by Pro Se Press
“Good night, Richard!” the voice of Garrett Khan rang out from the speakers. “Anton, take Mr. Monroe for his bath!”
And with those words from Khan, Monroe knew he had made the right choice in gambling with the blow to the head. Garrett Khan could have killed him a dozen times since he had arrived at Fenway. He could have had Monroe ambushed at one of many turns in the halls or shot him dead while he watched Winter pelted with baseballs. But Khan had not killed him quickly or definitively and that meant one thing, one very important thing: Khan was enjoying the game. So Monroe was down and apparently out cold; now Khan would play some more, continue his twisted fun. Monroe hoped to use that ongoing game to find a way to turn the whole damn table upside down and let it land on Garrett Khan’s swollen head.
The big Russian, Anton, knelt down next to Monroe. Monroe heard the sound of rope, felt his wrists being grabbed by large, rough hands, knew he was about to be tied up. Judging by Anton’s looks and manner of fighting, Monroe judged him to be a soldier of low rank, a minion of smarter, better trained men. Anton was not a man well-versed in the tricks of the spy trade and so he was, Monroe thought and hoped, unlikely to notice what his captive was about to do.
As Anton wrapped the length of rope around his wrists, which were behind his back now, Monroe turned his wrists just enough so that the bonds were not quite as tight as they could have been; the movement as the tying is completed leaves just enough slack to give the captive a chance to work his hands free. Anton had no idea. When the work with the rope was done, Anton lifted Monroe as easily as a man heaves a sack of laundry over his shoulder. Monroe, his head hanging down against Anton’s back, opened one eye and watched the floor pass below him. Behind them, he could see the two fallen Russians, and he could see Winter Willows, bloodied, naked, her head on his jacket, but still breathing. Anton carried Monroe through a door and they were out of the batting cage room.
Monroe took a big chance as they entered the next room. He twisted his head slightly and peered through the crook of Anton’s arm, hoping the movement would not attract the notice of either the big Russian or the watching Garrett Khan. Monroe could see ahead of them, upside down but clearly enough. The room they had arrived in contained a swimming pool sunk into the floor. From what he could see, Monroe estimated it to be about ten by thirty with a depth of eight to ten feet. He knew what Khan had meant about Anton giving him a bath.
They reached the edge of the pool and Anton bent down and forward, grunted, gave a mighty heave, and sent Richard Monroe over his head and into the water with a loud splash. Monroe hit the cold wetness and stayed in character, letting his limp body sink to the bottom, holding his breath to preserve the little air he had managed to pull in as he was thrown.
Chapter 18: The Umpire Strikes Back
Monroe knew he had to make it convincing. The water was cold and he used that to his advantage, letting the natural shudder surge through him, shaking his body at the bottom of the pool, making it appear that the chill was snapping him back to consciousness. He thrashed and twisted under the water, knowing that Anton was watching from above. He could feel the ropes around his wrists loosening, partly because of the way he had maneuvered his hands when being tied up and partly due to the buoyancy of the water. He could slip his hands free at will now but kept them behind his back, waiting for the right moment. With his legs, he pushed down against the bottom of the pool, forcing himself upward. He broke the surface, gasped for air, treaded water and watched Anton step forward.
The muscular Russian looked down at the struggling Monroe then turned and reached to his side. Monroe watched as he grabbed a six-foot-long metal pole with a brush at the end, a tool for cleaning the pool. The brush end came down hard, swatting at Monroe’s head. Monroe dodged once but knew he would be unable to avoid the next strike, his movements slowed by being immersed and trying to stay afloat. When the pole came down again, Monroe chose that moment to slip his hands out of the rope loops and reveal his freedom. He lifted his hands out of the water, over his head, and grabbed the pole, just above the brush, as it came down. He gave a strong yank and Anton, surprised by the resistance and thrown off balance, came splashing down into the pool with his prisoner. Monroe wasted no time. As soon as Anton’s head bobbed above the waterline, Monroe’s fist connected with the stubbly jaw. Once, twice, three times he struck Anton’s face. Not pulling his punches at all and knowledgeable on the subject of how and where to hit a man for maximum effect, Monroe had the larger man stunned and unable to stay afloat after that trio of blows.
