by Justin Bell
“Like in the past month.”
She looked up from the folders and over toward him. “You’re sure about that?”
He nodded.
“Grab it.”
His hands worked through the cabinet, pulling out stacks of folders which he walked over to the table and dropped with the others.
“Okay, some of these personnel records are interesting,” Rebecca said. “I’m seeing some contracted employees here from Ironclad. Lots of them, in fact. It looks like every member of security personnel for Consolidated was on contract from Ironclad.”
Phil pointed to some folders. “What are those?”
Rebecca put her finger in to mark her spot, then looked deeper inside the filing cabinet. “Background checks,” she said. Flipping through some folders, she purposefully navigated to the letter G in the alphabet. “Karl Green,” she whispered and pulled the folder out.
“Karl Green was their Director of Security,” Phil said, astonished. “That’s pretty blatant.”
“How were they getting away with this?” Rebecca asked. “Consolidated was a huge company. So was Ironclad. I’m seeing some serious breach of conduct cases here. Like, obvious, blatant stuff.”
“Friends in high places?” Phil asked.
Rhonda’s eyes widened.
A low thunk echoed on the outside of the building. Max looked over at the window for a moment, but shrugged off the sound and looked back down into his folders.
“Tamar, can you grab a box and start packing that stuff up?” Fields asked, pointing to the folders on the table. The boy nodded and pulled away from his filing cabinet, moving over to one of the bankers boxes, then started filling it up.
“There’s good stuff here,” Rebecca said, pulling out a few more background checks. “Grab some more of those press files,” she said to Max, who moved to where Tamar had been and freed some folders, tossing them in the open box Tamar was trying to organize.
Another sound rapped, and this time, everyone in the room heard it.
“What was that?” Phil asked.
“You heard that, too?” Fields replied.
“I’ve got some financial documents here,” Max said. “A paper copy of an email sent to stockholders, I guess?”
“Grab it,” Rebecca ordered. It went in the box.
Another dull whack sounded from the window, followed by a sharp crash of breaking glass.
“Okay, what the heck?” Max asked, pulling up from his crouch and walking to the window. He looked out, squinting in the low light of moonlight and could barely make out a figure across the street, stepping out from the dark alley. A figure frantically waving their arms and shining a flashlight in the air.
“Mom?” Max asked, his fingers working in the window.
“Your mom’s out there?” Phil asked, walking toward Max and the window.
“Everyone get down on the ground right now!”
Phil whirled around.
“This building is for authorized personnel only! You are in direct violation of federal law!” Fields took a step back, her weapon bouncing on her spine, and immediately she wished she’d had it in hand instead.
The door to the records room was open and two members of Ironclad security stood there, filling the gap, their rifles lifted and pointing straight at them.
Chapter 7
“Identify yourselves. Immediately!” shouted one of the Ironclad operatives. He was a broad-shouldered beast, tall and wide, his head covered in a thin Brillo pad of dirty blonde, a rough and unkempt beard tracking his chin.
“I think we’ve got Orphans up in here,” growled the second man, twisting toward Max and Brad, his own rifle drifting down to be more at their level.
“We got no food or ammo in here, kids,” snarled the first again. “Give me a reason not to just open up on your sorry asses right—”
Phil reacted without warning. He stood over by Max near the window, his left shoulder facing the men in the door so that they somehow hadn’t seen the Mac-10 at his right hip. Twisting, he swung it up and around and hauled down on the trigger, blasting full auto .380 caliber, the unsilenced machine pistol cracking loud and bright within the tight, dark confines of the records room. Both men shouted and scrambled backwards so fast their rifles jerked up as they fired, rattling off semi-automatic fire into the ceiling. Phil didn’t think he actually hit either of them, but the wild and sudden barrage sent them diving for cover, buying them a very temporary reprieve.
“Gunfire!” a shout echoed from the hallway. “Who’s in there?”
