by Jason Brant
"Call me Sammy; I like it better. And don't worry about the door. I owe you so much for saving me like that – a door is no biggie. Although I would feel safer if I could go over to your place while we called the landlord?"
Maybe the night was looking up after all.
Chapter 3
"The super was pissed, but he said he'll be here in a little while to see if he can fix your door," I said as I hung up the phone.
Samantha sat at a folding card table, which was sitting in my kitchen, trying not to laugh. To say that my apartment is a bachelor pad would be an understatement. I have the requisite TV and recliner, but beyond that my furniture and decorations are nonexistent. Because of my inability to be around people for the last couple of years, I hadn't put much effort into preparing for guests.
"Yeah, my place sucks. Sorry."
"No, it's not you. Guys are supposed to live like slobs. I'm laughing because it's kind of funny to think about big, tough Brad Fickett getting beat up like that. Where did you learn that stuff?"
"I've been taking boxing and jiu-jitsu lessons for a few years now."
"They teach you how to kick guys in the balls in boxing class?" she said with a laugh.
"I like to call that an Ash Benson Special Delivery. I reserve that move for men who could squash me like a bug if they got a hold of me. He'll thank me someday though, since he'll be able to sing an octave higher now."
She turned down my generous offer of frozen pizza, Pop Tarts, or beer, which is all the food I had, and stuck with a glass of water.
We sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. My social skills were garbage from being alone for so long.
"It's a shame that this is what it took to get you to invite me over," she said, breaking the quiet.
Was she flirting with me?
"My life has been...difficult for awhile now. If it seemed like I was avoiding you, it's nothing personal," I said. I sat down across from her, trying not to seem uncomfortable.
"Is that because of the I.E.D. that got you in Iraq?"
That took me by surprise. She nailed it though. About nine months after getting commissioned as a second lieutenant, I deployed to Iraq where, six months later, my Humvee was hit by an improvised explosive device. The blast crippled the vehicle, killed two of my soldiers, and caused significant blunt force trauma to my head.
The look on my face must have tipped her off to my surprise.
"I used some Google-fu on you when I moved in. You weren't on Facebook, so I had to cyber stalk you the old fashioned way."
"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or disturbed. But you're right. That's what started my troubles. Socializing has been an issue for me."
That's simplifying what I like to call a living hell. Eventually I was honorably discharged due to the lingering effects from the brain injury, and from what my physicians believed was a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder. The official reports cited a rapid withdrawal from social situations, increased agitation, difficulty communicating with multiple people, chronic fatigue, and other anxiety symptoms.
They were right. I suffered from all of those, but it wasn't because of PTSD. That's when I started hearing the voices. They became more frequent and got significantly louder as time went on. By the time I left Walter Reed Army Medical Hospital, I couldn't handle being in the same room as anyone else. The drinking started shortly after that. It was the only thing that could make the voices manageable. So I got blotto every day, on the cheapest beer I could find.
The disability checks the army sent me weren't much, so I'd been living in squalor for years. Since I spent most of my cash on booze, food took a backseat. I lost a ton of weight due to my time in the hospital and from subsisting on alcohol. Nearly fifty pounds had melted off me the first two years. My memory of the third year is pretty spotty, although there wasn't much to remember; all I did was drink and watch movies all day.
"I've been feeling much better the past few months though. If you're lucky I might let you hang out in my awesome pad more often," I said as I swept my hand toward the bareness that I loosely call home. I tried to keep a straight face as I said that, but failed miserably.
"How could I possibly turn down so much fun? Especially when it comes from my hero," she said. She laid her hand on top of mine.
The contact sent electric shocks running up my arm. It had been so long since I'd felt a compassionate touch that my body wanted to convulse. Her hand was soft, warm, and perfect.
"It's so terrible what you guys have to deal with over there. No one should have to be alone after experiencing something that awful."
Typically I would agree with her, but isolation kept my brain from feeling like it was going to explode. After being discharged I didn't try to get a job or go back to school. Instead I stayed as secluded from people as possible. Secluded and drunk. I had my food delivered and kept correspondence with friends restricted to emails and text messaging. Most people assumed I was another veteran trying to work his way through some tough times. They were half right.
Everyone had written me off as a lost cause after the third year. Hell, I'd given up on myself. Until I came home one day, a fresh case of Natty Light in my hands, and ran into my new neighbor. Sammy had just moved in a few months before, and I'd successfully avoided almost all contact with her.
When I saw her coming out of her apartment, I thought about heading back down the stairs. Lack of exercise had made my body weak, however, and carrying the beer up the steps wore me out. So I looked at the floor and attempted to scoot past, trying my best not to make eye contact. When she stepped in front of me, I tried to walk around her, but she sidestepped, blocking my path again.
"What do you want?" I asked.
She put both of her hands on my cheeks and lifted my face up. We locked eyes for what seemed like an hour but probably didn't last more than a few seconds.
"You deserve better," she said. Then she walked around me and disappeared down the stairwell.
That night I started searching the internet for better ways of controlling my mind, besides drowning it in beer.
Chapter 4
Three hard knocks at the door jarred us out of the moment.
