Forced Pair

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  A rustle to his left resolved itself to being two armed men, dressed similarly to the one he had dispatched, right down to the traitorous white undershirts. The two were rushing down the hill, moving steadily in the direction from which Dent had just come. They would soon find their comrade’s body.

  Another armed pair raced in from his right. He worked his way to a point where the manicured bushes maintained a small gap and put his back to the wide trunk of a camphor tree. As expected, the pair worked their way towards him and the only obvious path deeper into the surrounding landscape. Judging by the positions of their rifles, the one in the lead was right-handed, the other, left. Dent took two breaths, planned his angles, and loosened the muscles in his legs. And then he spun from behind the cover of the tree.

  His first shot took the closer of the two right between the eyes, if a little higher than he had intended. His second shot shredded the other’s left elbow, where it was held out just so as his M16 was held pointed down. Dent closed the distance between the two, clamping his left hand over the Japanese man’s mouth before he could manage a scream.

  Dent used his forward momentum to keep pressure on the man’s mouth as he twisted behind him.

  “You know what I’m here for?” Dent whispered calmly into the man’s ear, his lips less than an inch away. Dent had spoken clearly in English.

  The man with the ruined elbow nodded once behind Dent’s constricting grip. Tears escaped the corners of his eyes and whimpers escaped his mouth. Both were caught by Dent’s gloved hand.

  “How long until the package is moved to the secure location?”

  No answer. Just more tears, more whimpers.

  Dent worked his right arm between his body and the man’s, snaking it over until he had a grip on the warmth spreading from the guard’s ruined joint. He worked his index finger into the wound, the viscous fluid making it easy to probe deeply.

  The man squirmed and his pained-induced cries were choked back by Dent’s palm pressed tightly against his mouth.

  “How long until the package is moved to the secure location?” he repeated.

  Still the man did not offer up any helpful response.

  Dent assessed the situation. Time was not on his side if he wished to complete his objective. He pulled his foldable Ka-Bar knife and sliced the man’s neck, once, twice. Blood pooled in the crook of the man’s scapula before soaking into his clothes, turning his white undershirt near black in the sparse moonlit night.

  And still, no helpful response. This man was possibly military trained and if that was the case the Dent would not be getting any answers through the use of more traditional methods.

  “So be it.”

  Dent twisted the man’s uninjured arm behind him and forced him to walk toward the small blue light just ahead. The closer they got to the light, the more animated the captive man became. Twenty feet away, he began to squirm. Fifteen feet and he thrashed as if his body were on fire. His muffled voice vibrated Dent’s hand, but the former DUUPer pressed the man forward, until they were five feet from one of the bright blue lights.

  Well into the influence of the eField.

  The Japanese man’s knees went loose and Dent spun him around so they were face-to-face. Only Dent’s firm grip on both of the man’s shoulders kept him upright. Bloodshot eyes seemed to bug from the man’s skull, sweat already pouring down his slightly age-creased forehead. His head began jerking back and forth, almost spasmodically.

  Dent raised the tip of his knife, still dark from the man’s own blood, and held it before the man’s wild, wide eyes. The man looked to it and then into Dent’s eyes. The tangy smell of urine wafted up between the two.

  “If you utter anything more than a whisper, I will kill you.” Dent correctly assumed his words would hold more weight now that they were in the eField that was pulsing fear at a high level.

  “D-d-don’t. Please,” the Japanese man stammered in heavily accented English. His vein- riddled eyes flicked from knife tip, to holstered gun at Dent’s left side, to the very shadows of the bushes around them, probably looking for some demon to spring up from the earth to drag him to whatever personal hell he was envisioning.

  “Talk.”

  The man swallowed, swallowed again, and found his voice. “If they … move, it … it will be to a s-secondary s-s-station. Sub-level Three … Only one room. Elevator … one way in, one way out.” He had spoken in his native tongue, apparently English out of his grasp at the moment.

  Dent let go and the man crumpled to the grass and dirt. He began to claw his way back the way they had come, out of the eField’s influence.

  “P-please,” he was whispering in Japanese, his voice cracking. He continued to claw forward, continuing to speak and moan. He looked like a wounded animal to Dent.

  Dent looked down at the man and then reached towards him. He unclipped the two-way from the man’s belt. “Do I need an access key to reach Sub-level Three?”

  The man craned his neck awkwardly to look up at Dent. “Ye-yes. Anyone inside … will have one.” His wild eyes looked ahead to the freedom beyond the eField. A wounded animal.

  Dent turned on his heel and walked toward the facility.

  Within thirty-seven minutes, he would have the package secure and ready for transport.

  III

  The plane lurched suddenly, a spot of heavy turbulence.

  The woman seated in front of Dent clenched her armrests, knuckles going white. Her husband leaned over and put a hand on her forearm. The girl at his left stirred, mumbled something. Dent gazed out the window, looking down.

  The bright tops of the small puffs of solitary clouds cast shadows across the dark brown terrain, dotting the semi-arid land with drifting splotches of relief.

