The Fog of Dreams

by Justin Bell

  ********

  Choreographed chaos was about the best way that Agent Grace could describe the state of the local NSA Watch Station. With all of the regional field agents called in, the hallways flooded with men running back and forth, collecting weapons, ammunition, and other gear. Grace stood in the lobby, looking out through the windows into the front parking lot. He couldn't help but marvel at the relative normality happening just outside compared to the rush of activity within the tinted office windows.

  A tin-sounding ding popped behind Agent Grace and he turned in time to see Director McKie striding from the elevator, looking nonplussed.

  "So what are the chances he shows up here, Grace?" he asked, cocking an uncertain eyebrow.

  "Agent Burndock, who is one of our expert profilers, seems to think chances are near one-hundred percent."

  "Any idea of his plan of attack?"

  Grace walked along the lobby towards the staircase and looked upwards, seeing a handful of men scrambling from one room to another. "No idea, yet. All we know is he's stolen an agency vehicle, so we're keeping tabs on all black late-model American sedans. We've even got the tag number. We should spot him well before he gets within an arm's reach."

  "Good." Director McKie nodded his head sideways towards the street outside. "What about out there? A full scale gunfight emerges in here. Someone's going to notice."

  "We've put in an emergency call for a broken gas main underneath South Main Street, sir. Emergency preparedness personnel should be here within minutes to clear the street and start repairs. Of course, the repair crew will be our guys."

  McKie shook his head. "I know I've said this before, Agent, but this is a full scale cluster fuck."

  Agent Grace was unapologetic. "Sir, you have to take big risks to get big results. And the results don't get much bigger than we're seeing here."

  McKie looked at him curiously. "No regrets?"

  "None, sir. I'd do it all over again. Our research from this single trial will fuel decades of further experiments and provide countless benefits to many of our operations here and abroad." Agent Grace neglected to mention that the genetic research laboratory had quite suddenly grown deathly quiet.

  "Here we go," said Grace evenly as a trio of large, armored fire trucks pulled up, sirens wailing. A man hopped down from the front engine with a megaphone to announce the emergency and recommend that everyone divert. Minutes later, caution tape was placed at the intersection between South Main Street and Main Street, with the same happening ten blocks in the other direction. Containment was quick and thorough.

  "What are our chances against this freak job?" Director McKie asked pointedly.

  "We've got at least two dozen men armed to the teeth, sir. Strickland is an impressive specimen, but he isn't invincible. This will be over quick."

  "From your lips to God's ears," replied the NSA Director.

  Agent Grace grimaced. "If He's listening, Director, I'm not sure He's on our side."

  It only took a few minutes for South Main Street to be totally cordoned off, and within about twenty-five minutes, a four-block radius around the NSA Watch Station was completely blocked off and empty. Closer to the three-story building, a team of snipers on over-watch clung low to the concrete walls of the parking garage and the roof of the building, scanning the immediate area and reporting out on any unusual events.

  NSA agents roamed the streets dressed in emergency personnel gear, their weapons easily concealed inside baggy overalls and uniforms, watching approaching cars and redirecting people as necessary.

  Over-watch was the primary point of notification. About ten minutes after full lockdown, one of the snipers on the roof reported in.

  "Sniper Four to Watch Comm, over."

  "This is Watch Comm, go Sniper Four," came the tinny voice from inside his headset.

  "We have an approaching vehicle, Toyota Matrix."

  "Please hold, Sniper Four."

  Inside the Watch Station, the current Watch Communications Officer pushed off the smooth linoleum floor by the wall-sized system buried in the third floor executive wing. The swivel chair skidded across the floor and he came to a rest next to an intercom on the wall. Pressing the button, the WCO put his face close to the speaker.

  "Gray Toyota Matrix, late model approaching. Recommended response?"

  A second later, Agent Grace's voice echoed back. "That's Burndock. Wave him down Main Street and prepare to open the front door for him. He's got some intel on our subject."

  "Affirmative."

  Sniper Four held his breath while gripping his slender rifle, eyeing the shadowed driver of the Matrix as he turned right slowly onto Main Street and started a trek downwards. His earpiece blipped.

  "Subject in the Matrix is a friendly, Sniper Four. Repeat, he is a friendly. Hold fire."

  "Holding fire," the sniper responded.

