I, Weapon

by Vaughn Heppner

  The girls started walking again.

  Bannon lifted the gun and fired, BOOM, BOOM. He wasn’t used to the Browning, and the first shot went wide by a centimeter. Snow ducked, and the second shot was off too, but Snow moved the wrong way. The bullet smashed into the man’s shoulder, spinning him, and he went down hard.

  The girls screamed. Other people looked around wildly, threw themselves down and crawled behind the nearest benches.

  The other operative surprised Bannon by pulling out a small submachine gun. What were they thinking bringing that kind of weaponry to a theme park? People screamed louder, a few backing away from the man, others turning and running.

  Bannon tightened his grip. He now knew the Browning sights were off to the right. As the operative brought up the submachine gun, tucking the folding stock against his shoulder and swiveling toward him, Bannon fired, BOOM, BOOM. Chunks of skull, flesh and hair blew off the operative’s head. His weapon flew backward and he toppled to the cement with a thud.

  Twenty or thirty people sucked air at once. Then shrill screams pierced the air. Men, women and children crashed against each other. They clawed to get away. Some fell in their fright, scrambling up madly, with a few crawling, skinning their knees, leaving bloody smears on the cement.

  “We have a shooter,” a man panted in Bannon’s ear, the sound coming through the earbud.

  “Snow?” Max said. “What’s going on down there?”

  “He shot me,” Snow said.

  “You’re down?”

  Bannon stood up among the bushes. He and Snow locked eyes. Snow started to roll away but BOOM, Bannon corrected his aim and Snow’s throat exploded. BOOM, one more slug in the chest rocked him.

  “Snow!” Max shouted. “Answer me.”

  Bannon dropped down. He crawled through the jasmine bushes, using the vegetation to cover his escape.

  With meaty smacks and the ripping of clothes, the crowds jostled and fought against each other. Among the screams, others swore and shouted questions. Some stampeded. That accelerated the panic and drove the screams even higher.

  Bannon took out the sound suppressor and screwed it back into place. To paraphrase Mao, he would use the crowds—the people—like a fish in water, swimming to his enemies and eliminating them one by one.

  ***

  Max knelt on the roof of the ATS Building. The Institute was across the street from Great America. He had the butt of the sniper rifle tucked against his shoulder. He was far from the action and effectively out of sight of everyone within the theme park, but he was well within the parameters of his superb rifle. He watched the surging crowds through the scope, hunting for Bannon.

  How could one man do all that? Look at them. The entire amusement park was alive with movement. It was like an old-fashioned Western, a cattle stampede. Cowboys had used that trick sometimes when Indian attacks became too powerful.

  What did the assassin want? He wanted to see Parker, yeah. But at this cost? The man must realize the Santa Clara police were on their way in droves now. He was the assassin of the Supreme Court Justice. He needed to hide, not attack frontally like this. It was madness.

  Max’s throat tightened. He saw Reed, the observer. The man pointed into the crowd.

  “There he is, over by the cotton candy stand,” Reed said.

  Using the high-powered scope and following Reed’s instructions, Max—

  There! Max spied Bannon. The man ran at the same speed as the people around him. The shape of the head, the hair and the neck—Max led the bastard. Bannon was running away from Reed. Max squeezed the trigger. The kick smashed against his shoulder. The force of the gunpowder hurled the 7.62 high-velocity bullet down from the building, across the street and into the theme park. It was a perfect shot.

  Unfortunately, Bannon dropped a second too soon. A woman ran into the line of fire, taking the bullet meant for him. She went down hard, as if a giant had slapped her back. Two teenagers tripped over her body, also going down.

  “Rotten luck,” Max muttered.

  He searched for Bannon through the scope. Fallen people wept. A teenage girl touched the woman he’d hit, yanking back a bloody hand. More screams, more scrambling, but no sign of the assassin. The man should be up and running again, right? Was he on his hands and knees, trying to crawl through the stampeding crowd?

  Use Reed. Reed will spot him for you.

