Berserk

by K. S. Adkins

  This cop is going to kill me.

  “Macy,” I say cutting her off. “I need you to listen, you with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need you to do three things,” I tell her as calmly as possible. “Call Bishop,” I say rattling off his number. “Call Duffy,” I say, doing the same. “Call Lina and tell her it’s time.”

  “What the fuck, Red?”

  Before any more words are spoken, the uniform is smiling when he draws. Smiling back, I draw as well. There are maybe two seconds of crossfire where he fired a single shot and I fired two. I’m still standing while he goes down. Just before looking to face the next threat there is a sharp jab into my neck. I hear my enemy grate out “Sorry,” and within seconds after that my body starts doing all sorts of strange things. While I am being carried away my only thought is maybe now I’ll finally get some peace. No one will miss me anyway, not really.

  “Tony, it’s me again,” I groan into my cell phone. “I fucked up huge. I need your help, dammit. Please call me back.”

  Slamming my first into the wall, it’s all I can do not to pull out my own hair. She had me served with divorce papers. Why shouldn’t she? I fucking told her I didn’t want her anymore. Jules never says no to me. As always, if I wanted something, she gave it to me. Whether it be her time, her body, her heart, or in this case, a divorce.

  Sliding down the wall, my head hits my knees and I feel it happening.

  For the first time in my life, I feel real loss.

  Last night, I didn’t get a chance to come clean or tell her that I loved her, but I promised myself I would. I knew that once I explained why I lied, she’d be more apt to believe me when I said the words. Stretching out to an empty bed I glance around for her, but when I smell coffee I know she’s down in the kitchen. Not bothering with clothes, I make my way in and see two cups, a full pot, and papers scattered on the floor.

  The divorce papers.

  Oh, shit.

  Not bothering with picking them up, I run to the door, look out, and see her car is gone. Fuck! Running back upstairs for clothes and my phone I see her clothes are still on the floor; so are her shoes. Christ, she left here in my shirt? Ripping my phone off the charger I dial one number, hoping I’m not making a huge mistake. When he answers and I speak my piece he disconnects and I wait.

  Walking into the kitchen I take those fucking papers and burn them over the stove. When the fire alarms go off I walk over to each one, breaking them with my fist. I would have explained, I chant to myself. Do you blame her for leaving? My conscience asks back, and the answer is no. I can’t, she’s blameless.

  Hanging my head between my legs again, I smack my head off my kitchen table, hoping for some sense. When will I learn? When no answers comes forth I smack my head over and over again, but nothing happens but a headache.

  “If you ever saw Liar, Liar, then you know it’s almost impossible to kick your own ass,” he says. “But guessing since you called me of all people, I’ll want to finish the job myself?”

  Looking up at him, he makes a weird face. “The fuck is that smell?” he asks, opening a window.

  “I lit papers on fire.”

  “You too good for the wastebasket? Recycling is where it’s at.”

  “Divorce papers.”

  “Torching them won’t make ̓em disappear,” he says, then amends, “Will it?”

  “I lit them because I was drunk when I signed them, thinking it would be best for her if I let her live her life,” I explain. “She wouldn’t give up on me, she came for me anyway, stayed here last night. I forgot to do something with them, and she found them this morning when she was making coffee.”

  “She kick your ass?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” I groan. “She left.”

  “Seems like a habitat you two got going,” he says. “You fuck it up and she leaves before you can cuff her to a bed again.”

  “Habit,” I groan. “It’s a habit.”

  “Huh? You didn’t call me to talk about elf movies,” he says. “Never mind, listen, you called me because I know a thing a two about misunderstandings. That stings but you know truth hits, so…”

  “Hurts.”

  “I know it does, partner,” he says, patting my shoulder, oblivious. “You know how it feels to be without her, so what are you willing to do to be with her?”

  “Anything,” I tell him. “I’d do anything.”

  “Then if I were you I’d head over to the Westin,” he says. “You know because that might be where she’s staying these days. She said the MGM smelled like food stamps, so she checked out.”

