Refraction

by Christopher Hinz

  “Well now, it’s our clever bloke. I’m really curious how you got away from Farlin. But I suppose the fun of finding out will have to wait until–”

  He paused and put a hand over his ear, straining to hear someone on the radio above the drone of the helicopter blades.

  “Uh-huh, it’s still secure… Oh, and you get a bonus, a couple new colors for your collection… Magenta and Green… Yeah, got it.”

  Nobe faced Kokay. “The Clerk wants ’em both on the chopper. Help me carry Princess. We’ll come back for clever boy.”

  “What about the accountant?” He gestured to Keats.

  “Don’t need him anymore. I’ll do him before we leave.”

  Nobe and Kokay picked up Jessie and carried her out the rear door. Even through the whine of the rotor blades, Aiden heard them climbing onto the roof and maneuvering Jessie up there.

  He couldn’t allow himself to be bound by Michael’s men a third time. Once they had him cuffed and aboard the helicopter, it was all over.

  His only chance was Jessie’s pistol, still tucked in the back of his pants. But the remaining merc’s weapon remained trained on him. He’d never reach around for the pistol in time.

  Footsteps scampered across the roof. Jessie was being put aboard the helicopter. In seconds they’d return. Impossible or not, Aiden had to chance it. He mentally rehearsed the move and steeled himself for the intense pain that surely would follow.

  He never got the opportunity. A hand slithered up his back, yanked Jessie’s pistol out of his belt.

  Keats came alive, shoved Aiden hard. He flew across the aisle, slammed into the opposite seat. A gunshot rang out.

  The merc crumbled, a red blemish between his eyes.

  Keats grabbed Aiden’s machine gun and thrust it into his hands. “Cover the front door. Shoot anyone who opens it!”

  Keats dashed to the rear of the coach and ducked behind the end seat bulkhead.

  The front door hissed open. A merc rushed in. Aiden pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. The merc who’d taken his weapon must have flipped the selector to the safe position.

  Bullets whizzed close to Aiden’s head but from the other direction. It was Keats. He’d fired at the newcomer. The merc fell.

  Kokay swung down from the roof and rushed into the coach. Keats leaped out in front of him. Kokay swept up his machine gun but Keats was quicker. Pressing the barrel of the pistol against Kokay’s chest, Keats fired five times. A sixth squeeze of the trigger had no effect. The magazine was empty.

  Five shots were more than enough. What didn’t make sense was that the fatally wounded merc was flying forward rather than backward from the impact of the bullets.

  Kokay plowed into Keats. The pair crashed to the floor, with Keats on the bottom.

  The reason for Kokay defying the laws of momentum became clear. Nobe had lunged into the car, pushing Kokay from behind.

  Aiden flipped the selector to the firing position, swung the barrel around and squeezed the trigger. His aim was bad. The three-round burst pinged off the right bulkhead behind the last row of seats. Before he could re-target, Nobe’s laser sight painted his chest.

  At that instant, with death certain, Aiden flashed back to the feeling he’d experienced in the garage with Farlin, and in Jessie’s living room with Rosen and Vesely, and minutes ago when she’d shotgunned that merc. Each time, Aiden was sure he was going to die. Each time, someone had saved his life.

  That wasn’t going to happen here. Nobe pulled the trigger.

  The spray of bullets never touched Aiden.

  A chunkie formed in front of his chest, instantaneously expanding into one of Grant’s giant donuts. The deadly hail from Nobe’s machine gun poured through the transparent center of the cleaving and disappeared into the shroud.

  Before Nobe could overcome his surprise and fire again, Keats’ boot heel sprang from beneath Kokay’s body and smashed Nobe’s ankle.

  The merc stumbled forward. His barrel jerked upward as he squeezed the trigger. Bullets stitched a jagged line across the roof.

  That was enough for the helicopter’s pilot. The craft lifted off and headed away. Its departure must have served as a signal to the remaining mercs guarding the passengers. Aiden saw three of them sprinting from the forward coaches and running for the woods.

  The cleaving vanished. Aiden whipped his attention back to the aisle.

