Legion

by Robert Swartwood

  Her body trembling, her breathing fast, she asks, “What’s happening?”

  Before I can tell her—though truthfully I have no idea—the SUV screeches to a halt. The bald gunman climbs into the passenger side. He shouts at us to get in the back.

  Rule of thumb is that you don’t get into vehicles with strangers. Especially strangers carrying machine guns. Then again, I think the rule becomes muddied when the stranger with the machine gun has just helped you escape two other men with guns, bent on killing you.

  I open the back door, motion for Ashley to get inside.

  She hesitates, but it’s only for a moment, and then she climbs inside.

  I climb in after her, slam the door shut.

  The SUV jerks forward, its engine roaring.

  For a moment there’s silence, and then I shout, “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Neither the driver nor the bald gunman answer, but a voice does respond. It comes from my left, on the other side of Ashley. Apparently we’re sharing this seat with someone else.

  “You’re safe now, John.”

  It’s only four words, and it’s been years since I last heard it, but I recognize the voice immediately.

  I turn in my seat, slightly, my entire body going tense. “What the hell?”

  Ashley looks from me to the man sitting beside her. Her eyes are wide, her breathing still fast.

  “What?” she asks, once again verging on franticness. “Do you know him?”

  I simply nod. All of a sudden, I can’t speak.

  But that’s okay; my father speaks instead.

  “Hello, son. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  twenty

  The smoke was almost too thick to see through. Stepping over the dead body at the bottom of the steps, Zach slipped his suit jacket off his shoulders and held it to his nose and mouth. The heat wasn’t intense yet, but that was because the bulk of the fire was farther back in the bookstore—he could tell that even from here.

  Pulling his Glock from its holster, he hesitated for a moment, cursed, then ducked inside.

  He found the first body in the matter of only seconds; he almost tripped over it. As he had suspected, it was Jenkins. Fuck.

  He continued farther into the smoke, the heat increasing, and found Winters only a few seconds later.

  Motherfucker.

  Two of his men, dead. It was unacceptable, but the blow would at least be somewhat softened if the target had been taken out, too.

  He hurried over to the counter. Nothing behind it. He went down the side to the front of the store, then up the other side. Nothing there either.

  Zach played it out in his head: the woman and man leave the store, meaning the place was empty except for John Smith. Winters goes in, does his thing, Zach in communication with him the entire time. Then, two blocks up, the woman and man turn back around and return to the store. Zach notifies Winters. Winters gets ready. Then the gunfire starts. Only, out of nowhere, another player enters the game. A big fucker carrying an MP5. Not your run of the mill book browser, that was for sure.

  Whatever the fuck was happening, it wasn’t good, so Zach sent out Jenkins, who hurried across the street, down the steps, and all Zach could hear from his earpiece was screaming and shouting and shooting. A lot of shooting.

  And now here he was, facing the flames, the smoke palpable, bracing himself as he advanced toward the back of the store.

  Common sense told him to leave. The place was on fucking fire, and if the smoke didn’t kill the target and the girl and the big fucker, then the flames would. But years of experience told him otherwise.

  He found the door. Despite the heavy smoke, his eyes burning, it looked like the door had been kicked open. He used his foot to push it forward, his gun at the ready, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, this time with more force. It gave only a little.

  Zach squared his shoulders to the door, stood up straight, lifted his foot, and gave it a solid kick.

  The door busted open, the shelf which had been keeping it in place tipping over onto the floor. Books fell everywhere. He hurried in, the Glock raised, but there was nobody in sight. Behind him, the smoke began pouring in, headed toward the back. That was where Zach smelled fresh air. He hurried that way and seconds later found steps leading up to the street. He climbed them and came to a door, which opened into an alleyway.

  The alley was empty.

  “Shit.”

  He pulled his cell phone out and dialed Tyson.

  Tyson said, “Yeah.”

  “You have my location?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s an alley behind the bookstore. I need to know who or what left it either east or west in the past two minutes. Whatever it is, track it.”

  He was headed up the alley, having decided retracing his steps through the fiery inferno wasn’t the best idea.

  “Checking traffic cameras now,” Tyson said.

  “What about satellite?”

  “It’s going to take a couple of minutes to override, and that’s only if it’s in the right position.”

  “What about drones?”

  “I’m looking into it.”

  Zach had faith. Tyson was one of the best techs they had. If anyone was going to save today from being one gigantic clusterfuck, it would be him.

  As Zach reached the mouth of the alley, Tyson spoke.

  “Okay, I got it. Black Chevy Tahoe, entered the alleyway at four thirty-three. Exited on the other end at four thirty-four.”

  Zach was already running. “License plate?”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  Tearing down the block where he’d parked the sedan, Zach said, “Where are they now?”

  “Give me a second.”

  A car horn blared as Zach sprinted out into the street. It was a taxi, its driver slamming on the brakes. Zach smacked the hood and kept running toward the sedan. He jumped inside, fired up the engine.

