by Nick Thacker
Ben smiled, and he caught her gaze. He could almost feel her examining him, exploring the leathery-brown contours of a face that had rarely gone a day without being exposed to the sun and elements.
“Hey,” she said quickly. “I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why’d you leave?”
She didn’t need to explain it; he knew what she meant. It was a fair question, but also the forbidden one, and she didn’t dance around it or build it up.
He took a deep breath. No one asks me that, he thought. It had been years since he could even remember talking about it.
A light flashed in front of the diner. Another visitor had parked and was getting out of their vehicle.
Without realizing it, Ben was suddenly engrossed in the newcomer. He watched as the rectangular, boxy headlights flicked off — it was an older sedan — and the driver stepped out. Tall, thin, can’t see what they’re wearing. No passenger.
The visitor walked quickly, heading directly to the entrance. The man — Ben could now see him clearly — pulled the door open and walked inside.
“Good evening, go ahead and sit anywhere,” the monotone voice of their waitress called from somewhere in the back of the restaurant.
Julie realized Ben wasn’t paying attention to their conversation and turned to see what he was looking at. The man continued walking toward them. Ben locked eyes with him and began to stand up.
As he did, the man sped up. Ben’s heart raced. The man was now only fifteen feet from their table and closing the distance fast. Who is this guy?
He watched the man reach into the pocket of his coat. Ben saw out of the corner of his eye another flash of lights, then another. Two more cars. He reached down and grabbed the closest thing he could find.
A salt shaker.
From the man’s pocket, a gun. Small, compact. .380. Enough to do some serious damage from this range.
Ben didn’t wait. He jumped to the side, throwing the salt shaker. It struck the gunman in the forehead, knocking him backwards a few steps. He dropped the gun, instinctively raising his hands to protect his head from further attack.
“Julie! Run!” Ben called out. He’d landed beneath some bar stools set alongside the counter of the diner. He struggled to his feet, feeling the painful throbbing in his hip.
Julie was on her feet, running toward the door, but the man was chasing after her. He overtook her at the diner’s second exit, grabbing her waist with one arm. His other hand weaved up and around her left underarm. Julie was helpless, her arm completely pinned away from her body. She tried madly to swing it at him, but the man dodged the blows with ease.
Ben rushed forward, aiming for the attacker’s lower back. Just before Ben collided with him, the man turned, exposing Julie’s belly to Ben’s tackle.
Ben was moving too fast to stop, and the three of them fell backwards out the diner’s doors. They collapsed in a heap on the concrete sidewalk, but their attacker was on his feet almost immediately. He pulled Ben up and shoved him up against the tall glass window. Ben held onto the man’s wrist, trying to wiggle free, but the man landed a solid punch to his gut.
He felt the wind get knocked out of him, and he caught a glimpse of Julie running toward the man before he was released and fell to the sidewalk. The man anticipated the attack, grabbing Julie’s hands just as they fell toward his head. He twisted them sharply, and Ben heard her abrupt cry of pain. The man twisted harder, hugging her body close to his and moving his hands to her neck.
She was turned around, her back to his, so her punches had little effect. She danced around, trying to shove her heel onto the top of his foot, but the man was prepared for this line of defense as well.
The man’s grip on Julie’s neck grew tighter.
Ben blinked a few times, sitting up against the wall.
Get up. Come on, move.
He willed his body to work. His hip wasn’t broken, but it was obviously badly bruised.
He heard Julie gasping for breath, her arms and legs flailing wildly.
Get. Up.
He forced his lungs to accept a deep breath of air. It was painful, as if someone was stabbing him in the chest.
Not as painful as getting choked to death, he thought.
He stood up. Julie’s raspy voice broke through the gasps. “H — Help,” she said.
He ran forward. His footsteps were heavy.
The man could tell he was coming. He was expecting it.
As Ben got within a foot of the man’s back, an elbow caught him directly in the nose. Searing pain shot up his face, tears coming to his eyes. Ben stumbled backwards, nearly losing his balance again.
Just then he heard a shout. The lights from the other two vehicles became clearer.
Truckers.
Two men ran toward the trio, one of them shouting. “Hey! What the hell’s going on over here?” One of the truckers saw the man choking Julie. He ran toward them, and the attacker released her neck. She sucked in cold air, falling to her knees on the rocky parking lot ground. Tears fell from her eyes.
The attacker was too late to protect himself. The first trucker had reached him and landed a blow across his face. He followed the attacker backwards as he struggled to keep his balance, but before he righted himself the larger truck driver punched him in the side. He doubled over, and the man kneed him as hard as he could.
The second truck driver had reached Julie, and he bent down to help her. Ben crawled forward, trying to regain his balance.
He watched as their attacker jumped to his feet and began to run away. He ran toward a field, chased briefly by the larger truck driver. When it was clear to the trucker that he was being outrun, he turned back to the others.
“You okay?” he asked Ben. Ben was on his feet now, swaying, still trying to catch his breath.
“I’m good. I need to get back to my truck; see if I can find him.”
