The Bastille - a Thriller

by Victor Methos

  “I haven’t read about any of it. His escape or anything. I just saw a snippet of a news broadcast and I panicked.”

  “It was the right response. Our fear mechanism is one of the best weapons we have against harm. Do you like Chinese?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Some egg rolls sound divine right now if you got them.”

  “Your wish is my command,” he said, placing a small container filled with egg rolls on the table near the kitchen.

  Carrie sat down at the table and bit into an egg roll. She hadn’t eaten since this morning and her stomach was growling. The egg roll was fried on the outside and gooey on the inside. Mickey sat across from her.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t eat at the Amber.”

  “It was a good call. I’m not sure how well that cheeseburger is sitting with me.”

  She chuckled. “I should’ve warned you before, but I think I saw some cockroaches there.”

  “Cockroaches I can handle. I’ve actually eaten them before. It’s what you can’t see that scares me.”

  “What would possibly possess you to eat cockroaches?”

  “It wasn’t here. It was in Saigon. They fry them with honey or with other spices and put them on rice. It’s not the worst meal I’ve had.”

  “Wow. What were you doing in Saigon?”

  Mickey seemed to grow uncomfortable. His face flushed and he glanced down at the table. “I was there in the army.”

  “You were in Vietnam?”

  “The tail end of the war, yeah. I was there the last years before the U.S. pulled out.”

  “I bet you’ve got some stories.”

  “Probably nothing worth repeating.”

  She hesitated. “My father was in World War Two. He fought in the Pacific and was shot down on a small island with a few other Japanese and American soldiers. He said they kind of split the island. Like the Americans would stay on one half and the Japanese would stay on the other. They never fired a shot at each other. It was like a truce. He even said they spoke a few times, or tried to. My father wasn’t exactly a linguist. Even his English was terrible. But he was a big-hearted man. I think he hated fighting in that war. But he felt like he had to.”

  “We were attacked. It’s hard not to respond to something like that.”

  “Do you feel that way about Vietnam? That we had to respond to that, too?”

  Mickey was quiet a moment. “No. We were just dumb kids doing what we were told. There was no reason we had to be over there. But I guess that’s just war, isn’t it? The elderly discussing things and the young going over there to die.”

  She took another bite of egg roll, finishing it off, and chewed a long time in silence. “Can you do me a favor, Agent Parsons?”

  “Mickey is fine. And yes, I’d be happy to do you a favor.”

  “Can you teach me how to shoot a gun?”

  21

  The Las Vegas Firearms Depot was the nearest gun store to the hotel. The space was really just a warehouse packed with firearms, knives, swords, ammunition, and a firing range. Mickey browsed the glass cases containing the handguns. He looked over at Carrie, who was staring in awe at an old Kalashnikov the store was selling at a discount. She touched it, her fingers running along the barrel, and then moved on to a shotgun that was on display next to it.

  “What can I do for ya?” the salesman said.

  Mickey nodded in the direction of the firearm he wanted. “That one, please.”

  The salesman checked the weapon, and placed it softly down on the glass. Mickey picked it up and felt the weight in his hands. The Smith & Wesson M&P Shield was possibly the best option for a female shooter. It weighed only nineteen ounces and was six inches in length. Light enough and short enough to be carried without a holster in a purse. The weapon was polymer framed and felt smooth in his hands.

  “This and three boxes of Hornady Critical Duty ammunition, please.”

  “You got it.”

  The salesman gathered his ammunition and weapon. Mickey saw Carrie watching a video about giving to the NRA and protecting Second Amendment rights.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said to her.

  He sat down in a little side booth as they ran the background check. The entire process took less than ten minutes, and he paid for the weapon and the ammo himself.

  Once he had the weapon, he took Carrie back to the firing range. They put on safety goggles and earplugs and stood in the middle lane. Mickey loaded the weapon, removed the safety, and stood behind her. “Are you right or left-handed?”

  “Right,” she said.

  “This is called the Weaver stance,” Mickey said. He lifted her arms and placed the pistol in her right hand. “The dominant hand holds the pistol, and the other hand wraps around the dominant hand like this… then you have to have your off-handed foot in front, so for you it would be your left foot. Your right foot angles out like this and most of your weight goes on your front foot. You lean forward at the hips and your back leg will catch most of the recoil. You ready to shoot?”

  “Yes.”

  The targets were preloaded here, something Mickey hadn’t seen at a firing range before but had always thought would be a good idea. Their target was a simple paper dummy with different point ranges for the stomach, chest, neck and head.

  “Two to the chest,” he said, “and two to the head. Repeat until whoever is coming at you stops. Got it?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She fired the first shot and the power of the recoil caught her off guard. It threw her back into him and he caught her, his arms wrapped around her. He could smell her hair and feel how soft her skin was.

  “Let the recoil flow through you and to your leg. You want your legs to catch it, not your arms.”

  She fired again, this time bracing herself and keeping her balance. Then, she began firing two shots in succession.

  Mickey watched as her aim improved. He took a step back away from her. He felt a vibration in his pocket and took out his phone. It was Angela.

