Exit Wounds

by Aaron Fisher

  The corridors of M.I.T. were still very busy as the guard marched Paul to the toilets. Although, everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction and it was the opposite way to where Paul was headed.

  Paul pushed open the door to the toilets and then looked over his shoulder as the guard went to follow. “You wanna shake my cock when I’m done as well?”

  The guard scowled but turned and rested his back flat against the wall next to the door.

  Paul strolled around the toilet room, searching for a way out. The windows were high up against the ceiling but even if Paul managed to reach them, they were far too small for him to squeeze through and he was several floors up anyway.

  He went into the nearest of the two cubicles and stepped onto the seat, climbing on top of the cistern. He pushed up with both hands and slid one of the ceiling tiles aside. Paul pulled himself up and looked around. Unfortunately the walls went right up through the ceiling to the next floor and he’d only be able to climb around above this room.

  Paul lowered himself down with a sigh. The only means of escape was to take out the guard.

  Typical.

  He should have let him come in with him after all. It was much easier to deal with him off the crowded corridors. Paul stood up and made to leave the cubicle, still unsure of his next move. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

  . . . .

  The guard frowned, curiously as Paul opened the toilet door and popped his head round.

  “Hey,” Paul grimaced. “I’m really sorry. But you had better get someone to come look at this.”

  “Look at what?” the guard asked, confused.

  Right on cue, water started flowing out of from underneath the door. The guard jumped back as it spilled round his shoes.

  “I’m sorry, mate. It must have been something I ate.”

  The guard pushed past Paul as he rushed into the toilet. He stopped suddenly at the sight of the sinks turned on full blast and their plugs clogged up with tissue paper.

  “What the hell?”

  Realising what Paul had done he turned quickly but didn’t even see the fist coming. The blow spun him round and Paul moved forward, gripping the guard in a headlock. The guard struggled but Paul held tight until he felt consciousness leave him.

  Paul walked over to the taps and turned them back off. He turned back to the limp guard and searched his pockets, taking his security card, car keys and phone. He dragged him into one of the cubicles, resting him down on the toilet seat. He locked the door from the inside and climbed over the top.

  Paul made to leave but stopped when he noticed the cleaner’s cupboard to the right of the toilet door. He opened it and took out one of the yellow, plastic “Cleaning in Progress” signs. He popped it outside the toilet door and allowed himself a little, victorious smile.

  Paul had only been to the M.I.T. building a handful of times, each with Richard, but he had grasped an idea of the layout. He walked confidently down the corridors hoping that anyone who spotted him would mistake him for his brother. He needed a weapon but he didn’t want to push his luck trying to take off Richard in an actual conversation with someone who probably knew him. He headed for the exit, hoping that like last time the security door wasn’t manned and there’d be nobody there to notice that his security card didn’t match his face.

  Deep in thought, Paul didn’t notice that the young woman heading his way was smiling him until she was just a couple of feet away from him.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling. “I’m glad you’re back okay.”

  “Thanks,” Paul nodded, stopping reluctantly. He rubbed his head to disguise the fact that his eyes flickered down to the security badge hanging around her neck.

  Michelle Williams spotted his wandering eyes but smiled cheekily, misunderstanding. She looked up and down the corridor quickly before stepping forward and reaching out to touch him on the arm. “You could have told me you know.”

  Paul tried to hide his shock. This Michelle clearly had feelings for his brother. The question was, did Richard feel the same? He didn’t think that his brother was the type to have an affair, but then a few hours ago he would have never believed his brother could hold a shotgun to a man’s head and threaten to blow it off unless he told him what he wanted.

  Paul shook his head, “I’m sorry.” It seemed like the safest answer.

  Michelle ran her fingers through his hair. Without thinking Paul grabbed her hand by the wrist. Michelle jumped at the speed of his movement. Paul realised he had frightened her and let go slowly. “Don’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” Michelle said, lowering her head. “I can’t help the way I feel, Richard.”

