The Fall

by R. J. Pineiro

  Slowly, he knelt by the body and put a gun in his hands, firing it a couple of times into the ceiling to make him look like he went down fighting like the soldier he was.

  Jack stood there a moment, trying to find the right words, angered at himself for having killed him, for failing to convince him to join forces, to take a stand.

  Everyone has a choice.

  And Davis had certainly made his, for better or for worse.

  And so had Jack, who would now have to live with—

  A strange noise behind him made him swing his weapon in its direction while dropping to the ground.

  But there was no one there.

  Confused, he got up to one knee and surveyed the living room, spotting a camera, which turned in his direction.

  Standing and facing it, he understood.

  And waving at it he said, “Honey … I’m home.”

  18

  TAKE ME HOME, COUNTRY ROADS

  Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival.

  —Winston Churchill

  He went to the address he had written on a piece of paper and shown to the camera in case they couldn’t hear him.

  It was an old watering hole in South Miami by the name of El Habanero, and ironically not far from where Dago had met him and Angela after stealing that Tiara yacht in another world.

  Jack drove one of the Harleys he found parked outside the farmhouse since the police were probably already looking for the convertible he had stolen earlier.

  He continued down the picturesque Tahiti Beach Island road, the wind in his face, the sun in his eyes as he steered the bike past opulent mansions, manicured lawns, and beautiful parks, all backdropped by the Atlantic Ocean.

  The oceanfront bar, one of Dago’s favorites from the old days, had two floors of decks overlooking the water plus a large parking area that ran along both ends of the establishment as well as on the street side, where Jack steered the bike into a corner spot facing the exit, ready for a quick getaway should anything go south.

  El Habanero glowed with neon lights in every pastel color imaginable, even in the middle of the afternoon.

  He walked toward the glowing structure slowly, with caution, searching for—

  “Jack! Over here!”

  He turned to his right and saw her a couple hundred feet away, down a row of parked cars, waving her arms frantically.

  Behind her was Dago and a short and slightly overweight guy with an unkempt beard.

  Angela took off, running toward him.

  Jack found it hard to breathe, unable to believe he had actually made it back to her, back to his wife, and he owed it all to the Angela he had left behind, the one who had sacrificed everything to get him back here, to this moment, as “his” Angela ran toward him.

  But a white van pulled up behind her, tires skidding on the pavement as it came to an abrupt stop just as the side door slid open and two large men jumped out and grabbed her from behind.

  No! This can’t be happening!

  Jack rushed toward them, adrenaline surging, heightening his senses as Angela fought them, arms and legs lashing out, kicking, punching, but she was too small, too light, and just one of the men was able to handle her while the other stood in the way.

  Jack spun, bringing his left foot up, striking the man across the temple with a turning kick. But he was large, strong, and the kick only made him shift a little before he reached for Jack, trying to grab him, succeeding in wrapping both arms around his waist, squeezing him in a deadly bear hug.

  Jack winced in pain as the man’s oaklike arms tried to crush him, finding it hard to breathe, watching in horror as the other man threw Angela in the back of the van.

  Stiffening his hands, Jack clapped hard into the sides of the man’s head, into his ears, driving a powerful shockwave through the ear canals and into the brain.

  The man released him, trembling, hands on his face, shocked, blood dripping from his nose.

  Jack ran around him, scrambling after the van, as the door slid shut, as the driver punched it, engine roaring, tires spinning, kicking up gravel, fishtailing into the street.

  He started to go for his bike but the Hispanic man wasn’t quite ready to fall yet, blocking his way. Jack went after him again, spinning like an angered cyclone, hands and feet stabbing the air. But the man, albeit bleeding from his nose and ears, was still able to shift out of the way, missing his strikes, before trying to punch Jack in the solar plexus.

  Jack brought his right forearm down, hard, deflecting the incoming fist, shoving it out of the way before palm-striking his nose at an upward angle, planting his entire body behind the blow, mashing bone and cartilage, forcing him to his knees.

  Cupping his hands, he clapped them over the man’s ears again, and he finally collapsed on the pavement.

  Jack looked toward the street, ignoring the people stepping out of the bar, some of them on phones, spying the tail of the van vanishing around the—

  “Jack! Over here!”

  He turned around. Dago was waving him over, already on his Harley and pointing at Angela’s Triumph.

  He ran to the bike, climbing on, kick-starting it, ignoring the bearded man sitting behind Dago as the bike rumbled to life, and he throttled it, shifting into gear and popping the clutch, lurching forward, reaching the street.

  But the van was out of sight.

  Jack steered the bike into the direction of his last sighting, twisting the throttle, revving up the engine, accelerating, his eyes frantically searching, his mind refusing to believe that he could have come this far, this close, and then lose her like that.

  Where are you, Angie?

  He continued down the same avenue, slowing down at intersections to look in both directions, and continuing on, but the van was nowhere to be found.

  Jack persisted, crisscrossing the streets, expanding his perimeter search, block after block, but after twenty minutes he stopped, pulling over, jumping off the bike, a hand on his forehead.