  “Yeah,” Mickey said.

  “I heard shots at the hospital, Mick. The cop you had outside my room isn’t here.”

  “Don’t move. Get somewhere you can lock the door, now.”

  “My door locks.”

  “No, don’t stay in your own room. Go into a different room and lock the door. I’ll be there in ten.”

  Mickey hung up. “I have to go. You’re safer if you stay here. I’m going to have one of the officers from the hotel come pick you up.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I think Zain just showed up.”

  Mickey raced to the hospital, ignoring red lights. He was nearly struck by a truck traveling southbound as he crossed an intersection. He told himself to slow down. He had already called 911 and officers were there. The likelihood was that he wouldn’t be able to contribute anything.

  As he pulled in to the emergency room parking, he saw several cruisers lined up against the curb. A few officers were hanging around and he pulled out his badge as he entered the hospital. One officer thought to say something to him but changed his mind.

  As Mickey walked to the elevators, he saw Angela standing with a uniformed officer. She appeared all right.

  “You okay?” he said.

  “Hey. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “Fucker came in and killed two people.”

  Mickey scanned the lobby. “Did they get him?”

  “No. He came in, stabbed a nurse and then waited for the officer in front of my room to run down. Cut him up pretty bad as soon as he got off the elevator.”

  He shook his head. “How did he know you were here?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You certain it was him?”

  “Look at the video yourself, Mick. It’s fucking him. He stabbed some poor nurse and then killed that officer and took off.”


  “Why would he just leave? It doesn’t make any…”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  Mickey’s heart dropped into his stomach. His knees felt weak and he couldn’t breathe. He turned and sprinted out of the hospital.

  22

  The hotel room walls were closing in on Carrie Fetcher. She stared at them a long time, then turned on the television and watched a couple of reality shows.

  The TV could only entertain her for so long before she grew bored. She turned it off and flipped on Pandora on her phone. The Enigma station was playing and she closed her eyes and listened to a soft drumbeat layered with Native American chanting.

  The music relaxed her and her thoughts began to drift. She thought back to her childhood and the way her mother’s favorite Sunday dinner—fried chicken with mashed potatoes—filled up the whole house with the scent of cooking butter and potatoes. She thought of herself carrying that tradition on with her children. She had been so certain that that would be something passed down from one generation to the next in her family.

  She also saw Thanksgiving dinners that would never happen, Christmas days that would never come, an empty house in old age that should have been filled with memories. In a brief flash, she saw an entire life that should have been hers, but was ripped away from her by the man she most loved and trusted in the world. And the worst part of it all was that she didn’t even know why. After twenty years, she wasn’t any closer to an answer to why it all happened.

  Her cell phone vibrated and only then did she realize she’d been sleeping. Bleary-eyed, she answered the call.

  “Hi Melissa,” she said.

  “Hey. Where you been? We were supposed to meet up, remember? You ran outta the gym so quick I thought your house was on fire.”

  “I’m fine. I appreciate your concern but I’m just dealing with some personal issues right now.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh no. I’m not getting you involved in all this.”

  “Well, are you gonna be able to make Janice’s birthday party at least?”

  “That’s right—I completely forgot about that.”

  “I figured you would. You can’t miss it. She’s moving to Miami next month. This is the last birthday bash where we’re all gonna be together.”

  Carrie inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly through her nose. A lot of the tension that had balled itself up in her gut came out with that breath. Just this, talking about mundane matters that had nothing to do with blood or killing or prisons, was an enormous relief. It reminded her that there was a life where madness didn’t exist, where people made sense.

  “Mel, if I actually told you what was going on, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  Before Carrie could answer, a sound caught her attention. Like a metallic crunch. It had come from just outside the hotel.

  “Hold on,” she said, placing the phone down on the nightstand.

  She rushed over to the balcony and looked into the parking lot. That same car that she had seen before with the tinted windows was back. And it had rear-ended another car. But the occupants of both vehicles were gone, their driver’s side doors open. Carrie could hear Melissa’s voice on the phone saying, “What is it? What happened?”

  She picked up the phone. “There was an accident right outside my hotel room.”

  “What’re you doing in a hotel? Carrie, what the hell is going on?”

  Carrie sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. She hadn’t told anyone about the events in her life except for one man, a real estate developer named Robert. Dating between them had come easy. No forced conversations or awkward moments, just laughter and an understanding that a relationship was about two people coming together and sharing their lives, not having one life.

  One night, after lovemaking in Robert’s palatial home overlooking the city below, she had opened up to him. He deserved to know. Carrie had told him about Zain, about her children, about how she’d been in hiding ever since.

  She’d wept that night in his arms and thought she had found the perfect man, someone who could fill that gaping hole she’d felt since Zain. But the next day, he was brisk on the phone and cancelled some plans they had that weekend. After that, the calls between them declined in frequency and eventually they stopped seeing each other. There were no words spoken, no official breakup. He just faded out of her life.

  “Mel…” she said, tears in her eyes. “I…”

  A loud crash.

