Taker

by Patrick Wong

  “I admire your perseverance, but I’ve already gone through this a hundred times.” Bishop sat down and took up a half-eaten box of carry-out Chinese food. Still warm, he shrugged to himself and dug in.

  “You have,” Velasquez remarked. She began pacing. “But you know, Bishop, when a case got stuck, my dad would work like this. Sometimes, when I was a kid, I’d wake up in the middle of the night, go downstairs to get a glass of water, and there he’d be in his study. Those were the days before Post-it notes, so he’d had a huge blackboard built. He bought a pack of artists pastels, and that’s what he’d use on the board. Nuances — everything was teased out. He’d erase ideas, move things around, draw all kinds of links. He’d say, ‘When you have a hunch about something, but the way the facts look don’t point to a clue, then change the way the facts look.’”

  Bishop nodded.

  “Do you mind if we continue?” Velasquez asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  “Good. Because we’ve got less than an hour, and we’ll need all the time we can get. Ben?”

  Ben pressed play on her laptop, and Nicole’s voice echoed across the room.

  “He said his mother was from Tazhbekistan, and that was why he said he was compelled to send this message.”

  Just then, Barnard clicked his fingers, and Ben stopped the recording. When he spoke, it was with pure excitement.

  “Wait, wait, wait. There is no way DuBois has Tazhbekistani heritage. I met his parents at a postdoc graduation. They’re as French as the Eiffel Tower.”

  “Good!” Velasquez announced. She moved to the whiteboard, scrubbed out the words “DuBois” and “revenge,” and replaced them with a question mark.

  “Senator Jennings is another link,” Ben offered.

  In the corner of the room, Amy flinched at the mention of Drake’s father. “He wouldn’t hurt Drake,” she retorted.

  “But if he was funding this top-secret research,” Velasquez began, “he would only know a certain amount about it. He’d only be looking at the progress reports; he wouldn’t have time to know every detail. So, let’s say for a second that DuBois wasn’t lying about that too. That he’d been hired by government contractors to trap a Balancer.”

  “That was why Carter was working with DuBois,” Bishop said. The room fell silent, and Velasquez gave her partner points for connecting the dots faster than she’d expected. “I saw the messages myself,” he added, “and it tallies with your assertion, Professor, that the government has been extremely interested in Balancers for a while.”

  Barnard nodded. “I appreciate your candor, Agent Bishop.”

  “But Max was Tazhbekistani, right?” Bishop asked through a mouthful of noodles.

  “So she said,” Ben piped up.

  Things were beginning to move together a little differently now for Bishop. “So, DuBois was tricking Nicole into thinking he had a legitimate message, and Nicole said that when she was traveling with Max, his reason for working with DuBois seemed to be based on Tazhbekistani loyalty,” Bishop said.

  “I see what you mean,” Barnard considered. “What we’re establishing is that Max thinks that DuBois is legitimately Tazhbekistani. DuBois lied to Nicole and Max because he wants them to believe his interests are purely political. We, however, know that he’s a greedy, bloodsucking son of a …” Barnard trailed off, aware of the surprised eyes peeled widely open around him. He cleared his throat. “The key here, I think, is moving more toward Max.”

  “We’ve bookmarked the Max section on the audio recording,” Velasquez chipped in. “Ben, can we skip to it?”

  Ben nodded, and after a few taps on his laptop, pressed play.

  “Max, he made a lot of sense. His whole family was wiped out in the war. He says the Tazhbekistanis want democracy, but that the western governments won’t hear it because there are resources in the region that are more important, like oil. No one will help them, so this message was the only way to get to the president.”

  Standing next to Ben, Velasquez stopped playback.

  “I think you’re wasting your time,” Bishop said, crunching up his noodle box, lobbing it at the nearby wastepaper bin, and leaving the room.