  Keats had scrambled out from beneath Kokay’s body. He and Nobe were on their hands and knees, furiously wrestling for control of Nobe’s machine gun. Keats yanked hard, managed to rip the weapon out of the merc’s hands. But the gun got knocked away from him. It flew through the air, landed on a seat ten feet away.

  Keats had the weight advantage but Nobe was wiry and preternaturally fast. Twisting and contorting, the merc got the upper hand. He forced Keats onto his back and head-butted him with brutal force. The base of Keats’ skull slammed the floor with a resounding crack.

  Aiden raised his gun but hesitated, afraid he’d hit Keats. He moved closer for a better shot.

  An explosion startled him. It came from outside. He whirled toward the window.

  Something had happened to the retreating helicopter. Black smoke and tongues of flame cascaded off the tail rotor. Its blades were twisted, no longer rotating. The pilot tried to climb but the rear stabilizer fishtailed madly. Losing altitude, the spinning craft disappeared beyond the tree line.

  Aiden returned his attention to the combatants. Nobe had drawn a knife. Clutching the hilt with both hands, he was attempting to force the blade down into his opponent’s heart. Keats, still on his back, had grabbed the merc’s wrists and was trying to wrench the knife away from its target. The faces of both men grimaced with exertion.

  Keats twisted the blade to the side, sparing himself a fatal stabbing. But Nobe kept enough pressure to slice the tip across Keats’ left shoulder.

  Keats grunted in pain. Aiden knelt in the aisle, steadied himself and took careful aim.

  Don’t miss.

  Before he could pull the trigger, Keats drew upon some incredible reserve of strength. Bending at the waist, fighting against the full weight of the merc atop him, he performed an impossible sit-up.

  The two men were again face to face. Aiden’s shot was blocked.

  Blood streamed from Keats’ shoulder as he continued to struggle for control of the knife. For a moment it seemed neither man had the upper hand. But then the smoldering intensity Aiden had witnessed in that West Virginia garage returned, a defiant posture that said losing was not in Deke Keats’ nature. With a bestial growl equal parts agony and rage, he ripped the knife from Nobe’s grip.

  The tip of the blade slashed across the merc’s neck. Carbon steel tore into a jugular vein. Nobe’s hands impulsively clutched the wound. The effort was futile. He couldn’t stem the crimson flow.

  “That’s for my men,” Keats said, grabbing Nobe by the chin and pushing his head back.

  “This is for my son.”

  Keats torpedoed the blade deep into Nobe’s guts. Astonishment flickered across the merc’s face, as if the idea of his own death was implausible. And then those vacant eyes went cold for good.

  Keats tried to stand but collapsed in the aisle. Aiden helped him to his feet and supported his weight. They staggered through the rear vestibule and exited.

  Outside, Keats sat down with his back to an oily train wheel. The six-inch knife slash across his shoulder looked deep. He’d lost a lot of blood. Aiden eased the knife from Keats’ iron grip and used it to cut off a sleeve of his own jacket. Wrapping it tightly around the wound, he placed Keats’s hand over the makeshift bandage to hold it in place. There was also the beginnings of a large ugly bruise on the back of the head from where Nobe had slammed him against the floor, and that was bleeding too. Keats looked on the verge of passing out.

  Workers were emerging from the forward coaches, milling around in confusion. Several gazed warily at Aiden and his gun.

  “
It’s OK,” he yelled. “We’re not with the others.” He turned back to Keats. “I’m going to see if I can find a doctor or medic.”

  “No, we need to follow the chopper. Michael must have been aboard.”

  “There was an explosion. I think it went down. Not sure why.”

  “I think I know,” Keats said, managing a weak smile. He motioned to the trees.

  Aiden turned, astonished and pleased to see two men coming toward them. The lower part of Rory’s prosthetic leg from the ankle down was gone and he was leaning on Chef for support. The medic’s face was badly bruised, his left eye pinched shut. He was holding a blood-soaked cloth to his right side where he’d apparently been shot.

  “Through-and-throughs,” Rory said, wincing in agony as Chef helped him sit down next to Keats.