Monroe swam over to the edge of the pool, pulled himself out of the water, shook himself off, and began to walk away, leaving Anton to drown if he did not regain his senses fast.
Monroe knew Garrett Khan was watching, but the Mongolian had yet to speak again, perhaps shocked by Monroe’s escape from the water. Monroe ran for the door on the opposite end of the room from where he had entered. Better, he thought, to keep going forward and see if anything he could use lay up ahead. Going back would do no good. He had to find his way to Garrett Khan and finish the game. It was, he knew, getting late early, as Yogi Berra had once famously said.
Through the door and into another hallway Monroe ran, still dripping and slowed by the weight of wet clothing. He passed several doors on either side; plain wooden doors with nameplates that he assumed were offices. He finally went around a curve in the corridor and came across a metal door with a lightning bolt painted halfway up. He stopped. The sign of electricity, he understood, might mean that he had hit a major jackpot.
He tried the door and it opened. He slipped inside, fumbled for a light switch and found one. For the first time since arriving at Fenway Park, Monroe smiled. He had found the electrical room. He scanned the walls, looking up and down the many rows of circuit breakers and switches and controls. On one wall was a map, a diagram of the major rooms and staircases and halls of the interior of the ballpark. He went closer, examined the schematic. He knew where he was for the room was denoted by the same bolt that adorned the door.
Now where would Garrett Khan be, he asked himself. Khan had been watching the whole game so he had to be where the cameras connected to monitors. Monroe found it. Security control room, one level above the electrical room and down a hall that curved to the left. Also, Monroe saw, halfway between his present point and where he suspected Khan was, a storage room sat. The map did not say what was stored there, but Monroe would make a stop, hoping to find something to use as a weapon.
Now he turned his attention back to the circuit breakers. They were quite neatly labeled. He checked row after row and finally found the right set of switches. “Security Cams,” the label said.
Monroe flipped the whole row and waited for the result.
“Oh bloody Hell!” shouted the voice of Garrett Khan over the speaker system, and Monroe knew he had just blinded his enemy.
Monroe turned and ran out of that room. He had no idea how many more men Khan had brought with him and he could not be sure that those cameras would not somehow be reactivated. He had to make the most of the time he had bought himself.
The storage room he had seen on the map was a twenty second run from the electrical room. Monroe made it there, trying to ignore the taunting cries of “Richard, where are you?” that came from Garrett Khan. Into the room he went, finding long rows of clothing racks upon which hung Red Sox uniforms, shelves that held cleats, and boxes of various other things necessary to keep a baseball team in operation.
Monroe stood in the center of the room and emptied his pockets, taking stock of what he had left in his possession. He took out his flashlight, tried to switch it on. No light, the pool had killed it. His cell phone was another casualty, water-damaged beyond any chance of resurrection. He tossed the phone and light aside. He stripped, quickly and completely, leaving his black clothes in a wet heap on the floor, only his underwear staying on. He grabbed new clothes from the racks, reaching for whatever looked like it was close to his size, pul
ling on the pants, jersey, and finally shoes of a ballplayer. He thought he probably looked ridiculous, like an old pro returning for an Old-Timer’s Day celebration, but he did not care; dry clothes were better than wet and that was all that mattered.
Dressed and dry, Monroe needed more, something to use for defense and offense. He looked around and his eyes caught sight of something in the corner of the room. He went there and started grabbing his new suit of armor. Within minutes, he had strapped on the garb of an umpire: chest protector, heavy plates to protect the legs from bats and balls, and the mask that came down like a sinister black cage to cover the face. The protective equipment was heavy but felt good, like the close-fitting pads of a samurai.
