Taker

by Patrick Wong

  Nicole realized what was about to happen, and she wasn’t sure whether she had gotten enough of the message across to protect her family. Now flustered and with her hands shaking from building panic, she started to look through her cards to make sure she’d read every one of them.

  The nearest agent started to unclip his gun from the holster and glared at Nicole with a deathly stare.

  “Mr. President, they’re going to tell you that I’m dangerous. But please think about what I said. Did you understand my message?”

  Nicole raised the cards again and was about to repeat the message, but right then the president let out a cry of pain and clutched at his chest.

  Nicole gasped, echoing the shocks of others in the campus crowd.

  “Back! Everyone get back!” commanded the Secret Service agent, waving his gun. Screams rippled across the crowd as a surge of people began to push backward in the chaos.

  Several plainclothes officers who had been standing atop speaker platforms pulled out sniper rifles hidden near the speakers and proceeded to take aim at Nicole.

  With alarm pounding through her, Nicole froze. She didn’t know what to do. Was that enough? Had she fulfilled her part of the deal? What would happen to her mom and dad?

  There was chaos all around her. The president was being aided by his staff, having collapsed on the ground, where he was now writhing in agony. Fright surged through her, but all Nicole could think of was her mom and dad and how they wouldn’t be safe unless she continued to say what she had been instructed to say.

  The agent nearest to her put his gun against her temple. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it now, or I have orders to shoot!” he commanded.

  She lifted her arms above her head to surrender, but she continued to speak. She was in a state of shock.

  “We have tried to rise up, but they crushed us. Then your western armies came and sided against us. Though there may be reasons you haven’t intervened for us, the Tazhbekistani people implore you to help the rebel factions in the south.”

  With a gun being held to her head, Nicole sank to her knees. Just before she bowed her head, her eyes caught a glimpse of Max.

  While everybody was running toward the exit, Max was sitting in a wheelchair and continuing to stare at the president, his hands clenched and a determined expression on his face.

  A different group of men started to surround her and the agents then. Unlike the agents, who were in suits or regular clothes, these men were in state police uniforms. An older officer in charge who had a familiar voice pushed the gun away from Nicole’s head. “Put that thing away, son. She’s not hurting anyone.”

  She felt the force of an open hand press her head down to the floor, and she didn’t fight it, nor did she flinch from the needle that jammed into her arm, administering some kind of sedative.

  Captured and drugged again, she accepted her fate and let the darkness seep in.

  Meanwhile, Back at PRESS

  “Do not put me on hold again. The president’s life is in immediate danger!” Bishop barked down the phone. He could tell Velasquez was itching to grab it from him and embark on her own brand of diplomacy. “I understand you have noted my information, but I am not a news agency or some kind of junior officer. I have orders to give to the top of your chain of command. Immediately.”

  Then he heard the words he’d been waiting for.

  “This is Agent Lowe, Secret Service.”

  “Lowe, at last. It’s Bishop from PRESS. The girl you have is known to be extremely dangerous and has killed without impunity.”

  “We know. We already have our guns trained on her.”

  “That’s not going to be enough.”

  “She is unarmed, sir.”

  “But that’s how she does it. She can kill without any weapon that you can detect. Take it from me. If the president is in any duress, I order you to shoot her now, or you will have an assassination on your hands.”

  “No!” Ben leapt forward and tried to snatch the phone from the agent.

  Bishop pushed Ben hard enough for him to lose his balance and fall backward on the floor. Velasquez rushed over to restrain Ben.

  Bishop moved in front of the TV screen and watched the frenetic activity of the news networks replaying footage of Nicole kneeling on the ground, shouting her message above the clamor. The agents, with their guns pointed at her head, started patting her down, searching for weapons — anything suspicious.

  “Damn it, listen to me!” Bishop shrieked. “Now, what’s she saying? Is she threatening him?”

  “From what I can see, her eyes are positioned to the left. She’s reciting something,” Velasquez reported as she watched.

  Behind Nicole, the president’s entourage was surrounding their charge.

  “I can see your agents are confused by this,” Bishop began. Velasquez had never before heard the diamond-cut tone Bishop was now using, but she knew it would be effective. “Understand that the situation is not as it looks. Shoot her now, or you will have to answer for why you did not follow my direct order.”

  Ben stood by helplessly as the order was given again. He could see a new wave of confusion cross each of the faces of the Secret Service agents at the scene. Unlike anyone watching the video stream outside of PRESS, Ben knew of the unreasonable commands that were being radioed into their headsets. Trained professionals ordered to shoot an unarmed American teenage girl who had surrendered.

  Bishop flicked on the TV’s sound.

  All the news channels had gone live with the incident, as it had two guaranteed ratings-boosters: a major political figure in mortal danger, and an innocent-looking, unarmed U.S. teenager, assaulted by government agents. The usually pristine and unruffled news anchors were glancing at each other somewhat nervously, presenting on the fly as the screen behind them showed the shaky, blurred footage of the standoff.