  Kneeling on the ATS Building, Max moved the sniper rifle, bringing Reed back into focus. Reed still pointed, shouting instructions, and Reed turned his head as his mouth moved. Then Reed toppled backward hard from a bullet.

  What the hell? Bannon is hunting us.

  Max clenched his rifle, searching the surging crowd. Breathe evenly. There! Max squeezed the trigger, took the jolt to his shoulder…and a man went spinning with a high-powered slug drilled through his thigh. As the man spun, his face became visible. He had a beard. It wasn’t Bannon.

  “Jim,” Max said into his headset microphone. “Where are you?”

  “I’m headed to the park,” said Jim.

  “Come up here. I need a spotter.”

  “Orders,” Jim said. “They’re sending everyone in to get him.”

  “It’s chaos in the park,” Max said. “That’s his element. Pull back and we’ll nail him from here.”

  “He killed LeBron,” Jim said. “I’m going in. Give me covering fire.”

  “You got it,” Max said. He was going to kill the assassin. It was just a matter of time now.

  -43-

  Unaware of the pandemonium nearby, Dr. Parker paced in her office, mulling over choices. She had kicked off her shoes and walked in her stocking feet.

  They should have terminated the assassin long ago. The trouble was it had been too delicious keeping Bannon as her tool. The irony of it…she grinned. It had always amazed her that Bannon had turned out to be the best assassin of the lot. Who would have figured Jocelyn’s husband could be so vicious? Parker both approved of and hated his mania for her stepsister.

  The best part, of course, was tormenting Jocelyn about it. How her stepsister had raved at her for what she had done to Bannon. Jocelyn had pleaded, begged and even threatened her. Yes, threatened. That had been so appealing.

  Jocelyn should have listened to her years ago. Parker’s stepsister had always thought the threats and carefully tallied marks in the Grievance Journal had been a joke. In the journal, she had written down each slight and hurt Jocelyn had directly given or indirectly caused from stepmother or father. No, it had never been a joke, ever. Each mark, each past slight had been and was being meted out to Jocelyn at exactly the intensity Jocelyn had attacked her with her airs, with her smugness and thousands of little hurts while they had been growing up as kids.

  “Who’s winning now, hmm?” Parker asked quietly.

  The door opened and her secretary stuck her head in.

  “Can’t you knock?” Parker snapped.

  “I have been knocking. I was worried something had happened to you.”

  “Oh,” Parker said. Sometimes she could get so absorbed with her thoughts that she shut out everything else. “Well, what’s wrong? Spill it.”

  “You have a phone call,” the secretary said. “It’s from Susan Bither.”

  Parker took out her cell and saw she had turned it off. She pressed a switch and brought the cell to her ear.

  “Susan?” she asked.

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Your voice is rough. How are you feeling?”

  “Not good,” Susan said. “Look. I’m calling about Bannon. I’ve been with him today, or last night, anyway. You must have learned that, right?”

  “Tell me quickly, please. We’re very busy today.”

  Susan took a deep breath, and it seemed as if she was hesitating. Finally, she said in a rush, “I know that Bannon’s wife is alive.”

  To Parker it felt as if her heart skipped a beat. A hole in her throat, it felt like a hole was there, letting her strength escape. This
was terrible. It was a disaster.

  “What?” Parker managed to ask in a raspy voice.

  “A while back, I overheard you tell Karl that Bannon’s wife was alive.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “It isn’t,” Susan said. “I’m calling to warn you.”

  “I don’t need a warning. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Besides, when did you hear Karl say such a thing?”

  “Not Karl, but you. You were telling him. It was in the building. You were talking to Karl in your office. The door was open and the two of you were arguing. I held back and I listened, I guess.”

  “You guess?” Parker asked. “Did you eavesdrop on me or not?”

  “I’m trying to warn you,” Susan said. “I knew you’d be angry, but I think your life might be in danger.”

  Parker remembered that awful day. Karl was clever. Correction, he had been clever. Bannon had taken care of the problem for her. She hadn’t believed her luck hearing Karl was dead, good riddance to that nosy intriguer. Somehow, he had found out about Jocelyn, and he had confronted her about it. Now it turned out that Susan had eavesdropped. That was intolerable.

