by Tom Abrahams
He knew this was a set up.
“If Sir Spencer was smart enough not to come,” Bella asks, “why did Blogis? He had to know something was up.”
“Maybe he trusted me.”
Blogis stops searching when he hears Corkscrew and her handlers entering the Dome’s floor, emerging from the tunnel. A light blasts onto her from the opposite side. She mimics Blogis in an attempt to shield her blinded eyes.
“Who are you?” she asks Blogis. “What are you doing here?”
“Who am I?” he laughs. “Who are you?”
“I’m repping Sir Spencer.”
Instead of responding to the green-haired hacker next to him, Blogis again searches the stadium seats. “Jackson! What are you doing?”
“Play it now,” I tell Mack and he initiates an audio file I recorded hours ago. It blares over loudspeakers.
“This is where it ends,” says my recorded voice. “This is where we go our separate ways.”
Corkscrew is sitting on the floor, cross-legged, leaning back on her hands. Her hoodie is pulled low over her eyes to block the light. She seems bored by the theatrics. Blogis is fidgety and uncomfortable.
“I am about to provide you both with the only available copies of the process,” the recording booms. “The paper retrieved from Brookhaven is destroyed. No other known copies exist. I am not keeping one for myself.”
“This is not right!” Blogis yells. “You’re making a mistake, Jackson!”
Corkscrew laughs.
“In a moment, you’ll be handed your copy of the process. I will inform you how to access it. Then you are free to go, to do with the process what you choose.”
Blogis starts to move toward the railing that separates the floor from what’s left of the stands. Mack’s thugs stop him and move him back into the light.
“Mack,” I whisper into my mic, “sync my mic with the speaker.”
After a second he says, “You’re live. Over.”
“Corkscrew, where is Sir Spencer?” I ask.
Without moving from her relaxed position on the floor, she answers, “He knew about the set up so he declined your invitation. I’m here instead.”
“How did he know?” I ask, my voice reverberating across the expanse of the Dome.
“You may be decent at getting yourself out of a jam, but you’re just as good as getting yourself into one. I was tracking your phone. I was listening to your conversations through On Star. Remember? I hacked it.”
“And you passed along the information to Sir Spencer?”
“Of course I did,” she chuckles. “He’s my paycheck, not you. My loyalty lies with the old dude. He knew you were playing both sides and you were trying to pit him against Blogis. I guess this freak over here is Blogis.”
He clenches his fists, the anger boiling over. He’s pacing now, probably considering his options. He knows he’s lost control, whether it’s me running the show or Sir Spencer. I’m certain he knows it’s not him.
“You’re not getting your copy,” I tell Corkscrew, “until Sir Spencer shows up. Bottom line.”
“Not gonna happen. At least, not on your terms.”
“This is deteriorating quickly, Jackson,” Bella points out. “What are you—”
“Now!” Blogis orders and the thugs training their weapons on him, aim them into the stands. The Dome explodes with the sound of semiautomatic gunfire. Their first targets are the high-intensity spotlights, which shatter and spark.
In the last bit of light before the spots go dark, Blogis is standing over Corkscrew and she’s screaming for her life.
The gunfire stops, its reports echoing against the domed walls and concrete floors, and we’re plunged into darkness.
***
This would have been a good time for the night vision goggles that saved my life more than once. With the lights out, I’ve no idea where Blogis and his newly employed henchmen are.
Their heavy boots give me a vague location, but the acoustics in the Dome make it impossible to pinpoint where exactly they are. Bella’s holding my hand as we move higher into the stands toward the highest row. Our hands are slippery, but our grip is inseparable. Crouched low we stop near center field, second row from the top.
“Jackson, this isn’t how you saw it playing out is it?” Blogis taunts. “You truly thought you could outsmart both Sir Spencer and me in one ill-conceived swoop? Wow.”