  Paul remained silent, still unsure what to say. He just wanted to get out of this situation. He couldn’t help but feel sick at the thought of his brother being unfaithful to his family.

  “I know it’s silly. You’ve been honest with me. You haven’t led me on or given me any signs... but I just...”

  Paul suddenly realised that Michelle’s feelings were unrequited. He had to stop himself from smiling. It made him proud that no matter how far removed Richard had grown he had remained loyal to Jade.

  There’s hope for him yet.

  Paul promised himself that he was going to force his brother to buck up and concentrate on his family when all this was over but right now he had to get out of this building before any other lovesick puppies mistook him for Richard.

  “I’m sorry, Michelle, I have to go.”

  Michelle nodded, unable to look him in the eye anymore.

  Paul walked away but stopped mid-step. He turned back over his shoulder, “Say, you couldn’t do me a favour, could you?”

  Michelle looked up finally, “What?”

  “I’m running way behind. I need a weapon, could you run down the armoury and sign me one out and meet me in the parking bay? It’d be a huge help!”

  Michelle rubbed her eyes, “Yeah, okay. I’ll meet you in five minutes.”

  Paul flashed her smile before leaving, “Thanks. You’re a star.”

  Michelle watched him leave, before heading to the armoury.

  Old Vale Airfield, Rhoose

  Richard made sure that there was a round in the chamber and the safety was on for the third time since he had arrived at the air field. His earpiece stuttered briefly before the head of the West Team informed him they were in place. Three teams: One attacking from the West, one from the North-east and the final team, his team from the South. This was it.

  Richard gazed over at the airfield. There were a collection of buildings to the South-west which where they estimated Giacometti was held up. But between them and him were several patrolling groups and around fifteen abandoned hangars, scattered throughout. Any number of men could be waiting inside each and judging by the firepower Richard and his brother had witnessed earlier, they’d be armed too. Richard had maybe forty men altogether. Most of them had only basic weapons training. He had scattered the A.R.U. throughout the three teams but even now on the brink of contact he was having second thoughts.

  The West Team leader repeated that they were in position. This was it. No turning back. Richard gave the order.

  Within seconds he was on his feet and running forward, weapon in hand. One of the patrolling guards turned suddenly at the sound of a dozen heavy footsteps. One of the other officers shouted for him to drop his weapon. Instead he raised it and the officer dropped him.

  Two of Giacometti’s men fled to one of the small planes on the tarmac and climbed inside, revving up the engine. Richard spotted them and shouted over to two A.R.U. officers. They rushed forward and sprayed the windscreen with a volley of fire from their MP5 sub-machine guns. The glass instantly sprung to a spider web of red, but the engine kept running and the plane spun into one of the others and exploded.

  Despite the distance, Richard raised his hand up to protect him from the flames. He heard loud thunder and felt the air ripple around him. Giacometti’ men were returning fire.


  An officer fell to the ground next to him, clutching at his neck. Richard fired back as he dropped to the ground and crawled over but the officer was already dead.

  . . . .

  Dean rushed quickly into the control tower room, not bothering to knock this time. Giacometti had his back to him again, staring out the window at the carnage below. He knew Dean was talking to him but until he turned and saw his lips move, the words didn’t seem to register.

  “We’ve got to go now! Before it’s too late!” Dean shouted.

  Giacometti smiled, “No, it’s already too late.”

  Dean stared, “You’re just giving up?”

  “I am prepared to die for what I have done. For what I believe in. Rest assured, my friend Dean, I shall never see the inside of a prison cell.” He walked over and patted Dean on the back. “Go. Try to escape if you can. I wish you every luck.”

  Dean hesitated for a second and then ran.

  Giacometti turned again to look down upon the slaughter below. The slaughter he had caused.

