by Lee Doty
There was a moment of stillness, followed by a quiet ding of a synthetic bell. Behind Ash, the elevator doors started to close again.
***
“You are certainly pulling my leg.” Xian said in a dry, casual tone.
Bai couldn’t see Xian’s expression, as he was on-site and Bai was fifteen miles away in the command trailer, but he correctly read the threat behind the words.
Bai willed a calm efficiency into his voice that he did not feel—that he had never felt in his life. “Unfortunately not, sir. Delta is in pursuit.”
“How was River not forewarned and ready? Even if Delta couldn’t apprehend her, River should have been ready to deal with one unarmored Falcon with almost no weapons.”
“Cleric Yuen informed both Delta and Cleric Wu as soon as Fleet went down. Cleric Wu was on the radio warning River as Ash entered the elevator. They simply did not have the time to prepare appropriately. As always, Ash moved decisively.”
“Casualties?” Xian asked, moving on from the subject of blame with the attitude of someone willing to abandon an argument only until he could enter punching range.
“All four members of River are incapacitated. Delta’s sniper is ambulatory, but concussed. He retains some crude functionality, but will likely be useless as a sniper for the duration of this mission.”
“How many dead, Bai?”
“Nobody.” Bai said, understanding that it was significant, but not yet knowing why.
“How did she incapacitate five fully armed and armored Falcons without killing any of them?” Xian asked as if he knew that the answer would be part of an elaborate joke.
“One second, Sir.” Bai said, then covered the phone with his hand, “Wu!” Bai shouted.
Wu jerked, then looked up from his console. “Yes sir?”
“I need a tactical analysis right now. Just a summary. How did Ash subdue River without killing them?”
“I’ve rechecked from three angles and have still frames with what I believe to be conclusive…” Wu stammered, clearly reluctant.
“I didn’t ask you for a page from your diary, Cleric!” Bai shouted with murderous intensity.
Wu lowered his gaze in a half bow of submission, and then he told Bai what he wanted to know.
Bai understood the reason for the exposition on his research methods when Wu told Bai what they’d revealed. Bai didn’t bother to ask the automatic question, “are you sure?” because Bai could plainly see the multiple still frames extracted from the helmet cams that Wu had sent to the tactical display on the wall.
Bai winced, then removed his hand, un-muting the phone.
“With a frying pan, sir.” Bai said, fully understanding that if he acknowledged the irony in this situation in any way, he’d likely be killed
“A frying…” Xian said, as if to himself. “Now that would be something to see.”
“We’ve of course got full telemetry and the helmet cams, though the feeds themselves are not going to be very satisfying. There is a lot of shaking and jerking and a lot of broken helmet cameras.” Bai took a deep breath. “And it was fast. The first engagement with Delta lasted three seconds. Thirteen seconds later, she was on River in the elevator and seven seconds later, that conflict was over. Start to finish, under twenty-four seconds.”
“I need a summary of the current tactical situation. I’m inbound, so you’ve got twenty seconds. Make them count.” Xian said.
Through the phone Bai could hear the subtle changes in Xian’s breathing patterns and snatches of background noise that indicated he was moving quickly. “The three uninjured members of Delta arrived in the hallway in enough time to see the elevator moving down. They forced the doors and were about to drop grenades down the shaft when I had Yuen overrule them.”
“Why?” Xian asked sharply. “We’d like to debrief Ash, but you know our orders. Putting her down is acceptable.”
It was a reasonable question. Bai’s choice had been a risk. It was certain that if Ash got away, he’d suffer for it. In fact, he wasn’t sure that if he’d had time to think, he wouldn’t have chosen differently—a large part of that choice had been unexamined instinct, Bai knew now.
“We’ve got the man in charge of all of the OSI’s direct actions, the wetwork. He’s wounded and he’s hog-tied. He’s in that elevator with Ash.” Bai said, “With the information in his head, we could take them completely apart. We’ve got Root in the lobby and Delta shadowing the elevator down, using the stairs. If Ash gets off before the ground floor, we’ll know.”
