Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  Wallace staggered back, but saw the masked man reaching for his weapon and forced himself forward. He brought his knee up into his opponent’s face, knocking him backward, but the man was equally determined, and grappled Wallace, charging forward, pushing them both through the plant room door. Wallace couldn’t keep pace, and his feet collided with each other, tripping him, sending him tumbling near the spot where he’d regained consciousness. He landed heavily, and felt the breath rush from his body. His attacker didn’t hesitate, and followed up with a kick to Wallace’s ribs that was so powerful the world seemed to lose all its color. Wallace screamed. He knew another one of those would permanently disable him, so he rolled toward his assailant and stood up.

  It was a simple, ugly, awkward move, but there was nowhere for his opponent to go, and the man was pushed against the steel guard rail. Remembering his teenage Aikido training, Wallace turned and grabbed the man’s left hand and, using his body as leverage, executed a kote gaeshi throw, sending him tumbling over the edge of the gantry. The man flailed wildly until he’d fallen from view, his scream echoing around the duct until a distant impact silenced it.

  Wallace looked at the Fed employees, most of whom were in shock. Miracle’s eyes were wide with disbelief, but after a moment he nodded his head slowly. Wallace couldn’t believe what he’d just done, but if he hadn’t thrown the man, there was no doubt that he’d now be dead. He staggered across the gantry, stepped through the access door, and crossed the concrete corridor to pick up the discarded submachine gun.

  86

  The cab came to a halt on the corner of Nassau and Liberty and Ash thrust a twenty at the driver before jumping out and running up the steps. As she crossed the stone courtyard and headed toward the skyscraper, she saw a couple of security guards through the atrium window, one sitting behind a counter, rocking back in his chair, the other manhandling a metal detector as he stood beside a full body scanner. They were laughing about something, and their spontaneous display of emotion rankled Ash. Confident and assured, their uniforms conferring status and giving them purpose, they’d never truly experienced life. They thought it was a steady wage, a few beers at the weekend, and hours passed trading sexist jokes while making a half-assed effort to do their jobs. She wondered how either man would have coped strapped to that chair in that basement. They deserved it, not her. They needed their minds broadened. She was already familiar with all the darkness in the world. They were the ones who needed those easy smiles wiped off their faces.

  By the time she walked through the revolving door, she was fuming, and she knew her anger was showing on her face because the two men stiffened and looked at her as though she was a potential menace. The old her, the woman who’d died the day they shaved her head, would have tried to understand why she was so angry, to contextualize it and explain it away as the product of a damaged childhood. But she knew better now. Anger unsettled people, and when they were thrown off balance they became vulnerable.

  “Can I help you?” the tubby one behind the desk asked.

  “Whitney Potts,” Ash replied, trying not to growl.

  He glanced at his colleague, who rolled his eyes. Tubby shifted ever so slightly, but his body language signaled what was coming next. They’d judged her. The shaven head, the scarring on her skull, the cuts and bruises, the erratic, inexplicable movements of her limbs, the blistering rage emanating from every pore. They thought she was a hazard, but they hadn’t seen beyond the surface. If they had, they’d have realized just how dangerous she really was.

  “Building’s closed,” Tubby replied. “You can wait outside, or you can come back tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, tomorrow,” Manhandler chimed in. “During the day, when it ain’t our shift.”

  “OK,” Ash conceded, moving toward the sniggering guard. “You got me. I’m crazy. Cuff me. Keep me down. Kick me out.”

  When she was a couple of paces from the man, she drew her Glock and aimed it at his head. His smile fell away and he froze instantly.

  “And you!” Ash yelled at Tubby. “Put your hands up right now!”

  He complied immediately, but Ash couldn’t be certain he hadn’t already hit the panic button she was sure would be concealed at his station. She couldn’t take any chances and she would have to work fast.

  “Move! Both of you!” she commanded, gesturing toward the security gates.

