by Haris Orkin
The flag rose. The base was almost theirs. That’s when the Blenheim MKI roared above him. He wondered if he could shelter in place and survive the bombing run. Gunfire erupted behind him and he swung around wildly to face an enemy unloading on him. Sergei returned fire and shot off his opponent’s helmet. His head came off with it.
His brief moment of victory ended abruptly as the bomber dropped its payload directly on Sergei’s position. He died violently in a ground-pounding display of pyrotechnical wizardry and unimaginable power.
A hand tapped him on the shoulder. Sergei pulled off his headset. The eighty-five-inch 8K Ultra HD TV filled the wall in front of him, lighting up the room with CGI carnage. Mr. Fergus loomed over him. Sergei knew that the former Navy Seal and ex-Secret Service agent had seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. Fergus had survived actual battles and even a bullet wound. Yet Sergei knew that he, too, enjoyed playing online war games along with other active duty soldiers stationed in live warzones.
Actual combat was frustrating, confusing and terrifying. They found solace and empowerment in the video game version of it. They could try different strategies and take crazy risks and never worry about dying or being maimed for life.
“I thought we were off the grid here? Disconnected from the internet. How is it you’re playing online?” Fergus asked.
“I’m playing with my own people. This is a local area network and there’s no connection to the world wide web. Does that answer your question?”
“It does.”
“Did you find Miss Zimmerman?”
“We did.”
Belenki climbed out of his X Rocker gaming chair, pulled up his sweatpants and pulled down his t-shirt. Fergus stood a few inches taller than him at six foot three. “Where is she?”
“With Flynn. We’ve been monitoring Perez’s cell phone and we intercepted a call from Flynn. They’re in Southern California. We have a rendition team already in route and I’ll be following.”
“Good. Keep me in the loop.”
“You’ll be my first call once we have her.”
Fergus left the room. Belenki sat back down in his gaming chair, put on his headset, and focused his attention back on the battle of El Alamein.
“Have you ever had mock taco pie?”
Flynn wondered if it was a trick question and glanced at Wendy, hoping for some help.
“We don’t really have time for lunch, Mom,” Wendy replied.
“What do you mean you don’t have time for lunch?” Her mom looked put out. She wore white yoga pants and a cobalt blue blouse. “I haven’t seen you in six months. You can’t spare half an hour to have lunch with your mother?”
“Mom.”
“I use soy crumbles, so there’s no meat and I only use nut cheese, so there’s no dairy.”
“Mom’s a vegan,” Wendy said helpfully.
“I make it from scratch. It’s delicious. Sit. Please.”
Flynn took a seat at the little kitchen table. Wendy sat across from him. Her mom served them both a big plate of mock taco pie and poured them each a glass of iced green tea. She then sat at the head of the table.
“You’re not eating?” Wendy asked.
“I had a late breakfast. So, are you two a thing?”
“A thing?” Wendy looked mortified.
“You haven’t brought a boy home to meet me since…ever.”
“We’re not a thing, mom. We’re just friends.”
Flynn took a bite of mock taco pie and it wasn’t terrible. It wasn’t exactly good either.
Wendy’s mom grinned at Flynn. “Just like the real thing, right?”
Flynn nodded and lied. “Delicious.”
“It’s so good to meet one of Wendy’s friends.”
“It’s good to meet you too, Mrs. Zimmerman.”
“Wendy never dated much in high school. In fact, I don’t think she ever went on one single date.”
“Mom.”
“Admit it, honey. You were not very social. You had self-esteem issues. Maybe that’s my fault, I don’t know, but I do know you never wanted to listen to me.”
“Can we not talk about this right now?”
“I’m just glad to see you with someone so polite and charming and dare I say it, good looking.”
“We’re just friends, mom.”
“And I think that’s great. How long have you two known each other?”
“Not long.” Wendy choked down the last bite of mock taco pie and pushed away her plate. “We really got to go.”
Flynn finished his as well. “Thank you, Mrs. Zimmerman. That really hit the spot.”
“Admit it now. If I hadn’t told you, would you have ever guessed that was nut cheese?”
