Ransom X

by a b

  Legacy half expected that Blade might have the kind of vision that the beast from the movie “Predator” had. Chess had made him watch the movie to ask if Special Forces was really like that. He remembered his answer, “Yes, exactly, right down to the tactics he’d used to fight his last alien.”

  Five steps from the safety of the brush, on the other side of the road, was the area of greatest danger. If the predator had been tracking Legacy, this was where the proof would come. Legacy dreaded that the last thoughts of his hyper-perceptive cranium would be focused on the idea that he couldn’t believe that the muscle-bound man he’d seen murder every principle of wet work was now the governor of the largest economy in the union. He slid, without a sound, into the bristle and undergrowth of the wooded fringe. Eyes closed, he held his weapon ready to return fire by gauging the sound of the report of Blade’s weapon. But there was no sound other than the crackling metallic blaze in the roadway. Legacy swung his head, no longer concentrating on the last position that he’d known Blade to occupy, rather intent on the patch of ground on the other side of the road that the gunfire had come from only seconds before.

  Legacy waited, he would have waited for dawn, but Blade’s confidence in killing strategy went against him that night. The fire had fallen, collapsed onto itself and darkness reclaimed the landscape. There was a black tide that lapped against the edges of every form and the periphery blended so much into the abyss that if a person was not looking directly at an object, he couldn’t really be sure it was there. It was the kind of landscape where death came out of nowhere and was so swift that the blackness beat the wave of pain and the last image a dying man had was the same as the one he had only a split second before. Blade had silently flanked Legacy’s last known position and stood with his chest pressed close to an old growth lodge pole pine.

  It was the perfect place to attack; therefore it was under Legacy’s silent surveillance even before he saw the swift shadow of Blade add the slightest increase in darkness to the shadow the tree cast. It was as though light itself had a fear of his form, or perhaps he was simply faster than the eye believed.

  Even looking directly at the tree, Legacy barely made out the agile approach. He was certain, however, that a bullet would track the shadow down.

  Legacy had only a second before Blade realized that his target had fled and he was the one exposed. He put a shot through the meat of the tree about three feet from the roots. Spring, and the damp sap inside the tree might have slowed the bullet and kept it from breaking out the other side. In the dead of winter, it might have frozen the outer ring and directed the bullet harmlessly away, but the late fall was dry, brittle and offered less resistance to the composite metal round that Legacy’s pistol fired. Blade stumbled back, then shouted “Son of a –‘

  He fumbled his weapon, sweeping the other side of the road, looking for a sign “Fuck – nobody does that to me.” He unloaded all nine rounds in his clip at all of the possible places of cover that he could see.

  A tree root six inches from Legacy’s face split, the smell of acid smoke and earthy decay filled his nostrils. Across the road the crack of gunfire died out. Click, click, click came the sound of a pistol empty of rounds.

  He leaned out from his hiding spot to see Blade spill into the roadway at a bullish stagger. He had the air of someone who wanted something desperately; perhaps it was simply to see the eyes of the man who killed him. His wound oozed a dark liquid that clung to his shirt and made it shine like an oil slick.

  “I’m bleeding, I’ve been hit and I’m bleeding.” Blade said in a quiet astonished voice. “I need – I need – help me, for god’s sake, you fucking fed.”

  He pointed a long accusing finger at the dark bank of trees. Then, as if he’d entered a bargain with the blackness in front of him, he eased the frantic grip of his other hand, which pressed into his wounded belly. He dropped his bloody pistol onto the road.

  Legacy stepped forward enough so that his form lifted from the dark contrast of the tree trunks. From the road it must have looked like one of the trees had taken human form to stand at the edge of the road.

  He had seen men at the edge of their own mortality change into submissive creatures, and although he hadn’t expected this quick of a transformation of Blade, even he could tell that the shot in his stomach left him only about thirty minutes of life, if left untreated.

  Blade stared at him, blinking obsessively, pain glistening in the sweat beading up on his face and collecting in the craters where tears would never run. He slowly raised his hands. “You beat me twice, should have known you wouldn’t be easy.”

  “Don’t take it so hard.”

  Blade snorted, caught off guard. He stared hard at the officer of the law who’d so often surprised him, and his eyes narrowed. “Always knew the only man that could catch me would be a killer worse than me.”

  “I’m not a killer.”

  “So you don’t advertise” He said with a wry smile, “your secret’s safe with me. I have one too.” Blade smiled, he’d brought his hands behind his head and was linking his fingers behind his neck.

  Legacy had his pistol trained on Blade’s chest, his eyes fixed in conversation somewhere behind Blade’s eyes. There was nothing on the face to indicate what was about to happen, and it was the ripple of his laser sight that actually caught Legacy’s attention. There was a flash of movement that started in the torso and spread, conscripting Blade’s hands into sudden motion, chopping downward with great speed.