  Wallace followed the service corridor, which dog-legged left and led to a heavy fire door. He pushed the handle and swung his body against the door, forcing it open while gripping the gun with both hands. A quiet, carpeted corridor lay on the other side, and Wallace could see a number of empty offices leading off it. He ran into the nearest one, noted the Federal Reserve logo on all the paperwork that was stacked on the desk, and lifted the phone. The out-of-service tone droned in his ear, and he quickly hung up, searching the drawers for a discarded cell phone. He found nothing and quickly ran to the neighboring room where he repeated the process and got the same result. The phones were out.

  The corridor was eerily quiet, and Wallace only had the low hum of the air-conditioning system to keep him company as he crept on. He came to a sharp right turn, which he took slowly, craning his head round the corner to ensure there were no nasty surprises. His heart sank when he saw an opaque security door blocking his path. There was a card reader next to it, but if his captor had one, it would currently be at the bottom of the service duct, lost in one hell of a mess. Wallace was about to return the way he’d come, when he noticed that the LED on the card reader was green. Worth a try, he thought to himself as he sidled up to the door and grabbed the handle.

  He was surprised when the door gave at his touch and pulled it open. Hearing the sound of distant voices, he stepped into a cold corridor and carefully shut the door behind him. The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered by thick fabric panels, which deadened sound and made the space seem even more claustrophobic than it was. The air was cold, but Wallace hardly noticed the chill. His heart started racing as he moved forward.

  “You were meant to be sittin’ in jail right now.” Smokie’s low, menacing voice was unmistakable. “Instead, you’re gonna take the fall for this. Dead, of course.”

  Wallace slid against the right wall as he approached an intersection. To his left was an open double door that led into a huge server room, where row after row of servers hummed, the noise accentuated by hard floor tiles. Wallace peered through a duplicate doorway to his right and saw a smaller room full of computer workstations. He recognized Whitney Potts from her personnel file, but she seemed much smaller in person, her five feet four inches almost lost behind the workstation she was seated at. Of the other fourteen stations, only three were occupied. All of the operators were male; one was black, one was white, and the third looked Middle Eastern. Like Whitney, all three of them were lost in deep concentration and didn’t seem to be listening to Smokie, who stood next to Steven Byrne, training an AR-15 assault rifle on him. Smokie wore Pendulum body armor, but unlike the other three men who were walking around the room with their guns at the ready, he’d removed his mask. It rested on a chair adjacent to the one in which Steven Byrne sat. The blood and bruises on Steven’s face were a testament to the beating he’d endured, and he looked groggy and defeated. Smokie had his back to Wallace, but Steven was looking directly at the doorway and gave a flicker of recognition when he caught Wallace’s eye.

  “I think we’re done,” Whitney said, and Smokie turned around and approached her terminal.

  Wallace withdrew and pressed his back against the wall, unwilling to risk being seen.

  “So this was all about money?” Steven asked, his voice distorted by his injuries. “A grand robbery.”

  “Robbery?” Smokie replied, his voice rising an octave. “You still don’t get it. I started the Foundation because I know what it’s like to have nothing. To be starving, cold, and broke. Not having enough money to pay to heat your house, or make the rent. A child having to watch his mother turn
tricks so she can buy food. And all the time there are rich motherfuckers with more than they know what to do with, spending money on diamond-encrusted steering wheels, bigger yachts, more bling, more shit while children around the world are dying because they can’t get clean water. This ain’t a robbery, it’s justice.”

  “So you take money from a few rich people?” Steven pressed.

  “Ain’t a few. We’re taking all of it from every rich son of a bitch.” Wallace registered the glee in Smokie’s voice. “You were an easy mark, Steve. You wanted to make your kids’ deaths mean something. Internet anonymity! That ain’t what the Foundation’s about. It was started to level the field and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. The settlement system that’s supposed to set a new standard in financial security has connected us to every bank in America. Any account with more than fifty thousand dollars in it is gonna get drained and that money is gonna get shared out to anyone who has a balance of less than five hundred bucks.”

