Splinter Self

by S L Shelton

  “Not soon enough,” Nick said as the back window of their vehicle shattered under automatic fire.

  Nick swerved across all three lanes, dodging slow-moving traffic, then swung back across as the Yukon followed. “Any armor-piercing shit back there?” Nick asked.

  “This thing just carries standard back up arms,” Casey replied, firing into the grill of the Yukon as it slipped in behind them. “Nothing against that tank! I might as well be firing blanks.”

  “Hold on.” Nick broke hard around a tractor trailer and sped up before dropping around in front of the cab. He then tapped his brakes to make the truck driver slam on his.

  The trailer on the semi skidded sideways and struck the Yukon on the front driver’s side quarter panel, shearing it from the vehicle.

  “Try for the steering linkage,” Nick yelled back.

  Casey fired again as the Yukon closed on them, but it swerved around the big rig to approach on the other side, leaving no clear shot on the exposed fender.

  “He’s coming up on your—”

  “I see him!” Nick yelled and jerked the wheel hard before tapping the brake and striking the Yukon on the passenger side. The collision sent Casey sideways as automatic weapons’ fire rained into the SUV. Casey pressed himself against the solid part of the hatch where the armor would be most resistant to armor-penetrating rounds.

  “Mr. President!”

  “I’m fine! Put some holes in those guys!”

  Casey raised up to fire, but the man who had been on the running board was no longer perched there. Instead, a thud on the roof vibrated the cabin and a hail of armor-piercing rounds penetrated the roof into the pile of bulletproof vests covering the President.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me!” Nick yelled looking in his side mirror, then yanked the steering wheel hard left and right, trying to shake the killer from the roof,

  Casey wrapped the rear seat belt around his arm and leaned out the back, raising his MP5 over his head and firing. A sharp kick to his wrist sent the MP5 clacking to the road.

  He pulled his SIG and repeated the exercise, this time holding his arm further out, but the Yukon sped forward and rammed the back of their vehicle, sending Casey sliding across the rough glass in the frame. He dropped back inside and felt the narrow gap between his body armor and his waist—he’d been sliced badly, sticky blood coating his fingers when he looked.

  Nick grabbed his weapon from the front seat and reached out, firing over the roof. When his slide locked back, empty, automatic fire ripped through the roof above him, several rounds piercing his legs.

  He screamed out in pain then bit his lower lip. “Mr. President? You still with us back there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “It’s time to put your finger on that trigger,” Nick said through his agony.

  “It’s already there.”

  **

  MARK GAINES piled the bulletproof vests back on top of the Secretary of State as their sedan sped to catch up with the Yukon. “I’m sorry, Madam Secretary, but you’ll have to keep your head down a little longer.”

  The Agent driving looked back at Mark. “Is she okay?”

  “Superficial wound,” he said as he slapped a fresh magazine in the MP5. “She’ll live.”

  “I don’t know what you’re planning on doing, but unless you can fly—”

  Mark opened the door and grasped the driver’s shoulder belt. “Get around that Yukon and next to the President’s vehicle, then you can peel off and take care of the Secretary.”

  “You’re fucking nuts,” the driver said. “I like it.”

  They sped forward and maneuvered around a stopped car, driving two lanes away before careening back toward the President’s SUV. A passenger in the Yukon rolled down his armored window to fire.

  As the heavier SUV swerved to stop their maneuver, Mark swung his weapon around and fired into the window, striking the passenger in the face and throat. The Yukon pounded the back of the sedan once more then swerved aside to miss another stopped vehicle.

  “Go now,” Mark yelled.

  The Agent accelerated, and they sped forward to the back of the President’s SUV. When he was close enough to reach it, he released his grip on the seat belt and grabbed for the same luggage rail the Jagger on the roof clung to.

  He jumped, trying to gain a foothold on the contours of the vehicle side. As he pulled himself over the top, the sedan raced away, peeling out of the line of fire.

  “Hey!” Mark yelled as the Jagger positioned his rifle to fire down into the cab again.

