by Smith, Glenn
And then it was over.
The marines looked around, scanning their surroundings to be sure there was no more danger. Most everyone who’d dropped to the ground was already getting back up again. A small crowd of curious onlookers was beginning to gather across the street and to either side of the building’s front walkway, but so far it seemed that no one felt brave enough to come any closer than that.
The sergeant slowly holstered his weapon but didn’t fasten the thumb strap. “Looks like the old man was right about them after all,” he said as he hurried toward the prisoner—toward the gentleman—who’d managed to sit up and was trying unsuccessfully to climb to his feet.
“Seems that way,” the corporal agreed. He approached the younger of the two imposters cautiously, weapon still in hand and trained on him. He was only wounded, clutching his hands to his abdomen, moaning and groaning and writhing in pain. There wasn’t very much blood, the corporal noted, and he guessed that the wound probably wasn’t fatal. “Looks like this one will make it if we get him some medical aid quick enough, Sergeant.”
A faint sound like a whistling zipper passed between them and another shot rang out from somewhere out in the street. As frightened civilians’ screams once more filled the square, the marines instinctively hit the ground and rolled, taking cover behind two of the large plasticrete tree pots that were placed at equal intervals along the two foot high polished marble walls that lined both sides of the wide walkway.
“What the hell!” the corporal exclaimed. “Where did that come from?”
A second shot rang out. More screaming, and the old man yelped and collapsed.
“Right there, Corporal!” the sergeant advised his partner, pointing across the street and to the left where he’d just spotted two more men dashing from behind one parked car to another. “Behind the cars, just to the left of the bakery door! I don’t have a clean shot!”
“I think I do, Sergeant!” the corporal advised him as he took aim. Then he shouted as loudly as he could, “United States Marines! You have committed a hostile act against United Earth Federation property! Cease fire and throw out your weapons immediately!”
The gunmen ignored his order and fired a third time, blindly, over the hood of the car, just missing the sergeant’s head as he low-crawled toward the wounded old gentleman who lay motionless where he’d dropped.
“I say again!” the corporal screamed. “Cease fire and throw out your weapons! Now!” But the gunmen fired yet again, and the old gentleman cried out in pain.
“Son of a... If any of these bastards are cops, I’m Donald Duck,” the corporal commented under his breath. He fired a single shot through the car’s headlight and left fender, dropping one of the gunmen to the sidewalk. The other reached out from farther back along the car’s far side, grabbed hold of the man’s shirt, and dragged him to safety. “Go, Sergeant! I’ve got ‘em pinned down!”
“If you get a chance, take ‘em out!”
“You got it!”
The wounded imposter raised his head up off the ground and tried to level his weapon at the old man, but the corporal put a bullet through his head before he could squeeze off a shot.
The all hell broke loose. Screaming filled the streets again as someone fired another shot, this time from somewhere much farther off to the marines’ right, beyond the end of the wall where the corporal couldn’t see.
“Aw shit!” the sergeant yelled. “I’m hit!”
The corporal looked back and saw the sergeant on his back, holding his bleeding right leg with one hand and dragging the badly wounded and bleeding old man back up the walkway with the other, using his shoulders and his one good leg to wriggle his way back toward the doors and leaving a smeared trail of bright red blood behind them.
“You okay, Sergeant?”
“I’ll live! Watch yourself! Don’t worry about me!”
The corporal rolled to the base of the wall, peered up over it, and almost lost his right ear as the air cracked beside his head. “Shit!” he exclaimed as he quickly ducked back down. But he’d done what he needed to do. He’d zeroed the new target—a long-haired, bare-footed young woman in a short black skirt and a white blouse that looked like it had been torn open and was falling off her left shoulder, and a white bra—and assessed its movement. It, or rather she, was running straight toward him and closing quickly, holding a pistol out in front of her, ready to fire again.
He fired twice into the car that, as far as he knew, the second pair of men were still hiding behind, just to keep them down. Then he rolled once to his left and sprang up from behind the wall and fired twice more at the woman at almost point blank range, striking her dead center in the chest with both rounds. She returned fire as she collapsed, but the single shot she got off went high or wide enough that he didn’t even hear it whiz by him.
He stood there for a moment, shaking his head as he gazed down at her lifeless body laying there on the lawn not more than ten feet in front of him. “Perfectly good piece of ass gone to waste,” he commented. Then, remembering that the danger hadn’t yet passed, he crouched, turned back toward the car, and dropped back behind the protective cover of the tree pot.
Apparently having decided to abandon his wounded partner in favor of affecting his own escape, the unwounded attacker behind the car suddenly broke cover and made a run for it. But he must have realized that he wasn’t going to make it because before the corporal could safely take a shot he threw his arm around a screaming woman’s throat from behind and used her to shield himself as he crossed the marine’s field of fire, he also started firing wildly in the corporal’s general direction in an obvious effort to pin him down.
The corporal kept his weapon trained on them, but he couldn’t take the shot. The risk that he might hit the hostage was too great.
