by Brian Cody
Director Grant’s eyes widened. His recorded voice crashed through his mind and caused him to recall the day and then the hour when he made that call. He looked up and around the table as that message ended, and he cleared his throat. “Sterling was good at adjusting to new technologies, but for whatever reason he never checked”—a sharp click sounded from the phone, directing him to it as it loaded the next file.
Scott, sorry I haven’t been able to return your calls, and, yes, you’re pressing the right button to dial. I’ve been swamped in paper work since the DOJ is sticking me with some brat from Texas. They say he’s decent. I don’t know; we’ll find out. His contact’s barely seventeen, some sharpshooter, they say. They keep getting younger, eh? Anyhoo, call me when you’re available…
Scott, it’s me, Arthur; I was just informed of some plan to bring a bunch of your kind together; to form a team or something. The fiery kid, how’d you pronounce his name? ‘Gerica’? They want him a-part of it, but they haven’t told him. They’re going to tell his contact and his handler in another month or so. You’ll be officially briefed in a few days. See ya when I see ya. P.S. I heard you’ve been assigned by the DOJ on those murders along the border; they caused by gifteds or something?
“I remember that one”, Director Grant spoke as the message ended. “Sterling was the one who helped pick you all out. He gave recommendations_”
Scott, it’s me; I saw your notes on the group’s files. Sorry, that’s all we have on Bryen; we don’t know much about him, but he’s got a pretty lengthy record and an okay streak. You say you met this Piekarsky’s father once? We haven’t seen his abilities yet. I suppose his dad’s taught him well to keep them hidden. See ya when I see ya. P.S. how goes that murder case; I couldn’t get you much info. Ironclad wouldn’t say a word about anything—like he was spooked; can you believe it? The murderer-for-hire was spooked! I’ll send you my official report.
“Some of this information”, Director Grant spoke to David, “some of it is pretty sensitive. I’m talking nearing the level of national security. I have top secret clearance, and I was coming in late to the game when I was informed of this stuff. I’m glad that you all were able to find this, but I don’t like that it’s been insecure for all this time at Sterling…at Scott’s house, and I’d prefer that it weren’t left on a civilian smartphone.”
“Once this is done, we’ll send it all to you, erase it from B’s phone, and keep it in your hands”, David replied. “We understand the depth, but there are just a few more audio files before we get our point across.”
Scott!—that time, Director Grant’s voice bordered towards a roar.
Scott! Holy s***, I had him. He was right there. It wasn’t perfectly orchestrated, but I had him, Scotty! Then that Gerica-son-of-a-b**** swooped in, beats his thugs to the ground, saves his life, and doesn’t have a f***in’ scratch on him! They’re all like that, aren’t they!? I spent my entire career…! Anyhoo…—with only a gasp, Director Grant’s voice mellowed—call me back when you can; let me know how that case is going. P.S. I heard from the grapevine that you know some more about these suits the guards was wearing; that’s all the CIA would tell me.
Director Grant glared at the phone, as if recalling those memories and that rage which had frothed within his voice. As he was still with his hands cupped, Erik looked to him, his gaze also widened, but his posture unchanged.
Scott…so you came across my name in your investigation a few times? Well guess what; I’m a f***ing FBI agent; of course you came across me. I don’t know what s*** you’re trying to pull, but it ain’t workin’. Of course they know about me! They fear me! Do you know whom I caught? Do you—that’s it, isn’t it! That’s what you’re tryin’ to do? Tryin’ to remind me of my failure? That’s the game you and your kind like to play, huh? Well, good riddance; all’s well that f***ing ends well. If you need anything—depends; prunes; aspirin—leave a message.
Director Grant looked away from the phone, his expression frigid, almost unreadable, and illuminated by the vessels on his hairline. With his concealed rage unbound, he ignored the gazes of those sitting on either side of him, and he, instead, looked to David, who looked back with his expression plain and his breaths easy. “That’s enough”, he muttered as he pulled his arms off of the table—nudging his mason jar in the process—and slid them to his sides. David looked to the phone.