  The Jagger turned and tried to swing his weapon around, but Mark fired three rounds into the man’s vest, knocking the attacker askew. Still gripping the rail, Mark righted himself and tried to fire again, but the Jagger wheeled around and kicked Mark in the shoulder. Mark’s MP5 dropped to the pavement and vanished beneath the tires of the SUV behind them. Only his grip on the rail kept him from doing the same.

  Agent Casey dragged himself to the rear of the truck and put a blood-soaked arm around the side through the broken window. His fingers caught hold of the Jagger’s ankle and clenched tight.

  As the Jagger kicked, trying to free himself from Casey’s grasp, Mark looked up to see the Yukon closing on them again.

  In desperation, Mark stepped up on Casey’s arm and threw himself back onto the roof just as the Yukon made contact with the back of the SUV. Casey tumbled back inside cradling his arm, but the impact had shaken the Jagger loose from his grip.

  Mark pulled the SIG from his waistband and drew down on the Jagger. He got one shot off, grazing the neck and shoulder of the enhanced killer before the man slid his legs under Mark’s arm and stripped the weapon from his grasp. The boot on his throat only amplified Mark’s rage. He reached up on the Jagger’s tactical vest and grabbed the blade there, then plunged it into the man’s thigh.

  The Jagger didn’t even flinch.

  Mark began stabbing wildly until the Jagger finally lifted his leg in defense, giving Mark the freedom he needed to crawl over the man. As he prepared to sink the knife home into the Jagger’s throat, the man bucked up and rolled toward the front of the SUV, flipping Mark to the other side of the roof. He had to drop the knife in order to grab the rail on the other side.

  “Shit!” he snapped as his feet dropped over the edge of the roof and he scrambled to reengage.

  The Jagger, on the other hand, wasn’t faring as well. He’d slid backward over the edge on the driver’s side, and, with knuckles bulging white on both fists, desperately grasped the rail on his side.

  It took a moment before Mark realized that Nick had hold of the collar on the Jagger’s body armor. Not wasting the opportunity, Mark hooked his boot under the rail on the opposite side and pushed the Jagger him over the edge by the chin.

  Mark prayed the rail would hold as he muscled the man’s head toward the ground over the driver’s window.

  If the Jagger had simply let go, Mark would have lost balance and they both would tumble to the pavement, becoming balls of rolled meat under the Yukon behind them. But apparently, there was some level of self-preservation in these robots.

  Bent backward at the waist, the Jagger had no more leverage. As Mark strained to push the Jagger over, his head came within view of the driver’s window. He shifted his neck away from the Jagger’s chest and craned it sideways to see Nick, desperately attempting to hold the SUV steady under the constant ramming from the Yukon.

  “A little help?!” Mark yelled.

  Nick struggled to hold the Jagger’s collar while gripping the wheel with the other hand. “Sir. I need you to point that SIG at that guy’s head and pull the trigger.”

  As if materializing from thin air, a pistol passed between Nick’s arm and the door frame.

  “Careful not to hit Mark,” Nick said.

  “I’m trying!”

  Mark panicked and arched up, trying to get out of the line of fire as the President squeezed three rounds into the killer’s head.
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  The Jagger went limp and began to slide over the edge. At the last second, Mark realized there were armor penetrating rounds in the Jagger’s pistol and he grasped the butt of the Delta Elite in the dead man’s hip holster.

  It nearly pulled him over the edge. Only a quick boot toe against the rail stopped his fall.

  He tapped on the side window with the barrel as the Yukon accelerated for another hit. “Mr. President?” Mark yelled through the glass.

  The President lifted his head from under the vests piled on top of him and flashed a thumbs up.

  “Outstanding marksmanship, sir,” Mark said. He started to pull himself up but paused halfway through the motion. “Would this be a good time to talk about a pardon?”