  The gray compact car continued its travel down Main Street at a low rate of speed, the driver's eyes scanning both sides of the road. This main drag was unpopulated, and William Strickland realized that the NSA had cleared an area just for him.

  Up ahead, he saw the left hand turn for South Main Street, which led right by the NSA Watch Station, but he knew the trek would be a challenge. Sure enough, as he approached the side street, he saw three men in baggy uniforms who looked like firefighters. Strickland narrowed his gaze. Many weapons could be stored inside those baggy uniforms. This car could only work as a disguise for so long, and he suspected that time was almost up. Easing the car's speed a bit, he prepared for the left hand turn, and could see the three-story building about halfway down the street.

  As soon as the Matrix rounded the corner, the three men closed in on it, with the man in the center lifting his hand to flag him down. They weren't on alert, but the minute they poked their head into the car window, they would be. The Toyota completed the left turn, and as the three men narrowed the gap on the car, Strickland pounded on the accelerator, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. The car lurched forward and plowed headlong into all three emergency personnel. With a dull thud, the two men on each side went sprawling to the pavement from the impact, while the middle agent somersaulted forward onto the hood, slamming back first into the windshield. As the Matrix catapulted forward, picking up speed, he spun and tumbled off the windshield, smacking against the dry pavement as the car sped onward.

  "Oh, shit!" Sniper Four was the first to see the car plow through their three guard agents, and immediately adjusted his rifle to compensate for the motion. He had to delay just a second to trigger his mouthpiece.

  "Team Over-Watch, we have a bogey! Gray Toyota Matrix, late model, on my two o'clock! He just ran down three men and he's bearing down on us!" As he spoke, he had adjusted his aim and pumped the trigger, the massive silencer muffling the report of the weapon. A trio of slight puffs spewed from the end of the long cylinder, sending .50 caliber bullets down at the car. With a puckered spray of sparks, the first round went through the roof and buried itself in the backseat, causing Strickland to jolt and steer quickly to the right. The second shot glanced off the driver's side door, smashing the rearview mirror into a dozen pieces, and eliciting a whispered swear from the driver.

  Turning the wheel and slamming on the accelerator yet again, the Matrix continued its rapid pace towards the building, with the third sniper shot pounding into the right side of his trunk. Strickland's eyes narrowed as he barreled towards the three-story building, and suddenly the air around him was full of sniper shots. His muscles and brain operated with enhanced synchronicity, as he kept the small car surging forward, hitting the curb next to the road, and jumping slightly into the air.

  Just ahead, Strickland saw the front door to the three-story building, a full wall-sized set of windows staring back at him. Moving at a high rate of speed, the next three sniper rounds that exploded through the hood completely annihilated the 1.8-liter, 4-cylinder engine, but at that point, momentum ran its course and the small vehicle continued f
orward, and struck the front windows, prompting a loud explosion of metal and cascading glass. The car plowed through and continued into the main lobby where agents stood in stunned silence. In the briefest moment before he knew gunfire would erupt around him, Strickland moved in two directions at once, kicking out with his left leg to knock his door open, while reaching for and clutching the strap of his duffel. Dragging the bag towards him, he extracted the SCAR assault rifle as enemy fire scattered around him. Ducking down behind the console, he lifted his weapon and prepared to return fire.

  The lobby of the three-story building was faux marble and mahogany, with a large-sized guard desk, an elevator, and a small set of stairs going up to a landing where two more elevators stood. A thin railing ran up beside the short stairway, with the lobby curling around, leading to a pair of restroom doors in the back corner. Bullets whipped over him and clanged against the metallic skin of the vehicle he huddled inside of, as the entire world around him slowed down and evened out. Where bullets were once invisible things only discoverable by the sparks and sounds, he could now track the quiet hum of the rounds as they streaked through the air, all the way until they slammed into their designated targets. Glancing out above the passenger door for a brief second, enemy gunmen now all seemed to move in slow motion, running for cover and slowly twisting, sending a barrage of gunfire, stopping, twisting, and repeating the motion. It all seemed very calculated and very understandable from this perspective. Strickland ducked back down just as a series of bullets pelted against the driver's side door towards him. Lifting up his assault rifle, he drew in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then made his move.

