Manic Monday (The Jake Monday Chronicles #1)

by Robert Michael

  Chapter 14

  On Thin Ice

  He was surrounded by corporate CEO’s. Coca Cola. Delta Airlines. The Home Depot guy was shaking his hand. Everyone was smiling. No one knew he was a target. Some expected it, for sure. That was why The Man was surrounded by all those suits with sunglasses and hand guns.

  It was too hot for suits, but everyone was wearing one, anyway. The stage was flanked by banners for Coke, Georgia Pacific, the Atlanta Falcons, and Warner Broadcasting. Media were everywhere. The air smelled like popcorn and flowers. The wind was blowing, mild and humid.

  This event was scheduled to celebrate a new plan to lift tax burdens on local Atlanta businesses. Promises of more jobs, better pay, and improved products and services would be exchanged. Of course the President was here. Votes were here. Financial back scratching was here.

  And so was he.

  The buzzing in his ears was not from the flies or from the forty thousand people packed into the park. It came from the back of his head, from behind his eyes, and from deep within his body. He felt as though his whole body was thrumming, like it was wired. He was invincible and crippled at the same time.

  A red haze made it hard to focus. He struggled to maintain his identity.

  Who am I? He would ask.

  I AM the trap, a voice, very prideful and domineering would answer.

  It did not matter. Only the mission mattered. He was the conduit. He was the switch. He had a limited capacity, but would produce a stupendous bang. Under it all, he knew he was Monday.

  And over it all was an incessant buzzing. Until now, it had felt like he was on autopilot. He traveled, knowing his destination, understanding implicitly his assignment. It was what he did. But never this big. Never this brazen.

  Jake looked down at his hands. They were not shaking. Of course not.

  The Man, the target, the President, was standing before a lectern, talking. He was very animated. He gestured and the crowd roared. Jake could barely hear it all with the buzzing, but the noise of the crowd was palpable. He could feel it on his face. He could see the smiling faces through the haze. He could only focus if he watched the Man carefully.

  The Man, the target, the President was the mission. He was the prey.

  The Trap was a highly polished, instinctively capable machine of death. A predator. He must deliver his prey.

  However, some of his self, the real Monday remained. A shred of his conscience was aware of it. It looked upon the pitiful thing he was as if through a thin film of ice. It was the noise and the pain that masked it. Through it all, through the haze and the buzz, beyond the crowded park and the cramped, smelly, humid ride aboard the MARTA, was a silver locket spinning from a chain.

  He felt in his pocket for the last microchip. They were emitters. He had placed a dozen around the area. Near all the sound equipment. Under the stage, behind the big neon signs, beside the big network trucks. He fingered the circuitry. They were “marvels of modern technology.”

  Who said that? Gary? It must have been. It sounded like something he would say, pride and awe mixing with nervous energy.

  In his other pocket he felt the weight of a button and a small cylinder. The slim tube was his “BACK UP PLAN.” The button would trigger an electromagnetic pulse between the microchips he had planted around the park. He should drop the one in his pocket. Tests had shown that the pulse could also cause major damage to internal organs and the nervous system.

  The tube was a grenade that would emit the exact same effect in a more local area in case the button ploy did not work. It would be enough. Maybe. So many variables.

  In the confusion that would ensue, the Trap would come alive. No guns. Only confusion, thousands of people and a small knife. It was in the folds of his sleeve, six inches long and barely a half inch wide. It was shaped like an ice pick. It was long enough to find the heart, or to puncture through the neck at the carotid artery.

  Suicide, he thought.

  He was twenty feet from the stage.

  Seven strides, his mind told him. Monday could spring the trap. Monday had performed feats just as daring, just as dangerous, before. But the stakes had never been this high.

  He glanced at all the executives seated around the Man. Some were standing. It was crowded on the stage. He counted six men with guns. Those were the ones he could see. He knew there were others. The ones on stage looked out among the crowd. He was one face among the thousands. Only, he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t cheering. Surely, someone would notice.