  “You took out the ’copter,” Aiden concluded.

  Rory nodded. “Found one of the mercs’ RPGs. Chef got off a clean shot.”

  “Jessie was aboard.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t know.”

  “Never mind that,” Keats said. “We need to get to the wreckage.”

  He struggled to his feet. But immediately his eyes glazed over. Aiden and Chef guided him back to a seated position. Rory stated the obvious.

  “Deke, you and I need to sit out this round.”

  Keats gave a disappointed nod and turned to Chef. “Up to you.”

  Chef looked reluctant to leave them.

  “Go!” Keats urged.

  Aiden knew he had no choice but to follow. Before he could scamper after Chef, Keats grabbed his wrist.

  “Finish it.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  Chef led the way, navigating through the occasionally dense foliage with a degree of stealth Aiden couldn’t mimic. His own footsteps sounded like the Hulk.

  Every so often Chef would pause, glance around and sniff the air. Aiden hadn’t the faintest clue what he was doing. Maybe scanning for debris from the damaged helicopter or maybe smelling the sacred Earth so it could bestow its essence. Aiden asked how he’d evaded the mercs after being knocked out by the grenade.

  “To abide the trembling you must become part of the wake,” Chef replied.

  “That explains it,” Aiden mumbled.

  They came upon the helicopter. It was below them, upright at the base of a small hill, the crumpled front end wedged against a tree. The landing window was shattered and the skids grotesquely bent. There was no sign of the pilot or passengers. But they couldn’t see the far side of the craft.

  Chef hand-signaled and they approached warily, circling in from opposite sides. Their caution was justified. A man sat with his back to the fuselage. As Aiden poked his machine gun around the edge of the shattered tail section and peered out, the man whipped up a pistol.

  “Drop it,” Chef ordered, emerging from the trees on the opposite side.

  The man swiveled his torso to take aim at the new threat. But his injuries were severe enough that even such a simple movement looked agonizing. Seeing weapons trained on him from two angles, he wisely tossed the gun.

  He was thirtyish with a shaved head and an old scar on the side of his neck. Chef leaned over him, laid a hand on his midsection then moved the hand to his left thigh. His touches caused wincing.

  “Broken ribs, broken femur,” Chef concluded.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” the man snarled.

  “You the pilot?” Aiden asked, retrieving the man’s pistol.

  He gave a grudging nod.

  “Where are the others? Was Michael aboard? Was Jessie still alive?”

  His questions were met by a defiant glare.

  Chef made a fist and pressed it hard into the broken ribs. The pilot groaned in pain. Aiden gently took hold of Chef’s wrist and eased the fist away. His own burns and the memory of how they’d been administered were never far from his thoughts. He wasn’t about to stoop to torture.

  “No reason for you to suffer any more than you already have,” Aiden said, squatting beside the pilot. “It’s over. You’re hurt pretty bad and obviously not going anywhere. Nobe is dead. So are most of your buddies. And I’m guessing Michael left you here to deal with the aftermath.”

  The pilot’s scowl told Aiden that his last statement was on the money.

  “Makes no sense being loyal to him. It’ll go easier on you if you cooperate.” Aiden paused. “You got family?”

  The question touched a nerve. “Wife and kid.”

  “Then do the right thing. Do it for them.”

  The pilot’s resistance evaporated. “The girl was out cold. Last I saw, the Clerk was dragging her off in that direction.” He pointed into the trees. “The Clerk had an ATV stashed nearby, emergency backup to get him to his vehicle. In case things didn’t go as planned.” A bitter laugh escaped him.

  “Where’s Michael going?”

  “He has a chateau west of Helena.” The pilot withdrew a notepad and pen, scribbled directions.

  Aiden weighed his options. Tau’s Marines and emergency personnel undoubtedly would soon reach the train. Despite Keats urging him to “finish it,” the smarter course would be to return, surrender and tell the authorities where to find Michael.

  But relating the whole convoluted story to military inquisitors, even if they could be convinced Aiden was on the level, would eat up precious hours. Michael almost certainly had the quiver. Who knew what enhanced abilities a second infusion would bring him? He also had the financial wherewithal to disappear, maybe to some country without extradition treaties.