  “The Secret Service is receiving some kind of instruction,” the female anchor began. “But, Dan, the teenage girl — who we are just hearing is Nicole Aaronson — has already surrendered. She is on the ground and has her arms spread out. Why is she still a threat? What can the Secret Service be expecting now?”

  “It’s clear that there is more to this situation than we know,” Dan responded. “Her T-shirt shows that there’s no bomb vest on her. But it could be more complicated. Think of drug mules — could terrorists have developed a capacity for bombs to be inside a human being?”

  “But if they shoot, won’t the collateral be worse?”

  The male anchor held up his hand. “News just coming in. It’s reported that Nicole Aaronson was carrying a message from the Tazhbekistani rebels. Here is a transcript of what she’s been saying to the president.” He then heard a further instruction. A flicker of confusion. “My apologies; we can’t go to that now. But, in the studio, we have a terrorism expert from Columbia University…”

  “He’s being silenced by the network,” Velasquez said. She muted the TV.

  Bishop couldn’t take his eyes off the image of Nicole lying facedown on the ground. She looked up at the president as she said her final words, and then glanced up at the camera with an imploring look before sinking her head to the ground.

  “For the love of God, shoot her!” Bishop cried.

  A long pause. Amy, Ben and Barnard stood in the cabin of the jet, waiting for what would happen next.

  “Report back!” Bishop hissed.

  Another pause. Agent Lowe cleared his throat. “That’s a negative, sir. Not like this. Not live on the air.”

  And then, on the screen, the consequences rolled out.

  Three armed men hauled Nicole up from the ground and cuffed her. She remained focused and silent as they dragged her away. Enraged, Bishop threw down the phone.

  Ben found himself sinking back into the chair, his body flooded with relief. Amy sat next to him and placed her head on his shoulder. Amid what felt like a million confused feelings about Nicole surfacing right then, one emerged strongest: What was happe
ning to their friend?

  What’s Max Up To?

  The last time Max had experienced that level of chaos and panic, he had been back home in his village in Tazhbekistan. The helicopters had come out of nowhere, emblazoned with the crest of hope: the U.N.

  He had seen the hope written on the faces of those he loved. For a moment, they had emerged from their homes and greeted the beasts in the sky with outstretched arms as they would a returning loved one.

  But then the shooting began. The screams that followed were not just of fear, but of surprise. Of pain and disappointment. The dark angels looming above had been devils after all.

  Max had not broken his stare until then, but the memory of this made his efforts falter.

  It was enough anyway.

  Almost instantaneously, the president had collapsed to the ground, as though Max had been suspending him mid-air in a death ray. In some ways, that was exactly what it had been.

  He looked around him — there was enough panic and clamor for his next move to go unnoticed.

  Pushing down on the arms of the wheelchair, he lifted himself up and out of it.

  He gave his cramped legs a little kick — a few hours earlier, a large baseball bat had rendered them useless.

  Then, with a quick look behind him, he merged back into the crowd.

  Nice Afternoon

  The low hiss of Bishop venting his fury at HQ was the only noise in the PRESS jet aside from the engines as the aircraft banked left and approached the landing strip of Dulles International Airport.

  Velasquez had positioned herself in the seats near Ben and Amy, partly out of support, but also with the knowledge that during times of great distress, fresh intelligence material that may not have emerged before could slip out. She knew she looked as though she were deep into her emails, but she was eavesdropping for anything they might say. So far, they had whispered a few things, but they’d been careful to stay out of earshot.

  From the front of the cabin, Bishop barked his final orders, and then grabbed a moment to take a breath.

  He returned to the group, red-faced and with a frown imprint that told of how angry he had been for the past half-hour.

  “Damned fools,” he sighed.

  “Are they at least planning to use the cage?” Velasquez asked, hoping the Bureau was doing something right.

  Bishop nodded.

  “Cage?” Ben asked in his quiet way.

  Bishop glanced up. “You think she deserves a nice afternoon at Starbucks?”

  “You can’t prove she did anything!” Ben exclaimed.

  “Don’t worry; she’ll be comfortable,” Bishop responded.

  “What we’ve seen is purely circumstantial. The president collapsed while she was present. While she was giving him a message. That’s all.”

  “What message was it? She was bringing a message from Tazhbekistani insurgents — known terrorists and enemies of the state. She’s working against us now.”

  Barnard could no longer remain silent.

  “If she is, then it’s because your organization has done nothing to protect her.” He sat forward to bring himself into the debate. “In ancient times, she would have been worshipped like a god. You could’ve befriended her. Learned from her. And, in time, she could’ve ushered in a new era of peace this world has never seen before. Instead, your people have spat on her and hunted her down like a common criminal. You reap what you sow.”

  “I could’ve arrested her after she killed Agent Carter, but I didn’t,” Bishop replied. “I tried to show mercy. Now look at the damage she’s done.” Bishop waved off the professor.

  Barnard would not stand to be minimized, however.

  “That girl has powers beyond our imaginations. If the myths are to be believed, her path must be safeguarded.”

  Bishop sucked in his breath and began to rifle through a file that was sitting next to him. Finding what he was looking for, he glanced at Velasquez before facing Barnard.