  Ben started clicking on menus and windows that the staff had never even known existed. And the more he clicked, the more adept at the advanced features of the system he became. After several minutes of flashing windows, hotkeys and rapid mouse movements, Ben found something.

  “Bingo!” he yelled. “That must be Max. He’s the guy sitting down, watching the president while everybody else is running away.”

  “He’s not in a hurry to leave, is he?” Velasquez noted.

  “OK. So we’ve got the guy who drove Nicole to the speech. He’s sitting down, staring at the president while everybody else is running. Is that going to be enough?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t think so. That’s so little to go on. We need one more thing.”

  Ben opened the image file. Again and again he looked over it. The zoomed image provided by the facial-recognition software of Max showed him staring at the president. Ben sat back and scanned through the digital media again, while all the while Velasquez maintained an awed silence at watching him at work.

  Ben kept moving the video forward, then back, forward then back. But, by accident, he forgot to stop the video the last time he shuttled it forward, and it kept playing. After the crowd had left, he finally saw the one more thing they needed.

  It was the simplest of things, but it said so much.

  It was an empty wheelchair, parked where Max had been sitting before. Max was nowhere in sight.

  He’s Like Nicole

  Ben had never run so fast in his life. Even when he had been chased by bullies at school, his feet had never pounded the ground this heavily.

  He pushed past PRESS workers in a bustling hallway, ran through doors and bypassed an elevator to take the fire escape. Velasquez was at his side every step of the way; Amy was chasing behind him, not quite understanding the meaning of the wheelchair.

  Finally, they made it to Nicole’s floor, just at the moment the guards were wheeling her out.

  They had encased her in the bio-glass cage, and she was being escorted by four armed guards. It was the first time Ben had seen the bio-prison, and, at first, it looked like Nicole was breathing underwater.

  “Nicole!” he shouted, half grinning and half horrified at the state she was in.

  Nicole’s face brightened at the sight of her friend, and she held up her hand to touch the glass as if she could reach him.

  The doors burst open again and an out-of-breath Bishop held out his hand to stop them. “Agent Bishop. I order you to stand down.”

  With a brief exchange of looks, the guards did as instructed.

  “What is it, Velasquez?” Bishop asked, turning to his partner.

  “He has something. Go on, Ben.”

  “OK,” Ben stammered, struggling to compose himself. “The guy. Max. He’s a Taker. He’s like Nicole, but different. And he was sitting the whole time, but then he left his wheelchair behind.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Ben grabbed Velasquez’s tablet and enlarged the video, paused on a grainy but still-discernible image of a dark-haired, sleek young man.

  “Nicole, is this him? Is this Max?” Nicole’s gray-hooded eyes sprang to life.

  “That’s him.”

  “But there’s more. Look. People running. Max stays sitting. More people running. Max still sitting.” Ben continued to fast-forward through the video. “Then, watch — after most of the people have left, he stands up and walks away with the remaining crowd, leaving behind his wheelchair.” The final video frame showed an empty, abandoned wheelchair where Max had been sitting.

  Nicole tapped hard on the glass and pointed to the tablet. “Max was injured when we first arrived. He was in pain and couldn’t walk.”

  Without further thought, Bishop grabbed the extraordinary-measures papers from the hand of
one of the armed guards and ripped them in two.

  “Release Nicole Aaronson immediately,” Bishop ordered. “Whomever I need to account to for this, I will take responsibility.”

  The escorting guards stared at him, puzzled.

  Bishop felt anger rise in him at his orders being questioned. “Now!” he shouted. “We have work to do.”

  Within moments, the latches had been undone on Nicole’s glass container and the airtight seal had been released. The guards quickly opened one side of the bio-prison. With numbed legs and an almost despairing heart, Nicole burst out and into Ben’s arms.

  Seeing her so gaunt and distressed tugged at Amy’s heart. Pushing aside all the recent trauma and pain, Amy put her arms around her friends.

  Team Balancer was reunited at last.