“I don’t think so.”
“A lot of people try to save some money and buy inferior nut cheese. But not all nut cheese is the same. It comes down to the nuts. The better the nuts, the better the nut cheese.”
“Mom!”
“What?”
“Stop saying nut cheese!”
“We really appreciate your hospitality. Flynn scraped back his chair. “But unfortunately, we are in a bit of a hurry.”
“Perhaps we can have dinner one night while you two are still down here.”
“Maybe,” Wendy said.
“How about Tuesday?”
“You mean tomorrow?”
“It’s decided then.” She smiled at Flynn. “I have a great recipe for crispy hemp-crusted tofu nuggets.”
Wendy was already up, grabbing her messenger bag and moving for the door. She had it open before Flynn rose from his chair.
“I do hate to eat and run, but it was indeed a pleasure to meet you, mum.”
Mrs. Zimmerman waved and smiled. “See you tomorrow! Let’s say seven!”
Sancho paced the floor of his tiny studio apartment. It was on Merton Avenue, a block south of Colorado and just west of Eagle Rock Boulevard—a considerable step up from his old earthquake-damaged apartment building in North Hills. The more upscale homeowners and hipsters who called Eagle Rock home attracted investments in trendy restaurants and coffee shops, vintage record stores and craft cocktail bars. Sancho enjoyed living there, but with his big payday from Belenki he had plans to move out and buy his own place. It was always surprising to him that it was much cheaper to own in L.A. then it was to rent. Just another example of how the rich get richer and the rest don’t get a damn thing.
Sancho had Flynn to his apartment in Eagle Rock more than once. It was only a few miles from the Galleria and even closer to the halfway house Flynn called home before he was sent back to City of Roses. But James was Jimmy the last time he visited. James never visited his Eagle Rock digs. James visited his North Hills apartment though and by the time he left it was reduced to a bullet-riddled ruin.
Everything Sancho owned was destroyed in that SWAT raid except for the framed poster he purchased at a garage sale when he was ten. It was from the movie Shrek; the only movie his father had ever taken him to. It now hung on the wall above his couch from Ikea. Bettina sat just below it, typing away on her laptop. She didn’t seem nervous at all, which made Sancho even more nervous. Flynn believed Bettina was an assassin sent by Goolardo to kill him and he wasn’t sure what Flynn would do when he saw her in his apartment.
This nervousness sat like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t believe he let Bettina talk him into doing this. He initially wanted the police there, but Bettina was worried Flynn might put up a fight. She was probably right. That would be his instinct. And then his new place would get trashed as badly as his old place and he would never get his security deposit back. Bettina’s plan was to talk him into returning to City of Roses voluntarily. Sancho had to try. The man saved his life more than once. He owed Flynn that much.
A loud buzz startled them both. Sancho approached the intercom. “Flynn?”
“Yes, buzz me in.”
Sancho did and waited and within seconds came a knock at the door. Sancho looked thro
ugh the peephole. Flynn stood next to a young woman with lavender hair. “Who’s that with you?”
“Wendy. She’s the whistleblower who called us. Open the door.”
“It wasn’t Daisy who called us?”
“Can you please open the door?”
Sancho unlocked the deadbolt. Flynn hurried Wendy in and closed and locked it behind himself. He didn’t notice Bettina until he turned around. Instantly, he produced the pistol he filched from Belenki’s thug. “I see we meet again, Miss O’Toole.”
“O’Toole-Applebaum. It’s hyphenated.”
Sancho stepped in front of Flynn’s gun. “James, put the piece away.”
“Do you know who she works for?”
“Rolling Stone.”
“No, my friend, that’s her cover story. She’s an assassin in the employ of Francisco Goolardo.”
“She’s not. I promise. She’s on our side.”
“You flipped her?”
“I didn’t need to.”
“Ah, I see, so by sparing her life I changed it.” Flynn addressed Bettina directly. “I gave you the opportunity to redeem yourself and apparently you have. Have you turned against your former employer?”
Bettina hesitated and then nodded. “I have.”
“So, you’re with us now?”
“I am.”
