by Linden Storm
“Is there a revival in the works?” Marina says.
“Of course not, sweetie,” Gemma says. “But there are always rumors flying around the fandom. They’ll believe me.”
She puts on her face makeup and mugs for more videos and photos—same message—be here at dusk.
Within minutes, the comments begin to flow freely.
“Twenty-three people swear they’re coming,” Gemma says. “But you never know about people these days. It’s like RSVPs to parties: sometimes people say they’re coming, then get a better offer or decide to stay home, and sometimes they say they're not coming and then just show up. Nobody has manners anymore. But I think we’ll get some. I really do.”
“I hope you’re right, ma’am,” Paul says. “Because otherwise I’m going to have to shoot somebody.”
∆∆∆
Paul readies his equipment and talks to himself. He knows this plan is messed up. But when he considers the alternative—Marina deported, the Untouchables broken forever—he can’t call a halt.
Besides, he’s seen Marina pull the team through impossible situations before, many times. Of course, that was in the game. He’s not at all sure her skills transfer straight across to the real world.
Apparently, though, she has a trick or two in the wings, as always. She’s working on some kind of gadget.
Once Paul has his comms, weapons, and armor in order, he approaches her.
“What is that thing?” he says.
“It’s a holographic projector,” Marina says. “It’s not fancy, but it will scare those guys for a time. Between the projections and Gemma, they might be distracted enough for me to get up there and get the bars off that high window behind the shed.”
Paul nods. “And I’ll be here with some real covering fire if none of this works.”
Marina nods. “I hope that won’t be necessary. Let me summarize the plan for both of you,” she says.
Gemma is to start out just after sunset walking up the road toward the cabin. She is to be in the most elaborate form of her costume. She is to approach the guards.
She is to act as if she is rehearsing or filming a revival of her old show.
She is to spew lines, strike poses.
She is to be loud.
“Are you sure, darling? I once practically shrieked Madison Square Garden down.”
“As loud as possible,” Marina says. “You’re miked up?”
“Yes, but what if they ignore me?”
“They won’t.”
“What if they shoot me?”
“They won’t.”
“What if they tell me to go away?”
“Just don’t.”
“What if they take me prisoner too?” Gemma says.
“I’ll turn on the holograms and scare them off,” Marina says.
“And if that doesn’t work?” Gemma says.
“That’s when I’ll shoot the fuckers,” Paul says.
Chapter Thirteen
Taking One for the Team
In his earbud, Paul hears Gemma clear her throat. It’s 8:45 p.m., and it’s dark. There are no streetlights. The half-moon trickles silvery light through the trees.
“Are you ready for your diversion, darling?” she says.
“Ready,” Paul says.
Gemma has moved the van to the top of the road, where just two Chagrin fans have shown up.
On bicycles.
Paul can see them by the light of the van’s headlights.
They’re an older couple. She has long, gray hair, and she’s wearing a long, grey dress. He has a giant paunch, and he’s wearing a cape and a peaked cap. She looks like a tiny wizard; he looks like a giant, bicycle-riding elf.
Paul hopes they don’t get in the way and that they’re ready to broadcast the action with their phones.
Marina has made her way to the bottom of the hill below Paul’s position. She’s ready to sneak out of the brush and run to the outbuilding. Paul has supplied her with the tire iron and a small ax. They’ve practiced prying boards apart. They’ve practiced hacking wood with the ax.
Marina has given Paul lessons in how to start the projector. The machine looks like some kid made it from cans, wire, and simple circuits. Marina had built it rather hastily, but she’s assured Paul it will work. It uses acoustic waves to control lights of various shapes and colors. It will create holograms that look like dozens of Pauls standing sentry on the hillside.
Paul is worried that the window is too high for Marina, even with the bucket. She’s assured him she’ll figure it out. He reminds himself how competent she is.
On the other hand, there’s Gemma.
Gemma, in full Chagrin regalia (hat made of rubber snakes, blue snakeskin bodysuit, blue makeup, platform thigh-high boots and long staff), tumbles out of the van. Her two fans clap their hands, prompting her to take a deep, theatrical bow.
Paul wonders if they’re wondering where the rest of the crew is—the cameras, the other actors—and then he figures that Gemma has made up an explanation that will satisfy them, and in any case they’re probably just happy to see her in person. They take a couple of selfies with her. The long snakes on her head shimmy and bob.
“Get going, Gemma, before these assholes have time to react,” Paul says.
She nods, but she doesn’t head out. Can she be enthralled with her fans, in love with their adoration of her?
Paul shakes his head and turns the binoculars back onto the house. The bad guys are gathering under the porchlight. One of them is jumping around, but the one with the big hat—the one Marina identified as the sheriff—stands still with his arms folded. He’s pissed, Paul thinks, feeling a sense of satisfaction, but also a sickening thrill of trepidation.
Gemma starts down the road toward the house. Before she gets there, two of the masked men trot up the gravel driveway to meet her. She stops and gathers herself to her full height, which makes her a head taller than either of the enemies. She smashes the staff down.