Scott, how many years have I known you? Huh? Thirty years? You can’t just abandon me like this. I know what I’m doing. I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m not letting it all go to waste. I got it all figured out. I hear you’re closing in on your little case. Call me as soon as possible. I can provide you back-up.
“I said enough!” Director Grant roared as he slammed his fists along the table’s edges. None of those onlooking seven flinched, only turning to David as Director Grant rubbed his face. “David, that”—Arthur wiped a sheet of perspiration from his forehead—”that, more than anything else that you’ve played, and, I’m assuming, that you’ve listened to—that’s classified; part of an ongoing case that I’m not even completely informed of.”
“One more thing”, Lamback called. “There’s one more thing that needs to be played. Then the messages and even the phone—they’re yours, sir.”
“Director, if I might speak, he left you a message.” Director Grant spun to Erik, whose arms were crossed and whose posture had been tilted back. “We’re not sure why. Maybe he wanted this to get to you, or maybe he pressed the wrong button and thought he was calling you, but it’s his voice this time.” Arthur Grant locked eyes with Erik, before smirking and turning to Bryen’s phone.
This isn’t Arthur, this is Scott—began a meandering, grating voice—If you’re listening to this, then I’ve left the right clue, or you followed a good hunch, or this is some God-brought miracle and you’re that team they was talkin’ about. I thought some random English quote would catch the attention of the one guy and allow you to unlock my computer, but enough of that; I was never good at complicated plans—There was a thirty second pause as Sterling Blue breathed, while his rocking chair squeaked—I can’t trust Arthur anymore; something’s happened and something’s going to happen. I can feel it in my bones. It’s gonna be big. I think I’ve uncovered something, but I’m not one hundred percent. Arthur might have caught onto it too, but, again, do not trust him. I don’t know how much he knows, and I don’t know where his allegiances lie anymore. He’s not that determined and strong-willed agent I met thirty years ago… I’m heading out now, and, if what I’ve gathered so far is any clue, I’m probably not coming back.
The file ended in a double-click—perhaps the tapping of Sterling Blue’s mouse—along with another squeal from his chair, as if he were standing, as if he were days, perhaps hours, or perhaps minutes from his fate. As Bryen’s phone dimmed, all eyes angled towards Arthur Grant. The director looked at the table, not with frigidity, anger, or irritation; instead, solemnity as he dragged his hands across the tabletop and let them plop by his sides. He raised his head, his eyes glowing with wonder, and his jaw loosening. He seized, with his lips shaping into a smirk. He repeated the tensing motion and then leaned, his face brightening as his smile widened. He cackled.
“What?” he laughed as he looked up. “What is this? Is this a prank? Some initiation between Igneous students—‘frame a guy for murder’? You had me there, and I like how you played that clip at the end of our actual messages. Well done, I’m impressed; I truly am!” He breathed and then looked to Lamback, whose face was barren. “David…David Lamback”, he began with a smile, “you can’t do this to me; you can’t let them do something like that. It might not be apparent yet, but I’m starting to get old. My heart won’t be able to take jokes like that_”
“There’s not enough for an arrest warrant; otherwise, we probably would’ve taken this to the attorney general first”, Lamback began as he reared back. “But, at the very least”, he continued as he crossed his arms, “they deserve some
answers: Sterling Blue’s murder, Erik’s attacker, and Piekarsky’s, B-money’s, and Shawn’s attack.”
Arthur Grant’s smile sank and then vanished, while his eyes dimmed. Once more, his face paled as he scanned those seven. He lifted his left with a gradual and shivering rise, and then, with the bottoms of his eyes watering, he pulled at his forehead. “Bryen”, he moaned as he rested his head in the his left.
Bryen shook and glanced around the room before looking to Director Grant; however, he found him staring at the table.
“How’s your sense of smell?” Arthur mumbled. “We weren’t sure how augmented that sense was compared to your others.” Arthur lifted his head, his fingers sliding past his dulled eyes as he scanned the table, looked to David, and then glanced to Bryen. “Have you noticed it? That my breath doesn’t smell like Scotch? Have you wondered…if I’m creating a ruse by carrying this glass around…? An intoxicated façade so you would let your guards down? Did that cross your mind?”