  He walked over to a table by the side of the door and picked up a long Falchion sword. He ran his finger tips along the blade. The sword had been passed down to him by his father. It was a heavy, single edged weapon used in battle. It had been expensively restored to its former glory and looked as new now as it did in the fourteenth century.

  Giacometti had no doubt in his mind that he had done God’s work in ridding the Earth of the false idol. But he also knew, in his heart, that his murderous lust would forever prevent him from crossing paradise’s gates. Despite his crusade, he would burn.

  Giacometti gripped the heavy weapon in both hands. He was going to burn, and he was going to take as many infidels with him as he could.

  . . . .

  Andrew Colgan watched the fire fight from his car parked up across the road adjacent to the airfield. Another explosion ripped through one of the hangars and bodies flew through the air like rag dolls. It was a massacre, not a raid. Most of the airfield was on fire already. The red flames flicked up into the orange sky, hypnotic and terrifying.

  Suddenly he noticed movement from the far side of the airfield, away from the fighting. A man with a shaven head emerged from the control tower and started to run off away in the opposite direction, unnoticed.

  Dean Reynolds! Colgan climbed out of his car, recognising him from his mug shot. Colgan shouted for him to stop.

  Dean turned at the call of his voice but carried on running in the opposite direction.

  Andrew quickly drew his weapon and chased after him.

  . . . .

  Richard shot down two of Giacometti’s men down in quick concession. None of the teams had made it to the control tower yet and Richard was more than aware that there was hole in their net around it, widening with every passing second. Giacometti’s men were spreading them out too thin.

  Richard spotted Tony Horton crouched behind the front tyre of a parked car. He fired off a short volley of rounds before ducking back down.

  “Tony!” Richard shouted over, waving his weapon. “We need to press on to the control tower!”

  Tony nodded. He signalled to three officers to join him and sprinted over towards the tower, firing off short bursts at regular intervals.

  Richard began to run after them but stopped in his stride. Through the flames Richard thought he saw two men running towards the other end of the airfield. He suddenly realised that it was Dean Reynolds being chased by Andrew Colgan.

  Colgan! What the hell is he doing here!? Richard couldn’t understand how the old director had learnt their location but he knew that he couldn’t let him go after Dean on his own. He broke away from the group and ran after them.

  Colgan squeezed off a couple of rounds as he ran. They turned up the concrete beneath Dean’s feet and he quickly darted behind one of the large concrete markers at the side of the runway. Colgan quickly followed suit, flattening himself up against the other side.

  Colgan was out of breath, he wasn’t a young man and whilst he did his best to keep in shape, he rarely found time for the gym and this was the fastest he had run in years. He ignored the pain in his chest and took a deep breath. No doubt he would spend the rest of his life in prison for what he had planned for Reynolds and Giacometti. He would hurt them as they hurt his little girl. He’d make Reynolds beg for death and he’d make him tell where Giacometti was hiding. He’d kill them both and anyone else who was involved. He was in this to the end. He was going to avenge Becky no matter what. He wouldn’t fail her again.

  Dean slowly drew out his weapon from inside his jacket. He pushed his head out ever so slightly to peer out from his cover. Just as he did, he felt a push at the top of his back, between his shoulder blades.

  “Drop it,” Colgan ordered. “Now.”

  Suddenly Dean spun round, pushing his free hand up to knock the gun from Colgan’s hand. In the same move pushed his own gun into Andrew’s stomach and pulled back the trigger.

  The muzzle flash lit up Andrew’s face. His eyes wide and sad. He clutched his torso and stumbling, fell forward onto Dean. Dean quickly pushed him away onto the runway, letting him fall to the ground on his back.

  “NO!” Richard screamed.

  Dean jumped at the sudden sound of another voice. He raised his weapon but Richard was already firing. Rounds whizzed past him on either side and he ran as fast as he could towards the nearest outbuilding.

  . . . .

  Giacometti walked up behind the man nearest to him and fed his sword through the man’s chest. He hadn’t even bothered to notice if he were a police officer or one of his own men.