  The Yukon slammed into the back of the SUV, threatening to dislodge Mark again. After rolling to the center of the roof, he slid to the back and pointed the Jagger’s Colt at the driver. Now armed with armor-piercing rounds, he emptied the magazine into the windshield, killing the driver, and sending the Yukon into a sideways spin that turned into a seventy mile an hour barrel roll.

  The Colt empty, he looked at it then tossed it inside through the back window, before lowering himself in. Casey grasped his belt and kept him from falling backward onto the road.

  “Jesus,” Mark said, dropping to the floor in exhaustion. “I hope your first act back in office, after pardoning me, is finding out what rock that damned Jagger program is hiding under and blowing it the hell up.”

  “There are a few changes we’ll be making,” the President said, rising cautiously from the floor. “That among them.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” Nick said through a grimace, “but we still need to get to Washington, and Casey and I are bleeding out. Someone else needs to take the wheel.”

  Mark crawled over the President as Nick struggled to pull the SUV to the inside shoulder. Once stopped, Mark pulled him across the center console then ran around to the driver’s side.

  Accelerating back onto the toll road as emergency crews began appearing over the hill, Nick looked over at Mark. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. I just hope everyone else can pull one out their butts like I just did up there.”

  **

  The helicopter ride to Mount Weather took only five minutes. I only knew that because as they loaded me in, the pilot yelled, “Five minutes to Weather!” into his radio, along with the request for medical. I assumed that was for me though I couldn’t be certain with the bag over my head.

  I felt the needle prick in my arm and the straps across my chest. To be honest, it didn’t seem like five minutes, so I must have drifted out for a few minutes.

  Once on the ground, many hands clamored to move me to a vehicle. They slid me along a metal floor then dashed away. All the time I kept drifting in and out of consciousness.

  I wasn’t in any pain, really. My stomach and chest ached a bit, but other than that I simply had a hard time keeping my awareness in the now—it kept shifting to cold, silent darkness.

  “Adrenaline,” someone said.

  And as if a switch had been flipped, I was wide awake. I struggled against my bonds momentarily as they tightened my straps.

  “Tighter. Add more. He’s stronger than he looks,” someone said.

  “You’re fucking right, I’m stronger than I look. I’m gonna rip your fucking jawbone out and slice your throat with it.”

  “Oh boy. Already feeling better, I see,” the voice taunted.

  The bag came off my head, and in the corner of the room stood a thin weasel of a man from my past—him I remembered. “Ned Richards.”

  “That’s Director Richards,” he said with a smug grin. “And though we haven’t worked together yet, I’m your new boss…for a few more minutes anyway.”

  “You aren’t fit to carry Burgess’s jock strap, much less his title.”

  Richards laughed. It was a whiny, high-pitched laugh one would imagine if a hyena took human form and laughed. It made me want to plow a path to him with a machete. That adrenaline shot was messing with my emotions in a big way.

  “I always figured you for a hothead. Not nearly as cool under pressure as you pretend in polite circles,” he said.

  I stopped struggling. “You’re right. I apologize. Cut me loose and I’ll try on my civilized responses.”

  He shook his head, tisking through is teeth. “I’m afraid confinement is your new permanent state, at least until after we’ve recovered Combine’s money,” he said with saccharine venom. “At which time, you will be released to the ground…in an unmarked grave.”

  I twisted my head around and looked at the other faces in the room. My eyes slowly started to focus. In the back of the room, ponytail bitch leaned against the wall, her leg wrapped tightly in a brace from thigh to ankle. From gaps between the cloth and carbon fiber, dark splotches of blood leaked through.

  I looked up at her face and nodded toward her leg. “Did I do that?”

  She smiled. “It’s not so bad. And it’ll be healed before your body reaches ground temperature.”

  I nodded. “How’s your liver?” I asked, referring to the wound that I had inflicted on her at the beach in Cayman Brac.

  “All things heal in time,” she said, with not even a ripple of emotion.

  How do you do that?

  “That, I’m afraid is not something you’ll be discovering.”

  I closed my eyes and lowered my head back to the gurney.

  “Where’s Braun?” Richards asked.

  “Dead,” came a new voice—Kathrin’s.