  “No,” Parker said into the phone. “It sounds like you’re threatening me, but trying to disguise it as a warning.”

  “Max knows about this, too, by the way.”

  Parker fell silent. Max? That was bad. The man was insufferable enough as it was. Oh! Max knew. He had acted as if he had something over her. She’d have to take care of him now.

  “Doctor?” Susan asked. “Are you still there?”

  “Do you have another confession to make?” Parker asked in an acid tone. The little weasel, she knew how to take care of these blackmailers.

  “I, ah, wanted to tell you one more thing, but now I’m not sure I should.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Lull her. Regain her confidence. “Susan, it’s a horrible day. You know I’m overreacting. What more did you want to tell me?”

  “Bannon knows too.”

  Parker closed her eyes as she swayed. She shook her head. “What?” she whispered.

  “Bannon forced me to tell him.”

  “How could he force something out of you that he didn’t even know?”

  “He did. That’s all that matters now. He knows about his wife. He’s coming for you to learn the rest of the story. I don’t think anything is going to stop him.”

  “Yes,” Parker said softly. “Yes. He has to come for me. Susan!”

  “I’m here.”

  “Stay where you are,” She had to take care of this fast. Maybe the little weasel could have a relapse. Yes, that would be the best way to play this. “Who else have you told?” Parker asked. There was silence on the line. “Susan, are you still there?”

  “I’ve told several other people,” Susan said.

  She’s lying. She hasn’t told anyone else but she thinks it would be better if she had.

  “I’ll send someone for you,” Parker said, smiling grimly. She knew whom to send. “It sounds like you’re hurt. The Controller would want you away from any possible limelight. News people might question you and we don’t want that.”

  “I’m hanging up,” Susan said. “I have to go.”

  “Repeat the room number to me,” Parker said.

  “172.”

  No, it’s not, you guilty little weasel.

  Parker gripped the phone and she bit her lower lip. “I’m curious,” she said, striving for a lighter tone. “Does Bannon know where his wife is?”

  “…I think so,” Susan said.

  Parker disconnected and her stomach knotted. Did Bannon know? Could he suspect the location of his wife? Then why was he coming here? No! He hadn’t shown up yet, not even as Gemmell. The reason why—

  “He’s going to free Jocelyn,” Parker whispered.

  She flopped down onto a chair, put her elbows on the desk and grabbed two fistfuls of hair, thinking hard. She grabbed the walkie-talkie on the desk, switching it on.

  “Max!” she said. “Max, come in.”

  “This is Max, Doctor. Listen—”

  “You listen to me,” Parker said in a rush. “Ready the helicopter. We’re leaving.”

  “Don’t worry, boss. Bannon can’t get us here.”

  Parker scowled. These gunmen were yapping fools. They needed shock therapy to learn to shut the hell up until they were spoken to. The faint feeling returned as dizziness threatened. Yes, yes, that’s right. Max knew about Jocelyn.

  “Does the helicopter have fuel to reach Berkeley?” Parker asked.

  “Why would we go to Berkeley?” Max asked.

  “You know why,” Parker snarled, “the Pacific Heights Sanatorium.”

  There was a pause before Max asked, “Is that where you first fixed Bannon?”

  Max is trying to play you. Parker nodded as an icy calm steeled her nerves. “I’m not thinking about Bannon right now, but Jocelyn.”

  “Boss, you’re not making a lick of sense.”

  “Susan told you. I know she did because she just told me.”

  Max fell silent.

  “None of that matters now,” Parker said. “Start up the chopper. I’m heading up to the roof and we’re going to Pacific Heights. I have to get there before Bannon does.”

  “Bannon is here,” Max said.

  “In the building?” Parker shouted. Like a wave, a shudder swept through her, making her tingle with fear.

  “In the theme park,” Max said. “He murdered LeBron, Snow and the other operatives down there. The police are sending reinforcements, but Bannon has slipped out of sight again.”

  Ah, he must have believed the underground passage memory. She had given him that memory long ago for just a time like this.

