Severance Package

by Duane Swierczynski

  “You know who we work for,” Amy said.

  “No,” Nichole said, then swallowed. “I’m CIA.”

  If Nichole was expecting a look of surprise, she didn’t get it.

  “Well,” Amy said, “I’m not.”

  “I know. You’re CI-6.”

  “There is no CI-6.”

  “You’re right,” Nichole said. “After today.”

  “Look, forget this for now. What we have is a homicidal she-bitch out there, trying to kill us all.”

  “One of yours, no doubt,” Nichole said.

  “There are only two sides here. Hers and ours. Help me take care of her, we’ll sort this out later.”

  “Either you’re against the terrorist, or you’re with her.”

  “That’s funny.”

  Nichole thought it over. “What do you have in mind?”

  “There are at least two guns in here, right?”

  “Three. David’s, Molly’s, and my own.”

  “Ammo?”

  “Mine’s almost spent. I used two bullets on David’s hand. But Molly only used one, as far as I can tell.”

  “Then we go out there, flank her, then kill her. Jamie here can guard David.”

  Jamie, who had been listening to this exchange and trying to exact a single shred of sense from it, cleared his throat. “You know, um, this Jamie guy? He’s still in the room.”

  Nichole ignored him, and asked Amy, “Is he one of yours, too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He claims to be a civilian. Is he?”

  Amy looked at Jamie. “Yes. As far as I know.”

  “Wonderful.”

  On the floor, David started to place another food order. Burger King this time. Two Whoppers, extra onions, plenty of pickles, along with fries. He started murmuring about Burger King allegedly cooking the best-tasting fries of all the fast food chains, but that was bull, because none could hold a salt shaker to McDonald’s.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Amy asked.

  “You were there when he was shot in the head, weren’t you?”

  “I didn’t know that made you hungry.”

  Amy and Nichole eyed each other. They looked like two college students stuck in a group project who both clearly hated group projects.

  “I’m not sure about you and a gun,” Nichole said.

  “There’s two of us. One of her. It’s simple.”

  “You don’t understand. About thirty minutes ago, I fired six shots at her, point-blank, and they went through her like she was a ghost.”

  “She’s flesh and blood. She can be killed.”

  “Hey,” Jamie said. “You don’t need to kill anybody.”

  Nichole ignored him.

  “You even field-rated?” she asked Amy.

  “I can shoot.”

  “Hey!” Jamie shouted. “She’s our co-worker. She’s confused. She needs help. You can’t just go and kill her!”

  Had everyone gone insane? Why weren’t they even responding to him?

  Nichole sighed.

  “I can do this,” Amy said. “I have to do this. Even if I die doing it.”

  “Fine. We do this, we come back here for answers. If you cross me, you will die.”

  Amy knew death.

  Hanging upside down, it was easy to spot death.

  It was right there. Thirty-six stories below.

  Death was a city sidewalk.

  Or maybe death was the space between. Even after the fact, it was hard to decide.

  Obsessed with heights, Amy had read about the jumpers at the World Trade Center. Oh, so many hours fixed on the image of the infamous “Falling Man”—the anonymous human being who had leapt from one of the burning floors and had been captured by a photographer at a particular moment in time: 9:41:15 A.M. on September 11, 2001. In that moment, all looked strangely ordered, composed. The lines of the building, the lines of his body. One leg, tucked up slightly. The Falling Man looked like he was floating. Frozen in space, as if he were in complete control. If I just spread my arms and will it, I will stop falling. This, of course, wasn’t the truth.

  The more Amy read, the more she understood the true horror. The photograph, which appeared on the front pages of a dozen newspapers on the morning of September 12, 2001, was a piece of freak luck. Photographers were trained to look for symmetry, shapes. At that moment, the Falling Man was in perfect harmony with his surroundings. But the outtakes from the same sequence—snapped almost robotically—reveal the truth. There’s nothing symmetrical about falling to your death from a height like the 105th floor of the North Tower. It is a fast and horrific and chaotic death—death at 9.8 meters per second.