  Carrie sat quietly and listened, her heart pounding. She slowly rose, her eyes on the door.

  As she watched, her eyes glided down to the doorknob. It turned one way and then the other. Then it stopped.

  With a force so powerful that it rained splinters over the room, the door burst open. Zain Tamora stood there, his chest heaving, spatters of blood on his face and clothing.

  Carrie couldn’t scream, she couldn’t move. She couldn’t even think. Her mouth fell open and the phone dropped from her hand. Zain rushed at her. He grabbed her by the arms and slammed her into the wall, caving it in. She felt the breath leave her body and the warmth of blood run down her head.

  “No,” she gasped, “ow, ow, please, Zain, please don’t. No!”

  23

  The tires of his rental car screeched as he made the turn into the hotel too quickly. Mickey saw something in the parking lot. An accident. An older car had rammed into the back of a newer sedan. Mickey rolled by slowly and saw something underneath the sedan. He parked and got out. Bending down so he could see underneath the car, he saw a foot connected to a leg.

  The man’s head had been bashed in and he’d clearly been shoved underneath the car. Mickey looked up to Carrie’s room. He pulled out his sidearm and ran inside.

  The lobby was empty except for a hotel clerk who was surfing the internet. Mickey ran past him to the elevators. He pushed the button and paced nervously. The clerk glanced up at him and back to his computer screen, oblivious to the fact that he was holding a gun.

  The two officers that were supposed to be there weren’t.

  The elevator opened and Mickey stepped in. As it rose, he checked his weapon. There was a time when he did nothing but practice with it. To pull it out on the job was unthinkable. But in the space of a few years, that had completely changed.

  The elevator dinged and came to a stop on the fifth floor. Mickey peeked out and down both sides of the hallway. He stepped out and quietly moved to the room. The door was in pieces. He peered inside and saw the hulking figure standing over the lithe woman. She was bloodied with cuts covering her arms and legs, her face and neck, but she was alive.

  The figure looked up at him. He had a knife in his hand.

  “Drop the weapon!” Mickey shouted, raising his sidearm.

  The figure lifted the knife to come down with it into the woman. Mickey fired two rounds, the smell of spent gunpowder filling his nostrils and the loud pop causing a ringing in his ears.

  The rounds tore into the figure and it grunted like an animal. The figure raised its arm to cover its head and dashed for the balcony. Mickey fired twice more. One of the rounds hit the figure in the shoulder just as it shattered the sliding glass door and leapt off the balcony.

  Mickey ran to her. She wasn’t crying or making any sounds other than breathing loudly.

  “You’re okay,” he said softly as he lifted her in his arms. “You’re okay.”

  The blood coated his arms and chest as he ran out of the room and to the elevators. The time spent going down was excruciating. He could feel the blood pouring out of her from her cuts. Tamora had sliced her dozens of times in every exposed area.

  The clerk behind the front desk looked like he was about to faint. His mouth opened but he didn’t say anything as Mickey rushed by, the semi-conscious woman bleeding to death in his arms.

  As they got outside, he looked at the grass where Tamora would have landed. Nothing there. Mickey lifted her onto his shoulders in a fireman carry. Tamora
had walked away from three rounds and a five-story fall.

  But he’d have time to contemplate how Tamora did it later. Right now, Carrie was his only concern.

  He dashed to his car and placed her in the passenger seat before jumping in and speeding away.

  24

  The hospital room smelled like antiseptic. Mickey sat just outside in the hallway but he could smell it from here. He was sensitive to it now, after spending months in hospitals just like this one as the cancer ate away at his wife.

  “Agent Parsons?”

  “Yes.”

  A man in blue scrubs sat down next to him. “I’m sorry. There were deep lacerations to her internal organs. We did everything we could, but she didn’t make it.”

  Mickey didn’t respond. He stared off down the hall, to an orderly pushing a gurney. The doctor said, “If it helps, I don’t think there was any pain in the final moments.”

  He nodded. “I appreciate it, doc. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Mickey sat quietly a few moments before he rose. The officer stationed outside of her room nodded to him and he nodded back. He’d gotten word that the two officers at the hotel had been found. One had left for coffee and the other was killed while smoking behind the hotel. Tamora must’ve been waiting for an opportunity like that.

  As he walked the halls, his hands in his pockets, he looked into different rooms. Some patients were asleep, others absently staring at the television, and still others quietly crying. He didn’t wonder what had happened to them. He knew. Life happened. The randomness of it. The chaos. It permeated everything and no one was immune.

  Mickey strode out of the hospital and sat down on a bench overlooking the parking lot. The lights were dim and barely illuminated the space before him. There were a few cars left, but it was late enough now that even the emergency room was slow.

  He sat there in the dark and watched the sky. Tamora had attacked so many people he didn’t know how to make sense of it all. This entire experience had been one flurry of death and blood. And he didn’t understand any of it. He hadn’t experienced anything like this before. Usually, mass murderers, once they were in custody, became permanently docile. Tamora had been docile for eighteen years, and then instantly changed. He had an extraordinary propensity for violence, and somehow it had given him strength.