His voice sounds as though it’s coming from the floor. He hasn’t moved from his initial spot, as best I can tell, though I can hear the thugs pushing their way through the stands. There are four of them, if I remember correctly. From their movements, I’m guessing two are about halfway up the first base line and the other two are opposite them along third base.
“Jackson,” it’s Mack in my ear, “there’s another vehicle approaching. Over.”
“What happened to your guys, Mack?” I whisper, pushing the mic as close to my mouth as possible. “They turned on us.”
“I don’t know,” Mack admits. “I don’t know how they have any connection to Blogis.”
“How many did you hire?”
“Six.”
“Do you have their locations?” I whisper.
“No, they’re all inside now. Someone is getting out of the vehicle at the entra—”
The line buzzes and goes silent.
“Mack?”
Nothing.
“Mack?”
Bella squeezes my hand. She’s hearing the same thing I’m hearing.
“Pull your weapon, Bella. You take the left. I’ll handle the right.”
At least two of the thugs are getting close to us along the first base side, Bella’s side.
“What I don’t get,” Blogis says, “is what made you think you were smart enough to do this? Why would we willingly, and without question, come to the Astrodome unarmed and let you control the situation?
“The thing I pity most in you is also that which I most admire, Jackson. Do you know what that is?”
Bella’s holding the nine millimeter we’ve carried for months. I’ve got the Kel-Tec PMR 30 in my hand and the six-shooter, loaded with shotshell, in my waistband. I tighten my grip on the Kel-Tec. The thugs on the third base side are getting close. It sounds as if one of them tripped and fell over a seat back.
We’re getting squeezed.
“It’s your inability to understand how out of your league you are at every turn,” Blogis says. “From that first iPod delivery, you were drowning. And yet, here you are with your head above the water. The waves keep coming and coming. You refuse to see them, to understand their power.”
Bella and I slide up to the last row of seats and shift toward third base. It’ll buy a few extra seconds maybe.
“You keep thinking your one and only marketable skill, firing a weapon straight, is enough to succeed in this game.” He laughs. “It’s not.”
To my right is the outline of a thug. His shoulders and head appear at just the right height and I extend my arm, leveling the Kel-Tec.
“I’ve got one on my side,” Bella whispers.
“Count to three and then go,” I reply, my mouth as close to her ear as I can get.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
My first shot finds the thug’s head. In the flash from the gunfire, he drops and knocks over a second thug. I track him and two slugs find their way into his body before the echo of the trigger pulls stop reverberating.
I turn to help Bella, but she’s already taken out both of her marks. She moves to the two bodies slumped over each other two rows beneath us and just ten yards to our left.
Pop! Pop! She fires one shot into each of them, finishing the job.
I love her.
Following her lead, I move to the heap on my side and fire two more rounds, as a faint yellow light shin
es through the translucent roof tiles atop the Dome. The clouds have moved past the moon.
Blogis is standing atop of a pile of turf, hands on his hips, staring up at us. Next to him, cross-legged and green-haired is Corkscrew. And walking in from a tunnel opposite us, dressed in a dark suit and hat, is Sir Spencer. His cane clicks against the concrete flooring with each step toward the center of the arena. One of the two remaining henchmen is walking with him.
Blogis steps from his perch and approaches Sir Spencer with open arms. The two of them hug, patting each other on the back like men do, and Blogis leads his mentor back to the hacker.
They’re talking, Blogis’ hands gesticulating and pointing. Their voices are murmurs at this distance.
“So,” Sir Spencer turns toward us, stepping past Blogis and Corkscrew, raising his voice, “this is how you repay me, Jackson? You planned to pit me against Liho, here?”
I grip the Kel-Tec, squeezing it until my knuckles turn white. It’s taking everything in me not to aim it at his head and fire. I know at this distance, even with my skill, there’s no way I’d hit him.
“It’s so disappointing,” he says, shaking his head like a stage actor. “To think you would betray both of us. I always thought more of you than that.” He takes another deliberate step toward center field.
