by David Yates
Braden roused himself from his reverie. He looked around the restaurant. There were only two other customers at present. One was sitting in a booth near the door. The other was on a stool at the counter. He looked back at the others. “Manny, I'll need Alexander's address in Chicago. As soon as Sam gets back, we'll go to the RV and I'll make the trip."
Manny nodded, but still looked worried. After a moment he said, “But what if something were to happen to you? How would we know?"
Braden looked at Manny with a wry smile. “If I don't come back,” he said flatly, “then you'll know."
But that wasn't good enough for Manny. “We need to set up some type of communication with you when you travel. Give me a call on your cell as soon as you can after you arrive, and check in with me every once in a while. Will you do that, at least?"
Braden's smile became a genuine grin. “Okay, Mother,” he replied. Manny blushed a bit but held Braden's gaze. “Okay, okay,” Braden said. “It's actually a good idea. I appreciate your concern, Manny."
They sat in companionable silence. Braden looked toward the short corridor leading to the bathrooms. “I wonder what's keeping Sam?” he mused. “I think I'll go check on her."
Braden rose and walked to the corridor. As soon as he disappeared into the corridor, the customer at the counter made his move.
At the counter, the waitress dropped a dish. It crashed to the floor and shattered. The sound was cacophonous in the almost-deserted restaurant. Manny and Archer looked in that direction and saw the waitress standing at the counter, her hands raised and her eyes wide. The customer who had been seated there was standing and pointing a pistol at the waitress. The man sitting in the booth by the door rose and pulled a shotgun from under his long coat. He covered the door while his partner said to the waitress, “Give me all the money from the register! Now!"
As soon as Sam entered the ladies’ room, she checked to make sure all of the stalls were empty. She entered the last stall, locking the door behind her. She pulled her PDA out of her pocket and turned it on. She hesitated for a moment and then replaced the PDA in her pocket. She withdrew her cell phone and placed a call to Anson.
He answered after only one ring. “Yes?"
"Hi, it's me,” she said.
"Yes, I know,” Anson replied in an exasperated tone. “Why aren't you using the PDA?"
"Because I needed to talk to you,” she replied.
"Where are you?” Anson asked.
Instead of answering, she asked a question of her own. “I need to know what your intentions are. What are you going to do when you catch them?"
Without hesitation, Anson said, “As I've already told you, they will be transported to our facility in West Virginia. They will not be harmed, and they will be treated well. Why is their welfare so important to you?"
Sam blurted, “Because I...” She stopped in mid-sentence and bit her lower lip.
There was a thoughtful pause on Anson's end. He said, “Are you beginning to care for this kid?” When she didn't answer, he asked, “Are you in love with him?"
Again she didn't respond. It was answer enough for Anson. “I see,” he said. “Listen, Samantha, you know me. I'm not a vicious person, and I abhor violence. I assure you that they will not be harmed in any way. I give you my word on that."
After a brief lull, Anson said, “Samantha, do you love me?"
"Yes, you know I do,” she replied.
"Do you trust me?” he asked.
Sam thought about it. I can trust him, can't I? she thought. After all, if you can't trust your own father, who can you trust? “Yes,” she answered.
"Then believe me when I tell you they will not be harmed,” Anson said. “Now, where are you?"
She weighed her trust in him against her feelings for Braden, and finally said, “I need time to think about this."
"Samantha..."
"I'll call you later,” she said, and hung up the phone quickly.
She sat in the stall, thinking about the conversation with her father. Her phone vibrated in her hand. Her father again. She rejected the call. It rang again, and she rejected the call again. Shortly thereafter, she heard a bleep. It was her PDA, which she had neglected to turn off. She put the phone back in her pocket and removed the PDA. She opened the email from her father.
Samantha, please believe in me. I will not let you down. Tell me where you are and I promise everything will be all right.
Sam jumped and let out a small squeal as she heard a loud crash from the dining room. Several seconds later, the door to the ladies’ room burst open. She heard Braden's whispered voice hiss, “Sam! Where are you?"