  “They’ll just roll it back,” Steven objected.

  “You might understand all this tech. You might know what Blockchain means, how a transaction audit trail is built, but most of the politicians approving this stuff don’t know how it works. This is a new world. Control the people writing the code and you can do whatever you want,” Smokie responded.

  “We can post fake ledger entries backdating the transactions for up to two years. And when this place goes up, there will be no record of what we’ve done,” Whitney put in. “People might have paper statements, but we’re talking about money from fifteen million high value accounts being redistributed to sixty million low ones. Even if people can prove what happened, by the time they do, the money will probably be long gone. Freefall, baby,” she smiled at Smokie. “The whole system is going down.”

  “And you’re gonna pin this on me?” Steven asked.

  “On your corpse,” Smokie said. “Billionaire driven crazy by grief tries to fulfill the political agenda of his dead son. See, Max was the one with the record for political activism.”

  “He took the fall for you,” Steven objected.

  “And you’re going to do the same thing,” Smokie responded. “The story writes itself. Even with this witch hunt they won’t find every Foundation member. We’ll lay low for a while, until there’s more work to be done.”

  Wallace peered around the corner and saw Smokie standing over Whitney, studying her terminal.

  “It just needs a ‘run’ command prompt to execute the program,” she told him. “I thought you might want the honor.”

  “Whitney, you guys have done a great job,” Smokie said.

  The gunshot startled Wallace, and he backed against the wall as Whitney’s body fell from her chair. He heard screams that were quickly silenced by three other shots, and when he finally summoned the courage to snatch a glance into the room, he saw that all four programmers lay dead on the floor, murdered by Smokie and his men.

  “OK!” Smokie exclaimed, returning to Whitney’s workstation, raising his hands to the keyboard to type the command.

  Wallace acted without thinking. He stepped into the doorway and started firing, aiming at the two men furthest from Steven. Bullets tore into their body armor and sent them falling back. He felt burning pain in his upper right thigh as one of Smokie’s bullets struck home. Wallace dropped to his knee but kept shooting, spraying a third man with bullets. He saw that Steven was on his feet and that he’d produced his concealed pistol.

  Steven moved fast like an old lion suddenly filled with one last burst of youthful energy. He shot the three men Wallace had hit, drilling rounds through their masks. Wallace was shocked by the speed and ferocity of Steven’s assault, then dismayed when a bullet caught Steven in the chest and sent him spinning backward. The gun went flying from his hand and clattered against the floor.

  “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!” Smokie yelled, closing on him.

  Wallace forced himself to his feet and took aim, trying to avoid Steven, who had collapsed to his knees. He pulled the trigger and heard the satisfying staccato of gunfire, as the submachine gun spat bullets that thudded into Smokie’s body armor. Smokie flew forward and collapsed face down, crashing into the hard white tiles.

  He rolled over and tried to target Wallace, but Steven fell on him and wrestled the gun from his grasp. Enraged, Smokie punched Steven, driving his fist home again and again, until Steven was utterly senseless.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!” Wallace yelled.

  Smokie ignored the command, and when Wallace pulled the trigger, the gun clicked empty.

  The sound had more of an effect on Smokie than any instruction, and he turned and scanned the room for a weapon. He and Wallace spotted Steven’s discarded pistol at the same time and both moved as quickly as their wounded bodies would allow. Wallace willed himself to ignore the pain radiating from his bloody leg and limped forward. Smokie staggered toward the gun, and for a moment Wallace thought the gangster would get to the weapon first, but he made a final effort and collapsed within reach of the pistol, which he grabbed and brought swinging round into Smokie’s face. The blow caught Smokie on the cheek and sent him reeling. As Wallace got to his feet, Smokie rifled in his pocket and produced a remote detonator. He flipped the protective housing that covered the trigger, and smiled.

  “None of you understand. I just want to see it all burn,” he wheezed, a trail of blood running from the corner of his mouth.