  That’s what death looked like.

  That’s what Amy Felton stared at for the better part of an hour.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. She had passed out for much of it.

  What brought her back was Ethan.

  He was alive in this building. She had no doubt about that. He was smart—so smart. He saw this coming somehow. Showed up to work, just like her, put his bag down, fired up his computer, but noticed something off. A little detail. Which was just like Ethan.

  Hanging upside down, she remembered going to the door before being distracted by Molly. Calling out to see if anyone (Ethan?) was there.

  It was Ethan behind that door. She knew it now.

  And she left him behind.

  Yes, death was there. Thirty-six floors below. But it wasn’t up here with her. Not yet.

  She was closer to Ethan than to death.

  Amy sucked in warm air and prepared to sit up, that’s it, just think of sitting up, just once, and grabbing hold of the window frame. You only have to grab it once. Pull yourself inside. Kill that murderous cunt. Find Ethan.

  Now, standing in the hallway with a gun in her hands, she was ready for the next part.

  CLEANUP

  Outstanding leaders go out of their way to boost the self-esteem of their personnel. If people believe in themselves, it’s amazing what they can accomplish.

  — SAM WALTON

  Down the hall, Amy saw a blur of motion. No. Not a blur.

  Molly.

  Amy squeezed the trigger. There was a spray of wood trim and drywall. Molly spun with the blast and bounced off the wall behind her, then dropped out of sight.

  “Get down!” Amy cried.

  They fell to the floor, guns pointed away from each other.

  “Think I got her.”

  “You sure?”

  “We need to look.”

  “I’ll do it,” Nichole said.

  She crawled on her hands and knees to the edge of the hallway. Glanced around the corner, then ducked her head back in.

  “I see legs.”

  “Molly?”

  “I think so. The woman up there is not wearing shoes. When I encountered Molly an hour ago, she didn’t have any shoes.”

  “That’s her, then.”

  “Whoever it is, I’m going to cripple her. A bullet in the ankle will slow her down. We stand up, flank her, it’s over.”

  “We need to kill her.”

  “No,” Nichole warned. “She has to answer for this.”

  Amy gave her a crooked smile. “You’re the CIA agent.” She said it in a tone that sounded more like, You’re the idiot.

  “That’s right,” Nichole said. “I am.”

  Nichole held up her gun, then flung herself into the hallway. Arm extended, lining up a shot. Looking for that leg. Looking for that piece of ankle.

  Instead of firing, she cursed.

  “What?” Amy whispered.

  Nichole pushed herself off the carpet and back to her original position. Amy didn’t need her to say anything, really. She knew what had happened.

  The legs were gone.

  Ania was lucky in a way. The bullet had passed straight through skin and muscle of her left shoulder. No bone. No joints. No place that couldn’t be endured, and later, repaired.

  But she was sp
ectacularly unlucky in that the bullet spun her and smashed her against the wall. Muscles that had already been in extremis now refused to function. She lay on the teal blue carpet, partially writhing in agony—this bullet hurt—and unable to execute a simple bodily command, such as: You must crawl away from this hallway—NOW.

  Someone out there in the hallway had a gun.

  Her guess was Amy.

  Oh, how she’d underestimated that woman.

  Amy Felton was a database warrior, an operations center soldier. There was no evidence she’d actually ever handled a gun before.

  But it was entirely possible she’d had years of field experience, under a different name, before taking a job with Murphy, Knox. In which case, Ania’s job became considerably more difficult.

  Flipped over on her belly, Ania was able to use her elbows and knees to clear the hallway in a matter of seconds. She rolled over into the assistants’ area, nudged the door closed as quietly as she could.

  This bought her a little time.