“You won’t find him,” the second trucker said. “He’s fast, and he’s probably got a ride somewhere nearby. Best call the cops and let them handle it from here.”
Ben was seething. He walked over to Julie, letting his arm fall to her side. He pulled her close to him, wanting to protect her. It’s too late for that.
She was sobbing, but she looked at him. “Are you okay?”
He realized what he must look like. He could feel blood draining from his nose, and he was having a hard time catching his breath. “I’m fine. What about you?”
She swallowed hard. “It hurts, but I’m okay.” She turned to look at the two truck drivers. “I owe you my life. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Isn’t my first bar fight, but…” he looked at the now-empty diner. “I guess it is the first one I’ve broken up in a place like this. Why don’t you two get inside, get something to eat?”
She shook her head. “We’re fine, really. Thank you, both of you.”
The first trucker spoke up. “You two need anything? A phone, a ride?” He paused. “A drink?”
Ben nodded. It was time to ditch their truck. “We could use a ride.”
He knew the attacker — or someone — would be back. Whoever it was, they were going to be looking for them. They had to get away from there, and fast.
27
“What do you mean, you failed?” Valère asked.
He tried to steady his voice, to make it sound stronger than it was, for the other two men.
Roland and Emilio. Both were standing behind him, their meeting with Valère interrupted by this fourth man.
“I am deeply sorry, Mr. Valère,” the man said. “I encountered them in a small diner, and when I —”
“Them?”
“Yes. The target was with another man. Large, built, but not much of a fighter. I was able to —”
“Then why is the target still alive?” Roland asked. His voice boomed out over Valère’s shoulder, causing Valère to shudder. If only I had his commanding tone, he thought.
The man standing
in front of him wasn’t sure what to say. “I — I think…”
“And that is the problem,” Emilio said. “You think, when we have simply asked you to act.”
Emilio placed a hand on Valère’s shoulder and leaned down, whispering.
“Your contingency is failing us, Mr. Valère. I suggest a prompt resolution to this matter.”
Valère shook again and clasped his hands. His nervousness had been with him his entire life. It began as a slight tick in his boyhood years, growing into a noticeable oddity by his teens. As a young adult, Valère had learned to control it, forcing it down to a subtle, hardly noticeable level that didn’t manifest itself physically.
But it was still there.
Valère was constantly reminded of his weakness. The sweating, the shuddering, the teeth-grinding. All of it was a form of nervousness, a simple reaction to excitement.
Whether positive or not, any exciting stimuli in Valère’s life caused him to relive these moments, waiting until they passed. He dared not speak too loudly, or grow agitated, for fear that his weakness would once again wield its power over him.
He nodded. “Yes,” he said, softly. “I do agree.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Wh — what is… what can I do…”
Valère held up a hand, and the man stopped.
“Please do not talk. You have already upset my partners, and I fear you will only upset me if you continue.”
“B — but I can make it up. I swear. You don’t need to kill me —”
“Enough!” Valère yelled, slamming his fist on the table in front of him. He felt the nervousness growing within him, quickly superseded by the calming sensation of knowing he’d even startled his partners standing behind him.
He saw in his periphery each man take a step back.
The man — the failure — in front of him swallowed.
“Now,” Valère continued. “What makes you think I am going to have you killed?”
The man turned his head slightly.
“No, my friend. I don’t reward complete and utter failure with a swift and merciful death. It really isn’t my style, anyway. The messiness of it all, it… well, it disturbs me.
“I have a better idea. SARA?”
“Yes, Monsieur Valère?”
The man’s eyebrows arched when he heard the voice coming from the walls around him.
“I would like you to transport Mr. Olsen here to our facility in Brazil.”
“Of course, Monsieur Valère. Is there a certain destination you have in mind?”
Valère nodded. “I do. Please alert NARATech of a possible test candidate currently preparing for stasis.”
“Stasis?” Roland asked.
The man in front of them closed his eyes. “Please, Mr. Val —”
Valère shook his head, but SARA took over. “Mr. Olsen, please refrain from additional comment. Your scheduled stasis prep will begin in exactly fifteen minutes. I have alerted security, and they are en route for escort. Please follow the green arrows I will illuminate on the walls.”
The man, resigned, left the room and slumped down the hall.
“Valère, what is stasis?” Roland asked again. “Emilio — what are you not telling me?”
Valère turned to his partners, scrutinizing the fat man that stood at his left. “Mr. Jefferson, I believe I have waited much too long to reassert my authority over this little project. Please —”
“Reassert your authority?” Roland Jefferson yelled. “What are you talking about, Valère? This project was given to us by —”
“No, Roland,” Emilio said. “That’s where you’re wrong. This project was given to Mr. Valère and myself, and we brought you along because of your… assets, which we found valuable.” Emilio turned to Valère to continue.
“Yes, Roland,” Valère said. “We are excited to say that the Company no longer requires the use of these assets. Our investments elsewhere have performed admirably, and your lack of leadership so far on this project has informed our decision.”
“Your… decision?” Roland Jefferson’s enormous frame had moved out from behind Valère’s desk, and he stood, looming, in front of him. “You can’t… you can’t do this!”