“Risky.” Xian said simply, but Bai could read admiration in the tone. “I’m impressed, I must admit. I might need to kill you about this later, but I’ll give you credit. That was a bold move.”
“Thank you sir.” Bai said, the familiar feeling of Xian’s barely-approval writhing like serpents in his stomach.
“I’m moving in for close support.” Xian said.
“Should I prepare the Falcons for your arrival?” Bai asked.
“Not yet. We’ve still got eight active Falcons. I’d hate to have to clean this all the way—especially Delta. They’re no Phoenix, but they’re the best we’ve got left.”
“Understood.” Bai said, but Xian had already disconnected the phone.
***
Hawkins lay, face down on the floor, partially on top of one of the men who had been holding him captive. The storm of clanks and crashes had suddenly ended and it was quiet. He had to admit that he had no idea what had just happened. He remembered standing, or being held up, between two killers in the elevator, and then, just as the doors were closing, everything had changed. There had been a blur of implied movement through the doors and then a woman’s deafening scream. It was not a cry for help, not a scream of fear. No, it had been more on the angry side. In fact, though he’d thought his desperate situation could have gotten no worse, that scream made him glad that his bladder wasn’t full.
Then there had been what he could only assume was a fight. Not three seconds into the fight, he had fallen, part trip, part shove, part crippling gunshot wound in his leg, part disorienting surprise.
He’d seen the chaos of the first few seconds of the attack, then heard the rest as he lay where he’d fallen on the floor. Thinking back on it, it didn’t really seem real. He entertained the thought that he’d just passed out and that what he saw around him now was just a very unlikely dream. He didn’t have to pinch himself though, because his broken arm was screaming in an agony so intense it had to be real.
Parsing back through his unreliable memory of unreliable senses, he tried to make sense of what he’d seen and heard. He tried to catalog what he thought he’d remembered.
There had been an attacker, it was a woman, she’d been very, VERY angry. She’d been armed with some kind of club, and she’d used it to devastating effect against the four killers who had so easily captured Hawkins and one of the toughest field agents he’d ever worked with, and both of them had been armed and attacking from ambush when these killers had taken them.
He could not believe it. He was afraid to let himself hope of an escape from the terrifying fate he’d been so sure of only seconds ago. He was afraid to hope, to believe, yet here he was on the floor with what seemed to be most, if not all, of the four killers who had so easily made him so helpless just a few minutes ago. He felt the shift, the sudden pull of downward velocity, as the elevator began to move down toward the lobby. He took a deep breath and raised his head.
The strain of that small effort made his neck hurt, but that pain was swallowed entirely by the wave of cold, nausea-inducing agony that seemed to burst not from his broken arm, bur from an external source, like a wave surprising a child sunbathing on the beach. He sucked in a surprised breath and tried not to wince himself to death.
He ground his teeth and looked around slowly. Sure enough, he saw all four attackers, beaten unconscious and bleeding on the floor of the elevator. He saw all of that, and a single pair of unassuming legs. The visible po
rtion of the legs were those of a woman, lithe legs in form-fitting khakis and plain white tennis shoes. The shoes looked worn and comfortable more than stylish—the kind of thing a nurse or a waitress might wear. He would have described the legs as “cute”, not “lethal”. They looked like they should belong to an eighteen year old waitress coming home after a long shift at Chili’s, and not a person so capable of highly effective violence. Of course, there were a few dark brown flecks of blood spattered on the pants, but still, his mind would not stop mapping those stains back onto spilled salsa, thus reinforcing rather than dispelling the Chili’s waitress image in his mind.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting: Jet black BDUs like the Dragons on the ground, or maybe the blue tights and red boots of a super hero—but whatever half-formed expectations he’d had were washed away as a lithe, scarred hand reached down and into his field of view and picked up an old black cast iron frying pan from the floor.
“Why, Dirk Stone!” Jo said brightly, as if saluting him during an unexpected meeting on a brisk walk on a bright country morning, “I do believe we are now even.”