  Ania hated the assistants’ area. It was a multipurpose part of the office meant for transcribers, researchers, and other assorted temps. David hired based on a tit-to-hip ratio, as well as eyes. Men rarely set foot in the assistants’ area; the domain belonged to women David could conceivably fall into bed with easily and without future entanglement.

  Not that David ever did. Far as Ania could discern, he kept his office alliances limited, seeking release elsewhere in the city—usually from personal ads in the back of local alternative newsweeklies. She’d once found a ripped-out square of newspaper tucked in his DayMinder: “Let me swallow your Tastee Throat Yogurt.” There was a number printed on the ad. Someone—presumably David—had underlined it twice.

  Ania was glad she would be killing David later.

  But now it was Amy’s turn.

  The assistants’ area was utterly devoid of weapons. Used PCs sat on top of Formica cubicle desks. Roll-out chairs. Plastic wastebaskets. Ceramic coffee mugs emblazoned with MURPHY, KNOX: PROUD TO CALL THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE HOME … 5 YEARS RUNNING! Black plastic in-boxes. A wall of cork, painted pale blue, with pushpins grouped in one corner. A paper trimmer.

  A paper trimmer.

  Ania quickly examined the handle, the blade, the joint.

  Her left arm was useless for the moment.

  But her right …

  She flipped open a compartment on her wrist bracelet and produced a mini Phillips-head screwdriver. She immediately set to work.

  She could hear someone approaching.

  Nichole motioned to Amy: the assistants’ area. Amy nodded. There were two ways into the assistants’ area: the entrance closest to David’s office and another entrance near the central cubicles. Amy took the one near David’s office. Nichole covered the other.

  A thin trail of blood led to the door closest to Nichole.

  Molly was shot.

  Molly was bleeding.

  Molly was trapped.

  Molly was screwed.

  Ania loosened the fourth screw and flicked it away. The blade was heavy in her hands, the edge sharp. It would take effort to swing the blade with only one arm. But the exertion would be worth it: The weight of the steel would drive the edge even farther into whatever it encountered.

  Maybe a human neck.

  A face.

  They didn’t plan it, but Amy and Nichole opened both doors at the same time.

  First thing that moved, Amy decided, was getting shot to hell. Even though she had precious few bullets in her gun. But all she needed was one. One shot could flush out her quarry. And once she showed herself, Amy would wrap her hands around the bitch’s neck and squeeze and spit in her face until she …

  Ania heard footsteps to her left.

  And to her right.

  The ones to the left sounded closer.

  She held the heavy blade high.

  Stared at the carpet. Waited for a shadow to appear.

  Nichole used the classic two-hand stance, gun out in front, ready to blast away at anything hostile. This morning, Molly Lewis certainly qualified.

  She’d ducked away once before. She wouldn’t this time.

  Nichole was thinking about a particular button on Molly’s perfect white blouse. It gave her a target. The button that rested a few inches to the left of her heart. Aim for the button, drift right, then blast away. She fixated on that button.

  She fixated so much, she didn’t fully notice when something cold and wet lashed across her wrists.

  Ow.

  What had hit her hands?

  Oh God.

  No.

  Nichole staggered backwards.

  Where …

  … were her hands?

  Ania felt the gunmetal on the nape of her neck. Heard the click.

  “Freeze,” Amy said.

  Still another mistake, Ania realized. Up until a minute ago, she thought she only had one person stalking her. There had been two. Nichole Wise. And Amy Felton.

  Nichole had been easy—one swing. Now she was either in shock or busy searching the floor for her hands.

  But that had left Ania wide open.

  From behind.

  And Amy had taken full advantage.

  The blade in Ania’s hands was too heavy. By the time she swung it even a quarter of the way, Amy could blast her spinal cord to pieces.

  “Drop it.”

  Ania did. The floor of this part of the office, a shared workspace, was covered in linoleum. The heavy blade landed with a dull thud.

  “Hands above your head. Lock your fingers together.”

  Then, she called out, “Nichole? You with me?”