An entire squad of marines outfitted for combat suddenly poured out of the Federation Building and fanned out. Then, having quickly assessed the situation, four of them slung their weapons over their shoulders, grabbed up their wounded comrade and the old man, and rushed them inside to safety while the rest of them took cover and cut off the last attacker’s escape route by firing across his path only a few feet ahead of him.
The hostage cried out in terror and struggled to escape her captor. The man returned fire as he doubled back the other way, but the marines cut off that route as well. He had nowhere to go and he froze, and at that instant one of the marines fired a single, carefully aimed shot. The back of the man’s head exploded, splattering bright red blood and brain matter all over the wall behind them.
The hostage fell with him to the ground, screaming even louder and more frantically, but was likely otherwise unharmed.
The immediate threat had been eliminated. The Quick Reaction Force would take care of the follow-up. The corporal holstered his weapon, jumped up, and ran back inside.
“Where’d they take Sergeant McFarland?” he asked one of the security guards.
“To the infirmary,” the guard answered. “He and the old man both. Doc said there wasn’t no time to take them to the hospital now.”
“Damn! How bad are they?”
“I don’t know, Corporal. I think the sergeant only got it in the leg, but the old man looked pretty bad.”
“What do you want to bet he gets his appointment with Chairman MacLeod after this?”
“Maybe so, if he lives long enough. Either way,” the guard added with an amused grin, “you’ll still be here writing your statement. Shots fired, personnel down, fatalities. You’ll be here all night, Corporal.”
The young Marine glared at the guard. As if paperwork was the first thing on his mind right now.
Chapter 61
The perpetually lingering and always familiar scents of hospital sterility—alcohol and ammonia was it?—hit Chairman MacLeod square in the face the second the elevator doors opened onto the second floor, making his eyes water and triggering a short sneezing fit. Had he been brought in blindfolded and unconscious he s
till would have known he was in a hospital. Fortunately, his fit only lasted for a few moments and it only took a few quick blinks to clear his eyes afterwards. By the time his personal security detail—they were an always well dressed but stone-faced brother and sister team who’d been assigned to him ever since that nearly successful attempt on his life a few years ago—allowed him to step off the elevator into the hallway, he’d recovered.
Of course, the smell hadn’t affected either one of them at all. Sometimes he wondered if they were even human.
He spotted the nurse’s station a short distance up the hall to the right and headed for it. “Excuse me,” he said as he stepped up to the off-white, L-shaped counter.
The plump and pleasant looking gray-haired older woman in nurse’s uniform sitting behind the counter looked up from her computer screen through big brown eyes and flashed the obligatory smile, which quickly disappeared when she saw the bodyguards flanking him. “Um... How may I help you, sir?” she asked, obviously at a loss as to what to think about them.
“Good evening, nurse,” he greeted her with friendly smile, hoping to quell her apparent discomfort and put her at ease. “I’m looking for the patient who was shot outside the Federation Building this morning. I was told he’s in this ward.”
“Are you a family member, sir?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not,” he answered honestly. “My name is Brian MacLeod, chairman of the Earth Security Council, and I need to talk to the patient immediately about an extremely important matter.”
“Oh, you’re with the government.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Well, I guess it’s okay then. May I see your identification, please?”
“Certainly.” MacLeod reached into his inside coat pocket, withdrew his identicard, and handed it to her. “There you are.”
“Thank you,” she said as she took it. She gazed at it for a moment, compared the small holophoto to the face in front of her, then swiped it through a scanner on her desk, which verified its authenticity. Then she handed it back.
“The patient you want is in room two ten, sir.” She pointed down the hall to MacLeod’s right. “Left around the corner, then third door on the right.”
He glanced in the direction she was pointing as he put his identicard away, then nodded politely and said, “Thank you,” and then headed for the room.
“You’re welcome, sir,” the nurse answered to his back.
One bodyguard, the sister, stepped ahead of MacLeod and led the way while her brother stayed close behind him and didn’t take his eyes off the nurse until they rounded the corner. When they reached room 210, MacLeod knocked lightly on the door and paused to listen for a response. The door opened almost immediately and MacLeod found himself standing face to chest—until he looked up—with a very large, very dark-skinned uniformed Federation police officer. It was a wonder they’d found a uniform big enough to fit the man.
“Chairman MacLeod,” the officer said in a deep bass voice. “Good evening, sir.”
Seeing three chevrons on the large officer’s sleeve, MacLeod replied, “Good evening, Sergeant.” Then he asked, “Is he awake?”
“I’m not real sure, sir,” the policeman replied. “Seems like he’s in and out. He mutters a little sometimes.”
“I need to try to talk to him. You can wait out here with...”
“You can talk to him if you like, sir, but my orders are not to leave this room under any circumstances until I’m properly relieved by another officer.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” MacLeod advised him. The sergeant folded his massive arms across his equally massive chest, cocked his head slightly to one side and glared down at him defiantly. “And apparently, you’ll be in there with me the whole time.”
The sergeant dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back, out of the way.
MacLeod turned to his bodyguards and told them, “Wait out here by the door. I suspect I’ll be well protected.”
“Yes, sir,” the brother said.
