Recoil

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Shit!” said Quinn, his horrified gaze moving from the dart sticking out of Bruce’s back, to the gun in his own hands. He dropped the weapon as if it had stung him.

  “Don’t just stand there — help me!” I wheezed.

  Chapter 28

  Lights Out

  Bruce’s tranquilized body was a dead weight crushing me to the floor.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Quinn said.

  With a grunt and a shove, I managed to roll Bruce off me. The upper-body strength training had come in useful after all. Gasping, I snatched Bruce’s handgun from where it had fallen from his nerveless hands, and placed it on the desk. I kicked aside the dart gun. It was empty of darts now — no point in hanging on to it. Then I grabbed the rifle.

  “Are you going to shoot me now?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, pushing past him and stalking into the bathroom.

  I grabbed his phone, tossed it onto the hard tile floor and smashed it to smithereens with the rifle butt.

  “What are you doing?” He sounded bewildered.

  “Destroying evidence,” I said, kicking the flusher repeatedly with my foot as I dropped the pieces into the toilet. “Besides, you can’t take it with you. They’ll use it to track you. Here, take over with this.”

  Quinn gathered up the few remaining fragments from the floor and studied them. “That’s why I didn’t take my phone with me today. I left it behind. So they couldn’t track where I went.”

  He unrolled a massive length of toilet paper, stuffed it in the toilet bowl and flushed the remaining pieces of plastic and glass, while I walked back into the bedroom and bent down to snag the Leatherman multi-tool Bruce always wore on his belt.

  “Honestly, Quinn, you don’t think they can use your microchipped bracelet to track you outside the compound as well as inside?”

  “I wrote and inserted some code to block it on the surveillance system before I left. But maybe the hack didn’t work.”

  “Or maybe they had a spook follow you.” They might be trained on many things in Intel, but how to spot when you’re being tailed obviously wasn’t one of them.

  “Yeah, or maybe you told them where to expect Connor and me!”

  “I didn’t rat on you,” I said, enunciating each word, but I could tell he didn’t believe me.

  I flipped open the wire-cutter attachment and severed the ID bracelet. Quinn’s hand felt warm, even through my latex gloves. As I tossed the thin metal band aside, I asked the question that refused to be silenced.

  “What did you mean, earlier, about ‘the truth’?”

  He looked at me as if weighing up some decision, then said, “About how your father died.”

  That was unexpected.

  “I already know what happened. He was killed by terrorists, in a civilian plague attack.”

  “Yes, but that’s not how he died.”

  “What do you mean? I saw footage of it. Roth showed me.” My fingers fiddled with the tool, opening and closing it.

  “Did she show you all of it? All the way to the end? Or did she stop before the climax?”

  I remembered the final freeze-frame of my father’s twisted grimace. Had there been more footage? Had something happened after that moment?

  “He died of the plague.” I didn’t know who I was trying hardest to convince — Quinn, or myself.

  “He didn’t. He would’ve, sure, but he didn’t. He didn’t even die inside the bank. He died outside on the sidewalk. The terrorists sent him out, as a virus bomb, and he kneeled down and started rocking back and forth, saying, ‘Help me,’ over and over.”

  My throat choked tight with grief and panic as I saw again the images of him pulling at his hair, scratching at his skin, rocking and keening, “Help me, help me.”

  “And then they shot him. Shot him in the street like a rabid dog. That’s who they really are — the government you think is here to protect its citizens. That’s what they do to a sick man. They shoot him.”

  “How do you know?” I demanded, my voice a low, tight rasp.

  “I saw the rest of the footage. Not very reassuring, that — to see police killing sick people, innocent US civilians, at close range. I guess that’s why they confiscated all the footage and banned the news stations and websites from showing it.”

  I was battling to catch my breath, battling to make sense of what he’d just told me. I couldn’t believe it was true.

  “Roth said the media embargoes were to protect public morale.”