“In Wendy’s messenger bag is all the documentary evidence we’ll need to prove to the proper authorities that Sergei Belenki believes that a murderous AI intends to enslave humanity.”
Bettina traded a look with Sancho.
“To stop it, he plans to bring down our entire planet’s technological infrastructure. He has filled the heavens with nuclear devices and has one last satellite to launch. Once that final bomb is in orbit, he will set his plan in motion by detonating—"
The window in Sancho’s kitchen exploded and a grenade bounced across the floor. Tear gas billowed out with a loud hiss, filling the room with toxic plumes, instantly burning every mucous membrane within smelling distance. Sancho couldn’t see or breath or even function. Every part of him burned. His eyes, his sinuses, his lungs, and his skin all fried with white-hot agony.
His only instinct was to escape. He rushed for the door and crashed into someone female, caught an elbow in the face, tripped on something and fell, banging his head on the edge of who knows what on the way down. He would have stayed on the floor, but the searing pain was excruciating. Flynn’s powerful hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him to his feet.
“This way,” Flynn commanded.
As hearing was Sancho’s only functioning sense, he followed Flynn’s voice. He bumped into Bettina and Wendy as they moved for the door. He felt his way forward, eyes clamped tight, face wet with tears. The door rattled. Flynn opened it and Sancho felt the cool air as he moved into the corridor.
He followed Flynn’s footsteps on the linoleum and then heard something hard hitting flesh. Flynn grunted painfully. That was followed by the electrical crackle of a stun gun. Bettina screamed. Sancho struggled to open his burning eyes and caught a glimpse of a gas mask-wearing thug pushing a stun gun against Wendy’s neck. Her yelp was accompanied by a similar crackle. She collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.
Sancho’s vision blurred, so he didn’t see the thug with the telescoping baton until it was too late. He hit Sancho hard on the knee. Sancho fell, his face bouncing off the floor. From his tilted perspective, Sancho watched Flynn punch a thug in the face before another one shot him in the back with a taser. The twin barbs lit Flynn up and he convulsed, collapsing to his knees. Sancho tried to get up to help him. A heavy foot pushed him back.
“Stay down!” the owner of the foot said.
Bettina lay helpless, writhing on the floor, her face streaked with tears. Black-suited thugs grabbed Wendy and Flynn, but before they could drag them off, someone Sancho never expected suddenly appeared.
Mendoza.
The thugs seemed as surprised as Sancho when Mendoza started shooting. He put a bullet in the brainpans of both pendejos holding Flynn as well as the owner of the foot planted in Sancho’s back.
The two assholes who had Wendy took the opportunity to run. Mendoza dispatched one with a bullet to the back of the head. Flynn took advantage of the chaos and tried to escape, but Mendoza blocked his way and beat him down with the butt of his pistol. In the time it took to subdue Flynn, the last soldado managed to escape with Wendy and the messenger bag she’d brought with her.
Sancho struggled to get up off the floor as Mendoza leveled his pistol at him, aiming right for his head. Sancho froze. There was no escape now. Only death. Before Mendoza could pull the trigger, Flynn pushed up his gun hand. The bullet parted Sancho’s hair. Flynn struggled to take the weapon. Sancho crawled on his hands and knees into his apartment. Grunts and punches echoed as fists hit flesh and the two men grappled. This was followed by a curious silence. Mystified, Sancho peered back into the corridor. Flynn and Mendoza were gone. Bettina was still alive, however, sobbing and hugging her knees as she lay on her side.
Sancho looked back into his apartment. Both patio windows and his kitchen windows were completely shattered. A floor lamp lay broken. A coffee table was cracked in half. Shards of glass from Sancho’s Shrek poster covered the floor. Yet Shrek was still smiling, despite the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mendoza would miss Mrs. Megel’s pancakes. She made them every morning; and every morning Mendoza would eat a giant stack of them, covered with melted butter and maple syrup. She would beam at him as he ate, happy to have someone eating her pancakes again.