  More to This Myth

  What was it about showers that somehow peeled off a layer of even the most horrendous experiences? It was Nicole’s third in the space of what she figured was 24 hours, but it was this one that had mattered. This one spelled freedom. So she had taken her time and let the hot jets of water stream over her aching limbs.

  As she sat in the PRESS briefing room, her wet hair combed back, with Ben on one side and Amy on the other, she came to terms with what had happened. It felt strange that Drake wasn’t with them. She wondered how she was going to approach Amy about it. Even though her best friend had hugged her when they’d reunited, she was now drawn and sad.

  The documents spread out in front of Nicole were similar to those Ben had scanned and shown her back home, but some new ones had also emerged. Barnard had eased an antique, wooden-framed picture out of protective casing and laid it in front of her. He explained it was a classical religious design — a triptych. Inlaid with precious paint and gold leaf, its value was immeasurable.

  Agents Bishop and Velasquez sat at either heads of the table, and Barnard was standing in front of a large screen.

  “According to all the ancient texts I’ve studied, there can only ever be one Balancer. But,” the silver-haired professor continued, “there has been this recurring symbol that we can see in the triptych in Nicole’s hand there.” He brought the image up on the screen. “There’s light and dark, and the Balancer in the middle. Now, according to prophecy, there are three deities. Nicole is the Balancer in the center — we know this based on her abilities. And there is the light and dark on either side. This one — he’s the dark one. The Taker,” Barnard said, gesturing to one side of the triptych.

  “You think that’s Max, right?” Nicole clarified.

  “It’s our best guess,” Barnard replied.

  “Now, there is more to this myth,” Barnard continued. “Throughout history, the three deities have been scattered around the world. In ancient times, because of geography and limited travel distance, they could never have met, of course. But the past century has seen people from all over the world having an unimaginable flexibility of travel. Distances have been shrinking. Who were these mythical deities? Why were they — you — picked? I can’t say. It’s possibly beyond any mortal’s comprehension. But what is clear is that these three individuals are guardians or observers who watch over all living things and, in so doing, keep the world in balance. However, it is foretold,” Barnard drew a breath, “that if ever all three deities were to meet, then it would signify the End of Days. And this ancient scripture says that the world would end through some kind of final battle.”

  “So we may need to keep them away from each other?” Velasquez looked up from her notes.

  “Ideally, yes. But that’s only if they — or those influencing them — want that. See, what you also have to take into account here is motivation. The Balancer,” he indicated toward Nicole, “always has a dilemma. She has the powers of both of the others combined. She can bestow either healing or death. Whereas the Giver will have to be altruistic in order to offer its own health to heal others, the Taker will simply steal health away for itself. That in its very makeup requires a certain contrasting attitude between the Giver and the Taker — unless, of course, they refuse their calling and don’t act on their gifts.”

  “So, Max is the Taker, and DuBois and NOR Corporation are developing something using him,” Nicole said. “That would explain why they needed their own bio-prison in the first place. It wasn’t for me — it was for Max.”

  “That’s how it looks,” Bishop replied.

  “Does that make Max the strongest?” Amy asked.

  “No. But his intentions may be the most evil. I expect you could have evil Balancers and evil Givers. But the very nature of what Max does — feeding off of death and suffering — means he is more likely to lean that way.”

  “And I believe Max and DuBois tricked you.” Bishop leaned forward and looked Nicole dead in the eyes. “Max was passionate about his cause — so much so that he was willing to kill the president. You were in place, possibly, as a decoy. Or possibly for another reason.”

  “You think they want to get rid of her?” Velasquez asked, vocalizing what Bishop was alluding to.

  “Well, look at it from their point of view,” Bishop offered. “If they’re developing a new power based on the Taker, then the Balancer could rectify every bit of damage they seek to do. Who knows if they’ve already found and paralyzed the Giver? Our Balancer has the power to control any life around her without bounds. What better way to destroy her than to expose her as evil and lock her away in a bio-prison?”