  Quinn rolled his eyes at that. “I guess it’s also when they came up with the idea of using snipers to take down M&Ms, so they could be removed from the scene quickly and quietly in ambulances. And also using snipers to dart suspects who could be hauled off to detention centers. And who better than snipers who look more like teens or” — he cast a contemptuous look at my girly-pink dress — “like little kids. No one would suspect them. Plus, they’re not government agents, right? Not directly. And deniability is important if word gets out. So you” — he pointed a finger at me — “are defending the people who killed your father.”

  If Bruce were awake, he’d say this was a lie, pure BS. But it wasn’t. My shocked and sluggish brain was picking up speed again, making connections.

  It was the truth. It had to be, because I’d never told Quinn that my father was killed in a bank. How could he know that if he hadn’t seen the footage?

  I cursed. I couldn’t deal with this now. My immediate priority was to get us both out of here. I returned the multi-tool to Bruce’s belt, then I snatched Quinn’s sneaker off the bed and tossed it pointedly on the carpet beside his bare foot.

  “We need to get moving. They know, alright? They know everything — about you, about your brother, obviously. And we’re running out of time. Any minute now they’ll realize the fire alarm is a hoax, and they’ll come to haul your ass into lockup. And then your interrogation will begin. Then they’ll want to know what I know. We’ve got to run, get out of here, now. You heard me tell Bruce — Leya has been spying on us the whole time.”

  “Are you sure it was her, and not you?”

  “Quinn, there isn’t time for this. Even now they’ll be taking your brother to wherever it is they do those interrogations.”

  “Do you know where that is?” he asked, his wary eyes studying me with lie-detector intensity.

  “How the hell would I know? You’re more likely to have found something in your intel work.”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I was still working on trying to find out. That’s when I found the interrogation videos. I thought maybe you snipers would know where your victims get taken.”

  “All I know is that we need to get out of here before we find out firsthand. Try and help your brother. Contact his associates.”

  “Oh, so now you want to save Connor? Why the hell did you take him down, then? You know what they’ll do to him, and you helped them capture him.”

  “I was trying to save your hide.”

  Quinn made a dismissive noise and bent over to put on his shoe. I had known, even as I sent the dart into Connor, that I was putting a lethal round into any trust or respect Quinn might have for me. But knowing it didn’t stop it hurting.

  “Believe what you like,” I snapped. I knew that from Quinn’s perspective, it must seem like I’d betrayed him, snitched on his brother, and darted them both. But there just wasn’t time now to go into the details of how I’d had my hand forced, how I’d darted each of them rather than risk having them shot. Explanations would have to wait until we were out of here. “But I’m leaving. And you need to decide now: you want to wait for them to come get you, or do you want to get out of here?”

  “Are we simply going to stroll out the front door?” said Quinn.

  I peered out of the sealed window. There was no one in the floodlit area below — everyone would be gathered at the assembly point under the flagpole in front of the main building. I grabbed Bruce’s rifle. It was a long-range, m
edium caliber bolt-action rifle, mounted with a telescopic scope and a silencing suppressor. Now I was pleased that Bruce had kept his weapon. I checked the small internal magazine. Five rounds were loaded.

  I sent two quick rounds at an angle through the window, shattering it into pieces which rained out from the frame. A few shards bounced back into the room, and one clipped me on the cheek. Ignoring the sharp pinch of pain and Quinn’s startled yelp, I bashed the dangling fragments free of the window frame with the rifle-butt, stuck my head out to scan the area and then pulled back inside.

  “It’s a full floor down, can you make it?”

  “Of course, but what about the guards? The security floodlights and the electric fence?”

  “Someone once told me that there’s a weak spot, an exposed bit of flesh, on every target. You just have to find it and hit it,” I said, peering out through my eyepiece.

  I swept the scope slowly across the area, looking for a way, searching for a target. I had only three rounds left. I would have to make each of them count. My scope’s reticles rested on a guard standing in the closest watchtowers. No, not going to happen. I wasn’t killing anyone tonight. I wasn’t killing anyone ever, if I could help it.