  It could have been like a some kind of harmless ritual dance, which Legacy thought no doubt there were many performed under the silver moon at one time in this part of the country. The spirit of one of those dancers could have been taking a stroll through the countryside when he’d come upon Blade’s dying body and decided to inhabit it for one last physical thrust before entering the ethereal plane.

  It was nothing that poetic, flashes of metal left both of the hands released sharply just after passing Blade’s ear made their message much more deadly, but equally eternal to the argument of the spirit wanderer.

  Legacy pushed off of the earth with his leg and he felt the first knife hit and imbed just above the knee joint. He jerked his head suddenly to the left like a man cracking his neck. He heard the other knife brushing by his right ear, feeling a glancing slash to the neck. Blood trickled down his shoulder blade. He was unbalanced and fell sideways onto the road. The concussion hit his ribs and made his next breath of cold air burn. That second one was aimed for my eye socket, Legacy thought, blinking and pulling his gun to sight on Blade.

  Blade was deadly still, in fact if it weren’t for the inarguable fact that a piece of sharp metal was sticking from his left leg, Legacy might have believed that Blade had not moved at all. Blade stood there like a statue, arms outstretched like they were ready to carry in a load of wood.

  “That’s the third time you’ve –”

  Legacy raised his weapon and fired. The bullet entered the neck and cut off all further discussion. Blade’s next draw of breath was filled with blood, and it spat out instead of his next word. Anger swelled as color entered Blade’s cheeks for the last time. He began flailing his arms about, casting symbols and sign with them for a moment, like the positions meant something.

  He dropped forward onto his knees and the blood followed the gravitational pull, pouring out of his neck. He caught a breath, not daring to look up again on the chance that he’d lose this last opportunity to speak. He spoke to the dirt inches in front of his nose.

  “I was born to kill: either other people or myself.”

  Legacy walked up pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of Blade’s head and bulled the trigger, twice. The shots rang out in the night. “You made the wrong choice.”

  Legacy thought of how the execution would look in his final report, it brought a fleeting smile to his face.

  Legacy rode back to the bar with the knife still stuck in his leg. With what Blade knew about killing, Legacy would
n’t have been surprised that the removal would have led to a river of blood, and his quick passing.

  He felt a wave of what his wife must have felt, knowing she was going to die, not knowing how the living would continue without her. It was the longest ride of his life.

  Chapter 67 Home Time

  The field around the compound bristled with activity. Portable floodlights, drawn by trailers the size of small cars painted the hills, stretching out for miles. The navy blue FBI jackets formed a visual continuity in the foreground, all of the people looking to be of the exact same variety, like a field of tall blue grass on the move by a gust of wind.

  A helicopter touched down in the center of the parking lot, flanked immediately by two black town cars. The steps fell to the earth before the wheels touched down and Doorner filled the archway. Formality was dropped, and he took the unfolding steps two at a time, almost beating them to the ground. The director took no time to survey the operations or even respond to the few agents that approached, their lips moving in precise military diction.

  He didn’t hear a word, pushing them aside and yelling for a bullhorn. Doorner took the bullhorn like a charged weapon, putting it to his lips immediately.

  “I’m here honey, I’m here.”

  One of the local agents pushed in close with his assessment. “She’s probably down the back trail – I can show you - “

  A voice cut in, it was the kind of voice that expected to be listened to and somehow that expectation was always met. The words were stripped completely of the urgency that surrounded them, and somehow gained attention above the din. “She’s somewhere up there, director.”

  Director Doorner turned to see Agent Legacy, upper leg bandaged and seeping blood from beneath, shoulder in a splint, standing on the rise beside the flagpole, scanning the mountains in the opposite direction of where the agents were concentrating.

  “Legacy?”

  Legacy didn’t reply, he felt the answer must be obvious, and to reinforce it to the director of an intelligence agency wouldn’t show the proper sensitivity.

  “Where is she?”

  The local man burst in again, his accent flat as the central western state he came from, thinking that persistence and repetition might lead to acceptance of his observations. “As I said, sir, we’re of the mind that she took the trail around back.”

  Doorner had had enough. “Agent Legacy, inform this group of agents that I will kill the next man who talks to me.”

  “Will do.” He said, and an ironic smile passed between the men as Legacy pointed to an area up the hill.

  The local man backed off, literally taking a few uncertain steps backward before turning. The director was known everywhere as being a man of his word, and even the most vacant threat carried a potential disaster.

  Legacy was kind enough to cover his retreat “Talk to her like it’s a phone call – occupy her thoughts until she decides there’s no deceit, don’t try to coax her out.”