  Think, dammit. Think!

  Dago pulled up behind him and also jumped off.

  Jack was about to get back on the bike and continue the search but Dago put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Get off me!”

  “Wait, Jack! Listen to me!”

  He turned around, facing the large biker, who looked downright identical to the man who had helped him and Angela so much for the past week, even down to the bandanna and open denim vest.

  But he was barely listening, unable to contain a fury growing deep in his gut, a consuming anger that threatened to strip away his sanity, his logical mind at the precise moment when he needed it the most.

  Slowly, breathing deeply, once more invoking savage control from years of training and discipline, his focus finally shifted to the biker, who was trying to tell him something while pointing at the bearded man still sitting on the back of the Harley.

  “Art knows where they’re taking her! In West Virginia!”

  And that’s when it came to him, Davis’s words, the warrior who had chosen death to protect his family.

  He has a compound in West Virginia, off of IH-68, by Cheat Lake.

  Jack kept breathing, kept listening to Dago, to this hacker who went by the name of Art, someone whom he vaguely remembered Angela mentioning a time or two in the past—someone who confirmed what he already knew.

  Slowly, as traffic continued up and down the avenue, as the sun started to set in paradise, as vacationers returned to their hotels after a day on the beach while others headed for the nightclubs and bars to party under the stars, Jack began to plan his revenge.

  * * *

  He watched the helicopter fly in from the east as the sun rose, skimming the lake, circling the fenced perimeter twice before hovering over a large patch of grass downhill from the main building, next to a deflated windsock, softly touching down.

  Javier got out first, followed by two
of his muscular bodyguards flanking a small figure wearing a hood.

  Welcome, Dr. Taylor, he thought, a surge of confidence boosting through his system not only by her presence but also because the cyberattacks had stopped the instant his contractors had snagged her right off the streets of South Miami yesterday afternoon.

  The plan, masterminded by Javier himself, had required the sacrifice of Davis and his team, sent to the location that his IT guys had pinpointed as the origin of the hacks.

  But Hastings knew better.

  Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice …

  “They’re here, general,” his aide said, holding the door to his office partially open.

  “Yeah. I got eyes, too,” he said, pointing at the decelerating blades above the helicopter and the foursome walking up the steps from the helipad. “Throw her in the same cell with Flaherty for the whole day. Maybe that will encourage her to cooperate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  The basement room was dark and humid, with a small, barred window near the tall ceiling, out of reach. The walls and floor were made of concrete, rough, unfinished. But it was the stench that assaulted her as they had pulled off the hood and threw her inside, slamming the heavy door. It was a brew of urine, disinfectant, and the coppery smell of blood that triggered a wave of nausea.

  And that’s when she heard the low cry coming from the far corner, like a whimper, agonizing, heartbreaking.

  Angela walked slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, her skin goose-bumping, converging on the origin of the noise.

  “No … more … please … no … more…”

  She paused, listening to his voice, darkness slowly resolving into a naked figure, curled on its side, like a baby, hugging himself, shivering.

  “Pete?”

  The man rocked himself slowly, his legs tucked against his chest, visibly shaken, his skin covered in bruises and cuts.

  She knelt by him, put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Pete?”

  He shrunk away at her touch, trembling, his face a mess of bruises, swollen, one eye completely shut, the other bloodshot, gazing at her, before blinking recognition.

  “Pete, it’s me. Angela.”

  Slowly, he came about, realizing he was naked, scrambling to cover himself with his hands.

  “It’s okay. Let me help,” Angela said, removing her leather jacket and wrapping it around him.

  Pete pointed at a bottle of water on the floor, near his feet, and she brought it to him, helping him take a few sips.

  Bastards, she thought as he drank, as he took a few deep breaths. She looked around the concrete cell, at the small hole in the middle of the room where he had to relieve himself.

  He couldn’t believe that in the two days since she had seen him from a distance at that motel, Hastings and his guns had turned him into this.

  “What happened?” she asked, sitting by his side, letting him rest his head on her thigh as she tried to comfort him.

  He hugged the jacket, obviously cold, shuddering, having lost a lot of blood from all of those cuts, not to mention the impact of the bruises, which were everywhere, from his head to his broken toes.

  “Riggs … they … killed him and … what they did to his wife … God…”

  He slowly shook his head and started to weep. She held him tight and just let him vent while she closed her eyes, trying not to think about what sort of horrible things Hastings’s people had done to the federal agent and his family—and to Pete, for him to be this shaken up.

  “And now … they’ve got you,” he said. “I’m sorry … Angela … so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she replied.

  It took a few minutes, but slowly, Pete regained his composure and managed to sit up, taking another deep breath, color slowly returning to his face as he leaned toward her and whispered, “We’re … being watched … middle of the ceiling.”

  She looked up and spotted a camera trained on them, and proceeded to give them the bird.

  Pete managed a half laugh before wincing while holding on to his rib cage. “Bastards,” he said, coughing. “Broke my ribs.”

  She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Jack is back.”

  He looked at her with his one good eye while slowly shaking his head, before mouthing, “How?”