  “Come on, come on,” he said, both to Tyson and to himself, sitting behind the wheel, adrenaline ticking through his veins. The last thing he wanted to do was head in the wrong direction. That would cost seconds, potentially minutes, and right now he couldn’t waste a single one.

  “Got them,” Tyson said. “They just turned onto Seventh Avenue, headed south.”

  Zach spun the wheel, punched the gas, the sedan jerking forward into the street, nearly colliding with a Town Car coming head-on. Another chorus of horns blared, but Zach barely noticed. Keeping one hand on the wheel, one hand holding the phone to his ear, Zach asked, “Where do you think they’re headed?”

  “My guess would be the Holland Tunnel.”

  “What cops do we have in the area?”

  “None.”

  A car was double-parked and he swerved around it, nearly taking out the middle-aged woman running packages into her building.

  “We need people at the bookstore ASAP. Two of ours are down, and so is one civilian. The thing’s going up in flames.”

  “Any of our equipment inside?”

  “Most likely. Winters had his case when he entered.”

  “Shit. What happened?”

  “I’m still not sure. Some guy came out of nowhere.”

  “Who?”

  “I have no fucking clue. But I know it wasn’t Eli.”

  Tyson asked, “What do you think we should do about the rest of the block?”

  The light at the next intersection was turning yellow. Zach punched the gas, swerved around a taxi, and cut the corner hard.

  “Burn it to the ground.”

  twenty-one

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  Nobody answers me.

  “Where are we going?”

  Still nothing. It’s like I don’t exist. Besides the brief exchange with my old man—seriously, my father, what the fuck?—nobody has said a word. But that doesn’t mean we’re not in a hurry. The two up front haven’t spoken, sure, but the driver is handling the SUV li
ke a pro. Swerving here, accelerating there, we’re making good time in a city choked with traffic. But that still doesn’t answer the questions what the fuck is going on and where are we going.

  I shift in my seat so my back is against the window. I realize that my hands are clenched, and I remember that I’m still holding the syringe. I still don’t quite know what I was thinking when I grabbed it—maybe there was some spiritual connection I felt with the thing that had, mere minutes before, threatened to end my life—and I still don’t quite know what to do with it now.

  Beside me, Ashley isn’t freaking out as much as I figured she would. Granted, she looks scared, her entire body on edge, but she’s not screaming like she was earlier. If anything she’s catching her breath, trying to make sense of the situation. The only problem for her is that this whole thing is senselessly fucked.

  “Dad.”

  He’s leaning slightly forward, staring out the windshield, enjoying the high-speed show. He doesn’t acknowledge me.

  “I thought you were supposed to be dead.”

  He blinks. Turns his head in my direction. “Are you disappointed?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. What’s going on here? Who are these guys? Who are the guys that just tried to kill us?”

  “Those are good questions, John, but right now we don’t have time to go over each of them.”

  “Fair enough. So let’s start with the first question. What the fuck is going on?”

  My father gives a slight shake of the head, turns his attention back to the street. “Too complicated to explain at the moment. By the way, who’s your friend?”

  Ashley glances at me, as if she’s not sure whether or not she should respond. I hesitate, then respond for the both of us.

  “She’s not my friend.”

  “Then what exactly is she doing here?”

  “In the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”

  I check Ashley’s face to see if she agrees with this, but she doesn’t give much of a reaction. Instead she seems to steel herself, take a breath.

  “You’re really Melissa’s father?” she asks.

  This gives my old man pause. He blinks again, leans back, gives her an apprising look.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ashley Walker.”

  “And, Ms. Walker, how did you know my daughter?”

  “We were best friends in college.”

  “Interesting. And why, exactly, were you at the bookstore just now?”

  “Following a hunch.”

  “Such as?”

  “I refuse to believe Melissa killed her family and herself.”

  A smile and nod. “Bright girl.”

  “So you’re saying it’s not true?”

  “Hey,” I interject. “What’s going on here?”

  Up front, the driver says, “Eli, we’re skipping the tunnel. Too much chance of getting boxed in.”

  My father nods like the driver just spoke to him, which doesn’t make sense, because Eli isn’t my father’s name.

  Still, my father says, “We need to ditch this vehicle as soon as possible. No doubt they already have the make and model and are tracking us.”

  The driver and bald passenger exchange a glance, but neither speaks. Right now it’s rush hour, the traffic congested, and it’s a miracle we’re able to keep going forty miles per hour.

  For a moment there’s complete silence, and then I say, “Eli?”

  My father looks at me, clearly responding to the sound of his name, and again I ask the only question that matters.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  twenty-two

  “Where are they now?”

  “Still on Seventh Avenue.”

  “Are they headed for the tunnel?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. At least they still haven’t headed east yet.”

