‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ Mooney says cupping the mouth piece.
Lane raises her gun. ‘Answer the question.’
‘Byzantine Candor was a ruse,’ Sparks says reaffirming his suspicions.
‘Black blackmailed Pascal to do what your were supposed to do,’ Masen says.
‘I’m bored Masen.’ Pulls back the trigger. ‘I won’t ask again.’
‘Lip-reading,’ Masen says rushing the words. ‘I saw them arguing in Pascal’s office.’
Lane’s look says ‘smart cookie got his landlord killed.’ Flicks her hair turning to Sparks, Bradbury and Pak and bends her head quizzically and she twists cat-like to one side studying her pry; a smirk shows her satisfaction, places hand on hip letting her gun flop to one side.
‘I’m proud of you, Jessica,’ Lane says. ‘Go girl.’
Masen focuses on Bradbury as Lane toys with her, unable to do anything, but wanting to do something.
‘I mean if I,’ places a hand on her heart, ‘went through what you went through in that horrid country.’ Makes eye contact with Pak. ‘I would have done the descent thing and died.’
Masen signals Sparks by moving eyes from side-to-side. Sparks shrugs his shoulders ever so slightly, so as to not arouse suspicion. He doesn’t understand. Masen sighs and purses lips then looks at the processors then back to Sparks.
‘Oh.’
‘Enough!’ Mooney says finished hearing the report from the inspection team. ‘Understood.’ And puts down the phone. ‘Scrambled. Insides are outside, and the outsides, well, who knows where they ended up.’
‘That’s it then,’ Nash says. ‘We need to recalibrate the machines, back at—’
‘A hiccup is all,’ Mooney says. ‘If the US alone has the technology it destabilizes the entire world. I’m just bringing things back on an even keel, for a small fee.’
‘And killing innocent people,’ Nash says.
‘A woman, a few snake eyes, three scientists, some mobsters.’ Mooney counts each life on a finger and gives up after five. ‘A small price to pay. We’ve sacrificed many times that for a lot less.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Nash says. ‘How will you get away with it?’
‘You knew,’ Mooney says. ‘You just didn’t want daddy to take away your toys.’ And turns to look at everyone. ‘We don’t do anything other than complete the test. Plenty of fresh meat about…No, we continue until we get it right.’
Bradbury hardens her face. ‘There’s not a descent bone in your body.’
‘You didn’t talk like that to me at university.’ Lane grins and waves the gun around as if it were a fan. ‘You had that intolerable spoilt brat air about you. You were so…so pleased to help. The way you paraded your perfect life.’
Stunned, Bradbury didn’t recognize her abductor straight away. Her bottom lip turns up, feels a dam of tears getting ready to break. The reason for all the horrors her body and soul went through. Tears drip down her cheek, lip quivers and she collapses into Pak’s arms.
There is a subtle stirring sound in the cooling bottles and a fog starts weeping from the containers, blind to everyone except Masen and Sparks.
‘An unarmed woman, a dog, how sick are you lady?’ Masen yells to get her attention. Lane turns, her gun tenses by her side.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Mooney says. ‘There is plenty of work to do.’
Sparks moves a finger slowly over to the controls.
‘Yes!’ Masen says looking at Sparks, then to mask his not so subtle message. ‘…No need to wave the gun around.’
We’re all going to die, Spark thinks.
It has come to the moment Masen thought about back in the shower. If he could recognize the moment to take charge, would he have the guts to act first, to land the first punch.
‘The landlord, I warned her,’ Lane says. ‘I asked her not to scream, but she didn’t listen…and that damn dog.’
‘Dana or Amanda?’ Masen says buying time. The marks under Amanda made on the napkin. ‘You slept with my boss, then he killed himself.’
Her eye twitches as she rolls her head. ‘Horrible business we’re in, people get hurt.’ And with an inquiring look points the gun in front of her face as if it’s an extension off her hand then looks up and to her left, mockingly thinking hard.
A cell phone rings in the Mooney’s pocket. As he answers, Lane raises her gun and points it towards Nash and Masen, taking turns aiming between their eyes, making a popping shape with her mouth, then swings it over at Pak, Bradbury and Sparks, and does the same.