Rebecca worked fast, moving in close to the filing cabinet and thrusting forward, tipping it toward the door just as a third man entered. The cabinet struck him on the shoulder, knocking him back, then toppled in front of the door just as a fourth man swung around, his weapon coming up to shoulder level. By then she’d also slung the AR-15 from her shoulder and lifted it up, squeezing off three quick shots, driving the fourth man backwards in a clumsy stumble.
Phil popped the magazine from the handle of the Mac-10 and slammed a second one in, firing another crazed barrage at the doorway, chewing up the wooden frame and punching several random holes in the wall across the hall, driving would-be gunmen back.
“Window’s open!” shouted Max, who had slung the central pane of glass up and clear.
“Throw those boxes out!” shouted Rebecca as she stepped right, trying to get another angle on the men in the hallway with her rifle. Max snagged one box and twisted, slinging it out the window, watching as it toppled end over end and thumped down on the grass below. It landed top-first and miraculously didn’t spill. As he looked out watching it fall, he could see the crazed bob of a flashlight as someone—his mother he figured—ran across the street to retrieve the box, but nobody else was with her.
“Another one coming!” Max shouted down and slung the second box out, but this one rolled in mid-air and spilled papers as it fell, scattering folders and records across the sidewalk entrance down below. Rhonda knelt down and started scrabbling through the piles, gathering the loose papers up into the opened box.
“You next, Max!” shouted Phil as he ducked left behind a filing cabinet, a volley of gunfire sending bullets sparking from its metal hide. Max ducked under the open window and slipped out and around, hanging by his palms for a brief moment, looking down below. They were on the second story of the building, and it was a drop, but not much more than maybe ten feet. Certainly a survivable fall. He swung his legs right as he let go, sending himself crashing into the top branches of one of the small overgrown trees. The branches were too thin to hold him and they bent and snapped under his momentum, but slowed him as they did, and he tumbled down through the leaves and sticks, landing in a clumsy, rolling somersault on the grass down below.
“Max, you okay?” Rhonda shouted. Up in the records room, gunfire blasted like a teenager’s stereo.
“Heads up!” Tamar shouted from above and repeated the same motion, throwing himself over into the trees. He withstood the thrashing branches a bit more gracefully, curling into a ball as he fell, then landed on the ground in a low, knee cracking crouch. Rhonda had her pistol out and was aiming it up at the second floor window as Phil squeezed out, staccato flashes of gunfire illuminating the small room in a crazy dance party strobe. Choosing not to use the tree as a buffer, Phil dangled from the window, then dropped, hitting the ground with a grunt, but rolling to his left and coming up in a somewhat gimpy trot.
“I’m all right,” he barked at Rhonda as he saw her look of concern.
She looked up into the window and saw Rebecca still huddled behind a filing cabinet, exchanging gunfire with men in the hallway, trying to pull away toward the window, but having no luck.
“Stay here!” Rhonda shouted and broke into a run, charging to the door.
“Wait!” Phil called back at her, but she was way beyond listening.
Slipping through the broken front door, she ran to the stairwell and took the stairs two at a time, charging
up to the second level. She pressed her back to the wall by the exit door, listening to the gunfire in the hallway beyond, clasping her pistol in two hands as she inched toward the door handle. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath she swung open the door and brought herself around, lifting her pistol with two hands. In the hall three armed men spun toward her, surprised by the sound. She didn’t announce herself, instead just pulling the trigger, driving the first two shots into the chest of one of the men, knocking him back against the wall, toppling left like a lifeless crash test dummy.
“Fields I’m covering you! Window!” she screamed as loud as she could, then swiveled and fired again, sending a second man sprawling backwards, though she wasn’t sure she actually hit him or if he was just trying to find some kind of cover. The third man unloaded at her, his rifle howling, launching 5.56 millimeter bullets back at her. She swung back behind the fire door, wincing as the metal banged with the impact of bullets, but none of them managed to pass through.
