by Jeb Bohn
Frustrated and afraid, he grabbed a hole punch and threw it. The impromptu projectile glided along, striking a plastic sign that hung from the ceiling. It broke free and began to swing from a bundle of wires, a green light coming to life and illuminating one word:
EXIT
“The fire marshal’s not going to like that.” Stumbling down the dark hall, he reached a metal door and placed a hand against it. The surface was warm, though no more than it would be after a day in direct sunlight. He pressed against the bar, wincing as the alarm assaulted his ears. After the longest fifteen-seconds of his life, the door gave way. The flames here were much lower than those at the front. Ever the cynic, Herman could only focus on the fact that he had to get himself and the guard out through a wall of fire, even if it only stood four feet tall.
Shadows flickered and danced, turning the interior into a surreal bazaar. The sounds of splintering plaster and cracking glass danced over a syncopated rhythm of creaks and groans. Well, if the building is going to collapse, at least it’s only one story. At least there was no fear of drowning under a pile of rubble since the sprinkler system had failed to activate. “This place deserves to burn to the ground.”
As he returned to the lobby, he removed the slipcover from the couch and spread it out on the floor. When careful maneuvering proved ineffective, Herman opted to roll the guard onto the makeshift splint and tow him to the exit. The cover ripped after three laborious steps, spilling Herman to the floor. Tying the frayed ends around his wrists, he braced for a second attempt. Progress was painfully slow and Herman expected the fire to breach the building any moment.
That thought spurred him to move faster, sure that the stress and exertion would lead to a heart attack. The fabric began tearing further, each thread that popped brought a fresh rush of acid up in Herman’s throat. The growing heat at his backside told him that he had reached the door. He wrapped the cover tight around his wrists, said a silent prayer, and leaned towards the door. He moved with a previously unknown level of athletic prowess, his feet shuffling sideways. The guard’s weight resisted, but only for a moment.
They emerged unscathed, save maybe for a few singed hairs. Herman pulled the guard a safe distance from the building, laying him next to a birdbath in a small courtyard. Heading around the building, he saw the flames begin to work their way inside, utilizing shattered windows to gain a foothold. Sirens were growing louder in the distance when he spotted his car fifty yards away, sitting empty under a parking light. He ran towards it, stopping for a moment when he noticed something stuck to the windshield.
“What the hell is that?”
Herman reached the car and removed the object as an odd, high-pitched sound came from his chest. In his hand was a Polaroid of Amanda, bloody and crying, with a gun to her head.
Scrawled across the bottom was one word:
BRAWLEY.
“Shit.” He placed the photograph in the file folder, shuffling it from hand to hand as he checked every pocket for his keys. “Shit.” Amanda had them. He walked in a small circle for a moment before deciding to check the ignition.
They were there. “Thank God for that.” He slapped the dash and turned the keys, the engine firing up immediately, before turning around and speeding down the access road. No matter what happened, he didn’t want to be around when the first responders showed up. Red lights flashed in his rearview as he approached the turn onto I-95. As he got up to speed and prepared to merge, his phone rang and he swerved.
He fought to bring the car under control, thankful that he hadn’t hit anything. “Hello?”
“Herman? Where are you?” It was Walt.
“Southern Virginia, nearly plastered against a concrete barrier.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No, sadly, but that’s the best idea I’ve heard all night.”
“Yeah? Are you running from the cops?”
“What he hell are you talking about, Walt?”
“I tried calling you. When you didn’t answer your cell, I called your house.”
“And?”
“A detective answered.”
“Shit.”
“Close, but I think it was Rosewood.”
Herman held the phone against his temple, fighting the urge to throw it onto the interstate. “Walt, please get to the point.”
“She didn’t sound too happy about you disappearing without a heads up. Said that locking you up might be better for your safety.”
“At this point, I’m inclined to agree.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing much. I met Ed Marsh’s daughter, drove to the OG QNI facility, found out some deep, dark secrets, and the building burned down.”
“What?”
“Yeah, just your typical Wednesday night. Oh, and she’s been kidnapped. My money’s on the psycho who’s been stalking Schultz, but who knows? This whole thing’s one giant clusterfuck.”
“Speaking of that, I have some information to discuss regarding the demolition exploits of Mr. Greg Schultz.” Walt hesitated for a second. “Well, not him directly, but the entire circus.”
“I’m listening.” That’s exactly what he did as Walt told him that Samuel Wright had formed a LLC in California with eyes on acquiring an unfinished QNI research facility. “Care to guess what he named his company?”
“Greedy Fuck, Incorporated?”
“Nothing so catchy, I’m afraid, but far more to the point: AquaTec. Their focus is on treatment and irrigation.”
“You said California, any chance the property he’s got in mind is located in Brawley?”
“Good guess.”
“Great, but if the prize is a goldfish, you can keep it.” Herman rubbed the back of his neck. The pressure in his head was building to the point where a sudden explosion seemed likely. “Let me call you back, I need to grab some ibuprofen and coffee.” He placed his phone on the passenger seat before guiding his car onto an exit ramp.