  I tilted my head backward expecting to see her similarly restrained. Instead, she leaned casually against the wall at the back of the room. Is this my way out? Wait…why isn’t she restrained? Why are they trusting her?

  “I killed him,” Kathrin said.

  “Who the hell are you?!” Richards squeaked in anger.

  The ponytail bitch looked at him and discretely shook her head in warning. As if he’d taken a jolt from a shock collar, he shrank backward against the door, a sudden flush of fear on his face.

  Why is he scared of…

  I couldn’t even bring myself to gaze at the shell that was the woman I loved. Instead I drilled both eyes at ponytail bitch, willing my rage to rupture her skull.

  “Tris,” I snarled under my breath.

  She smiled thinly then looked at Kathrin. “Why did you kill Braun?”

  Kathrin’s response came robotic and flat. “When clarity finally hit me, I realized who he was…more importantly, I remembered his voice, spilling poison in my ears for two months.”

  I watched Tris adjust her stance as if the new information was some sort of threat.

  “And what about me?” Tris asked.

  “I remember you, too, sweet Tris,” she replied tenderly, her voice playful as it had been so many times with me when we flirted with one another.

  An arc of pain flashed through my gut, and I looked down to see a medic or doctor cauterizing my belly wound. It still wasn’t as painful as seeing my beautiful girl fraternizing with the woman who had killed and wounded so many people I cared about.

  Tris smiled at her and winked. I thought I would vomit.

  “Enough,” snapped Richards. “Can he be interrogated?”

  “There’s nothing to dig out,” the doctor said to Richards. “Armor-piercing doesn’t leave anything behind. You’re just lucky they didn’t tear him up any more than they did, or you wouldn’t be able to take your time like this.”

  Richards nodded. “Stitch him up and get him to an interrogation suite. We have some banking questions for him.”

  With that, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway of the clinic. Tris lingered, watching me intently before shifting her gaze to Kathrin again. “You don’t have to be here for this.”

  Kathrin shrugged. “I need to see this end. But beyond that, I’m interested to see how deep this new apathy extends.”

  There! I saw the worry on your fac
e that time, ponytail bitch. You’re worried she could still come around.

  I looked backward at Kathrin. “You know she’s the one who shot you,” I said. “And me, in the head when I tried to save you.”

  A crushing blow to my gut sent my stomach’s contents to the floor in a fountain from my mouth.

  “I just cauterized that wound. You’ll open it again.”

  Tris shook her head at the doctor. “He won’t be around long enough for it to matter.”

  The doctor probed me again and grunted something akin to satisfaction before supergluing my wound closed a second time.

  The doctor smeared more antiseptic over my wound then nodded. “It’ll hold.”

  Tris smiled and stroked my head. “Doubtful.”

  I looked backward to see if Kathrin had any reaction to the caress or the implied threat against my life, but her attention had shifted to the window of the small clinic. I looked up to where she gazed and saw two men in a heated discussion with Richards in the hallway outside.

  “Wow…looks like someone just gave poor Ned some bad news.”

  Tris punched me in my jaw so hard I thought it would come unhinged. I looked up, my emotions raw, wishing to rip her throat out.

  “Any bad news for anyone here will not be enough to stop the bad news coming for you,” she said sweetly, almost lovingly.

  “I’ll bet you a set of cuff keys you’re wrong,” I said with a twisted grin.

  Richards rushed back into the clinic. “The President is alive, and key federal law enforcement has been briefed on a ‘list’.”

  “What sort of list?” Tris asked.

  Richard shook his head, but then looked at me and frowned at my pitiful condition. “Don’t tear him apart too fast. I guess there are more questions to be asked other than bank accounts.”

  I grinned through my split lip. “I’ll give you this answer for free,” I said, then spat blood on the floor. “Combine’s ledgers.”

  “What about Combine’s ledgers?” Richards asked, his words rushed and running together.

  “I guess when you’re paying for that many traitors, you have to store the names with the account numbers to keep them all straight.”