by Jude Hardin
He took another short breather by the gloves, and then made the turn. Just a few more feet. He scooted along as quickly as he could, slightly more adept at the squirming motion now than when he’d started, yet exponentially more fatigued.
The epidermis on his chest and stomach was gone. It felt as though someone had torn the skin off in strips, rubbed salt into the open flesh and splashed it with alcohol. That’s how bad it burned.
Kelly was hurting badly and weakening quickly, but he never lost hope. He never stopped trying.
And then, there it was. The office. Wavering like a mirage in the desert, almost too good to be true.
The door was open, and the light was on.
Kelly wormed through the doorway, giving it his all, huffing and grunting and mustering every remaining ounce of energy for one last push.
He inched forward until the top of his head was flush with the front of the file cabinet. The bottom drawer wasn’t locked, but there was quite a bit of junk in it, which made it heavy. Kelly tried pulling the handle with his tongue, and when that didn’t work, he gripped it with his teeth. He started backing up, and the drawer came with him. He pulled it out as far as it would go and then positioned himself to see down inside it.
The scissors were on top, their shiny silver blades gleaming harshly under the overhead fluorescents. Kelly reached in and grabbed them with his teeth and pulled them out. He turned onto his side and wriggled around, finally managing to get his fingers on the handles.
During his long trek from the shoe department to the office, he’d been practicing all this in his mind. Visualizing success, the way his football coach had taught him. The technique had worked on hundreds of running plays, and it worked now. Kelly used his double-jointed wrists to manipulate the scissors and snip the shoestrings.
He was free.
He stood, staggered dizzily, sat back down on the floor for a minute and tried to massage the cramps out of his legs. His second attempt at standing went better. He tried the phone, and the computer, but they were both dead. He hobbled out of the office, stopped at the fountain and greedily sucked on the cold water until his belly was full and his teeth hurt. He grabbed his shoes from the floor and a Nike warm-up suit from one of the racks. He dressed quickly, made his way to the front of the store, unlatched the deadbolt, stepped out onto the sidewalk.
To Kelly’s surprise, his Civic was still there, right where he’d parked it hours ago. He started walking that way, intent on finding the nearest phone and calling 911.
As he made the turn toward the side lot, some sort of antique SUV sped by, scratched and dented and in need of a muffler, and Kelly could have sworn that the man sitting in the passenger’s seat was the same gun-toting kook who’d hogtied him and left him to suffer all night in Jock World.
Kelly tried to make out the tags, but the little bulb over the license plate must have burned out, along with one of the tail lights. Plus, the lower part of the vehicle was covered with dried mud, so the number probably wouldn’t have been legible anyway.
Kelly limped toward his car as fast as he could. There was a spare key in a magnet box under the right front wheel well, but as it turned out, he didn’t need it. The set of keys that the gunman had taken from him were in the ignition.
He climbed in and started the car, checked to make sure his pistol was in the glove compartment, steered out to the street and followed the dirty old SUV, staying several car lengths behind to avoid being seen.
Twenty-five grand.
It was more than he made in a year at Jock World.
Plus, his girlfriend had kicked him out a few weeks ago, and he’d been staying in a motel room that smelled like dirty laundry and tobacco smoke. Tuna fish and peanut butter were his closest friends these days. He needed an apartment and some decent furniture. He needed cash.
He needed that reward, and he was going to get it.
59 minutes before the blast…
Several blocks past Jock World, Mike told Nika to take a right. They headed east, away from town, but not on the same road they’d taken before. That one was congested with traffic due to the burning vehicle.
Busy night for the Memphis Police Department, and for the coroner’s office, Mike thought.
He stared through the windshield at the dark and deserted road ahead. Something had happened at Nika’s house a few minutes earlier, something he didn’t quite understand.
Nika had opened the garage door, backed the Range Rover out, and pulled her other car in. Mike stood by the front door and waited. When Nika joined him, before unlocking the deadbolt and going inside to get her gun, she leaned into him and put her head against his chest.
“Just hold me for a minute,” she said.
Mike hesitated, thinking that the request was somewhat bizarre under the circumstances, but then something deep inside told him it was the right thing to do.
He put his arms around her.
“Like this?” he said.
The human contact was surprisingly pleasant. Nika felt good next to him. As though she belonged there. He wanted to kiss her, but now was not the time. There was still too much work to do.
“We’re going to die tonight, aren’t we?” she said.
“Not part of the plan.”
“What exactly is the plan, Mike?”
“I already told you. I need to stop the CIA from destroying the research facility.”
“Then what?”
“Then some people will be arrested, including me. Eventually, everything will be sorted out, and the guilty parties will go to prison. With a little luck, I’ll be able to get the MK-2 surgically removed and return to my former life. Whatever that was.”
“A naval officer brought you to CereCirc,” Nika said. “Do you remember that?”
“No. What was his name?”
“I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t supposed to know. He didn’t introduce himself, and Dr. Aggerson never told us much of anything. There were quite a few regular employees at CereCirc, but military people came and went all the time. We were instructed to leave them alone.”
“Would you recognize this officer if you saw him again?” Mike said.