A screech followed—an earsplitting ring that drove Bryen to squint, and drove him to follow that sound as it rushed under the table and towards the table’s foot. Six of those seven jumped back—but David jolted forward, his lips burgeoning and his eyes widening as he pushed his chair out and then slapped his forehead onto the table’s edge. He reared back and howled as he lifted his right leg and slammed his hands around the base of a syringe which had drilled through his kneecap, and which, within its vesicle, drained a transparent, lime-green liquid.
“Dave!” Erik coughed, “what_?” He spun to Director Grant, who stared back, his face straightened, and his right hand resting along the tabletop and angling a platinum-colored, oblong gun the size of a large pistol. Erik inhaled, and Arthur squeezed. Another ring followed as pressurized gases expelled a green-filled syringe towards Erik’s chest. Erik saw it—it was blinding to normal human eyes but not comparable to the speed of a low-caliber bullet—he saw it, and he tensed, but by the time he thought to evade, it was a foot from his chest. He tightened, but then was jerked to the right as Bryen rammed into him and pushed off. Erik watched as he was thrust towards the floor, and that needle, instead, moved for the top of Bryen’s right shoulder. It gored, jolting Bryen and loosing a torturous wave as he collapsed over Erik.
Arthur then spun to the opposite end of the table, stood, aimed, and squeezed. A third whistle sounded, and a third projectile speared into the top of Shawn’s left thigh as he jumped back. Shawn fell, and Arthur looked to Lamback, who yanked out a service Glock from his left leg, flipped the safety, aimed, and fired. A bullet exploded from the chamber, double the speed of the syringes, but as it drew towards his head, Arthur tensed and bowed to the left, with the projectile smacking into the wall.
Lamback stepped back as he gazed at the bullet hole marking the wall, and he stepped again as he failed to recall Arthur’s evasion. He aimed at the director, but, by the time he could lock onto Arthur’s outstretched right arm, another dart was fired. Lamback grunted, then gagged as his windpipe was pierced. He looked down, but found his head impeded by the container. He tried to breathe, but his inhalation shuttered and then broke as that same liquid poured into his lungs.
As Lamback collapsed, Arthur aimed at Nate. He squeezed, and a fifth dart was fired, but Nate stumbled and jabbed an electric surge that incinerated the syringe; yet, that boiling mass flashed into multicolored flames that drove him to cover his head. Before the following smoke could dissipate, a sixth shot sounded, and, as Nate looked up, that syringe pierced the smoke and stabbed the center of his right bicep.
Nate stumbled, and Arthur turned, Nate collapsed, and Arthur looked to Turrisi, the young gunman a stride from plowing into Arthur’s side. Arthur humphed as Turrisi pushed off, and, with a backhand too swift for Turrisi to perceive, Arthur slammed his gun-holding right against the side of Turrisi’s head and swatted him against the wall. Turrisi slid to the floor, his face swelling as he plunged from consciousness. Arthur breathed before looking at his hand and watching as the material to his sweater stretched to cover his wrist and, in a silent creep, to enshroud his fingers. The fabric then evened out to a smoother texture and then darkened as blotches of charcoal-grey ballooned along its surface, combined, and marched up his arm with a wave of yellow energy.
Arthur spun to the nearest end of the table, towards Erik, who pulled himself from under Bryen’s unconscious form and locked onto his katana in front of his seat. Arthur lifted his firearm, outstretched his grey-clad arm, and clenched every muscle in that limb. A brass eruption sounded from his grip as two objects were ejected. As the objects, side by side, cleared the table, Erik squinted to concentrate his gaze, and, as he perceived their target—his chest—Erik lifted his left and closed. “Wait!” he gasped as he found the objects to be only two needles, bearing no containers, but being attached to metal wires extending not from Arthur’s firearm, but the top of his wrist. Erik started to open his hand and to drop those needles as Arthur tensed, but Erik’s grip and his reaction were overwhelmed by an electric surge speeding through his frame.
Erik roared as he seized, his cry being stifled as his muscles underwent bruising contractions. He collapsed, but kept from falling as he grabbed his knees with his numbing hands. “Not as powerful as what Mr. Klinge is capable of”, Arthur began as he opened his grip to retract those wires, “But, if directed at the right portions of the body, it can prove highly effective.” Arthur dropped the dart gun, motioned his wrist, and shot the needles at Erik’s chest.