"The landlord must have sprouted wings to get here this fast," I said. Pushing away from the table, I walked to the door.
It wasn't the super waiting in the hallway. Three men stood there, all wearing suits in various stages of disarray. It looked like they had slept in them. When someone in a suit comes looking for you, it's never a good thing. When three of them show up you probably need a lawyer.
The man in front wore a black suit and was clearly the head honcho. He wasn't particularly tall, maybe 5'10", and had a strong, wiry build. His face could have been chiseled out of granite. A long, thin scar ran down his left cheek that looked like it could have been caused by a knife. His graying cropped hair implied he had been, or still was, some kind of military. I'd seen guys like him while stationed in Iraq. You could always tell who the major players were; they wore suits in the middle of a warzone. He was one of those.
Two very serious looking hombres flanked him on either side. Judging by their beards and thousand yard stares, they were definitely Special Forces. The white guy on Scarface's left stood taller than the others, close to my height, with dirty blonde hair. He looked through me more than at me. The other one was significantly shorter and of Asian descent. His eyes scanned the apartment behind me.
These guys weren't here for pizza and Pop Tarts.
"I don't really need any more magazine subscriptions," I said.
I live on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. Those four flights of stairs are a good way to measure if someone is in decent shape or not. Even a gym rat starts to perspire a little by the top. They must have floated up here because they weren't even breathing hard.
"Asher Benson, my name is Smith," Scarface said.
"Smith? How original."
"Mr. Benson, we need you
to come with us immediately," Smith said. His voice and expression were flat as a pancake.
"Oh, you aren't selling magazine subscriptions? What are you peddling then? Vacuum cleaners? Religion?" I snapped my fingers. "I got it! Girl Scout cookies. I could probably swing a few boxes of thin mints."
"We believe your life is in danger." He looked past me and saw Samantha sitting at the table. "Who's the woman?"
"The 'woman' is none of your business. Who the hell are you guys? Why would my life be in danger?"
"Unfortunately, we don't have time to discuss this here. You'll be briefed when we're on the road. This isn't a negotiation." Even his diction was plain.
I looked at all three of them, trying to gauge the situation.
"So that's why you brought Chuck Norris and Jackie Chan – extra muscle to drag me out of here if I didn't cooperate. I appreciate you being concerned about my wellbeing, but there's a rerun of Cheers on tonight that I really want to watch, so—"
"Please escort the young woman outside," Smith said over his shoulder to the Chuck Norris lookalike. "We need to leave now."
"Don't even think about—"
Jackie grabbed my arm, pulled me into the hallway, and twisted it behind my back before I even saw him move. His grip was like iron. I never had a chance.
I tried pushing away from the wall, failing miserably. Since they had me completely immobilized, I started concentrating on Smith. Wrapping my mind around his, I grasped at the edges of his thoughts. Jackie pulled my arm up even higher, sending bolts of pain shooting through my shoulder. The joint made a nasty creaking sound. I lost my mental grip.
Inside the apartment Sammy yelled something that I couldn't make out.
Smith pulled a syringe out of his inside jacket pocket, took the cap off the end, and jabbed it in my neck.
"What the hell!" I yelled as I tried to pull my neck away. Warmth spread throughout my head.
"Relax, Mr. Benson, it's just an opiate. We don't need you probing into areas that aren't meant for you."
"How can you possibly know—"
"All of your questions will be answered in due time."
"Get off me! Someone help! We're being abducted!" Sammy screamed. Chuck carried her out of my apartment and brought her over to where we were standing. He handed her purse to Smith.
"Ash, what's going on?"
My mind felt like it was turning into mush. Concentration was becoming impossible.
"I have no idea, but it seems like we're being kidnapped by the Expendables," I said. That earned me a cuff to the back of the head from Jackie.
Smith fished her I.D. out of her purse and glanced at it. "Ms. Moore, I suggest you calm down. We're doing this for your own safety. Please remain silent as we leave the building."
"Leave the building? Kiss my ass! Put me down, you oaf. Where's your warrant? Wait until the NCAA hears about this!"
"NCAA?" I asked. "You mean the ACLU?"
"Yeah! I'm going to sue the crap out of these guys!"
Smith threw her purse back into the apartment before heading to the stairwell.
"Hey! I need that!"
Chuck put his hand over her mouth, grabbed her around the waist, and started carrying her down the stairs.
"Hey!" I struggled in Jackie's grip, but my strength had evaporated. "There's no need to handle her like that." My entire body felt loose and disconnected. Despite all that was happening, I started to feel blissful.
They weren't giving me any options, at least not any that I could capitalize on anymore, so I let them lead us down the stairwell. Sammy never stopped yelling into Chuck's hand. She put up one hell of a struggle. Watching him try to carry her down four flights of stairs as she squirmed in his arms must have struck me as hilarious, because I began to giggle. Whatever they gave me had quite a kick.
As we walked out the front door of the building, they steered us toward a large white van that sat at the curb. Chuck opened the back door and threw Sammy in. Jackie pushed me beside her. The three of them climbed in, Jackie taking the wheel, and we peeled away from the curb.