  And then there was Jessie. Under any scenario Aiden could imagine, if she wasn’t dead already, she soon would be.

  There was only one thing to do. “That Jeep of yours, it’s got GPS?”

  Chef nodded.

  “I need your keys.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “No. You should go back to the train. Take the pilot with you. Surrender together.”

  Chef looked skeptical. Aiden adopted his most persuasive tone.

  “Your buddies are in bad shape and might be unconscious by now. No matter what Keats said, you need to be with them. Someone has to tell the authorities the whole story and make sure they’re treated right. The rest of this is my fight, not yours. And it’s something I need to do alone.”

  Aiden could hardly believe the words pouring from his mouth. He wasn’t trying to be macho. He remained as scared as he’d been at the start of the firefight. But something within him had changed. It was more than just an urge to save Jessie, more than the fact he’d somehow manifested a chunkie that morphed into a cleaving at an opportune moment.

  The real impetus was deeper, something fundamental to his very being. Questions about being swept toward an unknown destiny had been flashing through him with ever-greater frequency. No matter the risk, he needed to unveil the answers. What was quiver’s purpose? What was the meaning behind his unnatural entry into the world?

  Chef seemed to read the intensity of Aiden’s commitment and also apparently recognized that staying with Keats and Rory was the right move. He surrendered his key fob and phone, which had a nav app for locating the Jeep. Considering Aiden’s lousy navigational prowess, it might come in handy.

  The pilot looked worried to be left alone with someone who’d been ready to inflict torture.

  “It wouldn’t be right,” Aiden said to Chef, “for this guy to end up getting hurt any worse than he already is. He needs proper medical treatment.”

  Chef nodded and stood. He laid an imposing hand across Aiden’s shoulder. “Always stand taller than you can fall.”

  Whether the words were endowed with mystical significance or merely the outpourings of someone who’d smoked too many malodorous cigars or hallucinogenic substances, the advice was as good a sendoff as any. Aiden checked the app, pinpointed the Jeep’s location and raced off into the trees.

  PART 6

  THE ANOMALY

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  It was well after dark when Michael pulled up
in front of the chateau. He remained in the SUV for a moment, contemplating his next move.

  The interior lights were out. Trish likely had gone to bed, which meant one less complication to deal with. His original notion for bringing her here, a celebratory seduction, was a nonstarter. Sex was the last thing on his mind at the moment. Tarantian’s goal had been achieved. He had the quiver. But too many things had gone wrong with the plan.

  Most of the mercs, including Nobe, likely had been killed. They weren’t Michael’s concern. It was the ones who’d escaped from the train as his helicopter was taking off, moments before the RPG had struck. What should have been a quick and bloodless assault had turned into a raging battle that consumed more time than anticipated, which in turn put the mercs’ getaway plans at greater risk. The survivors didn’t have as much of a head start as anticipated to reach their hidden vehicles, which increased the likelihood of capture. If even one of them was caught, he’d probably take whatever deal the government offered in exchange for turning on Michael.

  That went for the pilot as well. Michael and the unconscious Jessie had been in the back seat and had escaped harm – the flight deck had taken the brunt of the crash. On the spot, Michael had made the decision to kill the injured pilot. But the man had been wary of just such a double-cross and had kept his sidearm handy, robbing Michael of the opportunity. Hopefully, he’d succumb to his injuries before being found. Yet it was equally likely he’d be captured and spill everything.

  A sudden rage came over Michael and he smashed his fist against the SUV’s dashboard. The authorities might already be looking for him. Even if he eluded capture, he could be forced to leave the country and become a wanted individual, the same fate to which the insider had been consigned.

  In Héloise’s case, the government eventually could track her down. Nobe had suggested averting the possibility with a bullet to her head but Michael had resisted. Héloise’s desire to extract vengeance resonated with him. His main drive was a second infusion, yet in some dark and morbid place deep within, he too sought vengeance against his parents. It was troubling that they remained the focal point of so much anger even though they’d been dead for years.