  I glanced at the banks of brilliant floodlights, keeping it brief so as not to blind myself. But it was enough to tell me that shooting at them wouldn’t be much help. Each floodlight consisted of several rows of dazzlingly bright rectangular globes. I had only three rounds left, and knocking out a trio of globes wouldn’t give us enough darkness to make our escape. The lights were too powerful. Powerful … power … there! The main power line which connected the compound to the electricity grid was about one inch thick and about 200 meters away.

  It would have been a relatively easy shot with an automatic weapon — I could easily have strafed across the line several times, sure of hitting it. With a rifle, it would be a million-dollar shot. Still, this was a sniper’s rifle, and I was the best damn sniper in our unit. Failure is not an option.

  I sat on a clear section of the sill, wedged myself against the window frame, braced the rifle against my knee, slid off the safety catch and chambered a round.

  “What’re you —”

  “Shh!”

  I had to get it right. I couldn’t afford to miss. I did my best to estimate elevation and distance, and I scanned for signs of wind. I ran through my mil-dot calculations and doped my scope. Then I locked the stock against my cheek, and eased my finger onto the trigger.

  Focus. Aim. Breathe.

  Squeeze.

  The rifle recoiled into my shoulder with a muted crack. A small burst of sparks shot up off the power cord. One of the banks of floodlights flickered, but the compound ground remained brightly lit. I trained my scope on the power line and saw that it was fizzing and sparking at one spot. I had just nicked the top of the line.

  Only two rounds left.

  One of the guards lifted his binoculars to study the power line. We had mere seconds before we were discovered.

  I cleared the spent casing and reloaded. Aimed a fraction lower. Fired.

  This time I missed completely. I glanced at Quinn, saw my panic reflected in his eyes.

  “Only one round left,” I said.

  I could hardly get the words past the knot in my throat. My mind was racing, my heart pounding against my ribs. My dope-scoping calculations wouldn’t compute in the frantic agitation of my mind.

  Stop!

  Just stop and breathe. Breathe again.

  Somewhere inside of me, in the muscle memory of my arms and fingers, I knew how to take this shot. I didn’t need the math — I had the muscle memory of a thousand shots. This was a rat’s eye, a corner of the letter on a cheerleader’s vest, a small square inch of flesh on Sarge’s neck.

  I relaxed into the rifle. My shoulders dropped. My cheek caressed the stock. My breath sighed, paused. My finger embraced the trigger. And hugged.

  A shower of sparks erupted from the cord as it split and spooled down, sparking and crackling, thrashing on the ground like a giant electric snake. All around was the sound of a hundred computers, lights and machines losing power. And then all was dark.

  “Quickly! There’ll be backup generators. They’ll fire up soon,” I urged Quinn, who was standing, still with shock.

  I tossed the empty rifle aside and grabbed Bruce’s sidearm. “Go,” I said, pushing Quinn towards the window.

  Quinn hesitated, clearly reluctant to turn his back on me when I was armed. I sighed. He really didn’t trust me at all. I checked the safety was on, then turned the weapon around and handed it to Quinn. He took it automatically, but held it wrong and eyed it like it was a live, poisonous scorpion.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Then ditch it somewhere as a false trail. And try not to shoot yourself.”

  I moved to the window and clambered over the frame, bracing first one then the other foot on the ledge outside. Then I jumped, landing hard on one knee. I’d have a bruise there to match the one on my shin. I stood up and faced Quinn, who had landed with a soft thump in the dirt beside me.

  He stared at me for a long moment. In the dark, I couldn’t see the expression in his eyes, but I felt his fingers gently touch the cut on my cheek, trace my lips, as if he was memorizing my face.

  “When you’re over the fence, hit the ground running, and keep running. I’ll be right behind you,” I said.

  “So you’re coming with me?” His tone was unmistakably reluctant.