  Suicide.

  You are the Trap. The trap does not need to survive to succeed, the self-important voice reminded him. This felt like something that had been taught to him a very early age. He knew it in his soul. But, he did not like the voice. He did not like what it was telling him, even if it was something he already knew.

  Why do I care if I succeed? I want to live, he thought.

  The Man, The Plan, the Trap. That is all. That is your world. Accept it and you will succeed, the voice said. It seemed logical. Compelling. And wrong.

  The Man continued to talk. The crowd continued to smile and wave, laugh and clap. The haze continued to threaten his vision, the buzzing continued to pierce his mind with its numbing drill.

  All the doubts that had haunted him until now came boiling to the surface, frothing over the buzzing in his head, pushing past the red haze. If I am Monday, why am I here? Why would I do this?

  “Excuse me. Mr. Monday?” A hand, slim and light on his elbow. He turned.

  Would you recognize her if you saw her again?

  Yes. Yes, he would.

  She had a concerned look on her face. The crowd came to life around him. They erupted in applause. She seemed distracted for a moment. He swallowed, his eyes bulging. He dropped the microchip back in his pocket and tried to smile. He was sure it came out as a grimace. All he could think was, VANITY, VANITY, VANITY.

  “Yes?” He knew he was not supposed to recognize her. He feigned confusion, glancing back at the Man. The red haze had disappeared. The buzzing had stopped. He was so grateful, his eyes began to brim with tears.

  “Do you remember me?” She looked hopeful.

  He made himself act the part of someone waking up to a reality. It was not hard to pretend. He felt like he had been drowning. Was she saving him from the watery depths? Or, was she here to endanger The Plan.

  “From the flight to LA this winter, right?” He had to almost yell to be heard over the crowd. He found himself leaning forward, grasping at the sleeve of his jacket. He could not help himself. It was habit. And, something else was compelling him, pulling him inexorably to a destination.

  She smiled. Her freckles touched in places, like someone connecting dots. It was such an innocent smile. How could she be a danger? How could he plunge the knife into her soft neck?

  Who am I? He asked again. She had called him “Mr. Monday” and he had responded. That was right. But if so, why was he here?

  You ARE the Trap, the voice reminded him. It lacked its earlier conviction.

  “Yes. You played doctor when I twisted my ankle,” she said, above the roar of the crowd. She leaned closer to him, her voice straining. He could smell her perfume. If she was dangerous, danger smelled good. Rose petals and vanilla with a hint of jasmine.

  “Of course,” he looked down at her ankles. They were still there. “How are they now?”

  “Fine. I wanted to thank you.”

  “You did.” He tried on a smile. Thought maybe he could remember how to do it.

  “Yes. But you left it on the seat beside you, I am afraid,” she said, holding out her hand. In it she held a slim silver chain that held a small locket, spinning in the morning Atlanta sun. It reflected the light as it spun. It was all very mesmerizing.

  In his mind’s eye, he could hear what came next. And then, it was like he was plunging into a pool of water in reverse. His ears popped as if a pressure had been released. His vision cleared and he knew. Not all, b
ut enough.

  The words were on her lips. He could see them forming. He could not let her repeat them. The truth behind them was too terrible. He reached for her hand just as the speakers popped with a loud bang. People screamed. Lights flashed and went out. He heard curses.

  He turned to look at the stage. The men there were whisking the President away. They each had a hand to one ear. Men, women, and children ran toward exits. The press of people around him dissipated. He stood amid a sea of discarded paper cups and flyers.

  He knew that in those two seconds between the pop and the crowd’s frightened reaction, he was supposed to have taken the life of the President. He also knew that even if he had succeeded, he would be dead right now.

  He felt a sudden urge to cry. He had a violent reaction to failure. That was the truth of what had happened here. He had missed the opportunity. He had allowed himself to become distracted. He had botched his mission.