Sam froze, panicked, the incriminating email glowing on the screen of her PDA.
As Braden entered the corridor leading to the bathrooms, there was a loud crash behind him. He stopped and went back to the corridor entrance. He looked around the corner and took in everything at a glance. He saw the man pointing the pistol at the waitress and the man with the shotgun by the door. He hurried down the corridor and into the ladies’ room.
"Sam! Where are you?” he rasped.
There was no answer and no movement. Braden moved further into the bathroom and repeated in a hurried whisper, “Sam!"
There was only one stall door that wasn't open. Braden went to it and pushed the door. It was locked. Braden rapped on the door silently.
"Open the door, Sam!"
He heard movement on the other side of the door. Something fell to the tile floor with a clack and slid toward the door of the stall. Braden looked down and saw Sam's PDA lying on the floor directly under the closed door. He bent and picked it up. Sam's hand brushed his as she tried to pick up the PDA at the same time. Braden straightened and rapped on the door again.
"Come on, Sam, hurry!” he said.
The lock snicked and the door opened. Sam emerged from the stall with a pasty look on her face. Her bright green eyes were wide. She made eye contact with Braden, then looked down at the PDA in his hand. She could see the email still glowing on the screen.
Braden quickly handed her the PDA and said, “The restaurant is being robbed. I want you to stay here until I come for you."
"Okay,” Sam replied. She hadn't even heard most of what Braden had said; her mind was still fully on the PDA. She turned off the power and placed it in her pocket.
It crossed Braden's mind that she took the news of a robbery in progress rather well, but he was too busy just now to dwell on it. He put his hands on her shoulders and repeated, “Stay here.” He turned and left the bathroom.
He went back to the corridor entrance and peeked around the corner. He saw the waitress handing the man with the pistol a plastic bag, presumably stuffed with money. He backed into the corridor and traveled.
Braden appeared out of thin air behind the man with the shotgun. Wasting no time, he reached around the man and grabbed the shotgun, pointing the weapon toward the ceiling. He sidestepped and placed his hip against the gunman, striking him in the face with an elbow. The man fell off balance and toppled to the floor. As he fell, Braden wrenched the shotgun from his hands and tossed it behind him, looking for the second assailant.
The second man had already raised his pistol and drawn a bead on Braden. Braden drew from his crossdraw holster, right-handed, and fired one shot before the would-be robber even had a chance to squeeze the trigger. The bandit went down immediately, a smoking hole in his forehead.
Braden turned to the other gunman, still on the ground. When the man found himself staring down the dark muzzle of Braden's gun, any fight he may have had oozed out of him. He turned onto his back and spread his hands wide. “Don't shoot me, please don't shoot me,” he whimpered.
The sound of Braden's gunshot had brought the store cashier running down the hallway which connected the store to the restaurant. The cook came slinking from the kitchen apprehensively. Braden said to the cashier, “Pick up that shotgun and hold it on this guy.” He nodded to the man on the floor. The cashier
did as Braden said. Braden turned to the waitress and said, “Call 911."
The waitress was frozen in place, hands still raised, apparently too shocked to function. The cook, who had been in the kitchen the whole time and thus hadn't been adversely affected by a gun in the face, said, “I'll call them,” and ran back to the kitchen.
Braden holstered his gun and turned to Manny and Archer. They were still seated where he had left them. “Get to the RV,” Braden said to them, walking toward the bathroom again. “We have to get out of here."
Archer rose quickly and gripped the handles of Manny's chair. He wheeled Manny out the door. Braden went into the ladies’ room, took Sam's hand, and walked out without a word. They went out the back door rather than passing through the dining area again. They went straight to the RV, where Archer had Manny's chair on the automatic lift.
Once Manny was aboard, Archer slid quickly behind the wheel and started the engine. “Which way?” he asked.
"Just go,” Braden said.
They went.