  Until that very moment, I’d just assumed we’d flee together. I had nowhere else to go. I could hardly head for home, and surely his brother’s secret organization must have a safe house somewhere? I wanted a chance to explain what had happened today, to make him understand, perhaps even to help rescue Connor. But it was such a lukewarm, halfhearted invitation that every fiber in my being recoiled from accepting it.

  “Screw you, Quinn O’Riley!” He could take his half-assed, unenthusiastic offer and shove it up his rebel ass. “The safest place you could be is with me. You may not believe it, but you need me much more than I need you. You’re going to have a posse of trained spooks and shooters on your tail, and you don’t even know how to hold a gun, let alone shoot one. Good luck out there.”

  “I’m not helpless,” he snapped.

  “Right. Whatever. Just go already.”

  When he hesitated, I said again, “Just go!”

  “How do I know you won’t raise the alarm as soon as I move? And send the pack of ratters after me? Or follow me yourself so you can tell them where I am? Like you did today.”

  “You don’t know. But you’re the one holding the gun. So if you really don’t trust me, shoot me now.” I was out of patience.

  “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

  For a second I thought he meant he’d have to shoot me. But then, without a word, he turned and sprinted off. I watched as he ran into the night, away from the building, away from me.

  I shook off my aching daze and set off after him at a different angle, so I’d hit the fence at a different spot — doubling the target, halving the odds of being hit. I was still about twenty-five meters from the fence when I heard the generators fire up. Lights flooded the compound in white brilliance. I ducked behind the inadequate protection of a slatted bench beside a potted tree.

  A glance to the side confirmed that Quinn was on the other side of the fence, clinging to the mesh with the gun still held awkwardly in one hand. He’d cleared the electrified strands at the top while the power was out, but was now still about four meters off the ground, frozen in place. Clearly visible in the wash of light. At any moment, one of the guards in the security huts would see him. If Quinn moved, it would be sure to attract their attention.

  The guard with the binoculars switched on a massive spotlight. I followed with my gaze as he began sweeping it slowly across the compound building, pausing on the shattered first-floor window.

  I stared at the ASTA building behind me. Bright li
ght shone from its sealed windows. Inside the security cameras would once again be rolling. Even now, Sarge and Fiona and maybe even Roth would be searching for me. Compiling questions for their Angel of Death. I could make up a story about how Quinn had overpowered Bruce, compelled me to take out the power, forced me out the window, threatened to kill me or take me as a hostage.

  Maybe they’d believe me and maybe they wouldn’t. If they didn’t, I’d be the one tied to the chair in that room, with a sack over my head and fists pounding down on me. If they did, I’d be sent straight back to shooting. No way would they allow me to leave now. I’d have come full circle.

  I turned my head to stare at the fence and allowed my gaze to reach into the darkness beyond. Freedom lay on the other side of that fence. Danger, yes, but also freedom. A chance to see my family again. And Quinn. Could I make it? In seconds, I ran through various scenarios in my head.

  The current was sure to be pulsing through the strands of electric fencing again, so I’d have to figure a way around that. I didn’t think my thin polka-dot pattern latex gloves would give me any protection at all. My mind raced through the options as the spotlight’s bright beam slid down the wall of the building and crept across the grounds of the compound.

  If I’d only thought to bring along Bruce’s multitool, I might have been able to make it to the fence and use it to cause a short in the circuit of electric fencing. But there was no way to go back now without being seen.

  Maybe I could try creeping across to the base of one of the guard towers, climbing up to the hut, overpowering the guard somehow and leaping to the ground beyond the fence off the back of the hut, bypassing the electrified lines that way?

  But even as I weighed that possibility, the moving spotlight stole inexorably towards the fence where Quinn still clung like a paralyzed monkey. One moment more and it would find him, illuminate his outline and contrast, highlight the shine of his weapon.

  Another choice that wasn’t really a choice.

  I stood up, thrust my hands up into the air and began shouting. The spotlight swung back to pin me in a circle of cold light.