  All in one motion, he stood from behind the opened door, swung his rifle around, sighted at the stairwell, and pulled the trigger. The first quick pull rattled off about five shots, all grouped on a single agent, who went swirling backwards, then hit the railing and tumbled over it, falling over the side. Strickland shifted, re-sighted, and squeezed again. The next short burst slammed headlong into the upper torso of a second NSA agent, throwing him roughly backwards. Shifting his weight, twisting, and lowering himself slightly to get better cover, Strickland fired again, and a third agent was struck, physically leaving his feet and hitting the wall hard, then rolling end-over-end down the stairs, until he laid still at the bottom. Drawing his rifle close to him, the ex-NSA contractor ducked a bit, with bullets scattering across the roof of the car near him, and then he extended the weapon again, through the opened passenger window, and targeted another pair of enemy agents. A more elongated trigger pull emptied the magazine and dropped those two men into crumpled heaps on the smooth faux marble floor.

  From behind the guard desk, four men returned fire, and Strickland dropped back down into the car, narrowly avoiding deadly shots, then popped out his empty mag and drilled another one home, locking it in place. He immediately spun around the opened door and slammed his back against the car itself, ducking down as bullets sparked and plunked off the hood near his head. With a brief hesitation of gunfire, he pulled himself up and squeezed off a trio of bursts, the SCAR jostling roughly in his tight grasp. One more agent fell, and Strickland dropped back down for cover.

  Scanning the lobby ahead, his eyes fixated on the small staircase and the empty section of lobby, which would give him a great angle of fire if he could reach it. Closing his eyes briefly, he let his hearing guide him, as the nearly silent squeak on the smooth floor, rustle of clothes, and clank of metal on wood told him exactly how ready each enemy was. He lowered himself to a crouch, still staying concealed behind the car, tensed the muscles in his legs, and drew in a breath. Swiftly, he popped his upper half of his body back vertical, swung his weapon around, and unloaded the entire rest of the magazine towards the guard desk, sending the enemies ducking for cover. As soon as his weapon emptied, he clutched the strap of his duffle bag and launched himself across the smooth floor, running as fast as his legs could carry him. Gunfire erupted immediately, but he could almost see the trail of bullets and he twisted just right, avoiding the initial burst, then dropped down into a crouching run and burst forward again as another short rain of bullets scattered across the floor where he had been standing.

  Within seconds, he had reached the stairwell, and he dropped into a baseball slide, skidding across the floor as bullets wailed overhead, thumping into the carpet on the stairs, and smashing apart the thin railing above his head. As he slid, he popped out the spent magazine, then slammed home a full replacement and spun around into a one-knee crouch, looking towards the desk. Already the guards scrambled away, but too slow for Strickland's enhanced reflexes. He popped up from behind the stairs and emptied the entire magazine in controlled bursts towards the desk, dropping three guards before they could dart out of the way. Two men managed to make it from behind the desk, and spun around to the front, lifting M4 carbines and returning fire across the already chaotic lobby area. Within seconds, the magazine was replaced and Strickland returned fire, but he misjudged slightly. As he popped back up a second time, an enemy round pounded just below his right clavicle with hammer force, sending him sprawling backwards, grunting in pain. He wore a protective Kevlar vest, but the pain was still sudden and intense, and he dropped his assault rifle as he fell on all fours.

  Seeing their opening, the two guards ran forward, machine guns lifted, preparing to unload. The assault rifle rested several feet away as the others neared, but he propelled himself upright and swung his left arm around, Glock 22 clutched tightly from his back holster. He roared off five tightly controlled shots, both agents stopping short and snapping their heads back suddenly.

  Strickland kneeled there for a few seconds, catching his breath, but a shattering of glass interrupted his thoughts as the upper section of the wall of windows exploded inwards at the front end of the lobby. Ducking his head, he realized that the snipers had re-established their positions and were now firing upon him from a neighboring building. Slinging the duffel bag and assault rifle over one shoulder, he leaped and wrapped his fingers around one of the remaining sections of railing, then vaulted smoothly over it. Landing on the stairwell in a low and graceful crouch, more shots barreled into the lobby and tore apart the stairs and railing right around him. Strickland pushed himself forward, going into a full run up the rest of the carpeted steps, down the landing, and to the enclosed stairwell. He wasn't going to mess with the elevators; he was taking the stairs and going right to the top.