Two hours later, they were parked on the lot of a department store in northwest Fort Worth. Braden had slept on the ride, and they woke him when they stopped in Fort Worth. Manny had provided Braden with Alexander's address in suburban Chicago. Braden was geared up and ready to go.
"Braden...” Manny began, and Braden cut him off.
"I'll be careful, Manny,” he said. He looked at Sam and they gave each other a brief smile as Braden faded to nothingness.
He appeared in a city park. He looked around and saw no one. The barest hint of dawn was visible in the eastern sky. He walked out of the park and found a doughnut shop that was open. He went inside and asked the clerk for directions to the nearest motel.
Following the clerk's directions, he walked five blocks and found the motel. He checked in and went to his room, hanging the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. He called Manny, then fell onto the bed and slept until late afternoon.
When he awoke, he showered and dressed. He walked across the street to a fast-food chicken joint and ate a large meal. After dinner, he took a cab to the nearest branch of the city library and used their computer to search the Internet for maps of Alexander's address. He memorized the neighborhood and went back to the motel.
At about 11:30 pm, he called Manny again, and then took a city bus to Alexander's neighborhood. He got off of the bus about four blocks from Alexander's house. He strolled along the sidewalk, hands buried in the pockets of the black duster, head down. He crossed in front of the address where Alexander was currently ensconced. As he passed by, he stole glances of the property from the corner of his eye. From the sidewalk, he couldn't see much of the house at all. The property was surrounded by a ten-foot wall made of stone. Braden passed in front of the wrought-iron gate which gave access to the property from the street. He saw a long, winding driveway leading into a small grove of trees. Through the tree cover he caught just a glimpse of the lower part of the house. Then the wall began again and Braden's view was cut off. He continued in the same direction at a leisurely pace, in case he was being watched.
He strolled two blocks past the house and turned right onto a cross street. He walked another block to be sure he wasn't being followed, and then turned right again. He walked two more blocks and found himself on the back side of Alexander's property. The stone wall began again, but this time there were no breaks in the wall until he reached a tall wooden gate. The gate was solid and he could not see through it as he had been able to at the front gate. There was a small, neat sign at the wooden gate, displaying Alexander's address and the words “Service Entrance".
Braden walked past the service entrance to the corner of the stone wall. He glanced around, saw no one, and melded into the thick shrubs at the corner of Alexander's property. Once there, he traveled to the other side of the wall.
As he was fading in, he looked around the property quickly. The part of the property he was appearing in was empty, save for a large number of trees and a few shrubs and hedges. He completed the fade-in and moved slowly toward the house. He reached the final tree and stood behind it, eyeing the back of the house.
"House” was a very modest word for this structure. “Mansion” would be more appropriate. The house had three floors, with great white pillars supporting large terraces on the upper two floors. There was a long reflecting pool in the back yard, flanked by short hedges. Off to Braden's right, there was a deck with a hot tub and a small attached wooden building. No one was visible anywhere that Braden could see. As he was preparing to dash across the back yard to the house, Braden heard a growl behind him.
He froze momentarily, then slowly turned. There were two full-grown Rottweilers glaring at him and growling deep in their throats. The dogs were large and their bared teeth were long. Their heavily-muscled bodies were tensed and ready. Braden knew they were about to spring upon him.
He glanced up behind him to the third-floor terrace, and then traveled as quickly as he dared to. As he was disappearing, the dogs realized that their prey was somehow escaping and they lunged at him. One of the dogs got his pants cuff in his teeth, but the cuff simply faded from the dog's mouth. The dog let out a frustrated bark, and its partner joined in. They barked lustily and circled, looking for their would-be victim.
From his perch atop the terrace, Braden watched the dogs circle and bark. Suddenly, spotlights lit up the back yard. Braden heard the back door slam open two floors below him and heard running feet. Several men, by the sound of it. Braden drew back from the terrace rail and traveled to the roof of the house.
