by T. K. Toppin
I looked from Max to John, horrified. John was livid, but stayed still. I understood, then. The manacles binding his hands were explosive.
“Is this all because I chose your father?” I blurted.
Max stared at me, red mottling his face. He didn’t reply.
“Answer me! I deserve to know why, at least, before you kill me.”
“Josie!” John hissed.
“That was only part of it,” Max spat. “Don’t think yourself that special.” He paced around until he had the desk between us. “I’ve been planning this since I was ten years old!”
Max, still pacing, continued. “Ever since that foolish bitch came to our house. Grandmother. The famous Terry Wellesley, megastar returned from the dead. I loathed that woman, her weak nature. How she’d rather hide away in a pod than face the real world. And my father, weakened by her! I vowed from the day she came back to fix things. To fight back against all of you.” He glared at John. “Show you that people don’t like living under your rule. That we have minds of our own and wants of our own, not the ideas of some totalitarian government.” Max flushed with rage, his face grotesque and aged from emotion. It was hard to remember he was still a very young man.
“And then that idiot father of mine. What was he doing? What stupid game was he playing at? Tickling the sides of the government with silly pranks and mind games, for what? To be heard? He wouldn’t listen to a word I said. I told him he needed to act with force. He told me I was a silly boy and to go back and play with my computers. Biggest mistake he ever made! Oh, I played, all right. I made my own friends, my own circle—my army! I had special friends, people I trusted. I didn’t need anyone else. I was a multi-billionaire before I was thirteen. Everything was working out as planned. And my stupid father didn’t have a clue! Who do you think placed him where he was? Brought in his so-called team of specialists? Me! I hired Michael Ho to be my face. I tried and tried to get my father to see the light, but that stupid woman kept holding him back! So I pushed her.” Max snorted with a laugh. “What? Surprised I could kill? Oh, I’d killed long before then!”
I clenched tight with horror. All those days and weeks spent with Max. How could I not have suspected—sensed it? “You killed your own grandmother?”
“She needed to die!” Max yelled; spittle flew from his mouth. Something like insanity peeked through his controlled façade. “She should have died years ago. Like you! I thought you were different. At first, I thought maybe you were just like her. But you were older. You went in long before the world changed. You were different. You—your father—you were the beginning, the creators of stasis…you had no idea what would happen after. I thought you and I were meant to be together—a team. That I could mold you, shape you. You would be the torch, a flame, the symbol of better times. But you went running straight to my father, weak and pathetic like everyone else. Always choosing the easy path instead of forging a new one. The only strong person was my mother. She was afraid of nothing!”
“London,” John paced his words with care. “You set her up there?”
Max flashed a disgusted scowl at John. “I wish I could take credit for that. But no, that was just a stroke of luck. Oh, the bombing was on schedule, I just didn’t plan on having her there. But it was perfect. And it gave me an idea. An inspiration. And it was time anyway. Time to move forward. You could still be a flame. A dead one, which has more power than a live one.”
Max picked up a few items on the desk and stuffed them in his pockets. Holding the little metallic square before him, he pointed to John. “Time to go, now. Your farewell speech awaits you.”
We filed out to the door; John led with reluctance, me in the middle.
“Oh, by the way.” Max sniggered, still very much the young boy. “Did you know I had your father killed?”
John froze. Deliberately, he turned to stare at Max. “So, he was poisoned.” He nodded calmly. “I did wonder.” He then turned and walked on.
Chapter 55
We went topside and into a large, empty room beyond the cabinet offices. It appeared to be an old meeting room, the furnishings having been removed long since. Faint traces of dust and mold seasoned the air and tickled my nose.
Through a wide window, we were offered an impressive vista of the Citadel and, despite the on-going siege, everything looked relatively calm and peaceful. Occasional flashes of light and tendrils of smoke curled over rooftops to indicate where fighting was going on. Aircraft sliced through the air above, circling like predatory hawks. Despite it all, the winter sky was a brilliant blue.