Pak is cradling Bradbury on the ground.
‘Maybe I’ll send Jessica through first,’ Mooney says flipping closed his cell.
This is it, Masen thinks.
‘You’re a tough man Mooney,’ Masen says. ‘How about you go first. Then again, maybe the computer can’t handle an oxymoron.’
Masen calculates his chances. The distance to the black room, the time it will take to cover the distance, the angle of the gun, timing and likelihood of success. It ends in disaster, the chances of surviving aren’t any better than staying. But aren’t any worse.
‘Better get the settings right.’ Mooney ignores Masen. ‘No, you’ll go first, Nash. Nothing like an incentive to force a favorable outcome. I’ll still have Masen to oversee the test. It might take them a while to mop you up though. More meat to process than a chicken.’
Masen’s heart pounds. He squeezes his hands shut as his body prepares.
‘I’ll go,’ Masen says. ‘Instead of Peter, I'll go.’ And looks at Sparks who nods ever so slightly.
‘Why?’ Mooney asks.
‘Adventure. The first human to teleport. I’ll be…famous.’
‘This is madness,’ Nash says.
‘War is mad Professor,’ Mooney says. ‘And we’re already in the middle of one. The weapons aren’t bullets and tanks, and there’s no front line. We’re at war with some 13-year-old kid, in god only knows shit-hole of a country who inserts malware in our infrastructure, or launches a denial of service attack on the Defence Department’s network using mommy’s laptop in between playing online games and watching porn, stuffing his face with junk food and complaining about why he’s not the most popular kid at school.’
Fog swells out from the tanks and starts lapping around their legs. Nash notices but doesn’t say a word.
‘I don’t think so Slick,’ Lane says.
‘That one went straight to your guts, right?’ Mooney says. ‘No. I gave my word I’d throw her a few bones to clean her teeth with.’
And we all die here anyway.
‘And that’s why you broke into the apartment. You thought I had something.’
‘Not that it matters now, but yes. Black thought you had something connecting Lane to our operation.’
‘So you are working with Black?’
‘If we were Facebook friends, the relationship would be complicated.’
Fog swells and the temperature is dropping fast and the humming sound is somewhat masked by Bradbury’s sobbing. Sparks loops his eyes and points at the box with his finger.
Conscious of his breathing, Masen squeezes his hands and exhales, adrenalin courses through his veins as he tells himself over and over to go, willing himself to run. However, his body refuses to budge. His legs feel the weight of concrete.
‘She twitched,’ Lane taunts, ‘You’re landlord. I kicked her dying twitching leg as she reached for me.’
Like a fuse falling silent as it retreats into a firecracker only to explode in your face as you pick it up, Masen bursts forward, pushing Nash back hard to gain extra spring and kicks the legs from under Lane as he turns and runs for his life. Towards hope, towards destruction, towards the darkness. And as he runs, he thinks of his parents leaving, Mr Jones chasing him down the stairs, of his car, the dead agent, De Luca, his dog, Pascal, and the building. They all chase him, hands desperately grabbing at his c
lothes, trying to pull him back.
Mooney hesitates, thinking there’s no escape, then realizes the experiment has been turned on. Raises his gun. Lane fumbles on the ground and watches Masen run towards the room only to disappear into the mist that engulfs her.
Masen expects to be shot any moment. He looks ahead, only ahead. Death or salvation.
On or off.
One or zero.
Nothing.
Mooney’s gun is heavy. The barrel lifts and points at the base of Masen’s spine as Sparks hand touches the button. Not taking his eyes off Masen even for a split second, not blinking. Sparks assumes it isn’t designed to be pressed for immediate effect, allows the smallest fraction of a second before Masen arrives in the target area.
Mooney watches the very last threads of fabric disappearing into the darkness and fires. The trigger squeezed a fraction of a second after Sparks presses the button. The whomp noise climaxes as the blast echoes around the building.
Masen closes his eyes. He dies.
‘I can’t see a damn thing.’ Mooney throws a chair aside. Orders Lane. ‘Stop him from damaging any equipment.’