Had Rebecca heard her? Did she have the luxury of trying again or was that pushing her luck? Another rattling series of gunshots sent slugs peppering the door where she hid and she pulled away, turning and charging back down the stairs, just hoping that Fields had heard her and pulled herself out of the fire. She ran across the lobby and heard gunfire from out front on the lawn, then she burst out onto the sidewalk.
Fields was there, in the grass on one knee, her AR-15 aimed up at the second floor and firing. Phil stood close behind her, his Mac-10 chattering away, throwing a chaotic shower of bullets up at the gunmen who were apparently trying to get a clear shot. Rhonda came up near them, swinging her own pistol up toward the window and rattled off a few shots herself, popping chunks of brick from the wall of the building.
“How we getting out of here?” shouted Fields, but the low roar of a car engine answered that question, the sedan rounding a corner up ahead and charging toward them, one headlight glaring like the angry eye of a cyclops.
It pulled up to the road, engine idling.
“Get in get in get in!” shouted Fields and both Max and Tamar scrambled toward the car, clamoring into the backseat. Phil grabbed one box and Rhonda grabbed the second as Fields continued blasting away at the second-floor window, popping her mag out and slamming a second one home while she did so. The two boxes went in the trunk, then Phil slammed the lid closed, lunging toward the back seat door to pile in.
“Brad and Winnie are at the other car!” Daisuke shouted from the driver’s seat. “I will take you there, get in!”
Rhonda piled in after Phil and Rebecca back-pedaled toward the vehicle, shooting up at the window. Two shadows appeared there and fired back, rooster tails of grass and dirt spitting up at the former FBI agent’s feet as she stumbled backwards. Daisuke leaned over and popped open the passenger door, then Rhonda slid into the seat as gunfire slammed and clanged against the Detroit metal hide of the old vehicle. She slammed the door behind her, keeping her head down and Daisuke punched the accelerator, sending the sedan lurching forward, then onto the road and into the night.
***
“That was sick!” shouted Max throwing a high five toward Tamar, who returned it.
“Dang, man, that tree tore me up!” Tamar replied.
Several yards away, the adults sat on the fountain, the boxes emptied and papers scattered about, as if just looking at them might magically impart some impossible wisdom on the group.
Brad stood over to the side, watching Max and Tamar, his hands stuffed in his pockets. It wasn’t that long ago when it would have been him and Max going into the building. Why had Fields chosen Tamar? What made him so special? Looking at the two of them, Brad felt something he couldn’t quite explain to himself. It wasn’t quite jealousy; you needed to feel real emotions to feel jealousy, and he hadn’t felt too many real emotions since that day in St. Louis. Since Bruce Cavendish had taken his parents from him.
Bruce Cavendish wouldn’t take anyone else’s parents. Not anymore. Brad had killed him. Shot him dead to rights and saved Rhonda’s life in the process.
It had been a touch over two months since that had happened, and Brad had struggled from time to time. Struggled to figure out how to feel about what he had done. Was he supposed to feel guilty? Bad? Remorseful for taking a life?
He felt none of those things.
Cavendish had deserved it, and Brad had done it.
On the flip side, though, he also felt no relief. No satisfaction from avenging the deaths of his parents. No great weight lifted off his shoulders. Cavendish had been there, Brad had killed him, and life had gone on as if it had never happened.
That’s when the gears had started to turn. It was right about then that Brad began to wonder if he had to kill more of the bad guys to get that sense of satisfaction. Cavendish was a start, but if any of these theories were true, he was a small fish in a very big pond, and maybe if Brad got some of those larger fish, maybe then he could feel like his mission was accomplished.
Maybe.
“Man you looked like a dope when you landed, dawg. Tumbling over like some drunk.” Tamar laughed and slapped Max on the shoulder.
“Hey, we can’t all be sexy girl gymnastics experts like you, huh?”
“Get outta here with that.”
Brad looked at them both, his eyes narrow, his fingers fidgeting. He wasn’t jealous. He couldn’t be. But if he wasn’t jealous, what was he exactly?