“Your investments are in nothing but corporate bonds and shady real estate, Mr. Jefferson. Most of it is drying up as we speak, thanks to the work of our investments. Your companies are our companies, and your prized real estate holdings around the globe are now being scuttled or revamped, to make way for our next phase.”
“This is an outrage!” he roared, fuming.
“It is, Roland. It truly is. For you. For us — for the Company — it is a natural progression. We all eventually outlive our usefulness, and need to be redirected.”
“I will not be spoken to like a child! I have not outlived my usefulness!”
“Correct,” Valère said. “SARA, are you still with us?”
“Always, sir.”
“Perfect. Please arrange for Mr. Jefferson to join our friend Mr. Olsen in stasis.”
“Absolutely, Monsieur Valère. And shall I arrange for his delivery to Brazil as well?”
“No, actually,” Valère said. He watched Jefferson’s eyes grow wide. “Please arrange for Roland’s delivery to our holdings in Antarctica. He will preempt our facilities there, but our stasis research has proven to be quite effective in long-term storage.”
“Very well, Monsieur Valère. Mr. Jefferson, your scheduled stasis prep will begin in exactly fifteen minutes. I have alerted security and they are en route for escort. Please follow the green arrows…”
28
Crack! The sound of the rifle shot pierced the air and reverberated as it bounced over the calm, open water. Randall Brown sat up taller on the picnic table and offered advice.
“Good shot. You hit it, but it wasn’t centered.”
His wife grinned next to him, laughing at Randy’s instruction.
His teenage son nodded, reloading the .22 caliber Remington rifle. “At least I hit it.”
Randy smiled. “True. If it had been alive, it wouldn’t be anymore.” He took in the peaceful scene, watching the small pieces of clay disc disappear beneath the surface of the lake and the sunlight diffract over the gentle waves.
Way better than being at the office. He checked his watch. Late afternoon. He would normally be checking the server temperatures and running any final diagnostic tests, then getting ready to head home. Randall Brown had worked for the CDC for four years, moving to the Montana offices only a year ago. He’d had a brief stint in tech startups before realizing that he was considered a “dinosaur” in that world — at a mere forty-six years old. His world of IBM, mainframes, networking, and accreditations had been replaced in the past decade or so by a new world, one of sleek laptops, blogging, cloud platforms, and agile development. It wasn’t that he wasn’t needed, or useful; it was just that he wasn’t appreciated.
No one seemed to know, or care, what kind of experience and knowledge he could provide as an IT consultant, network administrator, or general “tech guy.” At the two startups he’d worked for, he was usually no more than an afterthought.
At first he didn’t care. The jobs always paid well, thanks to a mix of youthful overconfidence and arrogant market predictions, but Randy knew better. He’d worked a year at a startup that was trying to bring simple image manipulation to tablets and mobile devices, only to see the writing on the wall a few months into it. The company had a long list of deep-pocketed investors who knew next to nothing about the computing world, and they had an equally impressive amount of VC funding. The trouble was, the product wasn’t profitable. Worse, the college-age owners of the company didn’t seem to care about the future of the company’s product line.
Randy jumped ship to another company, finding many of the same problems and none of the solutions. After realizing his career would be all but over if he stayed on board, he decided to find a more stable position.
That position was found in the
CDC’s Threat Assessment division, as the Director of IT for a new department. It was a laid back job, never causing too much stress or overwhelming work duties. Keep email running, dust off the servers that provided intranet support through their SecuNet portal, and keep the coffee in the main office hot.
But while the job itself was decent, it was the boss that he couldn’t stand. David Livingston. The man was more callous, abrasive, and downright rude than anyone he’d ever met.
Crack! Another rifle shot snapped Randy back to the real world. Vacation, one week, a friend’s lake house. There was nothing in the past year Randy had looked forward to more than this moment.
He saw his son smiling back at him, and only then noticed the crumbling bits of clay skeet falling into the lake. All equal sizes, all the same relative shape.
“Wow — did you get it?” he asked.
His son nodded. “Right in the center.”
Randy stood from the picnic table and clapped his hands, rotating them around in a large circle. A “round of applause.” His wife groaned. A “dad joke,” but, well, he was a dad.
“Seriously, dad?” his son asked. “You’re still using that joke?”
“What? It’s still funny.”
“It was never funny.”
“Hey,” Randy said, walking toward the edge of the lake where his son stood holding the rifle. “You know what would be funny? If I took that thing from you and out-shot you with it.”
The gun was a gift for Drew, something he’d wanted for quite some time. The three of them, Randy, his wife, Amanda, and Drew, had taken the trip to the lake house for a short vacation, and to celebrate Drew’s seventeenth birthday.
“You’re welcome to try, old man,” Drew said. He handed the rifle to Randy. Randy eyed the weapon, admiring the craftsmanship and build quality. Before he could lift it to his shoulder, his cell phone rang.
“Your phone works out here?” his wife asked. “Looks like it’s work.” She grabbed the phone from the table and walked it over to her husband.