  “Fuck,” I whisper. “Thanks, Rafe, and about before, I never had a chance to apologize for—”

  “Hold that thought,” he says, looking at his phone. “Bishop, to what do I owe—”

  His face morphs into a mask of rage. When his eyes settle on mine I feel it come over me, too. Something happened to her, I can feel it, something bad.

  Grabbing his keys from the table he cocks his head indicating the door, so I follow. When he hangs up with Bishop I stop him before exiting. “Bishop,” I growl. “What did he say?”

  Rafe takes two swallows then looks me right in eyes. “Campus Martius, shots fired, two shooters, one cop dead, Macy overheard. I’m sorry, man, but Jules is gone.”

  The definition of going berserk is simple.

  bərˈzərk,-ˈsərk/

  adjective

  (of a person or animal) out of control with anger or excitement; wild or frenzied. synonyms: frenzied, raving, wild, out of control, amok, on the rampage, frantic, crazy, raging, insane, out of one's mind, hysterical, mad, crazed, maniacal, manic; informalbana, informalmental, nutty, nutty as a fruitcake, off one's rocker, not right in the head, round/around the bend, raving mad, batty, bonkers, cuckoo, loopy, ditzy, loony, bananas, loco, with a screw loose, touched, gaga, not all there, out to lunch, crackers, nutso, out of one's tree, wacko, gonzo; batshit.

  In this moment, I redefine it.

  Time and place mean absolutely nothing to me. I tear my house apart. If it is in front of me, I destroy it. Screaming her name, cursing god, man, as well as myself, I want to find that .40 and put it in my mouth and end it.

  Suddenly there is pain, so much pain when something pierces my shoulder. Then he is there again taking me to the ground. Now he’s in my face, but I can’t hear him. Landing a punch in my jaw followed by another, I can hear again. Focusing on his face I tune in. “Calm the fuck down,” he says, hitting me again. “We’ll get her back, god dammit.”

  Blinking at him again, I try to process. He must sense my confusion because he decides to repeat himself. Finally he eases off and I can breathe better. “You with me, Max?”

  “Get her back?”

  “Oh…” he says looking pale. “Oh fuck me in the ass! I meant taken, nabbed, abducted, hijacked, kind of gone. Not dead, post mortem, grand finale gone. Shit fuck hell, Max I’m sorry. I thought you knew what I meant.”

  “Say what you mean, you fucking asshole!” I yell, tackling him. “I thought my wife was dead!” Taking shot after shot he just works on deflecting me when finally I run out of steam. “Jesus Christ!”

  “I know, Max,” he says, sitting up. “I know, I’m working on it. Fuck, I said I was sorry.”

  “Who took my wife?” When he stays silent I throw him across the room, “Who!”

  “That’s the problem,” he says, coughing and trying to stand. “No one knows.”

  The few items I haven’t yet destroyed meet the same fate as the rest. It isn’t until Rogan and Venessa showed up with Macy, threatening to sedate me that I calm down enough to not be restrained or knocked out. But it isn’t until Bishop and Duffy showed up that I am able to listen.

  “You hit me,” I say, spitting blood out. “Don’t do that again.”

  “You took my money!” she screams. “Where is it?”

  “I didn’t take shit,” I growl at her. “I
think I know where you put it, though.”

  “Where?” she asks, running over to the sink where I’m currently rinsing my mouth out.

  “Up your fucking nose.” I swear at her and when she goes to take a swing again, I catch her under the chin, sending her to the ground with a crash. Rolling up my sleeves, I drag her to the couch, tossing her on it. Looking down at her I promise myself I will never be like her. “I told you not to hit me again,” I say out loud, because it feels good to say it even if no one is there to hear it.

  There is no point in patting myself on the back for this. When she woke up she won’t remember it anyway.

  But I will.