  “With respect, Professor, I have seen firsthand the harm Nicole Aaronson can do. At almost every turn, my ‘organization’ — as you call it — has given her the benefit of the doubt. And absolutely, I now believe in a myth that tells us how people like her have existed among us for centuries. But in this century, a Balancer has already harmed at least one person through anger. And I don’t care if she was being attacked at the time. The law in this country tells us that we can use reasonable force to disable or kill an attacker.” He held up a photo of Agent Carter’s charred remains. “What I see here is not reasonable. That girl burned Agent Carter from the inside out. She would have realized the agony he must have felt as she did it, but she did not stop until she had killed him. This is the girl who just now looked to be under new orders from some kind of terrorist organization. I will stand by my assertion that she should have been shot. However, upon reflection, I understand the Secret Service’s reticence to go against appearances by shooting an unarmed girl on live television.”

  “This should be overseen by a higher authority.”

  “Really?” Bishop raised his voice. “Well, unfortunately for you, I’m the only authority here at the moment, so you’d better hope I don’t change my mind about the size of cage she’s in. Oh, and while you’re at it, why don’t you add this to your scrapbook.” He shoved the forensic photo of Agent Carter’s remains into Barnard’s hands. “Buckle up, everyone. We’re landing in five.” With that, Bishop strode back to his seat at the front of the cabin.

  “She’s not a monster! She’s kind,” Ben called after him. He looked to Amy for encouragement, but he didn’t receive the effusive stream of support that Amy would have ordinarily offered. She simply bowed her head and stared at her feet.

  In the span of 24 hours, everything had changed.

  I Want the Whole Truth

  It was a little like someone had pressed the “repeat” button on Nicole’s life. She had awoken in a walled chamber again, surrounded by flowing, cloudy fluid. But this one was smaller and narrower. Between the two, she liked DuBois’ cell a bit more.

  Food had also appeared from somewhere while she was sleeping, and she had eaten it hungrily. She knew it had been at least a day since the Virginia University incident. The piercing light in this place was different from that in DuBois’ laboratory, and it provided maximum disorientation.

  The first person she spoke to was sitting on the other side of the glass, not on a TV screen. Nicole recognized this guy. Dark beard, balding, looking wearier than she remembered him. This was the agent who had come to her house with Agent Carter and lied to her. He looked angry as the screen cleared and he adjusted his jacket.

  Nicole made a mental note not to trust anything the man said. She watched him for a few moments.

  “So,” he said, and then he sat back.

  “So?” Nicole responded.

  “So, tell me what happened. And I want the whole truth.”

  “OK.” Nicole drew a deep breath. “First of all, can you tell me if my mom and dad are OK?”

  This surprised Bishop. “Sure they are. I spoke to your dad today. And if you cooperate, you might too.”

  Nicole sighed with relief. “Could you make sure they have a guard or something? The people I was sending a message for threatened their lives.”

  “Why would we do anything to help you?” Bishop leaned forward as he said this.

  “They’re innocent.”

  “Sure they are.” Bishop scoffed.

  “Please!” Nicole was breaking and she knew it. She had tried to remain strong, but the past few days had pushed her to her limit.

  “Tell me the truth, and we’ll see.”

  Nicole gathered herself. “OK.” She took another deep breath. “So, you have to know that I didn’t hurt the president. I understand that he was hurt, but I have no idea what happened to him. It wasn’t me.”

  Bishop gave her a skeptical look, then opened a compartment on his side of the glass. With a flick of a switch, the compartment then ope
ned on Nicole’s side, and she took out a folder.

  Nicole opened it and glanced down at the pages. It was a med report, with “John Lane Percival” inscribed on the front under the red words “Top Secret.” A 3-D image of what looked to be his lungs showed shadows and scars and … burning? Nicole lifted her eyes to Bishop for some guidance.

  “The president is critically ill. Looks a lot like what you did to Agent Carter. It has all the trademark damage of your handiwork.”

  “OK, truth? I had to do what I did to Agent Carter. I’m sorry. It was him or me. Carter was a monster, and he got what was coming to him. But I swear on my life, I didn’t hurt the president!” Nicole folded the file shut.

  “Then who did?”

  “I don’t know! You asked me to tell you the truth, and I have. I don’t know what more I can do. How can I tell you about something I don’t know myself?” Nicole protested.

  Both of them sat in silence for several minutes with their gazes fixed on each other. Nicole was the first to break the quiet. “How about this: I can start from the beginning. Let me tell you the truth. You can wire me up to a lie detector — anything!”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “But maybe then what I say can match up with what you know of what happened. You’ll be the judge of what I say. Please?”

  After a moment’s consideration, Bishop shrugged, and so Nicole found herself explaining the whole story — how DuBois had kidnapped her before she’d had time to save her friends, and then the Tazhbekistan connection and the deal to save her parents. It took a while, but it all tumbled out, sometimes with Nicole steadfast and composed, other times with her battling a torrent of emotions.

  Bishop listened intently to it all. The voice recorder was on and capturing everything for analysis later. After Nicole had finished, the agent simply sat back and blinked.

  “Did you feel for the Tazhbekistanis’ plight?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”