And hisses so loudly that Paul’s eardrum quivers. He rips his earbud out. When he puts it back in, he hears one of the bad guys yell, “Halt right here, uh, ma’am.”
The other one says, “What is that?”
Paul can see Gemma working something under her cape, and her shiny blue wings pop up and spread. The wingspan is a good ten feet. The elderly fans standing behind her applaud.
“This is private property,” one of the bad guys says, with the voice of authority. “What do you want?”
Gemma makes another loud noise, a shriek. The bad guys shrink back a little. Paul shakes his head. She’s got guts, that’s for sure. And a hell of a scream.
In his ear, Marina’s breathing is quick and ragged. “Marina?” Paul says. “Where are you?”
“Almost there,” she says.
He looks at the back of the shed, but he doesn’t see her. It’s hard to see much in the dark. He wishes he’d bought some night-vision goggles.
But he does have night vision, he realizes, on his rifle. He picks up the rifle and sights down the scope.
Just as well, he thinks, his heart sinking. He’s realizing it’s inevitable now—he will be doing more than directing the action.
Gemma prances and dances around the two bad guys, who look around confusedly. Then they start backing up toward the house, where the sheriff is waiting.
Through his scope, Paul watches one of the men grab at Gemma. She pushes him down. Damn, Paul thinks, she’s stronger than she looks. The other one circles around and grabs her from behind. She struggles.
“Marina, where are you?” Paul says, still sighting down the rifle at the scuffle below. “Gemma’s getting into it with those guys.”
“I’m at the window,” Marina says. “Working on it. Our friends are helping from their side.”
Paul watches as the men continue to fight with Gemma.
Marina, in the meantime, is hanging like a circus performer from the window, holding on with one hand, hacking at the boards wi
th the other.
Now the sheriff has run up the road, and all three of the bad guys are grabbing at Gemma, who is fighting and kicking out with her platform heels. Paul watches one of the bad guys double over and clutch at his knee. The sheriff slaps Gemma’s face hard enough to make a loud noise and then wipes his hand on his pants.
Then the three of them start dragging Gemma back toward the cabin.
“Curtain up on the shit-show,” Paul says to Marina. “They are taking her.”
Gemma shrieks again.
“Almost got the window open,” Marina says. “Turn on the hologram.”
When all the Pauls appear on the hillside, the fans point at them, and the bad guys stop what they’re doing, gape at the hillside, and run like hell for cover.
“Go, Gemma!” Paul says. “Marina, she’s getting away… Go, go, go!”
Gemma takes off back up the road toward the van, running on her high platforms. At first, the bad guys seem too shocked to react. They keep looking up at the hill at the legion of Pauls. They’re reluctant to leave what cover they have in the trees, and their hesitation gives Gemma enough time to reach the van.
She grabs the van’s door handle.
Paul can hear her breathing in his ear, over the staccato pounding from Marina’s work on the boarded-up window and the shouts of all the participants inside the shed and outside it.
Paul knows what combat feels like—the exhilaration, the terror—and this feels like combat.
Gemma is in the van.
Paul swings the rifle scope over; the bad guys have woven through the trees and now they are upon the van.
The van isn’t moving.
“I dropped the keys!” Gemma says. “Where are they? Oh my God! I’m an idiot!”
One man pulls a gun. Paul gets ready to shoot, hoping desperately that Belle and the others are ready to move.
∆∆∆
Inside the shed, Belle has the group gathered around the window. They’ve covered the camera—figuring a blank stream might buy them a little time—and piled boxes up high enough that Belle can climb up and reach the window easily. The window is completely broken out and uncovered now. Belle can see Marina’s face, her arm dangling through the opening.
Belle has never been so glad to see anyone in her life.
“Quickly!” Marina says. “Please!”
“Harold should go first,” Belle says.
“Belle, I can’t get through that,” Harold says, shaking his head slowly and holding his palms up. “I’m sorry. You’ve got to take Nick and William and Rupert and go.”
Everything in Belle rebels against Harold’s reticence, even as she realizes he’s been anticipating this problem all along. He hadn’t said anything because he hadn’t wanted to ruin the escape. What he doesn’t understand is that Belle isn’t going to leave anyone behind. They’ve all got to get out and get away clean. She grabs his hand. “You can do it, Harold. We will lift you up and push you through. Marina will help from the other side. See?”
Harold squints up at the window. “No, Belle, honey, it won’t work. I can’t fit through that opening, even if you could get me up there. I can give you some extra time to get away, and you can get help.”
“No!” Belle says. “We are all getting out.”
“Harold is right, Belle. You need to listen to him,” William says.
“I’ll stay with him,” Nick says. “I have to watch out for him.”
“No! We can do it!” Belle says. “Start climbing!”
∆∆∆
Paul watches through the rifle sight as the bad guy holding the handgun flips the gun around and breaks out the driver’s side window. “Shit,” he says.
“What?” Marina says.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing, Marina,” Paul says.
Gemma is screaming at the bad guys. The high pitch makes Paul’s eardrum flutter again. But her ability to surprise them has apparently worn off.
The three men jerk her out of the van and begin dragging her back up the road.