  There was no time to gauge my environment, no time to prepare. I haven’t come back to full consciousness yet, and I can already feel the pain. My eyes refuse to open, my arms feel trapped, but my head, holy fuck does my head hurt. My wrists are secured to my sides, I know that much. There’s a strap around my waist, too but not my ankles. I’m bound to a bed. Minutes later I manage to open my left eye enough to look at the space I am being held in. This is a man’s room, no doubt; it looks of a man’s space and smells heavily of Axe body spray. Come to think of it, that could be why my head hurts. That stuff smells like shit. Duffy wore it once but I blew the bottle up, and he swore he’d never do it again.

  Working my right open, I scan the room from left to right moving my head as little as possible. Is that? Oh hell, it is. This jackoff has a Miley Cyrus poster on the wall. Who brought me here, Bieber? For the moment it is looking like I am alone, and with my headache not letting up, I decide to close my eyes and sleep it off.

  Sometime later I wake. Opening my eyes is easier this time. Blinking rapidly to clear the fog, I see a man sitting in a chair at the end of the bed. It’s too dark to make out his features, but he looks big. Glancing down I realize I’m dressed only in my bra and underwear. unfuckingbelieveable.

  I must have muttered “Fuck” out loud because then he speaks.

  “Had a reaction,” he says from what seems like far away. “Thought you were going to die.”

  “Feels like I did die,” I respond. “What did I do to warrant this special treatment?”

  “You’re just a job, special agent,” he says. “It ain’t personal.”

  “You’re not strapped to a full size bed. I am, so from where I’m lying, it’s feeling pretty personal.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Starving,” I answer, which is true. It feels like I haven’t eaten in days. “Got plans to poison me?”

  “No,” he says, chuckling. “I went to a lot of trouble to keep you alive; poison won’t be how you go out.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Around midnight,” he says. “It’s Thursday.”

  “Thursday?” I groan. “I’ve been out for over twenty four hours?”

  “Told you, you had a reaction,” he says, coming over to me. “Had to restrain you, run two IV lines, and wait it out.”

  “Wonderful I was nabbed by MacGyver,” I say rolling my eyes, which hurt like a bitch. “What’d I miss?”

  “You missed killing my partner for one,” he says, checking my IV bags. “Though he ain’t much of a loss. I didn’t want to inject you, but I had no choice. Couldn’t risk you shooting me too.”

  “You’ve had over twenty four hours to kill me,” I point out. “Do you enjoy playing with people?”

  “Why didn’t you just leave when you had the chance?” he asks, sighing. “This isn’t how we operate, all right? Stalking agents, hurting women.”

  “But you did.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?” When he turns away, I ask again. “Why do it? I’m not a civilian. You have to know the fallout of taking me down will be huge so, why? Wait, you said we. Who is we, exactly?”

  “I’m gonna go make you some food,” he says, walking away. “Try and stay still.”

  Try and stay still? Yeah, sure let me just lay here and wait for you to smother me with a pillow or talk me to death. For the immediate future, though, I don’t have a choice. My head is doing the cha-cha slide on repeat, and it is taking everything I have not to scream from the pain.

  Listening to him move pots and pans around is not helping. Has he ever cooked before? Jesus, it sounds like a high school marching band invaded his house. Finding the most comfortable position and settling in, I realize I have to pee. Perfect.

  When he comes back I need him to let me use the bathroom. Then I needed him to get rid of the restraints, but that means I need to convince him I am not a flight risk. Fighting back a smile, I remind myself if I’m good at anything, it’s getting my way. Well with criminals, anyway. With my love life? Yeah, not so much.

  He brings a tray filled with food. Peeking at it I see a bowl of soup, a sandwich (maybe), crackers, and a glass of water. Water reminds me of peeing, so step one, emptying the bladder.

  “I’m going to need a name.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not calling you why,” I tell him, and when he smiles, I dig deeper. “You’re aware of who I am and what I do, so you know it’s not likely I’ll succumb to Stockholm syndrome but, I think it’s only fair we be on a first-name basis while I’m here.”

  “Walker.”

  “What’s your first name, Walker?”

  “Maybe that is my first name?” When I narrow my eyes on, him he groans. “Travis,” he says, setting the tray close to me.

