Forced Pair

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  He had to deal with these two gunmen before he could get safely upstairs. But he wouldn’t be taking the actual stairs. No, his objective was the elevator to the right of the grand staircase that Chisholme had installed six years ago, according to California’s building code records.

  Dent drew back and worked his way more to the right of the fountain. He raised his right-hand gun and aimed, not for the combatants across the foyer, but at the wall to the right. He fired once, a dark hole appearing midway up the wall. The enemy fire stopped.

  He waited two seconds. Then he fired again, a second hole appearing slightly higher than the first.

  He waited two more seconds.

  And then he charged around the left side of the fountain. Both men were foolishly looking at the two bullets holes in the wall, expecting a third shot. They did not expect Dent to rush them. He squeezed his left index finger and the man on the left spun with the impact, disappearing behind the wall of the small bar. His right index finger took the remaining man just below his left eye, dropping him as well.

  Dent cleared the foyer and stepped into the growing pools of blood from the different bodies on the floor. Three were dead. The fourth was on his back, shaking, looking up. His gun was less than a foot away from his right hand, sitting in the congealing blood leaking from his shoulder wound.

  “Elevator code?” Dent prompted the man.

  The man shook his head.

  Dent shattered the man’s right ankle with a squeeze of his right index finger.

  The man screamed and Dent asked for the code again. The man muffled his screams but refused to answer. Dent raised his pistol so the barrel was aiming for the man’s groin.

  “Here!” the man yelled, throwing an ID badge at Dent’s chest, where it bounced off to land on the floor in front of him.

  When Dent bent to pick up the fallen badge, the man suddenly moved to his right. Dent put a bullet through the bottom of the man’s chin and stopped the movement.

  He stepped through the blood and over the bodies and slid the ID badge through the appropriate reader. The door silently slid aside, into the wall, and he stepped in, tracking blood with each step. He turned around and the door slid closed. No buttons in the elevator. It knew where it was designed to go and it took him there.

  The door whispered aside and Dent stepped into Grant Chisholme’s personal quarters. The entire third floor was dedicated to Chisholme’s sanctuary. Dent stepped forward, glanced around. Everything was neat, tidy. The chairs around the small dining table to the right were exactly spaced the same distance away from the table. Two computer monitors sat at forty-five degree angles on opposite sides of a workstation table, the work chair directly in the center.

  Wooden shelves and display cases with glass doors held personal effects and other items, all displayed either by ascending height or by increasing width. The kitchenette was pristine and looked to have never been used. He walked straight ahead, to the perfectly made-up queen-sized bed. Maroon velvet blankets with matching pillow set, each long pillow situated perfectly on either side. And a trilling chirp sounded from atop the left pillow.

  Dent walked over and picked up the phone. The caller ID flashed Grant Chisholme. Dent touched the answer icon.

  “Dent?”

  “Yes.”

  “My house is wired with cameras, Mr. Dent. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t know the minute you stepped foot past my eField?”

  “You’re not here,” Dent observed.

  There was a heavy release of breath on the other end of the line and then Chisholme agreed, “No, Dent. I’m not there.”

  “You changed the contract.”

  “You took the package.”

  “You changed the contract,” Dent repeated to his employer.

  Another audible release of breath. “Give me the package, Dent.”

  “Give me my payment,” he countered.

  “Have the girl brought to my house and I will tell you where my personal safe is. There is enough cash in there to satisfy our contract twice over.”

  Dent thought about this. He asked, “Are you lying, Mr. Chisholme?”

  “No.”

  Dent ran through the probabilities, his eyes flicking back and forth as if reading text on a large screen. He came up with, “I think you’re lying.”

  Chisholme’s response was instantaneous. “Do not test me, Dent. I can make life miserable for you.”

  Dent tried again, saying, “Agree to our original terms. New drop-off point, full payment.”

  “You are not in a position to make demands.”

  Dent disagreed. “I have the package.”