John was placed before a mounted camera, his back to the window. A small holographic teleprompter of sorts projected his scripted speech before him. Max had two other men with him, the blond Grieger and a thick-necked man who didn’t speak, but held a large gun on John.
Complete despair consumed me. We were trapped for sure with no hope of escape. I knew with certainty that after John made the speech, we’d be executed. Fighting back, or even trying to take back control, was pointless. And Max, so warped in his fanatical designs to rule the world, had become exactly like the people he so desperately wanted to destroy. Worse.
“Five minutes,” Grieger announced, as he fiddled with the controls to the camera.
Grieger’s earlier bravado seemed somewhat subdued. He kept casting me evil looks, but would glance nervously at Max. Reverently. The sight sickened me. Max, to me, was still very much the young man I’d spent my days and weeks in the gardens with, talking and laughing, learning things, recovering. It was difficult to see him as he was now: revered. And clearly insane.
“You don’t have to do this, Max.” My voice shook with fear. He hadn’t bound my hands like John’s, since he obviously saw no danger from me. So I gripped myself to stop them from shaking. Terror froze me anyway, and I saw no opening for attack. In any case, I didn’t dare do anything while those explosives were still attached to John, the controls safely in Max’s pocket.
“It’s too late.” Max stood beside me, staring off into the distance, basking in the vista of the Citadel. He appeared very happy. The way only the mentally insane do.
“Max.” I extended my left hand to get his attention, touch him, in the hope that some last remaining traces of decency would re-awaken in him. Before I even reached him, his hand shot out and wrapped along my arm, twisting it. I yelped at the sudden pain and buckled, struggling to stay upright and rigid. To move caused more pain.
“No!” John bellowed from the window. The mercenary hauled John back and slammed the butt of his weapon into John’s stomach. John doubled over and dropped to his knees.
Max dragged me by the arm, pivoted, then threw me against the wall. I crashed into it with a bone-jerking thud, and crumpled to the floor in such agony it brought tears to my eyes. Max may have been slightly built, but he was surprisingly strong and quick.
In seconds, Max strode up to me, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck—hair and all—and hoisted me to my feet. Discombobulated, I didn’t know which end was up. I heard John yelling, and determined only that he was to my left and obviously not pleased.
“I should kill you now!” Max screamed at me. “I was going to wait. To make you watch first as I killed him.”
“Then just do it!” I managed to scream back.
He let out an angry yell and flung me to the floor. I ended up winded, in pain, and curled up on my side, groaning. Cracking open an eye, I saw Max tower over me with clenched fists, his chest heaving. He straddled me, dropped to his knees. Grabbing my shirtfront, he punched me in the face. Once, twice, and by the third, my face had numbed and the world around me sounded muted and far away. I feebly tried to resist, but my arms felt as if they were underwater. I sensed him stand, shift, then felt a sharp blow to my back. He kicked me! I must’ve cried out, because when I opened my mouth, it hurt and I tasted blood.
Someone far away shouted. Angry, yelling—threatening—like a boom of thunder. I turned onto my stomach to crawl along th
e floor, to get away from the madness, but a heavy weight landed on me, held me in place, and knocked the wind out of me yet again. It brought me fully to my senses, like a blare of horns. Gasping, I shook my head. I was pressed prostrate to the floor and under a crushing weight. Max had his foot on me. My face was on fire; blood stung my eyes and clotted my nose and mouth. I spat and tried to turn.
John struggled between Grieger and the mercenary; he’d managed to bloody Grieger’s face, but had more blood on his own.
“Stop it!” I pleaded.
“Stop it, stop it,” Max whined from above me, and ground his heel harder into my back, spearing me with pain. “You disgust me. You’re a whore. You’re nothing but a common, outdated slut. You’ll spread your legs to any worthless pig. How does that make you feel? It makes me sick!”
John head-butted the mercenary—who staggered back—side-kicked Grieger in the chest, then did a no-hands back-flip, kicking Grieger under the chin. With a loud crack, Grieger’s head snapped backward and he dropped to the floor. John’s movements were nothing but a blur—a speeded-up sequence of a lethal dance. John landed, spinning out with another kick at the mercenary, who dodged, but not before getting struck in the arm. Before the mercenary could react, John back-flipped again, twice, and landed ten feet from Max, who fumbled in his pocket for the trigger device.
