“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” he asks. “Type my way out of this mess?”
Voices coming from downstairs in the living room and the kitchen. Loud, manly, angry voices. Everest military police voices.
“It’s made of metal,” I say, urgency in my voice. “It’s the best I can do.”
He gives the heavy metal machine a look, nods. Positioning the machine’s corner near the first bolt, he proceeds to slam away at it. Footsteps, heavy and lug-soled, on the staircase leading up to the bungalow’s second floor.
“Hurry, Tony,” I say. “They’re coming up the stairs.”
“Going as fast as I can,” he stresses, his voice coming at me through grinding teeth.
He’s using the typewriter like a hammer head, pounding the first bolt to loosen it up.
“It’s working,” he says. Then, holding out the typewriter. “Grab this.”
I take hold of it while he uses his fingers to loosen the first bolt entirely. When it comes free, he tosses it to the floor.
“Three to go,” he says.
I hand him back the typewriter, and he goes to work on the second bolt.
“Check the bedrooms and the bath!” a man barks from out in the hallway directly below us. “No way they escaped the house. Check the closets. And be careful. They are armed and dangerous.”
Armed and dangerous . . . How is that even possible?
But then I recall the drone we blew out of the air and I realize, he’s right. We are armed and dangerous, even if our one single piece of useable weaponry is currently stored in the Jeep.
“Bolt number two is a go,” Tony says.
Again, he hands me the typewriter while he loosens the bolt with his index finger and thumb. When it’s free he tosses it to the floor, then takes the typewriter back. He starts pounding against bolt number three.
“There’s no one up here, Captain Tyrel!” barks one of the Everest Police. “We’ve checked everywhere.”
Captain Tyrel . . .
“Sounds like our man Matt is really a cop, Tony,” I whisper. “Military police.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” he replies, voice straining while he works at loosening the third bolt. “Everest police and military personnel are one and the same.”
“Captain,” the same policeman says, “what do you make of this stick?”
“Shit, Tony,” I say. “They must have found the stick that pulls down the attic door. You’ve gotta work faster.”
“Going as fast as I can, Tan,” he says. “Take this.”
Handing me the typewriter. He uses his fingers to unscrew bolt number three. My ears prick up when I hear the hook on the stick being connected to the attic panel door. My entire bloodstream runs cold when I make out the sound of the attic overhead door being opened, and the spring-loaded ladder unfolding.
“Tanya Teal and Anthony Smart,” barks the voice of Captain Matt Tyrel. “We know you’re up there. Drop your weapons and get down on your bellies. Do it now or we will fire on you!”
Handing Tony the typewriter back, he starts pounding on the fourth and final bolt. That’s when something horrible happens. The butterfly wing on the final bolt snaps off.
“Shit!” Tony utters in a screaming whisper. “It’s busted.”
Booted footsteps ascending the ladder. Panic sets in.
“What do we do, Tony?”
He starts pulling on the now loose panel. He’s bending it back toward him.
“Toss that typewriter down on them,” he says. “Bust their fucking heads. Do it now.”
Making my way quickly to the opening in the floor, I gaze down at a policeman climbing the wood fold-out ladder. He’s dressed in black and has an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. I take aim and toss the typewriter down on his head. It hits him square on the skull cap. He drops like a sack of rags and bones. Turning, I make my way back to Tony. He’s got the thin metal panel bent all the way back, and he’s climbing up and out the opening.
“Come on, Tan,” he insists, now lying down on his belly on the angled roof while extending his free hand to me through the opening. “Let’s move. No time left.”
“You, Tanya Teal, stop right there!”
It’s Tyrel. I see him out the corner of my eye. He’s got a gun in his hand. He fires, the round nailing the wall only an inch or less from my head. I grab hold of Tony’s hand. Grab it tighter than tight. He uses all his weightlifter’s strength to pull me up and out through the opening onto the roof. He shifts himself to his feet, moves toward the front of the house. I follow.