MacLeod stepped into the relative darkness and the sergeant closed the door behind him. “Sir?” he called softly. The patient didn’t answer. “Sir?” he repeated, slightly louder this time. “Can you hear me?”
Across the room the life-support unit’s indicator lights cast a soft, ghostly rainbow glow over the man’s face. That, combined with the steady, rhythmic whisper of the respirator that helped him breathe and the heart/pulse monitor’s faint, pulsing tones, filled the room with an eerie, haunted air. Despite its uncomfortably humid warmth, an icy chill washed over him as if an unseen phantom had just passed directly through his body. He could literally feel Death’s presence, could almost see the Grim Reaper itself—the tall, black-cloaked skeleton, sickle held tightly in its bony hand of dry rotted flesh—standing watch over the helpless old man, waiting patiently for him to die.
MacLeod cleared his throat and tried to shake it off. “Can you hear me, sir?” he repeated again. But the elderly man still did not respond.
He grabbed the only chair in the room, a well padded office chair on casters, and rolled it over to the head of the bed, then sat on its leading edge and leaned forward. He placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder and shook him gently. “Can you hear me?” This time, finally, the old man responded. Just a slight, quiet moan, but a response nonetheless. “It’s Chairman MacLeod, Earth Security Council. Can you hear me?”
“Chairman Mac...” the old man whispered weakly.
“Yes, that’s right. Brian MacLeod, chairman of the Earth Security Council. I’m told you were trying desperately to see me when you were hurt earlier today.”
“Hurt?” he questioned, his voice still very weak but his speech at least a little clearer than it had been the moment before. “I was...hurt?”
“Yes. You were shot and badly wounded just outside Manhattan’s Federation Building. Do you remember that?”
“I was... I was shot.” His voice seemed to be growing slowly but steadily stronger, but forming intelligible words still appeared to be a struggle.
“That’s right. You ran inside the Federation Building and demanded to see me, but the guards stopped you. They dragged you back outside and you were shot by someone who’d apparently been chasing you through the city. Two men, posing as New York City police detectives. Do you remember any of that?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, but then, nodding slightly, he said, “I remember.”
“Good. That’s good. So I came to see you, to find out who you are and why you were so desperate to see me this morning.”
“Where... Where am I?”
“You’re in the intensive care unit at Manhattan Memorial Trauma Center.”
“Then...I’m alive.”
MacLeod grinned. “Yes. You’re alive.”
“I feel like...like I’m floating.”
“That’s to be expected,” MacLeod explained. “You underwent emergency surgery again a few hours ago. It’ll probably take a while for the anesthesia to wear off completely. But if you feel up to it, I’d like some answers right now.”
“Answers?”
“That’s right.”
“Wh... What...”
“Well, for starters, just tell me who you are and why you were so desperate to see me.”
The old man turned his head slightly and slowly opened his eyes, squinting and blinking several times as he tried to focus on the chairman’s face. “Chairman MacLeod?” he asked, as if he were just realizing who it was he’d been talking to. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. Brian MacLeod.”
“I need to...talk to you.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Are we alone?”
MacLeod started to look back over his shoulder, but nothing he might say was going to convince that police sergeant to leave the room, so he didn’t bother to try. Instead, he simply told the old man, “Yes, we’re all alone. You can speak freely.”
It clearly took some effor
t, but with the ventilator’s help he managed to draw a deep and obviously painful breath, which he then released very slowly. “All right,” he finally said. “But take heed...Mister Chairman. You can...trust no one with...with what I’m about to tell you.”
“I understand,” MacLeod assured him with a nod.
“There’s a handcomp...sewn into the lining of my suit jacket...wherever that is. All my notes...summaries of my theories. Everything you need to know is...is there.”
“In the handcomp, sewn into your jacket.”
“Yes,” the old man confirmed.
“What’s going on?” MacLeod asked impatiently. “What’s on that handcomp you want me to see?”
“Everything...is there,” he repeated, closing his eyes. He was fading fast.
“Sir?” MacLeod gently shook him again. “Sir?”
The old man opened his eyes again, but even in the dark MacLeod could see they weren’t focusing on anything. And his next words hardly made any sense at all. “Used cyberclones... Desperation... Conspir...Conspiracy...” His eyes wanted to close but he fought to keep them open. “My jacket,” he whispered. And with that, he lost his battle. His eyes rolled back into his head and he slipped into unconsciousness.
“Sir?” MacLeod said, gently shaking the old man again. “Sir, can you hear me? Can you at least tell me who you are?” The vital signs monitor suddenly flat-lined and the heart/pulse monitor’s beeping tones changed to a steady, high-pitched whine. MacLeod practically jumped out of the chair as he shouted, “Sir!” and shook him more vigorously. He barely had time to draw another breath before the emergency personnel he was about to cry out for burst into the room, slapped on the lights, and pushed past him as though he weren’t even there.
“Cardio stimulus!” one of the medics ordered.
“Clear!”
MacLeod glanced at the monitor as he backed out of the way. The little spot of light pulling the blue-white line across the screen behind it like a comet’s tail spiked as the old man’s body jumped, but then the flat-line instantly returned.