“I think so. Yes. I only saw him for a minute when he dropped you off, but I’m pretty sure I could spot him in a lineup or whatever.”
“Good. Maybe it was the mystery admiral I mentioned earlier. I might need your help finding him and identifying him. Because if he was the one who brought me to CereCirc, then he knows where I came from. And at this point, he might be the only one.”
Nika took a deep breath, stepped back and wiped her eyes. “I’m ready to go inside now,” she said.
“Do you have any tools in the garage?”
“There’s a whole box of them. Take whatever you want.”
She turned and unlocked the door, hurried inside. Mike went to the garage, found what he needed, walked back out and stood by the Range Rover and waited.
Nika came out carrying a sawed-off twelve gauge pump action shotgun and a box of shells. An odd weapon for a woman to have in her house, Mike thought.
“Where did you get that?” he said.
“My ex-boyfriend gave it to me. For protection. As it turned out, he was the one I needed protection from.”
“You shot him?”
“No. But he knows better than to come around here anymore. Those are his tools in the garage, by the way. Well, I guess they’re mine now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, right?”
Mike nodded. They climbed into the Range Rover and headed out.
That was ten minutes ago, and now they were cruising east on a two lane blacktop, respecting the speed limit, trying to avoid further attention. Mike had noticed a pair of headlights about a quarter of a mile behind them, but otherwise they had the road to themselves.
“When we get there, I want you to drop me at the gate,” Mike said. “You can let me in, and then you can leave.”
“I thought you wanted my help. That’s why I brought
the gun. I thought you realized that I want to stop the CIA’s little cover-up operation as much as you do.”
“You’re not coming with me. It’s too dangerous. And you can’t go home tonight. Oberwand’s guys might be waiting for you. Check into a hotel. I’m hoping all the bad guys will be behind bars by morning.”
“But—”
“Is the shotgun traceable?”
“My ex bought it at a pawn shop, so probably not. I think he modified it himself.”
“Good,” Mike said. “I’ll take it with me—if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course. I’m not worried about the gun.” There was a brief pause, and then she said, “But I will be worried about you.”
Mike didn’t know what to think about that. Was it possible that Nika really cared about him?
It didn’t matter. Even if she’d fallen madly in love with him, he couldn’t allow her to come along. He’d put her through enough already. He was concerned about her safety.
Which meant, he supposed, that he really cared about her.
Maybe they could get together when this was all over. But would he even remember her, or any of this, after the implant was removed? He vaguely recalled Dr. Aggerson saying something about that.
He thought about writing down Nika’s name and phone number. But if something happened to him, it would be obvious that he’d had some sort of connection with her. If he didn’t make it tonight, if he got killed or severely injured and the CIA found Nika’s number in his pocket, they would come down hard on her until she finally broke and told the truth. Then they would kill her.
But maybe there was another way.
Mike did some quick research on the Internet.
“Do you have something to write with?” he said.
“Look in the glove compartment.”
Mike opened the hatch, reached in and found a fat blue ballpoint pen with the word VIAGRA written across the pocket clip.
“Nice,” he said.
Nika laughed. “I got that at a nursing conference,” she said.
“Hey, at least it’s a nice stiff pen.”
She laughed. “You’re so crazy. You had a great sense of humor before you got the implant, and you still do.”
So maybe part of him was still there, Mike thought. Part of his old self. Maybe some of his memories would return in time.
He found an old Jiffy Lube receipt, tore a strip off the bottom and wrote payphone, Shell station, 3rd and Biscayne, October 28 at 7pm. He folded the piece of paper and tucked it inside his left shoe, tore off another strip and wrote down the phone number.
He handed the second piece of paper to Nika. “Call me Friday evening at seven o’clock,” he said. “Day after tomorrow. If I don’t answer, it means I’m dead.”
“Don’t even say that.”
“Believe me, I’m going to make every effort to be at that payphone Friday at seven, but there’s a slight chance I might fail. Dr. Aggerson gave me some amazing abilities, but he didn’t make me bulletproof.”
“I still think you should let me go with you.”
“Not going to happen. And I just thought of something else. You better go ahead and ditch your cell phone. If Oberwand’s guys called in your tag numbers, it’s only a matter of time until they try to track your cell. Get one of those prepaid things if you think you’ll need it.”
“So what am I supposed to do until Friday?” Nika said.
“Would you mind doing a little research for me?”
“What kind of research?”
“I need to locate the guy who brought me to CereCirc. Go on the Internet and try to find a list of all the current admirals in the United States Navy. Once you get the list, log onto the various websites for their commands. There should be photographs on some of those sites, maybe all of them. You said you would recognize the guy if you saw him, right?”
“I think so. Okay, I’ll do that.”
“Thanks. It’s going to be time consuming, and I have a feeling I’m going to be a very busy man soon. Plus, I have no idea what the admiral looks like.”
Mike glanced at the side mirror, noticed that the same set of headlights was still behind them. He was starting to get concerned, and Nika picked up on the vibe.
“That car’s been following us for a while,” she said. “You think it’s just a coincidence?”