  This was all wrong. Somehow Nichole Wise survived her deathblow, and Amy Felton had overcome her fear of heights. Two more disappointments in a long string of them. Had they caught all of that on-screen? Nichole’s miraculous resurrection? Amy’s courageous climb?

  What were they saying now?

  It was unacceptable to kill someone only partway. With Amy Felton, it had been calculated. Nichole was different. Nichole was supposed to be dead. Ania should have gone for an insurance shot. But in that moment—when escape to the other office seemed paramount—it hadn’t been a priority. Nichole had stopped breathing, thanks to a paralyzing blow to her diaphragm. She should not have been able to draw another breath on her own.

  What were they saying about Ania now? Gun to her head, forced to surrender her weapon?

  “Let’s go,” Amy snarled, then grabbed the collar of Ania’s shirt, spun her around and pushed her forward, back in the direction where Amy had come from. A few feet down the hall, Amy gave her a violent push, and Ania’s head bounced off the drywall. Amy yanked back on Ania’s shirt, then pushed her forward again.

  “Move it,” Amy said. “You’ve got a date with a window, bitch.”

  Nichole leaned up against the nearest available wall, intending to ease herself down to the floor, nice and easy. Instead she stumbled. She tried to catch herself with her hands, but no. That couldn’t be right. Her arms usually had hands attached to them.

  Look. There was one. On the floor.

  The other was still attached.

  Sort of.

  Ania smiled.

  … smiled.

  Ah yes, Amy.

  Let’s go to your office.

  Let’s have a date.

  On the way to her office, Amy smashed Molly’s head against dry-wall three more times—which was impressive for a journey no more than a dozen feet. The third time, the wall actually shattered, paint chips and dust drizzling down to the carpet.

  Amy’s office door was slightly ajar. Amy knew she had closed it tight when she had escaped. She hadn’t wanted to tip Molly off.

  “Why is my door open?”

  “Your boyfriend’s waiting for you,” Molly said, then turned to offer her profile. A crooked creek of blood ran down from her hairline. Her lips were curled into a tight little smile.

  Amy pushed Molly’s head forward so
that it slammed on her door, which had the curious effect of both punishing Molly and causing the door to open all the way.

  A second later, Amy wished it hadn’t.

  Ethan was perched behind her desk, his hands hanging—palms up—off the metal arms of her chair. The delirious smile on his face would have caused Amy’s soul to leap, if the smile didn’t look so … unnatural.

  “Ethan?”

  Ohgod.

  Ethan couldn’t be …

  Ania dropped to the ground, then swept Amy’s legs. Amy’s face hit wall. The gun tumbled out of her hand.

  Those sixteen miserable floors of hauling Ethan Goins up the fire tower were suddenly worth every step.

  Look at her suffer.

  Ania fixed her blouse the best she could, then walked over to Amy’s desk and snatched a pile of Kleenex from a box that was adorned with sunflowers. Stopping the bleeding was key. Lose too much and she’d become light-headed. She needed to finish off Amy, then David, then talk to Jamie. It was almost over.

  But Amy was up a lot faster than Ania had predicted.

  “I’m going to hurt you,” she said, spitting blood from her lips.

  Quickly, Ania ran through her mental repertoire. What hadn’t she used yet? What could she do to impress the men at the other end of the fiber-optic camera? How could she save this abortion of a morning?

  Amy lunged forward.

  Nichole had only one idea in her head: Crawl back to the conference room and do something indescribably nasty to David to force him to reveal the lockdown code. Ideally she needed a torture she could accomplish with little strength, because she didn’t know how long she was going to last. And something she could do with no hands. Maybe she could crush his face with her heels.

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at her severed wrists. She could feel her remaining hand there, hanging by what felt like the thinnest strand of flesh. She knew it wasn’t good. Knew she was losing more blood than she should.

  Didn’t matter. She would crawl with two good knees. Crawl faster than she was losing blood.

  No, she couldn’t.