Paul is torn. Should he shoot over their heads? Will that give Gemma the time and opportunity she needs to get away?
And then she breaks loose and makes for the van again.
But instead of chasing after her, one of the bad guys takes aim and shoots at her. She goes down.
Paul screams Gemma’s name.
“The fuckers shot Gemma,” Paul says.
∆∆∆
William’s heart is banging his chest down. Everything in him is pushing him to climb out of their prison. But Belle, stubborn Belle, won’t go.
“Belle, come on,” William says. “We’ve got to go. Didn’t you hear the gunshot?”
“Quiet,” Belle says. “I’m thinking.”
William respects Belle’s determination, but he can see it’s a hopeless situation. The best they’ll be able to do is get some of them out and then use their fanbase, Rupert’s clout, and legit law enforcement types to clear up this mess. Their chances of playing in the finals are blown—Marina will be kicked out of the country, for sure—but what’s all that worth against Harold’s life? Against all their lives?
“Belle, please go,” William says. He’d like to make her go, but if he knows one thing, it’s that you don’t force Belle Morris to do anything.
“Wait,” she says.
“Look,” William says. “You’re going to get us all killed.”
“Shut up!” she says. “I’m thinking! Let me think!”
∆∆∆
Paul watches the bad guys poke at Gemma as she lies motionless on the road. He can hear her moaning.
“Gemma, are you hit?”
She moans again.
“Hold still, Gemma,” Paul says. “Whatever you do, stay down and hold still. I’m going to start shooting at the fuckers now.”
Paul takes a breath, takes aim, and squeezes the trigger.
His role has never been this clear: he’s got to give Belle and the others a chance to get away, and he’s got to protect Gemma from further harm.
∆∆∆
Belle jumps half out of her skin when she hears the first gunshot.
It came from the road, she thinks.
She hears a second shot, but it’s not from the same direction. It seems to be coming from the hillside behind their prison. Which means it’s got to be Paul. Paul with a real rifle.
She rebuffs William one more time and climbs up the boxes to look outside. She braces herself against the window frame. It’s dark, but with the boards removed, she can see the hillside with its thick cover of brush and trees, the front of an old car, and what looks like an ancient bulldozer scoop in the side yard.
“Marina, is that a bulldozer?” she says.
Marina nods and pulls on Belle’s arm. “Come on!”
“Not yet!” Belle says.
She struggles with William and slides back inside for a second time. They both tumble down to the floor.
“I’m not leaving Harold and Nick behind with these murderers,” she says.
“Come on!” Marina says from above. “Paul can hold them off for a minute, but we need to go!”
“Belle,” Harold says. “Please go.”
“Trust me, Harold,” Belle says. “And get yourself ready to run. William, shove me through. I’m going.”
“Thank God,” Nick says.
“Finally,” William says. “Paul can’t keep them off us much longer.”
∆∆∆
Paul doesn’t think he’s hit anyone yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
All three men are crawling toward cover. Once they make it behind the house, they’ll be able to come around and start shooting at the escapees, and he won’t have an angle on them anymore.
Would it be better to kill them now?
He keeps up a constant barrage, now hitting the ground between the bad guys and their destination.
You have to give them credit. They’re not giving up.
Gemma, too. She is
crawling in the opposite direction. “You’re doing good, Gemma,” he says. “Keep going.”
“They shot me,” Gemma says, panting. “I’m bleeding.”
“Go for the nearest cover, Gemma,” Paul says. “Marina? What’s going on?”
“Belle is finally coming out,” Marina says.
∆∆∆
Belle crawls out the window. Marina helps, pulling her down, and they fall a few feet to the ground. The staccato pops of Paul’s gunshots continue. Thank God for that, Belle thinks.
Belle moves around the side of the building, then comes back.
Belle grabs Marina by the shoulders. She sees shock in Marina’s eyes.
“I’m all right,” Belle says. “Listen to me. Tell them to move over by Harold. Against the far wall by Harold.”
“Why?” Marina says.
“Just do it. Trust me,” Belle says.
Belle runs to the bulldozer in the grass next to the shed. The brush around it is torn and trampled, as if the little bulldozer has been used recently. It’s older than she’d thought. But nothing looks too busted.
She’d operated something very much like this thing at her chicken-farm foster home.
“Are they against the wall?” She bellows the question, but Marina can’t hear her. She’ll just have to hope that Rupert, Harold, Nick, and William are out of the way, that the bulldozer starts, and that Paul continues doing his job.
∆∆∆
Paul watches the sheriff find him on the hill and point him out to the other two men. They all begin firing, but their handguns aren’t accurate at this distance. He feels safe behind his log.
Old memories keep popping into Paul’s mind as he takes potshots at the bad guys.
They’re mostly about his dad, who was in the army his whole life, a humble man who preferred to teach Paul by example. Paul remembers target practice with his dad in the woods near Joint Base Lewis McChord in Washington State. The paper targets stapled to plywood or sturdy cardboard and set up against a fallen log with a backdrop of wooded cliff behind it. The ear protection. The safety lessons.