  Zach gritted his teeth against the slow-moving traffic. He was half tempted to jump the curb and tear ass down the sidewalk, but knew that would raise too many eyebrows. In his world, he and his people never raised eyebrows. They stayed so far under the radar, in many ways they didn’t exist.

  As long as Zach had known Tyson, the man rarely showed any enthusiasm. He was a true professional, through and through, keeping his emotions in check. But now, coming through the earpiece of Zach’s phone, Tyson’s excitement was contagious.

  “Yes!”

  “What is it?”

  “One of the traffic cams picked up a clean shot of the driver. I’m working the facial recognition now.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Eli has no friends. He has no contacts to pull off what just happened.”

  Zach started nodding, already picking up the pieces. “You think mercenaries?”

  “Something along those lines. If they’re hired guns, it’s very well likely they have military training, and if they have military training—”

  “They’ll be in the system,” Zach said. “How much longer are we talking?”

  “Can’t say. It could be a few more minutes, or it could ... holy hell, look at that.”

  “What?”

  “We have confirmation. The driver’s name is Charles Bent. Ex-Marine. Did three tours in Iraq.”

  “Any known associates?”

  “One. Another ex-Marine name of John Grayson.”

  “Large bald fellow?”

  “That’s what the picture shows.”

  “These guys working independently?”

  “From the intel on my screen, these guys have no loyalty except to the highest bidder.”

  “Is there a contact number?”

  He was edging his way through traffic, swerving around one taxi or bus or car or another, people talking and shouting outside, cars honking, but still he could hear the smile in Tyson’s voice.

  “As a matter of fact, there is.”

  twenty-three

  The driver takes a sudden left, nearly fishtailing the SUV, and then we’re racing down a side street, headed west.

  I say to my father, “These people, whoever they are, they killed Melissa and her family, didn’t they?”

  My father—or fuck it, let’s just call him Eli—nods his head slightly. “I’m afraid they did.”

  “And you knew it was going to happen, didn’t you?”

  I have no basis to make this assumption other than pure speculation, but his eyes shift away from mine, ashamed, and it’s all the confirmation I need.

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Hey,” says the bald passenger up front. “Don’t blame your old man. There was nothing we could do to stop it.”

  “Bullshit,” I say, but before I can continue the thought, a phone rings.

  It’s coming from up front, in the middle console, the electronic buzzing of a cell phone.

  Immediately Eli says, “Don’t answer it.”

  Both driver and passenger exchange another glance, only this one is more concentrated, the two communicating in their own special silence. Finally the driver nods, almost imperceptibly, and the passenger picks up the ringing phone, opens it, places it to his ear.

  “Yeah,” he says, and then is silent for several long seconds while he listens to the person on the other end, while the driver accelerates down the city streets, slamming on the brakes every hundred yards or so when someone tries to step out in front of the SUV and he’s forced to swerve around them.

  Eli’s hand, meanwhile, is slowly moving toward the inside of his jacket, my father never once taking his gaze off the passenger.

  Up front, the passenger says, “A quarter million.”

  The driver, keeping the bulk of his focus on the street, gives his partner a hesitant glance.

  I look back at my father and find him now looking at me—really looking at me for the first time. His hand is now completely inside his jacket, and I somehow know his fingers are gripping the gun holstered there.

  Finally, after some more silence, the passenger says, “Will do,” and
closes the phone. He takes a deep breath, glances at the driver, then suddenly a gun is in his hand, aimed directly at Eli.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Eli’s voice is hollow: “That didn’t take long.”

  The passenger simply shakes his head.

  “How much more are they offering?”

  “Twice as much.”

  The driver whistles, clearly impressed.

  Eli says, “These aren’t good people.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’ve seen what they’re capable of.”

  “Very true. I’ve also just received a phone call from one of their people less than ten minutes after encountering one of them. Which makes me think they’re much more powerful than you first let on. Now bring your hand out where I can see it, slowly.”

  Eli withdraws his empty hand from inside the jacket. “What are you going to do?”

  “Difficult to say. They found us pretty quickly, and it’s pretty fucking impossible to find us.”

  The driver gives his partner another look, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s clear he knows what’s going on. It’s also clear he has accepted the change in tide. This is evidenced by the fact that we aren’t going so fast anymore. The SUV’s constant acceleration has tapered off.

  Eli pauses for a beat. “I’ll match it. I’ll even throw in an extra hundred grand.”

  The passenger seems to think this over for a moment. “How do we know you have the extra money?”

  “You don’t.”

  The passenger lets loose a hearty laugh. “I don’t think it’s worth it, even if you do have the money. These people are too well connected. They’ll catch up with us eventually.”

  “They may be well connected, but they’re still fallible.”

  “Maybe. But at this point, I’m not willing to take the chance. How about you, Charlie?”

  The driver shakes his head. “An extra quarter mil sounds pretty good to me. They want us to stop?”

  “Yeah, let’s stop at the next block up. He says he’s a few blocks behind us, so he’ll catch up soon.”