  It was then that Nicole felt she could finally take a breath of relief. Those words, spoken by the same agent who had been hunting her down ever since the fateful wildfire — she had never thought she would hear them uttered from his mouth. “Our Balancer.” Bishop did not say this phrase in disgust, but with empathy. Nicole could see that Bishop was including her in his circle of trust.

  Overwrought, she held her hand up to her face and told herself to be brave. But she had been brave for too long to hold back anymore, and soon the tears came.

  “I think that’s enough for now,” Bishop said. “Nicole, your parents are patched in if you want to speak to them. Oh, and one more thing.” He nodded to Velasquez, who then sent a text message from her phone.

  As Bishop helped Nicole her feet, the door to the briefing room opened and a guard walked in, escorting a familiar face. He was no longer wearing a checkered shirt, but his blue eyes were more vivid than ever, and he was smiling at her, as though the world were simple again.

  “Jason,” Nicole smiled.

  “Hey, Nicole.” He held up his hand in a half-wave. She rushed into his arms.

  “After the hijacking, we had to keep him for interrogation,” Bishop said. “He appeared to be willing to lie for you and even head to prison, so we weren’t sure if he was part of some greater plan.” Then Bishop let out a sigh. “But it turns out he’s just a guy who likes you,” the agent quipped.

  There was a moment of levity in the room, but, for their own reasons, neither Ben nor Amy could share Nicole’s delight over the reunion with Jason.

  Then the attending guard cleared his throat. “Sir. There’s something else?”

  “What is it?” Bishop said, collecting his files.

  “It’s the president, sir. It’s feared he won’t survive this evening.”

  Bishop’s smile faded. A respectful hush fell around the room.

  “Nicole?” Bishop asked.

  Nicole nodded. It was time to get to work.

  It’s Too Quiet

  Maximilian Karakov stood in the warm evening breeze and surveyed the tall, imposing structure that was the National Military Medical Center. The fake ID provided by DuBois had fooled the guards on duty at the gate, so Max and his four heavily armed companions had passed through without unnecessary deaths. It was always better that way. Despite everything that was about to happen, Max did have a personal code of trying to avoid needless harm.

  He had to admit, the hospital was an impressive structure. Although showing its age, its massive campus stretched out
across many acres. Max found it ironic that the president was being treated here, alongside the same injured soldiers he regularly ordered to fight for him overseas.

  “Ready?” The mercenary heading up the assault was getting impatient. He offered Max a metal helmet.

  Max nodded and, receiving the cap, secured it to his head.

  “In five.”

  The mercenary began to count down on his fingers. When he reached “two,” however, Max rolled his eyes and began to walk toward the doors of the hospital without regard for the official countdown to action. It always amused him to see these special-operations guys run through their dialogue as though they were in a Tom Clancy novel. There was something arrogant about them, strutting around in the body armor that used Max’s own blood to repair any injury that the men might endure. It was Max’s gift that was going to deliver justice; the fools who guarded him were a dime a dozen.

  From almost the moment he reached the automatic doors, Max knew something was awry.

  They entered the reception area to find it empty of soldiers and civilians alike.

  “It’s too quiet,” he began, but before he was able to finish, he heard in the distance the unmistakable sound of boots running on linoleum.

  “Down!” commanded the mercenary captain.

  But Max continued forward. Up ahead, a wave of soldiers burst through the swinging doors and began to fire without warning.

  As instructed, the four mercenaries returned fire at the soldiers on the flank.

  Three, four, five bullets struck Max’s chest. He’d had enough military training not to flinch when they entered his torso. The impact always hurt, but that was how it worked.

  Max’s ability to keep on walking despite having gunshot wounds did not stop the hospital’s soldiers from trying their best to break him. The soldiers radioed their superiors that a wanted enemy of the state had infiltrated the building. For whatever reason, Max decided to spare the lives of the guards at the gate a little longer.