A brightly lit convenience store afforded him the provisions he needed, though the fluorescents provoked his headache. He pulled out a cigarette as the sidewalk ended at the edge of the building. Checking the time on his phone, he noticed that he had a voice message. He turned on the speaker and played the communique.
He nearly choked on tobacco smoke when he heard the Tall Man’s voice. “You wily son of a bitch.” Herman was thankful that his enigmatic friend was alive. Moving past that, he focused on the lightly coded message. Cracking it was made easier by his conversation with Walt.
First flight? As a native North Carolinian, his immediate thought was the standard state license plate bearing the motto First in Flight with an image of the Wright Brother’s glider. That seemed like an obvious nod to Samuel Wright—no relation—who Herman now knew was planning to resume his cutthroat business practices in California’s Imperial Valley. March 1 was easy enough.
Herman could assume that something involving Wright was going to happen on that date, possibly in Brawley, but what? It also seemed likely that it involved Amanda, given her disappearance and the message that was left behind. He brought up his recent calls, tapped Walt’s name, and pressed the phone against his ear. “Is Wright scheduled for anything in Brawley, a public event maybe?”
“Give me a second.” A symphony of key clacks followed, paired with muttering. “Yeah, looks like there’s a press conference on the first. Chamber of Commerce, the mayor; looks like a real dog and pony show.”
“Is there a Shoney’s in St. Louis?”
“A what?”
“Never mind, Walt. Get some rest.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be there in twelve hours.” He ended the call before Walt could say anything else. He debated calling the Tall Man but opted instead for a text:
I’LL BE THERE.
Herman’s train of thought gained speed as he merged onto I-64 west. He needed to talk to the Tall Man but something told him now wasn’t the time. His gut told him that Schultz had been be
hind that house explosion. If that was true, he was fully unhinged. If he had more munitions he was a danger to everyone around him. Herman had no doubt that Schultz, his agenda corrupted by his insanity, would know about Wright’s upcoming trip to Brawley. He was equally sure that the combination of Wright and an almost fully functioning plant would be a prime target.
Then there was the question of the rogue assassin, the Tall Man’s heir apparent. Could Wright have hired him? Herman doubted it now since Wright was putting QNI behind him and focusing on a new venture. Having a wayward hitman on the payroll wouldn’t bode well for that. There was the possibility that a series of large insurance payouts served as inspiration, though the amount of risk seemed too great.
Herman supposed that who brought in the wild card didn’t matter, at least not right now, but it nagged at him. Was this loose cannon the one who had taken Amanda? If so, why hadn’t he just killed Herman? Why play this cat-and-mouse game?
For all Herman knew, Amanda was already dead and the false promise of rescuing her was simply a ruse to lure him into a trap. A tight, hot wire wrapped itself around his intestines, squeezing acid into his throat. His first run in with QNI had been more about exposing their corruption. Yes, there had been danger, but his desire to expose the truth drove him, it distracted him. Things were different this time; there were no rules.
In years past that would have scared him into easing up. Now, after what had happened to Ray, it fed a darkness inside him. The fear was gone. The fact that his enemies wouldn’t hesitate to play dirty meant he had carte blanche to do the same. His feet were dangling and he was digging in his palms, ready to throw himself over the precipice.
Herman had seen the worst that mankind had to offer over the years. Somehow, through the corruption, murders, and coverups, he had been able to cling to his humanity. It may not have remained pristine but it was always there. His suicide attempt had actually served to renew it, though in reality it had only painted a thin veneer over an irreparably damaged foundation.
His hands, damp with perspiration, were shaking. How long had this been going on? He couldn’t remember. The inaccuracy of his memory brought on a wave of anger. There was no logic behind it yet it flooded through him, an unseen force causing short-circuits in his fractured mind. As the miles ticked over, one thing became clear: he was going to find out who had orchestrated Ray’s death and end whatever plan they had in mind.
More importantly, he aimed to kill them.
The So-many-miles Road
Inside a dimly lit mansion on the outskirts of Salt Lake City, a man clung to the shadows, following a meandering hunting path. Each step was accompanied by a twitch of the eye, footfalls bouncing off polished hardwood. The search came to an end at an office as the stalker walked in and took a seat across from a middle-aged man who was engaged in conversation.
“Evie, I’m going to have to call you back. Yeah, that’s fine. Bye.” He returned the handset to its cradle before addressing the intruder. “What are you doing here?”
“Just in the neighborhood, thought I’d pay my old mentor a visit.”
“Cut the bullshit Greg.”
Schultz smirked as he shifted in the chair. “C’mon, Sammy, that’s no way to address a friend, is it?” He reached across to the desk, picking up a letter opener before leaning back. “Especially one who just lost his family.”
Sam took in a deep breath and held it, releasing it slowly. “I’m sorry, Greg, I am, but that wasn’t my doing.”
Greg squinted, laughter boiling up in his chest. “What? Why would you say that?” He doubled over, putting his hands on his knees as the laughter peaked. “Jesus, Sam.” The words came out as little more than a wheeze as he brayed. He stood, swaying gently, and jammed the letter opener into the desk as his mirth soured. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Sam began to reach for his phone.
“No,” Greg said, wagging his finger. “There won’t be any of that.”