The street is filled with Everest cops dressed in black. Matching black police cruisers are parked in the street at all different angles, their rooftop flashers lit up. The whole street has been blocked off and shut down.
“Jeep start up!” Tony shouts.
I see the Jeep’s headlights go on. The engine comes roaring to life. Thank God for voice recognition. I see some of the cops gazing up at the rooftop. They’re onto us. Then, emerging from out of the opening in the roof, Tyrel’s head. Quickly, I go to the opening, raise up my right foot and bring it down on his head. He drops back down inside.
“You bitch!” he screams. “Escape is impossible. You’re trapped. Give up now, Tanya, before we shoot to kill!”
You already did shoot to kill . . .
“Tony,” I bark, “the tree, over there.”
Without asking for an explanation, he follows me around the back of the roof to an old oak that’s taller than the house. It’s also got heavy branches we can use as a ladder.
“Follow me,” I say.
Together, we began climbing down the tree along the side of the house. No police seem to be patrolling this portion of the home, so we’re able to make it to the ground without being spotted. But that doesn’t mean the cops don’t know what we’re doing.
“We’ve got to get to the Jeep,” Tony insists, as we inch our way to the front corner of the bungalow directly below the front porch. “And I think I know how we’re gonna do it.”
He takes another step forward, then sticks out his right foot. One of the cops patrolling the front lawn drops onto his face. Tony quickly snatches up the Everest policeman’s automatic rifle, presses the barrel against his now grass-stained head.
“Don’t move,” he says. Then, holding out his free hand for me. “Tanya, let’s move.”
While Tony aims the rifle barrel at the many cops, he begins leading me to the now idling Jeep. Out the corner of my eye, I see one of the cops raise up his rifle. But Tony gets a shot off at him. The bullet misses, and the cop returns the fire, nailing a big oak growing out of the sidewalk.
“Hold your fire!” barks a booming voice from the rooftop.
It’s Tyrel. He’s standing four-square on the roof of my childhood home. Like the others he’s dressed all in black, with a black tactical vest protecting his chest, and his pants tucked into his black combat boots. He’s wearing a utility belt that’s got a holstered pistol stored on it, along with a whole bunch of other weaponry and communications equipment that would be instantly recognizable to my former thriller and mystery series authors. With his tight face and eyes hidden behind the dark wrap-around sunglasses, he looks a lot like a bad guy character they’d invent.
Keeping the rifle pointed at the cops, Tony opens the Jeep driver’s side door for me.
“Scooch on in, Tan,” he says, urgency in his tone.
I hop in, climbing over the center console. He gets in behind me and immediately opens the glove box. He hands me the rifle.
“What the hell do I do with this?”
“It’s already locked and loaded,” he says. “Anybody points a gun at you, shoot them.”
He slides back the pistol housing, cocking a fresh round in the chamber. He waves the piece at the cops as he pulls away from the curb, his right foot slamming down on the gas pedal.
“Hang on, Tan,” he says, while the wheels screech and scream as they spin out on the macad
am.
When the tires catch, we speed down the center of the road toward a squad of cops who have no choice but to jump out of the way or else become fresh roadkill. We make it to the corner. Tony slams on the brakes. If I’m not holding onto the roll bar, I’m liable to go through the window.
“Which way?” he begs.
“Go left,” I say. “That way we can hit the east-bound highway that will take us to the Northway.”
He hits the gas again and make a sharp right, the Jeep back end fishtailing. We speed along the neighborhood street, blowing through the stop signs and even a red traffic light. When we come to the road that separates my neighborhood from the state employee’s campus, I tell Tony to go right and then follow the signs for the highway.
“I know where I am,” he insists.
He goes right, drives for maybe three-hundred yards, until a blue sign indicating State Route 90 comes into view. He hooks another left and navigates the on-ramp for the east/west highway. I’m just beginning to feel like we’re home free when we spot the first tank.