Braden looked around the roof and saw one of the spotlights lighting up the back yard. The spotlight was mounted on the edge of the roof. He crawled up behind this spotlight, knowing anyone who looked up would be blinded by it and wouldn't see him. He peeked over the edge of the roof and looked down.
He saw seven or eight men in the back yard, weapons in hand and searching the yard. Directly below him, the third-floor terrace door opened and three men stepped out. Two of the men were armed with rifles (AR-15's, Braden thought), and they flanked the third man. The third man was 70, maybe 75 years old. He was wearing a royal blue dressing robe. His hands were jammed into the pockets of the robe. His thinning gray hair was plastered to his skull. Braden knew that he had found the man he came looking for.
The distance from the roof's edge to the terrace was about twelve feet. All three men were at the terrace rail, looking down into the yard. Their backs were to Braden. He tensed and sprang, aiming for the back of one of the bodyguards.
Braden's kick landed on target. The bodyguard was thrown over the rail to the ground below. Before he had time to hit the ground, Braden delivered a spinning back kick to the other guard, who followed his colleague three floors down. Braden turned toward Alexander and opened his mouth to speak, but the words never left his throat. Alexander had pulled a small pistol from the pocket of his robe. He fired just as Braden turned to face him.
The bullet entered Braden's left upper torso, breaking his collarbone. As he fell to the terrace floor, he drew right-handed and fired a shot at Alexander. Just before Braden's bullet ended Alexander's life, Alexander fired again. This second bullet creased the left side of Braden's head, shaving a line through his hair and following the curve of his skull. The bullet never penetrated the skull, exiting at the back of Braden's scalp and embedding itself in the wooden floor of the terrace.
Braden lay on his back in agony. He still held his gun in his right hand, which was lying on his chest. He could hear nothing but the blood roaring in his ears. Dimly, he became aware that he was no longer alone. Four men were rushing through the open terrace door, weapons at the ready. The lead man raised his weapon and aimed at Braden. Even injured, Braden moved like a striking cobra. A bullet hole opened in the center of the lead guard's chest and he flew backward into his mates, bowling them over like tenpins. Braden knew he couldn't last long, no matter how fast he was. He traveled back to the RV in Fort Worth. This
time, he didn't bother with finesse; instead of “fading", he winked out at once.
The resulting clap of thunder shattered the window panes in the third-floor terrace door, spraying the three men still alive there with glass. The thunderclap was heard as far as six blocks away.
Braden appeared lying on the parking lot next to the RV. His gun was still in his hand. He tried to call out to his friends in the RV, but could manage only a weak rasp. He swallowed and heard a dry click in his throat. He was dizzy, and he felt that he was going to pass out. He fought the dizziness fiercely. Wouldn't do to be found here by some roving cop, unconscious, bleeding from a gunshot wound, and holding a pistol, he thought woozily.
He tried to travel into the RV, but he was too weak and tired. He tried to get to his feet. He managed to roll onto his right side and up onto his elbow, but couldn't make it any farther. He fell back to the asphalt with a heavy exhale of air. He could feel what little strength he had left draining out of him along with his blood. I'll bleed to death if I don't get some help quick. He tried again to get to his feet, and fate stepped in.
Fate came in the form of Sam. The door to the RV opened and she stepped out. She saw a man lying on the asphalt and froze momentarily. Then she realized who it was.
"Braden!" she yelled. She leaped toward him and shouted over her shoulder, “Doc! Help!"
She knelt beside Braden. Archer appeared in the doorway of the RV. He took one look and disappeared back inside. Sam stroked Braden's forehead and asked, “Are you all right? Where are you hurt?"
Braden pointed weakly at his left collarbone. Archer reappeared on the run, carrying his medical bag. He knelt at Braden's side, and Sam pointed at the bullet hole she now saw. “Here,” she told Archer. “I think he's shot."
Archer took a quick look at Braden's injury. “Yes, it's a gunshot wound. His clavicle is fractured, and he's lost a lot of blood.” Archer glanced quickly around the parking lot. “Come on, we need to get him inside right away."