  “So Travis,” I start. “I’m going to need you to remove the restraints, escort me to the bathroom, and wait outside while I use it. You are super lucky I didn’t piss the bed because that wouldn’t be fun for either of us.”

  “Shit,” he says, “I hadn’t thought of that.” I want to tell him he obviously hadn’t thought of much of anything, but I bite my tongue instead.

  With great care he removes the wrist cuffs, the waist strap, adjusts the IV bags in his left hand, and helps me up with his right, escorting me to the bathroom. I feel weaker at this moment then I ever have in memory. My mission is pee, eat, get answers, and get out.

  Once I’m back in bed he doesn’t make any attempts to restrain me again, which I appreciate. Eating as much as I can, I lay back, assessing Officer Travis Walker.

  “You said I had a reaction,” to which he nods looking guilty all over again. “What exactly did you give me, Travis?”

  “I was given a syringe,” he says, looking away. “Told to use it if you got outta hand. Shooting my partner in the throat qualified as outta hand, so I did what I was told. Not like I needed a bullet in my throat.”

  “Thing is, Travis,” I explain, “My friend created that drug you stabbed me with. Also, its purpose is for helping cancer patients, not public consumption. For it to be effective it’s to be used on a specific person in a very specific way; that person is meant to be very ill. Do I look ill to you?”

  “I get it.”

  “I don’t think you do, Travis,” I growl repeating his name. “Whoever is paying you to hold me will kill you. Let me share something with you, seeing as we have time and all. I could rip this IV out, be out of this bed with the tubing cutting off your oxygen supply before you blink, but... I think you were brought into something that doesn’t sit well with you, am I right?”

  “I’m just supposed to hold you until I’m told otherwise.”

  “You believe that when I arrive to my next destination you won’t be eliminated? That partner of yours I killed? Your boss knew if he drew, I’d kill him. Yes, it gave you the chance to grab me, but your partner was replaceable, as are you. I’m a DEA agent, Travis. I’m here to put a stop to this. If you don’t walk away now, I can’t let you walk away later. If there’s anything you want to tell me, do it now. The clock is ticking for both of us.”

  Seeming to make a decision after minutes of quiet, he stands up and walks over to the window. When he turns I see that he’s remorseful. “About five months ago we were ordered to keep an eye on a woman.”

  “The woman�
�s name is Macy,” I say, and when he flinches I nod my head to proceed.

  “I didn’t want to fuck with her,” he replies. “But orders were orders. Then all sorts of crazy shit happened and someone took her, so we were told to stand down.”

  “The men who took her were killed,” I remind him. “It was quite beautiful, really; people tend to underestimate her.”

  “I heard she beat one with a hammer.”

  “She did,” I say. “But then she took a bullet to the stomach that stole the life of her child, and we almost lost her twice.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Listen,” I offer. “You’re in over your head. Let me call my team. You can leave here, I won’t roll on you. But time is running out.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Travis,” I start. “Who gave you the order?”

  He doesn’t want to roll but, I can tell he’s on the fence; I’m so close, I can feel it. “Travis,” I begin again “The order, who gave it?”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but then a man walks in and he stops talking. Clearly he knows the guy, because he doesn’t look nervous. The man walks straight up to Travis getting in his space. Then there was a soft whoosh, followed by Travis hitting the floor, and around his head a pool of bright red blood surrounds him. He was shot point blank in the head not ten feet from me. My eyes close at the scene before me. Blood, so much blood, and Travis’ brain matter coating the back wall have me holding back a gag. I cannot believe that just happened.

  “Hello, Special Agent.”

  “Fuck. You? Really? Why am I not surprised.”

  “Miss me?” he asks, keeping a distance from the bed. When I don’t answer he produces what looks like a tranq gun. Fuck me, what in the hell is in that thing?

  “This is going to hurt,” he says, aiming it at my chest. “A lot.” Then he touches the trigger. The dart flies fast, embeds itself in my chest, the pain is so fast, so intense, I black out from it almost immediately. But not before I notice him flinch, like he didn’t want to do it but he fucking did it anyway.