“It was actually_!?” Another surge erupted through Erik and drove him to convulse on his back. “Director Grant_!”
“‘Why?’” Arthur interjected as he walked around the table’s corner, the yellow energy having moved across his shirt to create the top portion of the same grey outfit Erik had battled against. “That’s what you wanted to ask”, Arthur continued, his right outstretched to keep the needles in Erik’s chest. “Erik, you can’t honestly_”—Arthur gasped, his head shaking from side to side as he became flush. “Why!?” he bellowed as he squeezed again, causing Erik to writhe and to turn. “Decades!” Arthur exclaimed as he flailed his left, “I spent decades, wasted millions, sacrificed good men, and made bargains with the scum of society—with murderers, molesters, slave traders—the vile and sickly worms who deserve the deepest pits of hell—I let them go with a ‘get out of jail-free’ pass for information on Richie, and then you prance along, Erik; and you do in minutes, what took me decades to fail at! I was half-a-f***ing mile from you! I put all of my life’s work into stopping him, and I was right there! I could’ve retired with renown for capturing one of this country’s most longstanding criminals; but then you came along, you and the rest of your godhood-endowed kind, and you tore it all—glory; immortality; closure—from my grasp!”
“I_” Erik gagged as his eyes closed, “I was…” his voice extended into a slur as he became limp.
“No matter”, Arthur replied as he retracted the wires into his sleeve. He turned while his pants and his shoes were consumed by that yellow light and transmuted into the charcoal-grey body-suit, and he grabbed Turrisi by his legs. With his face once more drained of emotion, Arthur grabbed Erik’s katana and Erik by his collar, while stepping past Erik’s and Turrisi’s convulsing teammates, and stopped at the front door of his office. “For any of you exiting the semiconscious haze and, therefore, able to hear me”, he called. “Don’t fret; the effects are only temporary…for most of you.” He opened the door with the thumb of his right, and, with Erik and Turrisi dragged behind him, exited.
***
Shawn gagged and wheezed as he opened his eyes and rolled off of his right side. With the return of his senses, he scanned the room and looked to his left to find Nate shaking along the floor. Shawn spun to his right and found David across from him, leaning over his outstretched right leg with both hands around the syringe protruding from his kneecap. Beyond David and reclining along the far wall was Lamback, his eyes also opened, but his face pale and his
breaths slow as he looked forward, rarely blinking with dilated pupils. Through the spaces between the scattered chairs, Shawn could see Bryen, rolling onto his front and trying to push up with his arms. Bryen gained an inch of space between the carpet and his torso, but the harder he pushed, the harder he shook, and, before he could gather enough room to drag his knees under his body, he collapsed.
“Piekarsky”, Shawn gasped as he looked to David holding his breath and glaring at his syringe. David closed his grip and pulled, and a network of vessels jutted from his skin as his torso firmed and his left leg convulsed. The needle budged after twenty seconds, rose an inch after thirty, and, as David exhaled, was extracted in a sharp tug. “Piekarsky, what…?” Shawn called as David collapsed, the syringe falling from David’s fingers. Shawn looked to Lamback yanking an identical point from his throat, with a stream of blood squeezing between his fingers and sliding down his shirt. Shawn then looked to the back of the room where Bryen lay on his left side and pulled at his own dart. “What happened?” Shawn moaned as he looked at his chest, his stomach, then his legs, where he found his dart protruding from the top of his left. “Oh shoot!”
He grabbed the item with both hands, looked away, and yanked the needle from his thigh. He held it, and, as he breathed, examined it. The capsule, which looked like it could have held about three ounces, was empty. The needle itself was less than three inches in length and serrated with hundreds of points spiraling up its sides. “What did he hit us with?” he asked as he looked around and found Nate stirring.
“I don’t know”, David groaned as he turned to Shawn, “but I feel like crap…like I’m on fire…” he continued. “B-money”, he grunted as he looked to Bryen once more attempting to balance on his knees.