“And here’s what I find so humorous. Liho and I are working together. We always have been. From the beginning. And you never figured it out.”
***
Sir Spencer is standing at the edge of the stands. He’s leaning on the railing, his fedora tipped back. His necktie is loosened at his thick neck and his three-buttoned suit jacket is open, his heft protruding over his waistline. Even in the dim light, it’s apparent he’s tired.
“I’m assuming you’ve read the files, heard the recordings I made available to Mack,” he snickers. “I wanted him to find them and give them to you. I wanted you to know who killed your parents. I was hoping you’d have second thoughts about Blogis. I was expecting you’d make a deal with one of us. You exceeded my expectations, I have to say, when you tried to play both sides.”
Bella takes my hand, locking her fingers in mine. She’s holding the nine millimeter with her left hand.
“Liho was never my enemy, Jackson. He was in love with your mother and refused to kill your parents when I asked. I wasn’t pleased, but he was loyal. When he found a home with the Soviets, we opened an entirely new market together. I like to call it diversification of assets.”
Sir Spencer pulls a red handkerchief from his pockets and dabs his brow. He wipes his upper lip and stuffs the silk into his pants pocket.
“So then,” he exhales, “suffice it to say we were searching for the process together. But we needed some way to engage Bella. We needed her insight. We weren’t going to get that without a handsome young gunslinger to squire her about the globe.”
“Why me?” I yell. My question is asked over again, bouncing off the walls of the Dome. Bella’s fingers tighten against mine. I’m sure she didn’t like Sir Spencer’s misogynist characterization of her.
“Why you?” He laughs and wipes the edges of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. “You were destined for this, Jackson. We’d hoped to train you. We expected to have the chance to groom you and make you the asset your father always knew you could be. But you went rogue, as it were.”
“Rogue?”
“You turned on the governor,” he snaps. “You sent him to prison. Despite that, I offered you a role in the organization. You declined. Thankfully, I had a way to keep abreast of your whereabouts.” He taps his knee with his cane. “And the governor, not one for bygones, repeatedly flushed you from hiding.”
“This is getting old,” Blogis calls. “Let’s get on with this. Where is the process?”
“In a moment,” Sir Spencer says to Blogis. “I’m quite enjoying the conversation.”
“Fine,” Blogis grumps. “Just hurry up.”
“So here we are,” Sir Spencer says. “You, not having had the necessary schooling, are falling short of said goal. Whatever that goal was, Jackson, it’s obvious now, you aren’t achieving it.”
“You lose,” adds Blogis. “Now where is the process?”
“I have it!” yells Mack from across the Dome as he takes a single shot, hitting the thug on the floor with the LAR-15 rifle Ripley gave to me. The thug, standing next to Blogis, tumbles to the ground, his neck snapping back from the expertly fired bullet driving through it.
Corkscrew screams when the thug’s arm drapes across her, his semiautomatic rifle rattling on the concrete floor.
***
Our plan is still alive. Despite the surprises and Sir Spencer’s Goldfinger speech, it can work. Regardless of my apparent idiocy, we still have a chance to pull it off. We just have to get the iPods into their hands without dying.
“Mack, bring them the process. Give each of them a copy.” I wave the gun at Blogis and Corkscrew. “You two: move away from the weapon.”
Blogis raises his hands and backs away from the thug’s rifle. Corkscrew scoots out from underneath the arms of the dead man and scrambles to her feet. She backs up away from the weapon, the body, and Blogis.
I pull Bella down the steps with me, toward Sir Spencer. He’s backed a step away from the railing, leaning on his cane. He pulls out his handkerchief and swipes at his face, not careful this time to maintain the pressed shape of the pocket square.
“You’ll get what you came for,” I tell him, the Kel-Tec aimed at his chest. “Move over to Blogis.”