I squirmed and twisted under Max’s foot, kicking out at his other leg. Max hoisted me to my feet and placed me before him with one of my arms twisted behind my back. John deliberately walked closer.
“Go ahead, press the button,” John growled low, a line of blood trickled from his mouth. He turned his head to spit, then grinned, showing off a macabre sight of red-stained teeth.
“Stand back!” Max screamed. “Get him!” he ordered the mercenary.
The mercenary limped with effort, gun at the ready. He swung to strike John across the head, but John was quicker. Ducking, he slammed his shoulder up into the mercenary’s chest. The man grunted and fell to the side, scrambling like an up-turned turtle. John sprang high, dropped a kick in his face, spun, and kicked him again. The mercenary’s head, though still attached to his body, jerked to one side like a football caught in the net, then bounced on the floor. Blood spurted out from his nose like a pressurized jet; he twitched in spasms, arched his back and trembled. Then lay still.
Without looking back to see the damage he’d done, John strode toward us, a menacing gleam in his eyes. Max took a step back, using me as a shield.
“I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have, little boy. Now let her go.” John looked dangerous; even I was scared. Intense fury made him nearly white, and his dark eyes glowered in their deep pits. But it was his voice that chilled me—calm, cold, like death.
“Do what he says, Max!” I shrieked. “He will kill you. You can’t win!”
Max was clutching the device in the hand wrapped around my chest; his other had my right arm pinned tightly to my back. I could scarcely breathe, and each breath I did manage was painful and restricted.
“I said, stand back!” Max’s heart pounded in his chest, his breaths came in gasps. Was he as panicked as I was? I couldn’t tell. I smelled his sweat, and breath—it was sour.
John gave me a scathing look, holding me with his stare. “Now, what would Mrs. Trudesson say?” He was belligerently close, ensuring Max didn’t engage the trigger.
What? Oh fuck, he’s gone mad, too! I searched John’s face—unreadable. What did he mean by that? Did he want me to fight back? How?
I struggled and twisted, but it only caused more pain. “Use my head.” That was it! I remembered something Trudi had once said. “When you don’t have the use of arms, use what you have! Hit where it would damage the most.” John’s arms were pinned behind him; he couldn’t strike out without harming me in the process. My hands were restrained as well.
Taking a steadying breath, I expelled it slowly.
Tensing my neck muscles, I reared back and used my head like a hammer. It crashed into something pointy—Max’s chin. Ignoring the pain shooting through my skull, I hammered again. Missed. But I also kicked with my legs and tried to topple him. Max staggered slightly, his grip across my chest loosening a fraction, enough for my left hand to pry free so I could grip the hand holding the device. I dug my fingers into his arm. He wrenched my pinned arm higher up my back, I cried out, feeling the tendons pull sharply. I let go immediately.
“John, he’s too strong! I can’t…” I even tried stamping on Max’s feet, to no avail. He was as quick and slithery as a snake.
John and Max circled each other, me in the middle, each watching for an opening.
“Just give it up, Lancaster,” Max spat as we waltzed around. “We could do this all morning, and we still wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.”
“Then let her go and let’s finish this.” John stared, like a wild beast challenging its prey to fight back. His voice had changed; it purred, coaxing and tender, goading.
Max remained silent for a while. I hoped he was considering the offer. My eyes were glued to John—who ignored me—watching closely to determine what the next move would be. I couldn’t tell. John wore a mask of pleasantness so sinister I barely recognized him.
“Fine.” Max pushed me away, twirling me outward like a dance move, a tango, dipping me to a forty-five-degree angle. Held by my wrist, suspended for a moment, I flapped about in surprise. Then he dropped me toward John. Max bent forward suddenly, dove into an arc, twisting; one leg shot out and caught John on the arm. I rolled away. John grunted and fell sideways. With no arms available to buffer his fall, he hit the floor with a solid thud. Max pounded him again, kicking at his ribs.