"I can't believe this! Ash, please tell me who these men are!" Samantha saw the dumbass smile on my face and turned her anger on me. "How can you smile at a time like this? These men abducted us!"
"You have the cutest dimples when you're mad," I said.
She looked at me as if I had gone completely insane, which wasn't a stretch at that point. Leaning close to my face, she examined my eyes.
"What did you do to him? His pupils are the size of a needle."
"The extent of his abilities remains a mystery to us. We had to utilize a high dosage. He'll be fine in a few hours," Smith said. His tone was so matter-of-fact he could have been reading baseball statistics. "I apologize for using such extreme measures, but certain safety protocols had to be maintained. You weren't our objective, but your proximity to Mr. Benson has endangered you."
"Abilities, dosage, objective? Speak English, asshole!"
"Here they come," Chuck said as he peered out the rear window.
The rest of us turned and looked out the window, seeing a white van slide to a stop in front of our building. A trapdoor opened on the top and a man rose out of it, waist high. He lifted a rocket launcher onto his shoulder and fired it through the window of my apartment.
The front wall of the building exploded outward, showering the street with bricks, wood, and what was left of my burning belongings. Most of Sammy's place burned as well.
"Holy shit!" Sammy screeched.
Two more men dressed in black climbed out of the van and ran into the building. They were armed from head to toe.
"I don't think they spotted us," Jackie said. He watched the action in the van's large mirror to his left.
My vision went in and out like a light bulb on a dimmer switch.
"That looked awesome," I said, my words slurring as the world swam before my eyes.
Chapter 5
Killing McArthur felt even better than it had in Murdock's dreams.
He wore a radiant smile as he looked into the security camera above the lobby doors of the Department of Defense Cyber Crime Center. The building was solid brick and had no distinguishing markings on it except for large numbers signifying its address. To the average passerby, it looked like any other office building. Murdock knew otherwise.
Every news station in the world buzzed with what they presumed was McArthur's suicide. The corners of Murdock’s grin faltered for a few moments as he wondered if he had gone too far. Considering his mission though, he understood that he hadn't gone far enough.
As pleasing as it had been to kill the senator, his ultimate desire was taking Smith apart. First he planned to have some fun though – let everyone know who the best was. He intended to dismantle every single facet of Smith's operation, one cog at a time.
His appearance had completely transformed. Long blonde hair blew across his shoulders, and a gnarly beard covered much of his face and neck. Concealed platform shoes added three inches to his height, completing the new look. Only his dead eyes remained the same.
Changing disguises had always been a part of the job he enjoyed, though he had only used them for covert reasons. He never expected to use the skill to instill fear. They would never know who he was until it was too late.
Shielding his eyes from the sun, he glanced at the top of the building. The smile melted from his face as he looked back into the security camera above the lobby doors.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little Smithy, how I wonder where you are."
Bodies fell from the sky all around Murdock, splattering the sidewalk with blood and gore.
Chapter 6
Most of the ride in the van was a blur to me. When my senses finally began to return I was on a lumpy bed, staring at a dirty popcorn ceiling that used to be white. My head throbbed, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat. Whatever they gave me was powerful as hell, and now I was paying the price.
Pulling myself up, I tried to get my eyes
to focus.
The rest of the room made the ceiling look like the Sistine Chapel. Two twin beds – I sat on the one closest to the door – were arranged in the middle of the room with ancient comforters covered in flowers atop them. I tried not to imagine what invisible stains they contained. In front of me sat an old tube TV, probably black and white, on a banged up dresser that needed to be put out of its misery. On my right, sitting at a small bistro table, were Smith and Chuck. Neither said a word, staring at me with a passive demeanor.
Beside them, in a chair by the head of my bed, sat a small black child. She concentrated on a laptop that looked cartoonish on her tiny legs. Her long straight hair was pulled up in pigtails that hung all the way down to her shoulders. She wore a t-shirt with the Powerpuff Girls on it; a pin stuck to the front said 'I heart Pirates'.
"You've graduated to kidnapping children now. Congratulations." My voice cracked as I spoke.
"Hey, fuck you buddy," the little girl said. "I'm 28."
Now I understood how Alice felt as she fell down the rabbit hole. Being abducted and drugged was surreal enough, but having a woman child cursing at me seemed ludicrous for some reason.
"Asher Benson, this is Nami Williams – she's a tech expert who will be assisting us temporarily," Smith said. "She's currently on loan from another department."
"Your name is Ash? ZOMG! Have you seen Army of Darkness?"
Nerds have been asking me that question since my childhood.
The door to the bathroom opened behind me and Sammy stepped out. When she saw me sitting up she rushed over, concern in her eyes.
"Ash, you're awake! Are you alright?"
"I feel like hammered shit. Things are still hazy, but I think I can function again," I said. "Please tell me that my apartment being blown apart was just a hallucination."
"It was not, Mr. Benson. As I said, you were in imminent danger." Smith spoke as if this were an everyday occurrence.
"Why the hell would someone shoot a rocket at my building? At me? I'm nobody, practically a hermit."