Hawkins heard the rustle of clothes as Jo rifled through the equipment of one of the fallen dragons, then the snap of something coming out of a tight kydex holster, then a lock-blade knife snapping open. With two quick cuts, she cut the riot cuffs on his hands, then elbows. Again, the pain from his arm as the band at his elbows was released was intense, but somehow now it happened farther from him. Where before, his hopelessness had amplified the agony, now the new hope he tentatively felt seemed to deaden it, or at least hold it at a distance, to put it in the perspective of the pain of a necessary struggle willingly endured, and not the helpless suffering of a victim.
It was then that Hawkins realized that he’d lost himself. When the Dragons had dragged him into this elevator, bound and gagged, wounded and helpless. In those few seconds before Jo arrived with her frying pan and with new hope, he had forgotten who he was. He was the man who resists evil, who struggles on, regardless of the cost. He was the man who prevails, or is defeated, but either way, his was the path of the warrior. He who stands with honor between the helpless and the remorseless.
He’d forgotten, and it had allowed him to be hurt. He’d forgotten, and the forgetting had hurt most of all.
Jo helped him to sit, being careful with his broken arm. Then after he’d taken a few steadying breaths, she helped him to his feet. Hawkins swooned on his feet as his vision darkened briefly. Jo supported him patiently as he wavered, then she guided him to one of the walls and he leaned on it, holding his broken arm as gently as possible in front of him.
Jo made sure he was as stable as possible, then rifled through another of the fallen Dragon’s equipment, coming away with two devices.
“These should help.” She said, “But this is going to hurt.”
He nodded, and she took out the knife again. He gave her a concerned look, but she simply used the knife to cut the sleeve of his jacket and shirt away, exposing the swelling and darkening portion of his forearm. Then she brought up a small device about the same size and shape as an inch-thick ice pack and applied it firmly to the gunshot wound on his leg. The pain was dizzying, but only from the pressure. Nothing else happened. Jo’s brow furrowed and she bit her lip. She pressed the pack to her own forearm and it made a small chirp, then a small yellow, then green light appeared on the side. She then pressed it again to Hawkins’ damaged leg—nothing.
“I guess these only work on people like me.” Jo said.
“What… what is it supposed to do?” Hawkins said through clenched teeth.
“Medkit.” Jo said, “It has a bunch of hook-like probes that shoot into you and guide your bones, flesh, and veins back together.”
Hawkins’ eyes bulged, “Glad that didn’t work!”
“How else is your body supposed to heal if you don’t press the broken pieces back together?” Jo asked, cocking her head to one side, mystified.
“Surgery.” He said, exasperation in his voice, “Surgery, stitches, and months of recovery!”
“Yeah,” Jo said as if talking to a child, “Surgery.” She gestured to the medkit.
“No,” Hawkins said, leaning harder into the wall, “Not for people like me. You tear things up and just hold them together, that’s going to destroy my leg… normal people can’t heal like that.”
Jo shrugged, “Well, this will definitely help.” She held up the other piece of equipment, an inch thick dark grey composite cylinder. It was about as long as her hand from wrist to finger tips and an inch wide with rounded ends.
“Hawkins eyes widened again, “If I have to bend over for you to use that, the answer is an emphatic no!”
Jo giggled, “Hold your arm still, you big baby.” She said pressing a catch and unrolling the cylinder like a scroll. She stretched it around the break in his arm and fastened the two sides together so that he wore it like a brace or a compression sleeve around the break in his arm. She then stretched it out, making sure that there were no wrinkles in the thick material and insuring that it was centered over the break. She then put a hand on his arm by the elbow and gripped his hand with her other hand.
“See?” she said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Hawkins opened his mouth to respond, but she pulled on his hand to set the bone and pressed a small activating pad on the sleeve. It made a vibrating buzz and constricted on his arm. The constriction was quick and came in several distinct shifts, guiding the bones into alignment and then loosening ever so slightly and hardening into place. Since he’d already been answering, his strangled groan took on the shape of the word he’d been intending, “Noaahhg!”
“See?” she said brightly, “Better?”