“Okay start sorting these files,” Fields said, standing from the fountain and walking over. “We focused on a few key areas. Personnel, financial, distribution and media relations stuff. Start sorting into those piles first. Once we’ve got them in those categories, we’ll start breaking them down further.”
Everyone around her nodded, and they walked to the paperwork, crouching down to start picking and sorting the files.
As papers rustled and people began stacking folders, Rhonda looked up past the fountain. Clancy Greer was standing across the aisle, leaning against the wall.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” she whispered to Phil, who nodded. She stood from her crouch and walked past the fountain, coming around and approaching Greer.
“Hey, you doing okay, Clancy?” she asked. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine, girl,” Clancy replied, though his voice was gravely.
“You sure? Is it your arm?”
Greer moved his left arm, rotating it around as if to demonstrate that it felt okay. “Arm’s doing all right, Rhonda. I’m good.”
“I’m going to go get the med kit, okay? Stay right here.”
“Rhonda, I said I’m fine, okay. Don’t get the med kit, just trust me.”
She looked at him for a long enough time that it made him moderately uncomfortable. “I don’t like this, Clancy,” she said quietly. “Is it your chest wound? Is something bothering you in there?”
Greer drew a shallow, ragged breath. “My chest hurts, yeah. Been hurting for a while now. But I’m working through it, okay?”
“You won’t be working through it if you go into septic shock, Clancy. We need to do something about this.”
“What are we going to do? You have an operating room in that duffel bag of yours? Some vascular surgeon out in the pretzel shop we don’t know about?”
Rhonda frowned. “There’s got to be something.”
“Just do what you do, okay? That’s all I ask. Whatever happens, happens, and I’m okay with it. I don’t want sympathy, I don’t want anyone fawning all over me, I just want to help the group. I want to help you find your daughter.”
Rhonda stepped toward him and cupped his cheeks with her hands. “If we find a doctor. If we get access to a hospital, I will knock your butt out and strap it to a bed if I have to. Do you understand me?”
Clancy nodded.
Rhonda embraced him, holding him gently so as not to aggravate his injuries. All these people hugging him lately, felt like they were all saying goodbye.
Maybe that’s what he needed.
Rhonda stepped away, and he smiled weakly, then stifled a sudden, barking cough.
“Get some rest.”
He nodded and turned, walking back to the adjustable mattress kiosk where he had taken to getting his night’s sleep. Being slightly elevated just felt more comfortable these days. Rhonda watched him go as she made her way back to the group where the separated piles were growing larger by the second. She crouched back down next to Phil to see what he was working on.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
Rhonda shook her head.
“What’s up?”
“I think Clancy’s in some trouble. That slug the Demon Dawgs put in him a couple of months back. The one Vicki couldn’t get out.”
“Infection?”
“Something, yeah,” Rhonda said, nodding. “But he’s not letting me ask too many questions. Doesn’t want anyone making a fuss.”
“You think Rebecca could do anything?”
“She had rudimentary first aid training, Phil, she’s not a surgeon. Plus we don’t have any tools or even a sterile environment. None of us can go digging around near his lungs or heart trying to find a three-centimeter chunk of lead.”
“So, what? We walk around and wait for him to keel over?”
“Not at all, Phil. We need to try to think outside the box. Find a way to help him. Figure something out, like we’ve been doing since this whole mess began.”
Phil nodded.
“What do you have here?” Rhonda asked looking at his piles.
“Background checks mostly. That’s the one for Karl Green. He was apparently the Director of Security for Consolidated while he was the COO of Ironclad.”
“How the heck did that pass through the trade commission?”
“I think that’s what we’re hoping to find out.”
Rhonda picked up the background check and scanned through it. “Most of this is redacted,” she said, turning to Phil. “How did this help anyone?”
Phil shrugged.
“These distribution records are a mess,” Rebecca complained as she filtered through a stack of what looked to be shipping manifests, bills of lading and other documents relating to shipping and receiving. Phil walked over, extending his hand.