I scrambled to my feet and jumped on Max’s back, wrapping my arms around his neck, trying desperately to hook my fingers into his ears to grab hold firmly and twist his head—and hopefully break his neck. He shifted with ease, lowering his center of gravity, and threw me off like a sack of flour. I collided with the camera and stand, skidding until I hit the wall by the window. Grieger’s booted feet rested inches from my face. In a surreal moment of clarity, I noticed Grieger tied his shoelaces in a childish double-bow. I blinked, trying refocus.
John was back on his feet, a little doubled over, but ready. He turned his body sideways and eyed Max. They circled again. Max twined his arms in a distracting martial arts flexing, then threw a clawed, straight punch. John shifted, returned with a standard kickboxing counter-kick. Max dodged, spun, and dipped low to strike out at John’s torso. John jumped back with the fluid ease of a dancer, curling inward to avoid the hit, then cartwheeled right, dropped low to his heels and lashed out a kick. It connected with the left side of Max’s shin, causing him to lose his footing, which he remedied quickly with a one-handed somersault.
They circled again.
I got to my feet; a blazing trail of agony tore at my side. The skid across the room had unsealed my wound. Sucking back the pain, I grabbed the camera-stand, and in four quick strides was behind Max. I hauled the stand over my shoulder like a baseball bat. Swung.
And hit nothing!
Max had ducked—so quick—causing me to swing far over to the left. He rose just as fast and side-kicked me. I narrowly missed losing my face by dropping to the floor. John shouted something, and Max hopped onto his other foot and side-kicked at John, who dropped onto his back, grunted, curled his knees in, then, using the momentum, snapped out of it and landed back on his feet.
I found myself prostrate, wincing, and holding my side. My hand came away blood-soaked. The overshot swing had completely opened the wound up. I pushed and crawled on my elbows, away from the fray, enough to catch my breath and wait for the pain to subside a little.
“Two against one,” Max said in a clipped tone. “That’s really not fair.”
“Take his restraints off, then!” I spat.
“Stay out of this, Josie.” John warned, his eyes never leaving Max.
“Listen to your boyfriend.” Max gave both
John and me a wide berth, shifting left and right like a caged animal, ready and waiting to pounce at whoever moved first.
Max was too far away for me to reach him. I still had the krima in my concealed pocket, but it seemed that whatever move I made, he was ready for me. And I feared if I pulled it out now, he would take it away and use it on John. My crash-course in self-defense was useless against him—he was far superior to anyone I’d fought with. For someone bent on killing, by any means necessary, Max appeared to have no other weapons than his bare hands. Maybe it was an ego thing. Whatever it was, it was an indication of how good he thought he was at fighting.
Max sneered. “Look at the two of you. Pathetic! Can’t you see I am much stronger than you both? Your time has ended. You can’t defeat me. You can’t—”
“Stop this!”
I snapped my head toward the shout. Lorcan! I could have sworn he’d materialized out of thin air.
John merely tipped his head a little, his eyes still on Max, who at that moment stood staring at his father.
“You?” Max’s mouth hung open. “What are you doing here?”
“Stopping you, that’s what. I had to see for myself to believe it. And now I see it’s true.” Lorcan appeared to be struggling with a number of emotions. He moved until he stood opposite Max, between John and me.
“Well, believe it.” Max resumed his pacing, casting a disgusted look at his father. “I’m surprised you didn’t find out sooner. But then, you’ve always been a bit thick.”
“Why, Max? Why?” Lorcan took a small step forward, placing himself before me.
Struggling to my feet, I staggered across to stand by John, grabbing his bound hands and inspecting the clasps to see if there was any way to pry them open.
“It’s no use, he’s got the release code,” John muttered. “Get back to the other side—do it!” He urged me with a meaningful look. I nodded and moved, but only a little way.
“Why?” Max replied finally. He appeared to be ignoring John and me for the moment. “Why don’t you ask yourself that? This is, after all, what you’ve always wanted.”