  The plane dropped and then rose, the effect similar to what one felt the first few seconds when leaping from a plane, heavy pack strapped tightly around your chest and to your back. He’d felt it numerous times. The woman before him moved, drawing his attention. She transferred one hand to her husband’s arm, replacing armrest with wrist. Dent turned back to the window, the slight glare from the sun atop the clouds causing him to don his Wiley-X tactical sunglasses.

  “Where are we?” the small voice asked from his side, the already high-pitched tone growing higher with each word. She spoke in English, probably for his benefit.

  Dent continued to gaze outside. “California.” He had used the last of the cocktail on her during their stopover in Hong Kong, just before takeoff.

  “It’s shaking.”

  “It’s a plane.”

  “It’s still shaking.” The package’s voice sounded as turbulent as the aircraft, Japanese accent barely discernible.

  “It’s still a plane.”

  He felt a hand tighten on his knee. He looked over and down. Then he looked to the woman in front who still gripped her husband’s arm; and then back out the double-paned window.

  The 777 gave one final lurch down and to the left and then righted itself on its massive metal wings. The grip on his knee loosened. Within twenty minutes, the plane began its final descent. And the grip tightened once again.

  He deigned a look at the package and found her head pushed firmly back in to seat. Her left hand clutched her lavender purse with its small, beaded jewels adorning its surface, to her stomach. He noticed a rapid throbbing on her neck. Erratic pulse.

  The African-American across the aisle from the package, who had moments ago been sleeping soundly with his head against the rented pillow behind him, awoke and his eyes suddenly shot open. He came forward off the pillow and his eyes darted this way and that. Somewhere behind Dent, someone began taking heavy, gasping breaths. The husband seated in front pried his wife’s hand from his arm and leaned far forward, looking across the woman and out the window. He leaned back heavily, the chair creaking with his movements, and then gripped the cloth-covered metal in imitation of his wife, who now fought for control of the usurped armrest.

  The two flight att
endants behind and near the lavatories at the rear of the cabin began talking in clipped sentences until the dark-haired male strode forward and disappeared down the aisle, his destination either the food-and-beverage service cart or the cockpit.

  Soon after, the in-flight overhead speakers chimed softly and a male’s voice came scratching out. “Please, make sure you are buckled securely in your seats at this time … um … we will be landing soon. Safely.” There was a pause, a soft crackle and a series of muffled voices. “Weather and time will be given once we are safely on the ground again.”

  Dent narrowed his eyes.

  The package was digging her short nails into his leg now. If he hadn’t been wearing denim she surely would have drawn blood at this point. He put a callused hand on top of her smaller one. She took that as an olive branch and released her purse and reached over to hold his arm. She leaned her head slowly over, pressing her forehead against his bicep. Her grip on his leg gradually eased up underneath his hand.

  The husband seated in front of Dent gave up the armrest to his wife and gave her a soft pat. The African-American leaned back into his pillow. The dark-haired attendant made his way back down the aisle, lips parted to show off his perfectly aligned pearly-white teeth. He leaned in and spoke to a few passengers as he worked his way back, placing an arm on a shoulder here, giving a “thumbs-up” there. He nodded to the package as he walked by to join his partner at the rear of the cabin.

  “It’s safe now?” The small, muffled voice vibrated up his arm.

  “It always was safe.”

  She snuggled in.

  He looked out the window.

  The plane landed.

  IV

  The package reached up and held Dent’s hand. They had just shuffled their way out into the terminal, which was rapidly clearing of warm bodies as they filtered on to their individual destinations, whether they be family members, strangers behind the wheels of taxis, or the stagnant smell of cars left abandoned in the sun or concrete-shaded alcoves. His destination was directly ahead, the round bank of lockers in the middle of the terminal.

  He started to walk but stopped short when the package did not move with him. He looked back and down. Coffee-brown eyes looked up right back at him. He tugged, she moved, they walked. Neither had luggage or even a personal bag, a necessity for their quick escape from one country into another, so they went the way less congested, avoiding the masses headed to the overcrowded baggage carousel.

  He cut in front of a young man who’d stopped to bend over to tie his shoe in front of a big screen that was flashing a promotion for the newest EB. It was claiming the best protection for surfing the web while keeping the user’s identity and location completely anonymous and free from hackers and electronically prying eyes. The man was almost knocked over as the pair walked by, and cursed in Dent’s direction in a heavy Texan accent. Dent ignored the man but the package looked back as she was tugged along and gave the Texan a wave. Maybe it was meant to be friendly, maybe apologetic. Dent had no clue.

  But the curses stopped.

  Dent wove around the same husband and wife from the plane as they debated about purchasing food here at the airport or somewhere nearby. They obviously had never been to Southern California, as they pulled out their secure EBs and began searching the internet for suitable recommendations, mumbling to each other about possible prospects. Dent knew the couple would easily spend three times the amount on food and beverages at the airport than they would if they headed two blocks south of the airport.

  “Come on,” he urged the package as she slowed to listen in on the conversation that clearly had nothing to do with her.