“What do you want?” Sam blinked as sweat ran into his eyes. “Money?”
“Oh, you wish it was money I was after, that would make it so much easier for you. No, I don’t have any interest in your money.” Greg sat forward, a suffocating hate in his eyes.
“Then what?”
“You’ve spent your career benefitting off of misery, Sammy old boy. You’re a bastard, and you’re going to go down like a captain on a doomed ship. I’ll see to that.”
“Greg, look, I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your family.”
“Shut up!” Greg’s eyes were huge, glazed, and devoid of reason. Coupled with his bared teeth, he took on the appearance of a revenant. “You hired the sick fuck that caused this, your fingerprints are all over it. You may not have lit the match but you sure as hell carry the stench of gasoline.”
Sam reached awkwardly under his desk only to have Greg flip it over. Sam yelped as it struck his shins. “You crazy asshole!”
Greg pulled out a handgun, stepping around the overturned desk. “Shut up, Sam. What, were you reaching for this panic button? There’s no one else here, so what good would that do you? Think for Christ’s sake.”
“You’ve got more balls, Greg, than common sense.”
“Yeah, and that’s bad news for you.”
“Tell me something, Greg, what you hope to accomplish by coming in here alone?”
“Oh, Sam, I’m not alone.” Greg brought the side of the pistol down on Sam’s face, tearing his cheek open. “I’ve got my little buddy here and by big buddy waiting outside.” He grabbed the injured man by the back of the neck and forced him to the window. “See that truck?” Sam’s face was pressed against the pane hard enough to crack the glass. “There are enough explosives in it to turn this entire block into a smoking crater.”
“You’d kill a lot of innocent people.”
The laughter came back. “There was a time when that would have bothered me, but that was in a different life. Besides, I hope you’re not so vain that you think I went to all this trouble for you alone. I have a much bigger plan in motion.” Greg mimicked an explosion with his hands as he finished the sentence.
“You? You’re the one that’s been taking the sites out?”
“Don’t play dumb, Sam. It’s so close to your actual demeanor that it gets hard to differentiate. Who is he?”
“What are you talking about?”
Greg fired a single shot, striking Sam in the shoulder. When he cried out, Greg punched him in the mouth. “Who did you hire to kill me?”
“Greg, I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“No?” Greg reached for the capsized desk. When he pulled his hand back it was holding the letter opener. “Maybe I can help you remember.” He began to drag the shiny metal across Sam’s chest until it reached the hole that the bullet left behind. A shriek echoed down the hall as the blade was forced into it.
Sam gritted his teeth against the pain. “You prick, goddamned son of a bitch!”
“Still nothing, huh?” Greg brought the butt end of the pistol down, driving the blade deeper, scraping bone.
“I don’t know, god damnit! Once I left, I was done. Strauss might have hired someone but he’s dead. Why don’t you dig him up and ask?”
“I’ll do you one better: I’m the one who got Strauss out there. The dumb bastard walked right into his own execution.”
“You’re sick, Greg.”
“Hearing the screams of your wife and kids as they burn to death does something profound to your psyche.”
“You need help, something up there’s broken.”
“You’re right, I do need help and you’re going to provide it.” Sam looked at Greg, utterly lost. “You’re packed for your little trip to California I trust?”
“How do you know about that?”
“For Christ’s sake, Sam, your profile isn’t as low as you’d like to think. Trying to grease the skids?”
“I assure you that whatever you think
you know, you don’t.”
“Spare me the indignation. I know about the facility in Brawley. I know about your new company. I know that with the shit storm you’ve been in you’re going to have to line a few pockets if you hope to get things up and running.”
Sam didn’t respond but the change in his demeanor confirmed Greg’s theory.
“It’s not hard to piece together, especially once you’ve been in the belly of the beast. It’s smart, I’ll give you that. QNI is a corpse, why not pick its pockets for whatever you can salvage?” He pointed his gun back at the injured man. “Get your bag.” Sam remained stationary. His defiance drew an agitated sigh from Schultz, who stepped forward and prepared to strike with the butt of his handgun.
Sam threw up a hand to deflect the attack. “Wait! What if that psychopath is anticipating this? What if he shows up to take us out?”
Schultz placed his left hand against Sam’s cheek, his face becoming sincere. “He’ll be there. I’m counting on it.”
A chill ran up Sam’s spine. He looked Greg dead in the eye and saw...nothing. He searched for some spark of intelligence, completely oblivious to the coming blow.
◆◆◆
As Herman was driving home from Ray’s funeral, an elderly man was walking into a small cabin with an armful of firewood. Inside, his wife was watching over an unconscious form lying on a cot.
“I see he’s still out.”
“He’s been tossing and turning for an hour, mumbling something but I can’t make anything out of it.”
The man walked over to the fireplace, setting the logs down inside of a tarnished brass rack. He groaned as he stood up, drawing the attention of his spouse. “You’re not as young as you seem to think. You need to slow down.”
He smiled sweetly, placing his hand against her cheek. “You’re right. So goes the story of our marriage.” He paused, glancing at the sleeping man. “There must be two dozen men over there, planting flags and taking pictures.”