Feeling sturdy in the armor, Monroe then emptied one of the clothing racks and ripped away the wooden pole that stretched across the top of the rack to hold up hangers. It was not a bat, but it would do for some offensive ability.
Dressed and armed, Monroe left the storage room and headed back out into the hallway for the next round of his quest. He walked down the hall, passed a handful of other closed doors, ignoring them. He knew his destination: the security room on the floor above. He reached the stairs and started up. As he rose on the steps, he listened, heard nothing nearby. The voice of Khan had gone quiet and he hoped the silence indicated that Khan had gone into a panic now that he was oblivious to the location of his prey.
Monroe was now at the top of the stairs. He went through the door and into the next corridor. As he went, a figure came into view up ahead. He saw the khaki shirt of a United States Naval officer. He recognized the man from photos shown to him aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln.
“Dr. Swift,” Monroe called out. The traitor stared at him. Swift was a tall man of about forty. He looked disheveled, far from the crisp cleanliness one imagines when thinking of military officers. His hair was a mess and his clothes wrinkled, the look of a man who had been on the run and traveling fast.
“Don’t come any closer!” Swift shouted. His eyes were wide at the vision of armor and staff that approached. He pulled a gun and raised it.
Monroe thought it was over. The umpire gear might offer decent protection against fists or batons or even a bat, but a bullet would cut through it like a meteor through atmosphere.
Swift fired. Monroe instinctively twisted his body, though that would do no good. A cracking noise followed the gunshot.
Monroe was surprised to feel no pain. Then he understood. The most unlikely thing in the world had happened. Swift had missed. He had been nervous, his hand jerked, and the shot went wide.
Monroe waited for the next shot. He was sure that a man with military training, even if he was a ship’s surgeon, could not possibly miss twice, but the shot was never fired. Charles Swift, apparently a coward as well as a traitor, had turned and started to run.
Monroe pursued. As he began to run, he realized that the weight in his hand was less than it should have been. He glanced down as he ran. The pole from the clothing rack had taken the bullet meant for him. It was now half the length it had been before, a jagged spear instead of a long staff.
Monroe was heavy with the umpire gear but still fast. He closed in on Charles Swift, the distance getting shorter and shorter. Ten feet separated them, then five. Swift stopped, whirled, and raised the pistol again. The range was too close now: missing would be impossible. Monroe could not give him a chance to pull that trigger.
Monroe raised the broken shaft of wood and lunged forward, leaping at Swift. The gun did go off, but the bullet struck the ceiling as balance was lost and both men crashed to the floor. Monroe was on top and felt a sudden wetness on his face as the floor broke their fall. He pushed himself back up to stand and looked down at the body of Charles Swift. The sharp end of the stick had gone straight into Swift’s chest and blood oozed from the deadly puncture.
“A splendid splinter,” Monroe muttered, and he continued down the hall.
Monroe encountered nobody else in that corridor. Khan must have been unable to gather much support after his empire had been thrown into such disarray by recent events, Monroe guessed. The security room loomed just ahead and Monroe readied himself for arrival. He was sure Garrett Khan would be armed and hoped he could maneuver his way in without being shot dead in the doorway.
“Authorized Personnel Only,” the sign said. It was a windowless door; Monroe had no way of knowing what waited for him behind it. But he had no choice. He was not about to turn back. He had to hope for the best. If he was not instantly gunned down upon entrance, he would do what he could to survive. He paused for only a second, knowing that he was quite possibly about to come face to face with Garrett Khan. He pushed his emotions, although they were almost overwhelming, deep down inside his mind. Strong emotions were the enemy in situations where only clear thoughts and training could make victory possible; as much as Monroe wanted to avenge those that Khan had killed, Genevieve especially, and pay Khan back for what had been done to Winter Willows, he could not act impulsively. He had to use the judgment he had developed over years of hard experience.