‘Masen!’ Lane pushes into the mist and stands, wipes her shirt with bursts of fury and shakes her shoulders putting the indignant fall behind her.
Mooney’s rage intensifies marching over to Sparks and points the gun to his head. ‘Do that shit again son and you’ll be permanently discharged.’
Sparks grunts and topples to the ground with a brutal knee to his stomach. The gun pushing hard against his temple. Nods in the clicking echo of the gun’s hammer being cocked. Clutches himself and squirms on the ground.
Nash recognizes Mooney’s angry tirade but does nothing, says nothing righting himself up.
Lane moves towards the room, trying to see and hear for Masen and soon feels disorientated as the darkness fills her vision. She starts shivering and feels her skin dissolving.
Retreats.
Bang.
‘Did you kill him?’ Mooney asks.
Bradbury and Pak feel each other flinch.
‘Don’t know,’ Lane says loudly. ‘I can’t see and my skin’s burning.’ She forces her eyes to see anything.
Sparks cowers away from the gun but Mooney keeps pressure. ‘… I teleported him.’
‘Last chance Masen before I empty the magazine,’ Lane says then kicks and waves her hand about.
Mooney eases off the trigger. ‘Probably a twelve piece KFC meal with mashed potato and gravy.’
‘We should send someone to find out,’ Lane says wiping hair from her face.
‘I’m sure he made it,’ Pak whispers in Bradbury’s ear then looks to Sparks.
38
Boston
Bozeman searches the ambulance for something to eat, leans over and looks in the glove box. Nothing. Lifts the center console, thrusts in his hand then checks the doors and peers down to the floor of the front passenger side for a lunchbox. Nothing. While he still feels a tingle from the two beers he had back in the apartment, he hasn’t had a thing to eat for hours. ‘Should have grabbed cold pizza in the fridge back at the house,’ he concedes and finds a piece of gum under a pen and throws it in his mouth. Then scans through radio frequencies for any news about the shooting.
The gum’s softness reminds him of Rodriguez’s carotid artery as he lightly pressed his neck for a pulse, but Rodriguez was dead. The trauma to his temple would have killed him instantly.
Reports come over the radio. There is chaos downtown. Crowd control is a headache. Rescue and emergency personnel fair no better as repeated requests for help are met with a dispatch scrambling to cope. Doesn’t hear anything about the murder.
‘You still with us Tagan?’ Bozeman asks turning his head. A report filters. Bozeman turns up the volume. ‘Affirm…building at Technology Square is in lockdown…terror suspect in parking lot still at large.’ And listens unsuccessfully for anything relating to the killing of the guard. Thinks, how can I warn them about their rat problem. And turns his head back to the road. He takes the turn-off to Concord Turnpike.
Tagan braces as the ambulance lurches to the side. ‘There’s no hospital this way,’ he says placing a steadying hand on Coffey.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ Bozeman searches for cruise control so he can rest his foot. ‘Just look after him and leave the medical staff to me.’ Finds it and sighs as tension eases in his foot. The ambulance cutting a lone soundtrack and light spectacle through North Cambridge. He takes out the syringe in his pocket and stabs it into his stomach.
‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ Tagan says. ‘He needs to be in a hospital, now.’
Bozeman catches Tagan’s eye. ‘You think we’re behind what happened back there?’
‘You stole an ambulance, held hostages. You expect me to believe you’re not behind the attack?’
Bozeman giddies his head. ‘…Well yes. But…it’s complicated.’
‘All gang-bangers are innocent. Apparently they were just walking down the street and someone shoots at them.’
Bozeman takes out the bottle, unscrews the lid and pops two tablets in his mouth and crunches. ‘Fair enough.’ Takes several labored breaths. ‘The man you’re helping is Special Agent Ray Coffey, Army Counterintelligence. His partner was killed in the explosion.’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘You’re on the army’s books now.’
‘You’re insane—’
‘Probably.’
‘You let Gerald and the woman go.’ The tone, questioning.