The tanks are black. They bear the Everest logo on both their side panels. It’s printed in stark white so you can’t miss it. Corporate ID is everything to these people, even when they’re trying to terminate you. The company whose vision was originally to be the most customer-centric, stress free online shopping experience ever invented, now owns military tanks. There’s only one reason to own tanks and that’s to wage war. To kill.
“Are they kidding?” Tony says, hitting the brakes. “Fucking tanks?”
“My God,” I say, my stomach once more cramping up, my skin turning cold. “They knew we were coming.”
No other vehicles are traveling the highway. It’s like they anticipated our every move and put up roadblocks for everyone but us. The tank on the left starts motoring toward us, its cannon aimed directly for the Jeep’s front grill. The second tank follows, its cannon also aimed point-blank.
“We’d better do something soon, Tony,” I say, gazing over both shoulders, searching for a way out of this. “Or we’re not going to live to see the next minute.”
“I’m doing something,” he says, a little under his breath. “I’m gonna get us the hell out of here.” Then, both his hands gripping his semi-automatic, he says, “Auto Jeep drive. Reverse on my command.”
Following his lead, I grip the automatic rifle with both hands.
“When I give the signal, Tan,” Tony says, “start firing on the tank on your right. I’ll do the same with the one on my left.”
“Bullets against tanks?” I ask, feeling the despair fill my veins. “Might as well use spitballs.”
“Got any better ideas? At the very least, the small arms fire will distract them.”
“One only hopes.”
“Auto Jeep control,” he says, “reverse now.”
The Jeep automatically begins to reverse.
“Shoot, Tan!” Tony barks. “Let them have it.”
Holding the rifle out the open passenger side window, I finger the trigger and unload on the tank. The bullets ricochet and spark against the tank’s armor. Tony fires round after round at the tank on his left, the bullets also bouncing off its heavy metal front.
“Faster auto reverse. Faster.”
The tanks approach us. They’re going faster than I ever thought a tank could travel.
“Keep firing, Tan,” Tony insists.
He sits back down in the driver’s seat and places the barrel of the pistol into the console cup holder.
“Auto drive,” he says, “go to manual drive on my command. Wait for it . . .”
A flash from the cannon on the right. The road before us explodes. The blast cracks the windshield while broken blacktop, concrete, and gravel rain down on us. I hardly realize I’m screaming since my ears are ringing so badly.
“Go manual! Now!” Tony shouts.
That’s when he turns the wheel sharply, the Jeep making a complete one-eighty so that we now face away from the tanks. Another round fired. It explodes only a couple of feet away from our back end. Tony guns the engine and speeds away from the tanks as fast as the Jeep engine will allow. Glancing at him, I can make out the slight smile on his face. Our lives might be in danger . . . No, make our lives might be in mortal danger by a huge corporation that is now a militant corporation, and there’s a part of him that’s enjoying himself. Enjoying the challenge of beating these bastards at their own game. Or perhaps he feels like he’s caught up in one of his thriller novels.
We’re about to hit the on-ramp for the Highway 90 going the opposite direction when a third tank shell blows us out of the road.
I end up on the grass outside the long row of office buildings. Tony is still lying in the road, stunned. We’ve been blown out of the Jeep, which I guess is a better situation than having been blown up inside the Jeep.
Tony sits up slowly, painfully. He’s clearly stunned.
“Go!” he shouts. “Run for the office buildings. Get to the roof. They can’t get you up there, Tanya. Go! Go! I’ll be right behind you.”
“I won’t leave you!” I scream. “Now that I’ve found you again, I can’t leave you!”
Up above, helicopters circling us. On the ground, the police give chase on foot and on 4X4s.
“No time, Tanya,” Tony insists. “Just go. Head for the towers. I’ll be right on your heels.”
As much as I don’t want to do it, I turn, and sprint across the green to the first of the five New York State office buildings. I recall my dad telling me the buildings were constructed close together so that the different departments could enjoy easy access from building to building via glass tunnels every few floors. At the time, it was considered an architectural marvel for the city, or so my dad insisted many times before. Maybe if I can get up on the roof without the police spotting me, they will go away. I can only hope that Tony is true to his word and he is able to catch up with me.