  What’s the difference? He thought to himself. We’re all going to burn in the end.

  Giacometti looked over the balcony and spotted three police officers coming in through the hangar doors below. He quickly snatched up the weapon of the man he just killed and fired at them. They fell with short screams, as bullets rained down piercing through them.

  Giacometti began his descent down the stairs. One of the fallen officers was crawling, reaching out for his gun. Giacometti fired the Uzi again, finishing him off. He walked over and rolled the dead body onto its back with his foot, examining his kill.

  Somebody ordered him to stop and lowers his weapons. The words seemed distant and distorted as if he were underwater. Giacometti turned slowly. The officer was a tall, blonde man wearing glasses and dressed in a suit. He clutched his weapon in both hands and stared down the barrel at him.

  Giacometti spun low and quick, slashing a spray of bullets across the officer’s knees. Tony dropped instantly, his legs suddenly giving under his own weight.

  Giacometti crossed the distance between them and kicked the gun away from his hands. Tony trembled, moaning in agony, desperately trying to reach his weapon. Giacometti tossed his own gun aside and crouched down behind him. He brought the sword up around Tony’s neck. He flinched as the metal pressed against his skin.

  “Shush now,” Giacometti whispered. “I’ll make it quick.”

  Suddenly the top of his head exploded in a blast of blood, skull and brain matter. Giacometti’s arms fell limp, dropping the sword into Tony’s lap as his dead body fell backwards onto the concrete with a fleshy thud.

  Paul stepped forward and fired another four rounds into Giacometti’s lifeless corpse. Just as quickly, he turned to Horton. The intensity in his eyes made Tony recoil as he reached out to help him.

  “What are you doing here!?” Tony said, struggling to pull himself away from the entangled corpse behind him.

  “Saving your life by the looks of it, pal,” He lifted Giacometti’s arm left arm up over Tony’s head. “Where’s my brother?”

  “You’re not supposed to be here!” Tony told him, between gasps as he clutched his legs.

  Paul stepped outside the control tower hangar and looked around. He waved the nearest officers over to him and led them back inside. “This man needs urgent medical attention. He’s suffered multiple gunsh
ot wounds.”

  One of the officers nodded and pressed his finger against his ear as he requested a medical team to their position. The other man crouched down and tried to tend to Tony’s wounds until further help got there but Tony kept pushing him away.

  The first officer turned to Paul, “Sir, I’ve just been informed that Andrew Colgan has been found shot on the second runway. Just South-East of our position, on the other side of the control tower.”

  “Colgan?” Paul asked. “I thought he was relieved of command?”

  The officer frowned, “Um, yes sir, that’s why you’re our new director.”

  Tony’s eyes widened. He pushed the tending officer to one side and shouted, “He’s not Richard Russell! He’s Paul! His twin brother! Arrest him! Arrest him!”

  Paul had already started running in the direction of the second runway. The officers called after him but he sprinted harder. He needed to get there quickly. Something in his gut was starting to move, turning and knotting its way around his heart.

  Why is Andrew Colgan even here?

  Paul didn’t know the answer, but he knew something bad was happening and he knew had to get to Richard now.

  Two officers were knelt around Andrew as he lay on the floor. One of them held his finger to his ear and kept shouting for someone to send a medical team to their location. The other held both his hands down on Andrew’s stomach, keeping pressure on the wound.

  Paul crouched down next to him, and spoke loudly, “Andrew? Andrew? It’s me, Paul. Paul. Remember me?”

  Andrew’s eyes were faint but they did seem to fix on Paul in acknowledgement.

  “Where’s my brother, Andrew? Where’s Richard?”

  Andrew’s head rolled slightly.

  Paul quickly scooped his head back up in his hands, “Come on now, none of that. You’re going to be fine. Med evac’s on the way. It’s going to be fine. I need you to tell me though. Richard. Have you seen him? Where is he? Where’s Richard?”