In return, he’d have to listen to her talk; and she was as good at talking as she was at making pancakes. Mendoza figured since she normally had no one to converse with, she was making up for lost talking. She never stopped. Never. And most of the time Mendoza had no idea what she was going on about. But that was okay. Somehow, he found the constant chatter comforting. Her voice was raspy and surprisingly deep, and she would punctuate certain sentences with a raucous, gravelly cackle. Goolardo would engage with her, but Mendoza just listened and nodded and ate pancake after pancake after pancake.
“My boys used to love my blueberry pancakes. Every Sunday morning I’d make them blueberry pancakes with blueberry syrup. And bacon. They loved bacon. I never had bacon growing up. My mother’s father was Orthodox and she considered it “treyf.”
“Treyf?” Goolardo asked.
“Unclean. Not kosher. Jews of mother’s generation did not eat pig. I didn’t either until I met Murray. Murray corrupted me in more ways than one.” She threw her head back and cackled. “More pancakes, Iggy?”
Mendoza nodded.
Mrs. Megel insisted on knowing their given names and, much to Mendoza’s surprise, Goolardo spilled the beans. Mendoza was named after his mother’s father, Ignacio. As a kid, his friends called him Nacho, but Mrs. Megel dubbed him Iggy. As Goolardo’s given name was Francisco, she decided to call him Frankie. Frankie and Iggy. Goolardo seemed good with that. After all, they were in hiding he said and it was better she didn’t use their real names.
She dropped two more blueberry pancakes on Mendoza’s plate. “I was a virgin when I met Murray, both to pork and porking and he taught me the glories of both. He introduced me to barbeque. Baby back ribs. Oh, my God. Before our first trip to Vegas, a shrimp had never passed my lips. We hit the seafood buffet at Caesar’s and it was magnificent. Jumbo shrimp. Lobster. Crab. Oysters. Clams. We played some slots. A little blackjack. Saw a show. Over the years we saw all the greats. Wayne Newton. Charo. Seigfried and Roy. Let me tell you, my Murray? He knew how to live.” She teared up and turned away. “Sorry. What can I say? I miss the man. Who wants more bacon?”
Flynn opened his eyes and found himself in a darkened room. His legs and arms were trussed securely to a chair with twine and wire and gaffer tape. The binds were so tight, he couldn’t feel his feet. He had no idea where was or how he got there. A dull p
ain pounded behind his eyes and the open gash on his scalp stung and throbbed. He probably had a concussion, and that cut was likely infected. Tape covered his mouth and his nose was congested with dried blood, making breathing difficult. At least he was still alive. The question was why?
How could he let Mendoza get the drop on him like that? He still didn’t know who those other attackers were. Until Mendoza murdered them, he thought they were Goolardo’s men. Apparently, they worked for Belenki. By now Wendy was at some black site being interrogated. Waterboarded. Sleep deprived. Forced to stand in submission positions.
All the enhanced interrogation techniques and tricks of the trade would be used to break her. And what about Sancho and Bettina? Were they even still alive? As long as Flynn was breathing, he still had a chance to escape. He’d survived worse than this many times. Every deathtrap imaginable. From alligator pits and shark tanks to an industrial laser and hordes of ninjas.
He just had to stay calm, cool, and focused.
A bit of light spilled under the door. As his eyes adjusted, he surveyed the surroundings. He saw what looked like a bed shaped like a race car. A beat-up dresser. Shelves lined with children’s books and karate trophies. Posters of Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, and Jean Claude van Damme lined the walls.
Muffled voices filtered through from another part of the building. One sounded like Goolardo. Another sounded like Mendoza. There was a third man with a deep, raspy voice. Flynn couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, but that third one would explode in maniacal laughter every now and then. The sound of that cackle chilled him.
Flynn sat in the dark for what seemed like hours before he heard footsteps approach the door. It opened. The light from the hallway initially blinded him.
“Looks like Mr. Flynn is finally with us again.” Goolardo stepped closer to examine the cut on Flynn’s forehead. “I was afraid Mendoza hit you too hard. I worried I wouldn’t have the opportunity to watch you die with my own eyes. But here you are, still alive if not exactly kicking.” He ripped the gaffer tape off Flynn’s face and took some of his skin and beard stubble along with it.