“Probably. If it was the police, or the CIA, or more of Oberwand’s goons, they would have tried to stop us by now. I can’t think of any reason for anyone to just keep following us like that.”
“That’s what I was thinking. But here’s something else I was thinking: what if the CIA has set up some sort of ambush on the way to CereCirc?”
“Nobody’s going to be expecting me to go back there,” Mike said. “I mean, why would I? That’s the last place they’ll be looking.”
“If you say so. Still, those headlights back there are making me nervous. Especially after what happened last time.”
“Yeah. The turnoff to the service road is just a few miles ahead. If they follow us in toward the front gate, we might have something to worry about. Or should I say they might have something to worry about.”
“They,” Nika said. “Definitely they.”
46 minutes before the blast…
On the flight back to Memphis, Admiral William B. Lacy started having chest pains again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his bottle of nitroglycerine tablets. Screwed the top off, shook one out, placed it under his tongue. When the first pill didn’t do the trick, he took another one five minutes later.
He’d been having angina attacks for a few years now, and he kept the nitro handy 24/7. A private physician was treating him for the condition, an old internal medicine guy named McDaniels.
Dr. Mac, Lacy liked to call him.
For a hundred dollars, Dr. Mac would basically prescribe anything you wanted. The arrangement worked out well, especially since Admiral Lacy didn’t want the Navy to know about the diagnosis. His EKGs were fine, and he’d passed all his annual physicals with flying colors, so it was really none of their business. It was just angina, after all. No big deal. Certainly not a reason for a man of Admiral Lacy’s stature to be forced into retirement before he was ready.
Lately, though, he’d been thinking that it might be wise to consult a cardiologist. The attacks were occurring more frequently, and they tended to be more severe. He hated to admit it, but it was probably time to see a specialist.
Soon, he thought. After all this MK-2 stuff was over.
He switched his phone on and checked his email. Sure enough, there was something from Oliver Fennel already:
My demolition guys are on site, getting everything ready for the big “accident” in the chemistry lab. All the bodies are in place. Aggerson, Skellar, the security guard, and Brennan’s double. So we’re good to go at CereCirc. The only thing we need to do now is find the real Brennan and dispose of him, and I’m afraid that’s proving to be more difficult than we anticipated. There’s an onboard jamming device that’s preventing the MK-2 from being tracked, and we haven’t figured out how to defeat it yet. But we will. We found all the schematics on a disc in Aggerson’s apartment, and two of my best engineers are analyzing the circuitry in a hotel room in Memphis as I write this. I’m hoping to hear from them any minute. Just wanted to keep you updated. News of the explosion should reach you before your flight lands, by they way. Remember to act surprised.
Ollie
Everything had been going so well, and now all this. It was enough to give a man an ulcer, Lacy thought.
And the pain in his chest wasn’t getting any better. For the first time since he’d been diagnosed with angina, he placed a third nitro tablet under his tongue. Three was the limit, Dr. Mac had told him. After that, it was time to make a trip to the emergency room.
A little hard to do at 30,000 feet.
One of the flight attendants, a pretty young lady named Brenda, stopped beside Admiral Lacy’s first-class
seat with a snack cart. Lacy was by the window, and the seat next to him was vacant.
“Would you like a drink, sir?” Brenda said.
Lacy felt nauseated, and he thought a carbonated beverage might help.
“Ginger ale, please.”
Brenda opened a can of Canada Dry, poured some into a glass over ice. When she handed the drink to Admiral Lacy, their eyes met for the first time.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“Just a little indigestion. I’ll be all right.”
“You’re sweating. You don’t look so good.”
“It’s so hot in here.”
“Sir?”
Another wave of nausea. Admiral Lacy was hot, and his chest hurt, and he couldn’t breathe.
“I have to get up,” he said.
He lifted the armrest, scooted toward the aisle, rose to a standing position. He needed to get to the head—fast—or he was going to make a mess all over the place. He took one step forward, and then his knees buckled and he went crashing to the floor face first.
Admiral Lacy turned his head and tried to look up. His vision was blurry, but he could hear everything that was happening.
“Passenger down!” Brenda shouted. “Passenger down!”
Two or three people rushed over and started doing things. They turned him over onto his back. There was a very loud whooshing sound, like air escaping from a tire, and then he felt the plastic edges of an oxygen mask being pressed against his face. It didn’t seem to help. There was a dump truck parked on his chest, and he couldn’t take a deep breath to save his life.
Literally.
“Help me,” he said. “Please. I’m sick.”
He felt himself fading. If only he could get some air!
An aperture started closing around his peripheral vision, and soon everything was black. He wanted to cry out for help again, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak, and he couldn’t move. It felt as though his body had been dropped into a freshly-poured driveway, the concrete seeping into his lungs and hardening all around him now. He thought about his wife and his children, how he should have spent more time with them. He’d always been so driven, so career-oriented. There were so many things he wanted to do. So many things he could have done. He’d dedicated his life to the military, and now he wished he’d taken more walks in the park. He wished he’d read more bedtime stories to his boys, taken them out for more ice cream cones. He wished he’d gone out in the yard and thrown the ball around with them.