Coming to the door on the first building, the Department of Taxation and Finance, I open it, head into the vestibule. I spot a portly man wearing a green jumpsuit. He’s running a cordless buffing machine over the stone floor.
He turns to me.
“You can’t be in here, miss,” he says.
Think quick, Tan . . .
“I work here,” I say. “I need something from inside my office. Just be a minute.”
He nods. Why would he have any reason not to believe me? Before he has time to object, I head to the elevators, punch the going up button.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” I whisper frantically to myself.
The elevator arrives and the doors open. I step inside and punch the button for the top 25th floor. The doors close and the elevator rises. For a second or two, I see my face reflected in the stainless-steel paneled doors. I’m staring at someone I do not recognize. This is not the brave Scout that my dad bestowed upon me when I was a little girl. This is a frightened out of her skull woman who only days ago was a mild-mannered editor living and working in New York City. Now, I am running for my life.
Where the hell is Tony?
Arriving at the top floor, the elevator stops. The doors open. Before I get out, I press the Stop command, disabling the lift. There’s three other elevators, but what the hell. I get out and make a quick search for an emergency stairwell. I find it not far down the brightly lit corridor. I sprint for the stairwell, throw open the door and ascend the concrete and steel stairs two at a time until I get to the top. The door is armed with an emergency panel-style opener that’s painted with bright red and yellow vertical stripes. What that means is when I push it forward, an alarm will sound.
“What the hell choice do I have?” I whisper to myself.
I thrust the door open. The alarm sounds and I step out onto the roof. Choppers circle overhead like black birds of prey. They must know by now that I’ve sought out the campus office buildings. I go to the roof’s parapet edge, look down. Squads of black, riot gear clad Everest police are entering the building
’s ground floor. That means it’s only a matter of minutes until they are up onto the roof. No choice but to leap my way to the next building.
They don’t think you have the guts . . .
Making my way to parapet that parallels the building directly beside it, I measure the distance that separates the two. It’s about ten feet. I’m in pretty decent shape. I run and workout at the gym on a daily basis. Plus, I work on my self-defense three days per week. A jump of ten feet is not impossible, but it won’t be easy.
“Stop where you are,” comes an amplified voice from one of the choppers. “This is Primary Termination! Stop or you will be fired on!”
If I don’t do something now, they will shoot me, maybe with a tranquilizer dart, or maybe with a real bullet. Either way, my life is over. Taking a few steps back, I brace myself for the all-out sprint toward the parapet.
“Three, two, one,” I whisper.
I run and leap off the parapet. I land on the rooftop of the second building, with three feet or more to spare, my brown dress creeping up on me all the way to my breasts. The choppers follow, shouting at me to stop where I am. Standing, I pull down my dress and gaze over my shoulder. I see that the Everest police are now on the roof of the first office building. There’s no going back even if I wanted to. The only option is to keep moving forward. But once I run out of rooftop space, I’m shit out of luck. That is, unless somehow Tony can make his way up here and fend off the police. It’s my only hope.
I set my sights on the third building and I sprint for the parapet’s edge. I land hard, rolling rapidly on my side. Then I sprint and leap my way to the fourth building and finally the fifth. Another look over my shoulder. Dozens of them coming for me. They are able to bound the spaces between the buildings with ease, landing on their combat booted feet the entire time. As for me, I’m sucking wind. Drowning in my own air. Maybe I’m not in quite the shape I thought I was.
“Stop right where you are!” bellows a booming voice over one of the helicopter loudspeakers. “Don’t move or you will be shot!”
My lungs are burning from strain, muscles aching, heart pounding in my throat, sweat soaking my entire body. I make my way to the parapet and climb up onto it. Nothing but open air between me and the solid ground 25 stories below.
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