  He had to hold the phone away from his ear as Chisholme loudly attested, “And I have a longer reach of power than you could possibly know!”

  The conversation was not resolving itself so Dent tapped the disconnect icon and placed the phone back where he had found it.

  And then his phone rang. The phone with the military-encoded SIM card, the phone with a non-number. The expected name flashed on the screen. He pushed the connect icon.

  “Dent.”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you I have a further reach than you know.” He was referring to the ease at which he connected with Dent’s personal phone. But Chisholme wasn’t finished. “Before you hang up, Dent, I was wondering … Would you like me to say ‘hi’ to Mister Fischer for you? I expect him to be showing up shortly. I tried doing things the easy way. I, too, have leverage, Dent.”

  The call ended.

  Dent pocketed his phone and looked around the large, open space. There were multiple cameras in the corners of the room. The pristine, well-maintained and meticulously-cleaned room.

  Dent shrugged off his backpack and pulled something out.

  It was the first time Dent had found use for a smoke grenade.

  He pulled the igniter.

  He told himself it was purely to fuddle the cameras.

  XIV

  The eField was on, Dent limped passed it. Left a bloody palm print and matching fingerprints on the entry security pad. He made his way through the corridor, left crimson smears at hip and shoulder heights on the cold concrete. Some were slight brushes, some were thicker, drippier.

  Fischer’s essentials had been essential to his egress from Chisholme’s residence. The lethargic ePulse had worked somewhat as the techie had indicated. The EMP grenade itself had worked as expected. Unfortunately, the firearms of Chisholme’s hired guards had worked just as well.

  When he entered the cylindrical room beneath the water tower, Dent sensed that it was empty. Not on some unknown, preternatural level. He sensed it was empty from what he heard. And from what he did not hear. He heard the normal sounds — computer fans whirring, electricity humming, technology technologizing — and did not hear the sounds of voices.

  He located Fischer’s med kit. He opened it up and placed his personal roll of duct tape next to it and then got to work. He removed any foreign objects from his body, patched up any holes, and taped over gashes and gouges with strips of commercially produced silver. When he was done he examined the room.

  No forced entry.

  Couldn’t tell if anything was out of place. To Dent the room looked to be in a state of, to use Fischer’s own words, controlled chaos.

  The same picture they had examined together was still on the main screen. Except now there was a flashing emoticon superimposed over Grant Chisholme’s face. It was red, unsmiling, and had two black horns sprouting atop it. Dent walked over to Fischer’s chair, rolled it into position, and plopped heavily down into it. Dent didn’t know where Fischer had his motion sensor beam set so he reached over and used the wireless mouse instead. The blinking cursor appeared on a screen to his right, jumped the gap to the screen directly in front of him, and then he maneuvered it up, across the dead space above that screen to the monitor with the slightly edited picture. With Dent’s help the cursor found the red, horned emoticon.

  He left-clicked.<
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  The photograph dissolved and video began playing. It was Fischer, seated in this very seat. Camera angle suggested the small silver circle at the top of the screen below the video to be the camera source of the recording. It was time stamped less than an hour and a half ago.

  The previously recorded and digital Fischer began to talk. Dent watched.

  “I screwed up Dent. If you’re watching … I screwed up.” Digital Fischer looked over his shoulder, to his right, presumably to where the package was. There was a sheen on his forehead. “I’m probably dead by now. I received an email and … man ….” Another erratic look to his right. “Should’ve never taken the numb-pack off.” He looked back to the camera. “He said I’d get one-point-five if I dropped off the girl. He didn’t know where she was, but thought you might be bringing her here. He said it would be safe, that she’d be safe. I don’t know … a lot of money.” He rubbed his hands together. Stopped. Rubbed them on his pants’ legs. “I could buy a whole city with that much! The email promised the girl would be unharmed. I don’t know, Dent. I think … I think the email was laced. I don’t think it’s possible … but then again ….” Another look to his right.