  Doorner glowered at the instructions, but followed them to a tee. “Hey baby, it’s your dad. I’ve been awfully worried about you. I, I miss - “ he looked to Legacy again, realizing that he had become the center of attention of the men around him, who’d come to a sudden halt. Legacy only nodded his support. “Talk like you always do.”

  Doorner continued, “I miss our discussions about the use of lethal force in hostage situations – and your ideas concerning field chain of command are better formulated than most of the officers at Centcom, but don’t tell them I said that.”

  Five minutes of chatter, some of it stunningly earnest from the gruff old-guard tiger, when, finally, a voice came from the woods. It was shrill and exhausted and it carried through the background noise like a far away siren.

  Laura screamed when the paramedics approached, her father pushed them aside and cradled his daughter in his arms. The slope of the land fought against the old man’s grip, but he leveraged her body gracefully, tenderly, onto the waiting stretcher. He hesitated before drawing his arm from the crook of her neck. Doorner bent down and kissed her forehead, and the tear that dropped onto her cheek was immediately camouflaged in her own.

  Doorner looked back at the place where Legacy had been standing and found that his towering form had slipped away. He half expected the man to appear at his shoulder at his mental call, such was the lore surrounding the strange agent. He knew, logically, that it wasn’t the supernatural forces that shaped him. He’d met a few men like Legacy in his time, and it was like the constellations that guided their journey were different than the ones seen by the rest of the people in the world.

  The medics were checking Laura’s vitals and reflexes before moving her. Doorner let his eyes drift from her upwards to the stars above him, appearing to an outside observer to be in prayer or at least the profession of profound celestial thanks. He had no idea how he came to stand in this desolate field holding his living, breathing child, but he wasn’t going to be a man of great power or reason for the next few hours. The medics gave the OK sign and they were on the move. He walked with Laura to the helicopter then sat as she gripped his hand like she half expected it to lose form at any moment and fade away. He squeezed right back, trying to reassure her that it would not.

  Chapter 68 Explained Inquest

  The formal inquest was well into its second hour of questioning. Legacy imagined the stenographer was beginning to realize how dreadfully boring her government job was and always would be, but she continued to pick and pluck the instrument in front of her as if it were a fine instrument playing a somber and meaningful piece of music. Every note had to be exactly correct, predicted as much as recorded at the moment the word entered the cognizance of the committee members and became part of the grand symphony.

  Actually, it didn’t matter what metaphor she coated her tedious job in, she still wanted to hurt every person on earth who talked.

  Legacy stared at the woman, much more interested in the recorder of the meeting than the topics of the meeting itself. He watched the movement of her hand, the graceful curve of her neck that seemed to be held tightly in place by the swept up hair that urged gravity into a counter motion upward. Her chin hovered like it was following the odd request of her hair. She was fascinating.

  “I have no interest in the question whatsoever.” Legacy replied. He hoped it was the answer to the question that had been most recently asked, he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation.

  “It occurs to me,” said a plump man in dress blues, “that we can learn much simply observing the agent.”

  “I’m just suggesting that he recount the results of his methods, and give insight.”

  “I have no interest in that kind of accountability whatsoever.” Legacy said, now certain that he was answering correctly.

  The head of the commission shuffled some of the papers in front of him, stalling, like his next duty was not particularly his favorite. “Now the matter of the death of Corwin Wells-”

  Legacy glanced up, confused by the name.

  “The man you’ve come to know as Blade – can we bridge this sensitive matter?”

  “It’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Legacy let his gaze travel across the room to where his two character witnesses, agents Brent and Wagner watched the closed, informal hearing from the raised rotunda that circled the conference room. Legacy knew the more adjectives before the word investigation or hearing, the more trouble they might think you are in. For example, had it been a “closed informal supervisory hearing,” it would have been even worse. Nothing in Wagner’s gaze foretold any danger, however. Wagner nodded to him, signifying no doubt that she had been relatively pleased with his performance up until now.

  “No, no, this isn’t a – we’re just looking for the facts and your report leaves the events of the final bullets – the ones that entered – um” he searched through more papers even though he knew exactly what they were going to say.

  “The back of his head?” Legacy offered, and the man nodde
d like a sales clerk confirming a wildly favorable sales price. “I left that out for reasons of incrimination.”

  Wagner scowled then; Legacy could feel it without looking back at her.

  Legacy had known that absence of reporting on those final moments with Corwin Wells might lead to a dismissal. Legacy thought of his favorite movie character, “You can’t handle the truth!” a general had screamed it, and everyone who’d ever taken up secret service work loved him for saying it. Some of the bravest men are in prison, while the cowards look through records searching for a way to put the next one there.