  “Don’t do it,” Wallace implored him, but Smokie’s finger began to descend. Wallace pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened, and Wallace registered the muffled click of a misfire.

  Smokie laughed. “See you on the other side,” he cackled.

  The gunshot reverberated around the room, and the bullet drilled a hole in Smokie’s shoulder. The detonator went flying clear and tumbled to a halt beside Whitney’s motionless feet.

  “You fucking bitch,” Smokie rasped as he collapsed.

  Wallace turned toward the door to see Ash aiming a small black pistol at Smokie, her eyes full of murderous intent.

  “Put it down, Chris,” Wallace said gently. “Let’s bring him in. He can identify every member of the Foundation.”

  “I should’ve killed you,” Smokie snarled.

  “You were the one who did this to me,” Ash remarked, touching her shaved head. “I recognize your voice.”

  Smokie smiled. “You’re better now, ain’t you? You’re like me. I see it in your eyes.”

  Wallace could see nothing but pain and conflict. He could sense her anguish and desperately wanted to make it better. “Chris,” he began.

  Ash fired without warning, shooting Smokie twice in the skull, killing him instantly. She watched his body fall, and then, to Wallace’s horror, she turned the gun on him. Her eyes were wild and devoid of compassion.

  “Chris?” he tried. “It’s me.”

  She wavered, but kept the gun on him.

  “I’m sorry,” Wallace said. “I should have been there for you. I should have done better. Please believe me.”

  Ash lowered the weapon and strode into the room. She ignored Wallace and marched up to Steven, who was lying dazed and prone. She raised the compact pistol, aiming it at his face, and steeled herself to pull the trigger.

  “Don’t, Chris,” Wallace pleaded. “He’s not with them. Put your gun down.”

  Her face flashed with emotion and tears welled in her eyes as her arm trembled with the weight of what she was about to do. Bloody and wounded, Steven gazed up at her, resigned to his fate.

  “I’m ready,” Steven whispered.

  Wallace recalled what Steven had said about having decided on a way out. He’d resolved to make Ash his exit.

  “Do it,” Steven urged.

  “Chris, don’t,” Wallace tried. “For me. For everything we’ve been through.”

  Ash wavered and glanced at him. He didn’t see any warmth, but noted a shift in her demeanor, as though she was performing a calculati
on. Finally, she lowered the gun, and Wallace exhaled deep relief.

  “Steven Byrne,” she said, her speech harsh and fast, “I’m arresting you for conspiracy and attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney, and if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

  As the adrenaline ebbed away, Wallace felt nothing but sadness. Whatever had once existed between them was dead. She continued to ignore him as she took a seat on a nearby chair. Her eyes never met his. Instead she kept them and her gun trained on Steven, and listened to the sound of approaching sirens.

  Epilogue

  The blinds sliced the sunlight into slivers of gold. Ash sat in an Eames chair and studied the face of the woman seated opposite her. She was gentle and her every movement spoke to that quality. Even the slow way she swept a strand of long black hair off her ivory skin suggested someone seeking to exist in harmony with others. Her gestures were small and soft, her voice low, as though she was trying to seduce the entire world, her eyes wide with optimism, undimmed by the steady train of misery that ran through her office.

  Six weeks ago, Ash had been freed from captivity and her world had changed. She’d arrested Steven Byrne, who’d confessed to financing the Foundation’s operations, and was now in Rikers awaiting trial. Ash’s longstanding opposition to Pendulum and the Foundation had established her as one of the few agents whose loyalty was beyond question. Her trustworthiness and achievements had been recognized. She’d been promoted to Supervisory Special Agent, and given the job of leading the taskforce responsible for hunting down members of the Foundation. It was an issue of national importance, and the whole country, from the citizen on Main Street to the President, longed to know that every traitor had been rooted out and brought to justice. With Smokie dead, no one knew the true extent of the Foundation’s reach. Her official estimates put it at between five and six hundred members worldwide, but privately she knew that the figure could be much higher.