Sir Spencer turns and walks to the middle of the floor, stepping over the ripped, stained piles of turf littering the concrete. Bella and I are ten yards behind him, both of us with our guns drawn.
Mack limps down the steps. I thought from across the arena, I saw blood spatter on his white shirt. I thought he was shot. Now closer to us, it’s evident it’s not his blood. Now I know what happened to the fourth thug. His limp is from his prosthetic, which looks damaged near the ankle. He’s carrying the rifle at his hip, aiming it toward Sir Spencer and Blogis. He waves it toward Corkscrew, instructing her to join the others.
“We have two copies of the process,” I say. “Each one is loaded onto an iPod. You’ll find it under Photos.”
“How clever,” Sir Spencer says wryly. “Bringing it full circle, are we?”
Ignoring him, I say, “Corkscrew, I need you to walk slowly to Mack. He will hand you both iPods. Then you will walk them back to these gentlemen.”
With her hands up and her hoodie down, Corkscrew walks to Mack. She keeps glancing over at me, as if I’m going to shoot her while she’s not looking. Maintaining his aim with the rifle against his hip, Mack tugs the iPods from his pocket. He tosses them, one at a time, to Corkscrew. She catches them against her sweatshirt and retreats without turning around.
“This is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?” Blogis chides. “The Astrodome, the spotlights, the iPods. Did you get this from a Jerry Bruckheimer screenplay?”
Corkscrew hands the first iPod to Blogis. She starts to hand off the second to Sir Spencer and he stops her.
“No thank you,” he waves her off. “Corkscrew, you handle the duties. You are the computer expert, after all.”
Bella shoots me a look, which I ignore. “Press the home key and then enter the following numeric code.”
“You know,” Blogis says to Mack, palming the iPod with one hand, “your guys were pretty cheap. It didn’t take much for Sir Spencer here to pay them a few bucks more. You really should look into F. Pickle. Far superior.”
“I don’t agree with that,” I say, and recite the passcode.
Blogis and Corkscrew tap in each number as I say it. Their faces illuminate with the brightness of the screens. They tap their way to the Photos application.
“Does it appear legitimate, Liho?” Sir Spencer leans in
to look over Corkscrew’s shoulder.
“As far as I can tell, but it will take verification.”
“This came straight from Brookhaven,” I say. “No alterations.”
“Why would you give it to us now?” Sir Spencer takes a cane-assisted step toward me. “After ‘all of this’ as Liho would put it, I’m unclear why you’re just handing over the real process.”
“I told you before: I want out. That’s all I ever wanted. I played the odds with the two of you and lost. Ultimately, I don’t care what you do with it.”
“You have no choice about what we do with this,” Blogis says, suddenly empowered by the information on the iPod.
“We don’t care,” Bella says. “We’re disappearing after you leave. We’re ghosts.”
“Good luck with that, dear,” Sir Spencer says. “The two of you have never stayed hidden for long. Someone will find you.”
“Time for you to go,” I wave my Kel-Tec at the exit. “All three of you. Mack, take them with you.”
Mack waits for the three of them to pass and then follows them toward the exit tunnel. Bella and I stay behind.
Blogis turns around, walking backward. “This isn’t over. I don’t like someone trying to play me. I’ll find you.”
“Come, Liho,” says Sir Spencer, “we have buyers with whom to meet. The vodka is getting warm.”
They disappear into the darkness of the tunnel. Mack trails behind them, limping but armed.
“Well that was anticlimactic,” Bella says. “All of that, and they just walk away.”
“They won’t make it out of the parking lot. They’ll enter the passcode again.”
“You think?”
“What would you do? As soon as you get in the car, you’d check it out again.”
“Maybe,” she concedes. “This didn’t go as we planned.”
“Nothing ever does,” I say. “But we’re still here.”
***
The explosions happened within seconds of each other. There’s no way to know if they were logging onto both iPods at the same time, or if the primary explosion triggered the PETN in the second iPod.