  Dent looked to his right. Saw a jeweled purse there on top of a table. He looked back to the screen.

  Digital Fischer continued his erratic speech and movements. “It’s a lot of money. I want money, I do. And Chisholme … he can be trusted. Right? Right, Dent? Maybe, maybe I should put the numb-pack back on.” He lifted, jerked to his right, and then sat back down. “No. I can’t give up a chance like this.”

  The video went black. After two seconds it flashed back on. A seven-minute advance on the time stamp.

  “I’m doing it, Dent. If I’m wrong … Dammit! I might be wrong … if ….” He wiped his damp and perfectly-manicured brows with the back of a hand. He looked directly into the camera and leaned in. “Remember the first time we shared a laugh, Dent? I bet you do. Go there. The key is under the mat, use it for the back door. If I’m wrong … the first time we shared a laugh, okay?!” He moved his head slowly back and forth. “I’m either rich, or dead, Dent. Save Fifth. First time we shared a laugh. I’m doing it … I’m taking her ….”

  The video went black. After two seconds it remained black.

  Dent stared at the blank screen. Fischer had been rambling. He’d made no sense. The two had never shared a laugh. Dent didn’t have half of a laugh to share in the first place. He rolled the chair away from the screens and twisted it on its wheels. He looked around the secure room. There had been no way in, safeguards to keep people out. But there were no safeguards to keep people in.

  The package’s purse reflected the light through hundreds of fake jewel beads. A bottle of Glenfiddich sat atop a shelf further along the curved wall, standing out among electronics and unused machinery. On the floor sat the metal contraption Fischer had claimed would keep this place safe.

  Dent was unsure of what to do.

  He stood, made a round around the room and grabbed a few essentials. He stuffed them into his backpack. He walked over to the purse and picked it up. He deposited it in his pack along with the bottle of single malt Scotch whiskey.

  One more scan of the room and then Dent left.

  He left the hiss of running machinery, the steady whirring of hundreds of cooling fans, and the electrical hum from the more than twenty large screen TVs and computer monitors that filled the air.

  XV

  Dent sat at the edge of the foot of the bed in his second-floor suite. He was at a Best Western Plus just off the 10. Corner room, balcony, two windows.

  Dent had failed in his mission. For the second time in his life he’d failed. There were no contingency plans for what had transpired. No carefully laid plans for the ifs and whens

  Fischer would call the current situation a controlled chaos scenario. But there was no probability in chaos, no logical steps that could be taken.

  Dent looked to the contents placed upon the bed to either side of him. He picked up the package’s purse and noted for the second time that it was heavier than normal. He unzipped it. The package had confiscated one of his books. He pulled it out. It was faded green, had a creased spine, and pages worn thin from heavy perusal. He placed the stained book on the bed, next to the jeweled purse.

  He didn’t complete the mission.

  He picked up the bottle and opened it. Strong vapors warmed the inside of his nostrils. He put bottle to mouth and upended it. He opened his throat and the brown liquid burned as he glugged it down. By the time he righted the bottle, he’d felt warmth in his core, felt it spreading.

  The mission was a failure.

  Bottle, mouth, lift, pour.

  He was a failure.

  More warmth spread, reaching his extremities now. The book caught his eye, triggered a very recent memory.

  The package looked up to him as he stepped to exit Fischer’s domain. “Will it be safe?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  The girl looked down momentarily, away from his eyes.

  She looked back up and reached a small hand for his. She waggled her hand once, twice, until he took it. She squeezed. He had to pry her hand from his in order to leave.

  Dent had always been a terrible liar.

  She had known, Dent now realized. It came to him like the spreading warmth to his fingers.

  Bottle, mouth, lift, pour.

  Dent’s eyes watered. Thoughts of the girl led to thoughts of Fischer. Why had the man acted so … chaotic?