His string of profanity was hot enough to bring a blush to Jo’s face, “You talk to your mom with that mouth?” she asked, with a nervous smile and averted eyes.
Hawkins was so surprised that for a second, he forgot the pain. “Sorry ma’am.” He said with an earnestness that surprised him… he’d been trying for more sarcasm. He flexed the fingers of the damaged arm lightly. The device had formed a passable splint for his arm, “Yes ma’am. Better. Thank you.”
“Well, well okay then…” Jo’s glance shifted to her right. “Excuse me, it looks like Ruck’s playing possum.” She said like a disappointed school teacher.
On the floor, Ruck huffed out a groggy laugh, then croaked out, “We’ve… missed you, Ash.”
The clang of her pan ended the conversation, but Jo added, “You too, Ruck.” With an affection that surprised Hawkins.
“Ash?” Hawkins asked, cradling his arm.
“It’s my name.” She said, snapping the pistol out of Ruck’s holster. She handed it to Hawkins, butt first. “To make you feel better, like Dirty Harry.” She said in a passable Chinese accent.
Hawkins barked out a quick huff of a surprised laugh, “You have no idea how much McParty quotes that movie.”
“Who’s Dirty Harry?” Ash asked, retrieving a submachine gun from the floor, along with three extra magazines, which went in her left jacket pocket.
“Another movie from when I was a kid.” Hawkins said, taking the pistol with his uninjured left hand. With a grunt of pain, he used his right hand to move the slide slightly back, exposing the bullet in the chamber, then letting the slide snap back. “Never seen it, but I think he’s a vigilante with a big gun.”
“Ah.” Ash said, turning toward the door of the elevator as the elevator came to a stop at the first floor. “Makes sense, then.” She said, bringing the gun up and putting the stock against her shoulder.
“I should warn you,” Ash said conversationally, “I won’t kill anyone.”
“Great.” Hawkins said with some exasperation in his voice, but what filled his heart was an irrational desire to protect her. To keep this woman who’d saved him, who’d returned who he was to him, to keep her from anything that would taint her, harm her… twist her into a darker shape or purpose.
If she wouldn’t kill and that got him killed, fine.
“That’s just great.” He repeated, but there was a warm smile on his face.
“Sorry.” She gave him a sidelong glance.
“No biggie.” He said, shaking his head. He did his best to steady the pistol with his right hand, but the grip was a lot weaker than if he had both hands at one hundred percent—and if he didn’t have to be shooting off-hand.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid slowly open.
***
Crow ran silently to the corner of the apartment building’s central hallway, then stopped with his back to the left wall. It had been less than five seconds since Ash’s shout of rage had burst on him from around the corner leading to the elevators, the corner at which he now stood. Since the scream, Crow had heard nothing, though as he approached the corner, he heard the quick impacts of a blunt weapon conflict coming from down the elevator hallway. Crow peeked the corner quickly, darting his head out and back just long enough to get a quick impression of what was around the corner, but providing only a fleeting target for any threats. What he saw was the elevator hallway, three elevators, doors closed, and Chrome sprinting toward the elevator bank from the other side with Zed and Trunc close behind him. Delta.
Their focus had been on the elevator and Crow didn’t think they’d seen him. It also confirmed his suspicion that Ash was in one of the elevators and that Delta had just missed her.
Crow’s heart seemed to both swell and constrict, in a pulse of hope and terrible fear: Ash was here, less than fifty feet away, yet in terrible danger. He had thought her dead for so long. To find her alive tonight, then to lose her… The hope/fear surge in his heart seemed to send a pulse of blood crashing through body and mind, and then the peace rose around him, seeming to come into him from outside. He was familiar with experiences like this. Each time a Falcon entered the stress of combat, his body produced some kind of cocktail—half endorphins, half adrenaline—that sharpened his mind, clarified his perceptions, further quickened his reflexes, filled him with a “holy” purpose and peace. The Clerics had taught him that this was “the quickening”, the most sacred part of the Hallow. Of course, Crow now knew all of that religion was a lie, an abomination, but the feeling was still real, and it was still compelling.