  She shrugged, gave him a smile, and said, “He found a way, Pete. He just found a way.”

  * * *

  Hastings returned to his desk, where he had been in the midst of performing his latest round of damage control, of shifting money from safe accounts to cover losses, to pay for services, to buy loyalty, discretion, and even assassination—to remind those he owned to look the other way, to ignore the firestorm of problems that would soon disappear. His IT guys had managed to recover most of the missing videos, the real power he held over his people, and stored them in a new location guarded by the world’s most complex firewall. His scientists had restarted production, cranking out orbital suits. His people in the press had squashed any semblance of a story from field reports. His people in Washington—even in the White House—would focus on pressing issues in the Middle East, as well as the economy, the unemployment level, and even the latest battle with OPEC on crude oil prices. In another day or two, this would be in the past, and he could concentrate on the future.

  Hastings looked about his massive office, filled with inspirational icons from his past, from his family’s legacy. He stared at the vintage guns, at the medals, the awards and commendations, the handwritten notes from Abraham Lincoln, Douglas MacArthur, Teddy Roosevelt, JFK, and even LBJ. The last one addressed to him personally for his service in Vietnam.

  The past is the springboard for the future, he thought, as he returned to his computer. First, protect the cash, then maintain the relationships, and third, continue to instill fear in his subordinates. Reward loyalty but be ruthless to punish treason, using the likes of Riggs and his wife to show others what could happen to them and their loved ones if they crossed him.

  In the old days, governments had used public executions as a way to deter, to set an example, making those who were on the fence about committing a crime to think twice. His method was similar, highly effective, and even more so when he got those under his employment to perform the executions, the tortures, incriminating them, forever owning them and their families.

  He spent the entire day at his desk, eating a small lunch while completing his tasks … dispatches, conference calls around the world … his damage control, finishing at seven in the evening and summoning his aide, ordering dinner for him and his very special guest.

  * * *

  The dining room was modern, with a long wall of floor-to-ceiling windows facing the tranquil waters of Cheat Lake under a full moon. Two waiters stood by while Hastings, in Army dress blues, sat at one end of a glass table facing his guest, who had yet to touch her food.

  “Had this especially prepared for you, Doctor,” he said, cutting into his prime rib.

  “I’ve lost my appetite, General,” she said, “especially after seeing the way you’ve treated Pete, who told me about Riggs and his wife.”

  Hastings looked up from his food and raised a brow. “That was most unfortunate, doctor. But necessary.”

  “It was necessary to torture and kill an innocent woman, General?”

  Hastings cut another piece of prime rib and chewed it slowly, before taking a sip of an amazing pinot noir that his wine steward had managed to find during a recent trip to Australia. “Like I said, doctor. Unfortunate but necessary.”

  “Necessary for what?”

  “Necessary to make sure no one else decides to be as stupid as Riggs. Frankly, doctor, he brought it on himself. He knew the risks and decided to cross me anyway. What choice did I have?”

  She regarded him with a look that could cut through the tempered glass surface of the table, and that pleased Hastings immensely. She obviously came from great stock, unwilling to display the
fear he knew she had to be feeling at this moment, especially after seeing Pete and learning about Riggs and his wife. Yet, here she was, as defiant as the first time he’d laid eyes on her the night before the launch, when she had attacked his scientists.

  Feisty, that one, he thought. And damned smart.

  And that just made him want her even more. Jack Taylor had been one lucky son of a bitch indeed, but he was gone, forever lost since that other Earth lacked their technology. In a way, he even felt sorry for Jack, arriving to a world like that, practically naked. But him being gone presented Hastings with the solution to his dilemma. He needed a son, perhaps two to carry on his legacy, to rule the world he would leave behind after he was finished securing its future, making damn sure that the United States of America would never again face the financial uncertainty created by the fools elected into office these past decades.

  The woman sitting across from him represented the future, his future. She was certainly worthy of his seed, of his family’s gift. She had been smart enough to not get caught right away and to fight back in ways that even came close to hurting his operation, and that was quite impressive in itself. She had outfoxed his finest operatives, his best scientists, and top IT talent, and done so while on the run, hunted, operating with scarce resources.

  Hastings couldn’t even begin to imagine what she could do if properly funded, given anything her brilliant mind required, convinced to work with his engineers, taking his breakthroughs to the next level.

  “What do you want from me, General?” she finally asked, reaching for her cup of wine and taking a sip, before raising her brows. “This is actually quite good.”

  He nodded in approval. “Only the best for you, Dr. Taylor. Only the best.”

  * * *

  This time around he used only the best equipment available, including a Draeger rebreather, which he wore like a vest, secured to the waist of his battle dress with a heavy strap. Most of the critical equipment was in front, where he could reach it, including the flexible breathing tube projecting up at chest level into his full-face mask with integrated goggles. The oxygen tank was strapped horizontally at the bottom of the unit, just above his waistline, and would inject small amounts of oxygen into his breathing mix after the absorbing canister removed his exhaled carbon dioxide, eliminating bubbles.