‘Yeah, funny second name don’t you think?’ Bozeman says. ‘I mean, a first name the same as a surname. I knew a guy at school called Blake Blakes, all the kids thought it was hilarious. Teased that poor bastard all day.’ And dips his head to see all of Hascom Air Force Base up ahead.
Sirens fall silent, leaving only flashing lights as the ambulance turns off the road and slows over a small rise before making a right onto the main road connecting Hascom Air Force Base. The ambulance catches the eye of two office workers leaning against a salmon colored wall, smoking in its shadow. They briefly turn their heads and turn back to each other, stub out their cigarettes on the gravel and vanish back through a side door.
On the other side of the road, the Sixty-Sixth Medical Squadron’s facilities fall away. It’s a blow they don’t have adequate facilities to deal with Coffey’s injuries otherwise he could drop him off and leave.
‘There it is.’ Bozeman spots the helipad. ‘Up ahead on the right.’ And turns his head to the main entrance to Boston Med Flight a few hundred feet away to his left.
Tagan is briefed on the plan, sketchy as it is, and protests for what it’s worth. ‘You have no idea what you’re doing,’ he says.
‘Trust me,’ Bozeman says, ‘and do as you’re told.’ The gun raising enough so Tagan can see it.
A Sikorsky S76 helicopter and two gray and blue critical care transports lay idle on the field. A pilot walking inspecting his helicopter, helmet tucked under an arm, stops, places it on the ground and unscrews an inspection point on the fuel tank.
The ambulance lurches over a lip connecting the grassed area and road. The pilot turns and places a hand in his hip pocket and extracts a packet of cigarettes and after walking a few feet lights up. He walks over to the side door of a transport and slaps it. It slides open and reveals a medic, a woman, sitting down in a flight suit zipped down to her waist and a stethoscope draped across her shoulders. She looks up from reading a book. An annoyed look on her face, and gestures as much to the pilot.
‘Be cool,’ Bozeman explains adjusting the rearview mirror. ‘Let me handle the pleasantries.’ Deliberately presents his side of the ambulance towards the pair.
Bozeman doesn’t see any other personnel in the immediate area as the ambulance makes a slow turn. Hand dangles out the window, the other holds the gun. A friendly grin. The pilot strides over, occasionally puffing smoke to one side.
‘And what’s this suppose to be? We’re not scheduled to transport anyone.’
‘Hell, I’m hearing you.’ Bozeman rubs his forehead. ‘Downtown.’ Makes a casual what-do-you-do look. ‘Didn’t expect this today to be completely frank with you.’
The pilot takes a sustained drag, squints and exhales.
‘That’ll kill you,’ Bozeman says.
The pilot lifts the cigarette and looks at it, then stabs it back to the paramedic. ‘That’s what the doc tells me.’
‘Not cancer sticks,’ Bozeman says then lowers his head to the barrel sitting on window frame. ‘This little squealer.’
The helicopter’s transponder is picked up by air traffic control at Westover Air Reserve Base. A sergeant makes a small mark on his screen; soon to be wiped clean once the aircraft passes. However, the civilian helicopter makes a sudden starboard turn towards the air exclusion zone.
‘Yee ha!’ Bozeman yells white-knuckling the helicopter’s door handle. ‘Fly it like you stole it.’ Engine whines and blades yell in protest as the helicopter shudders and shakes in a shallow descent.
‘This is dangerous,’ the pilot says as he fights years of training, command hours and muscle memory to make the helicopter behave like it’s having an epileptic fit. ‘Helicopters don’t behave like this if there’s an engine failure.’
‘Keep it up sunshine. This crazy palm tree does.’ Bozeman needs this to be convincing so they don’t get shot out of the sky. ‘Patch this through to the control tower “We’re suffering a catastrophic mechanical failure.”’
The pilot repeats the words.
‘Roger,’ the air traffic control officer at Westover Air Reserve Base replies watching his screen, then relays to his colleague: ‘I have an unauthorized helicopter declaring mayday, four miles, heading 142. Mechanical failure.’
The controller initially thinks it’s an unscheduled drill, raises the alarm and calls for an intercept. The pilot doesn’t respond to radio instructions not to enter the restricted airspace.
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