crowd of agents behind him. “Jennings, Smith,” he barks. “Arrest this blithering fuck. With extreme fucking prejudice.”

  Two agents stand and stare at our group. Apparently the description “blithering fuck,” isn’t enough to make me stand out from the group. I don’t know if that speaks to the poorness of Coleman’s descriptive powers or of the quality of company I keep.

  “No.” Felicity’s voice is razor sharp. “Sit down and pay attention.”

  Coleman doesn’t move a muscle, but the blood flows to his cheeks.

  “The EMP is over,” she says. “It’s done. It’s a broken plan. It endangers more than London, more than England, more than the Western world, more than the whole world. It’s over. Now you,” she points, “Jennings was it? I need—”

  “You shut your fucking trap, woman.” Coleman is the color of a beetroot.

  “No.” Felicity doesn’t even blink. She takes a step toward him. “Understand this: your plan is over, George.” She doesn’t raise her voice but everyone can hear her. “You’re over. You’ll be packing your bags. You backed the wrong horse. Arthur came through. He was right. He has the proof.” She points to a chair. “Now sit down, shut up, and be a good little boy while your career goes away.”

  Coleman visibly quakes with rage. I think he’s going to hit Felicity. I think if he does I might run him
through with this goddamn sword.

  Somehow, using some resolve I didn’t know he possessed, Coleman brings himself under control.

  “Arrest her,” Coleman barks. He doesn’t even bother naming agents to do his dirty work. “Arrest them all.”

  Behind me, I hear the slight noise of metal over metal. Kayla draws her sword.

  The mass of agents blanches.

  “You are relieved of duty, George.” Felicity is no less insistent. “You two,” she points at the two agents Coleman wanted to arrest me, “escort Co-Director Coleman out of here please.”

  “In your fucking seats,” Coleman barks, not that any of the agents look any keener to carry out Felicity’s order.

  Coleman and Felicity stand in the middle of the room staring at each other. It feels like a recreation of the experiment in which nuclear fission was discovered.

  A telephone on the desk behind Coleman shatters the silence. He seizes it so hard I’m surprised the receiver doesn’t crack in his grip.

  “Yes?” he hisses into the mouthpiece.

  Suddenly his whole demeanor changes. He stands up straighter, puts his shoulders back. He even sucks in his gut. “Yes, sir.”

  I exchange a look with Felicity. She looks as nervous as I feel. A happy, comfortable Coleman is not a good thing for us.

  “Ready to go, sir,” Coleman says. His smile is a broad, smug stain on his face. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Three bags bloody full, sir.

  He hangs up. He lets the silence drag out.

  Felicity, clearly sick of his shit, opens her mouth to speak.

  “Do you know who that was, Felicity?” Coleman cuts her off. He is prim with pride.

  “Escort him out of here. Now, please.” Felicity is still talking to the agents. One or two of them shift their weight. They’re the ones unable to see the expression on Coleman’s face.

  Coleman keeps on looking smug. “It was the Prime Minister, Felicity.” He rolls the title round his mouth like hard candy. “He just gave the final go-ahead on the EMP blast. Authority from the highest level.”

  And that is us pretty much screwed right there. The wind sags out of Felicity. She knew she was beaten, I think, she just didn’t know how badly.