  “Don’t worry, boss. I have my rifle. It’s chaos over there, but we’ll have things under control soon.”

  Parker shoved the walkie-talkie into her purse and surged to her feet. She ran for the door, in her hurry forgetting to slip on her shoes. She had to get out of here before Bannon sought retribution for all these years. She had to get to Berkeley, to the sanatorium. Then she had to get out of California with Jocelyn.

  ***

  Bannon ran with a mob of people around him. Most were wide-eyed. Some bayed like hounds. Others screamed. Around a third had their hands in the air as if they were riding one of the roller coasters.

  He’d heard Dr. Parker on the radio, as the earbud was still in place. He’d been using their own communication net to track his enemies and eliminate them one by one. Pacific Heights Sanatorium in Berkeley, that’s where Parker kept Jocelyn.

  As this section of the mob surged toward the exit, Bannon spied a helicopter lifting from the ATS Building. Max was supposed to be in it. Had Max been shooting people from across the street? Bannon had seen two innocents go down with bullets no doubt meant for him.

  My wife is in a mental institution. Is my daughter there, too?

  Bannon joined the throngs streaming out of the park. Sirens wailed: the sound of an American tragedy. More police came to help restore order. The ambulances came to help the hurt and wounded.

  I have to get to Berkeley. I need a car.

  Should he use the Ranger? No. He needed a different vehicle. He needed something faster.

  As Bannon raced with panting, crying tourists, moving into the parking lots, he spied several bike riders. One revved his motorcycle. Two others sat on their machines as they donned their helmets.

  There was his answer.

  Although he was winded, Bannon ran toward the motorcyclists. There was one bike in particular, a big one with low handlebars. It looked fast enough.

  More cops were coming, and surely the FBI was on his trail. He knew ATS wanted him dead. He was out of time. He needed speed, and he needed to be brazen.

  With air wheezing through his lungs he charged the motorcyclists, deciding the cops would have enough to worry about so they wouldn’t bother listening to a few frantic bikers.

 
; The first biker began to drive away. Another switched his motorcycle on. The one Bannon wanted—

  The biker had cinched his helmet and straddled the machine. He twisted the ignition key, pressed the starter switch with his thumb and revved the throttle. Bannon clouted the man on the back of the helmet. It was more to get his attention than anything else. The man turned, no doubt surprised and probably angry.

  Bannon grabbed him by the shoulder and heaved, propelling the man, toppling him off his bike and onto the blacktop.

  “Hey!” the man shouted, the word echoing in his helmet.

  The other bikers turned, blinking at him in surprise. One opened his mouth, saying, “You can’t do that.”

  Bannon straddled the vacated machine, kicked the kickstand and gunned the throttle as the owner scrambled up. The man reached for Bannon. The rear wheel spun, churning smoke, squealing. Bannon fishtailed out of the man’s reach. Then he shot for an exit as the front tire lifted. People screamed, darting to get out of his way.

  The front wheel hit the blacktop. Bannon’s teeth clacked together. He weaved around clots of pedestrians and barely missed a police cruiser whose right front tire hit a curb as the car entered the parking lot. With a metallic sound, the cruiser went up and down on its springs, and the police officer driving glared at Bannon as the motorcycle shot past. More cops followed the first car.

  “You!” a different police officer shouted out of an open window.

  Bannon crouched forward on the bike and he twisted the throttle, opening her up, picking up speed. He glanced in a rearview mirror on a handlebar. None of the police cruisers turned around. The cops had other worries now. He was just another motorcycle crazy to them, one more person fleeing from a shooting.

  Bannon snarled as he eyed the helicopter climbing into the sky. Berkeley and then Pacific Heights Sanatorium—he had to beat the helicopter to his wife and hopefully to his little girl.

  -44-

  “I don’t get why we’re running away,” Max said.

  He rode in the back of the helicopter with Dr. Parker. She was in her stocking feet and wore a lab coat over her dress. The arrogance in her face had vanished, replaced by fright. She leaned toward the open bay door, looking down at the pandemonium in Great America, at the sea of running people.