  The little girl had to take two steps for every one of Dent’s and was breathing heavier than normal when they reached the banks of blue and grey lockers. Ignoring the package’s grunts, he shook his hand free from her weak grip and withdrew a folded yellow Post-it note from his rear right pocket. He unfolded it, read the numbers, and then shoved it back in his pocket. He lifted a hand as he ran it before him, quickly scanning the locker numbers. He came to #45 and stepped before it. There was a strip of yellow-and-black tape over the credit card slot that read “Out of Order.”

  He went to reach into his left rear pocket and then realized he had left his collapsible knife back in Tokyo, a necessity to having exited the country so quickly. He looked around and then his eyes settled on the bedazzled purse hanging over the package’s shoulder. He pulled it roughly from around her arm and she pursed her lips at him.

  “You could say please,” she observed under her breath.

  Dent ignored her and unzipped her purse. He spread it open, tilted it on its side and gave it a rattle. An assortment of items jingle-jangled and clicked-and-clacked until he found two specific things. One he had expected, the other not. He pulled them both out.

  The first item, a bright pink hairpin, he used to puncture and then slit the yellow-and-black tape above the opening for the credit card slip. The second item, a matching-colored phone, he dropped to the thin olive-green carpet and brought his booted heel down hard upon it.

  “Hey!” the package yelled, voice pitched high and loud enough to carry throughout the terminal. Heads turned, conversations halted, parents held on to their children a little tighter.

  Dent kept his voice down, intent on keeping more eyes from looking their way, and said, “GPS. The point is not to be found.” He ground the metal and plastic and circuitry to an un-transmitting mass and pointedly looked at the package.

  The girl looked down at the ruined phoned and crossed her arms over her chest. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were hooded slits. She opened her mouth to say something, but Dent cut her off with a raised hand. Her eyes opened wide, flashing those coffee-brown orbs his way. He dutifully ignored her, instead withdrawing his thin leather wallet from his front left pocket. He handed the purse back to the package and had to shake it once in front of her before she uncrossed her arms and snagged it from him. He then used his free hand to slide out a red-and-blue plastic prepaid debit card from his wallet.

  He slid it into the newly uncovered slot and withdrew it quickly, knowing that underneath the cautionary tape a small diode flashed red then green in digital acceptance. He had no clue how much money was on the card, only that it held an exact amount. The card, along with the precise balance held therein, was the two-part electronic key to this particular locker. A small metallic click and the grey metal door came loose. He pulled it all the way open and stopped short at what he saw.

  Nothing.

  According to the terms of his employment, a dark-brown leather satchel with a quarter of his payment was to be deposited here for his pick up. As a rule, he did not accept any electronic forms of payment. Bits and data could be as easily erased as transferred and he did not wish to find his agreed-upon payment had disappeared from the digital ether on the ride home.

  No satchel, no cash. The payment was a paltry sum for his employer and even had Dent not gone through with the mission and absconded with the money, his employer would not have even thought twice. The fact that it was not here meant that his employer simply did not bother with fulfilling his side of the contract. And if Dent was not to be paid, he would have to assume that his employer had expected him to be incapable of collecting said payment. Which meant Dent was now a loose end and deemed warranted for death.

  He closed locker #45 and gathered his thoughts. If he were on the other side of the equation, hired to complete a job to kill a hired killer, he would have eyes on this very location, this very locker. He looked around as an announcement for a departing flight came on overhead. Too many eyes and ears in the terminal to complete a successful tap-and-drop, no matter if the gun were silenced or not. Also, with the way airport security was nowadays, it was a risk to have a firearm on one’s person. The metal detectors and other expected forms of detection were easy to get around. It was the random stopping and, according to recent U.S. law, completely legal searching of any indiv
idual within the airport by any paid employee of that airport. A custodian was a deputized member of law enforcement under this new law. Even the young teenage girl who served espressos and overpriced Madeleine cakes had the authority to search visitors and travelers.

  His original egress was out of the question — it would no doubt be covered. Therefore his means of transportation in the long-term parking lot was as well — it would no doubt be marked. New exit, new vehicle. The exit he already had in mind, the vehicle would have to be the best opportunity that presented itself.

  He began to walk briskly around the locker bank and was forced to stop as the package did not follow. He looked back at her, expecting her to join him, but the girl remained rooted to where she stood. Dent walked back, grabbed her left hand with his right and tugged her along in his wake.

  She let out a few grumbling noises and then her voice raised in cadence as she proclaimed, “I’m not going with you!” She tried pulling her hand away, but Dent held on tight.

  More eyes looked their way. Some for the second time now. He could not afford any more glitches in the plan. If any one of these people stopped him, he would be hard-pressed to come up with an answer as to why he, a thirty-three-year-old Caucasian, was dragging a thirteen-year-old Japanese girl behind him. It was hard to lie convincingly when one had no idea what platitude was needed in what situation.

  He knelt, bringing his hazel eyes on a level with her own, and said, “If you don’t move, it will make it easier for them.”

  “Easier for them to do what?”

  “To kill us.”

  An instantaneous change fell over the girl’s face at Dent’s even-toned words. The insides of her eyebrows lifted, her naturally narrow eyes widened and watered. A flush tinted her cheeks as her mouth slowly opened, jaw going slack. If that had not been enough to clue Dent in to what the girl felt, then the wailing noise that issued up from her throat was plenty.