  The email from Chisholme. It had triggered something in Fischer. He’d mentioned taking off the numb-pack, that the email was laced. But with what? Greed? Maybe trust? Fischer thought he knew but still couldn’t fight it.

  Dent stood and walked to the bathroom sink. He grabbed one of the complimentary cups and resumed his seat on the edge of the bed. He poured the amber liquid into the cup, filling it up to the brim. He then took a long pull from the refractive crystal. He could feel his ears tingling now, his toes as well. He wiggled them in his boots, found them constricted, and kicked the boots off.

  The girl needed him. Right? Correct assumption? He couldn’t leave her to whatever fate Chisholme had in store for her. The man was a killer.

  Definitely not someone a little girl should be around.

  He picked up the book again with his free hand. Jules Verne. It was a good book. He’d read it many times. The girl had taken it. She must have wanted to read it as well. Why else would she have taken it?

  He took another small sip.

  Dent was confused. Fischer, the email, the betrayal. But he’d left Dent the video message. Why? There was something there. There had to be. He didn’t know why, but he knew it to be a true assumption.

  Dent turned on the flat-screen TV. He tethered his EB to it, hopped on the web. The TV showed exactly what was displayed on his EB. He grabbed the wireless keyboard and stared at the expectant big screen. He had to think. The liquor had invaded his mind. Now he had to put himself in Fischer’s chaotic mind.

  First: A shared laugh? He’d met Fischer through email. His name had been dropped by a mutual associate of theirs and Dent contacted the techie. Dent had needed assistance on a job that required him to recover another package. The package was a small electrical conductor that used degraded materials. He’d sent an inquiry to Fischer about the logistical, operational, and legal aspects of the material. He’d sent the email, titled it simply as “I need an L.O.L.”

  The techie had found that funny for some odd reason and after a few confusing replies and a transfer of money, Fischer sent over a Materials Analysis Transcript that detailed all pertinent information Dent needed. That had begun their relationship.

  Dent nodded to himself and took another small swallow. Fischer was clever. Emotionally erratic, but clever. Dent knew where to go now.

  He went to Google’s homepage, pulled up his business Gmail account, and filtered through to his password protected saved emails. He thumbed through th
em, but the particular one he was looking for wasn’t there. And then he noticed he had one new message in his inbox. He left-clicked on it.

  Apparently he, or someone who’d hacked his account, re-sent the old email to himself. He opened it and scrolled to the bottom. Just like before there was an icon labeled MAT.pdf. He right-clicked.

  And the TV screen flashed. He watched as webpage after webpage flashed by, website after website. The link had taken him on a mad-dash around the web, each page linking to another and yet another. When it finally hit its circuitous destination the screen began beeping over and over, each beep producing a window, until a stack of them awaited his study.

  His eyes went wide and he realized his jaw muscles were sore. He relaxed.

  And he read.

  The windows told a story.

  Of a young boy who’d been met by a certain man. This man had studied the boy, had others poke and prod and experiment on the boy. The boy’s life had been mapped out, it seemed. He was to be trained by a certain commanding officer and adopted into a new military branch called DUUP.

  Dent read old emails regarding the boy, emails between a certain man, a rising military official in DUUP, and an ambitious middleman in the U.S. government. Chisholme, Dent’s former XO, and the man who would come to be called Charon.

  And a boy named Mary.

  After reading the last archived message the screen flashed again, taking him on another wild ride through the digital ether. He took a small sip as he waited, wiggled his toes, scratched an errant itch or two.

  A steady stream of beeps drew him back to reality and he was met with another screen full of pop-ups. Similar messages to those he’d just read through. These didn’t stay on the screen long enough for him to read completely, but he got the gist of it. A rich man, a military officer, and ingratiated man.

  And a girl named Fifth.

  They would use her, Dent fumed.

  He himself had been manipulated, but in the end he had opted for his part in this life. He chose, the girl had not. He became a deliveryman, she became a package.