He hit the door, twisting the handle as he shoved against it. It opened and he barreled inside, his eyes taking stock of the situation as quickly and thoroughly as possible. The room was small, about twelve feet deep. The walls were covered with television screens, now black with the cameras shut down. Control consoles sat beneath the monitors. Garrett Khan sat against the far wall, a pistol in his hand. He wore a tan suit, expensive, and a broad grin on his face. He was in a swivel chair. Another chair of the same style sat across the room from Khan, near the doorway where Monroe now stood expecting to be shot.
“Richard,” Garrett Khan shouted out, aiming the gun at his visitor, “you look ridiculous. Don’t come any closer or I’ll kill you now.”
Monroe, surprised Khan hadn’t shot him immediately, raised his hands. If Khan was hesitant or had some reason to wait, Monroe knew he had a chance to live, maybe even win.
“Take off the silly mask, Richard.”
“But I like the mask, Garrett,” Monroe said, deciding to play the game. If Khan wanted to talk instead of shoot, so be it. “It brings back memories.”
“Of what, your school days? Were you good at that silly game you Americans love so much?” Khan asked.
“Not particularly,” Monroe said, “but it reminds me of an old joke I heard as a boy.”
“Take off the mask, I won’t ask again. And the padding, too. I don’t like you in armor. When you’ve dropped it, sit down in that chair and tell me this joke you remember so well.”
Monroe, no choice left, took off the umpire’s mask, dropped it on the floor, followed by the protective pads, leaving just the Red Sox uniform. He sat, began to relate the joke he had mentioned to Khan. It was a stupid joke, he thought, but it had popped into his mind just then.
“One day, the devil calls God on the phone that connects Heaven and Hell. ‘God,’ Satan says, ‘I want to make you an offer. I hereby challenge you to a baseball game. Heaven versus Hell, usual rules, standard equipment. What do you say?’ So God just laughs, roars, hoots and chuckles for the longest time and then he says, ‘Satan, you’ve got to be kidding me! Up here in Heaven, I’ve got all the greats of the game: Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig and Cy Young and Ted Williams and a dozen more at every position! Who do you have in Hell that could possibly compete against those legends?’ And then the devil starts to laugh too and he says, ‘That’s easy, you bloody old bastard, I’ve got all the umpires!’”
“Not very funny, Richard,” Khan said. “Or maybe I’m just not in the mood. I have more exciting things planned. I know I could shoot you now and get it over with, but I want you to go out slowly after all the shit you’ve thrown in my face lately. Stand up and turn around!”
Monroe did as he was told. Behind him, he could hear Khan getting to his feet.
“If you try anything at all, I’ll kill you where you stand and then that poor injured woman in the batting room will die from shoc
k. But if you do exactly as I say, I promise you I’ll see that she gets to a hospital when I’m done with you. I know you think I’m lying and it really doesn’t matter if I am. That’s the best you’re getting from me. Now out the door and turn to your right. We’re going for a walk. I’ll be far enough behind you that you can’t spin around and come at me, but close enough that I can’t miss if I pull this trigger. I’m a much better shot than Dr. Swift. I can’t believe I heard him fire twice and still you came for me. Start walking, Richard.”
They traveled down the hall, Monroe walking at a steady pace with Khan maintaining a safe distance behind him. Monroe had finally gotten a good, close look at Khan, closer and clearer than on the interrogation video on the aircraft carrier or even at the restaurant in Paris. Khan was shorter than Monroe but thicker, more solidly muscled. Still, Monroe thought he could best Khan in a physical fight, considering his long experience. But that gun in Khan’s hand made that impossible to attempt.
“Stop at the next door,” Khan said. Monroe took a dozen more steps and then halted in front of a recently varnished wooden door. “Medical Center” was stenciled three quarters of the way up.
“Open the door and go inside, Richard. Stay to the center of the room away from the walls or equipment.”
Monroe went in and stood in the middle of the room. His eyes moved from side to side, scanning, taking in details. The room was larger than he had expected.
