by Lyle Howard
Gabe walked up to the doors again, this time noticing that the camera was panning with him, following his movement. There was a digital keypad on the wall to his right, with a slot for sliding a card key for access. The light on the keypad was red, and when Gabe reached for the brass handles on the doors, they wouldn’t budge. Above him, the camera whirred and the lens grew longer. Gabe turned his face to the lens so whoever was monitoring the door could get a clear identification. Seconds later, the keypad buzzed and the light turned from red to green. Once again, Gabe pushed on the handles, and this time they gave way.
The lobby of the Tower of the Americas was cold, deserted and smelled from a fresh coat of floor wax. An information booth sat unattended in the middle of the vestibule, while flags from every country in the South and North American continents hung limply around the perimeter of the vast room. Gabe’s wet rubber heels squeaked on the black marble floor as he made his way toward the bank of elevators just ahead of him. Again, a security camera mounted on the ceiling appeared to be tracking his every movement. Nearing the elevators, he noticed that none of the floor indicators were lit, but, as if on cue, a single lift came to life as he approached it. Then, like the gaping mouth of some ravenous beast, the mirrored doors hissed open and Gabe warily stepped inside.
One by one, the floors clicked by. The ride was only 15 seconds in its entirety, but seemed interminable to Gabe. His mind was a whirlwind of different thoughts as he stood in the back corner of the lift. His wife and daughter, his son, his partner—they all swirled before his eyes like a kaleidoscope of lost opportunities. Nothing had worked out as he planned. He had always been too preoccupied, too self-centered to notice that they had all slipped away.
Gabe tugged on the collar of his shirt, suddenly aware that he was sweating profusely. He was certain what lay beyond the mirrored doors, and his idealism had all but dissolved. How could he have thought that one man could make a stand against such overwhelming odds? All he could hope to do was negotiate for his son’s life. What more could they take from him? He had cheated death one too many times, and now death, in the form of a red-haired Amazon, was about to even the score. Gabe’s demeanor was detached. He had nothing left to lose.
The elevator lurched to a stop on the 15th floor, for a moment it hesitated, and then the doors slid open. Gabe exited the lift cautiously. Accompanied only by the sound of his own shallow breathing, Gabe stuck his head out and peered warily in both directions. He was in the outer lobby of Worldwide Dispatch Incorporated, and the room was uninhabited. A single beam of light from the ceiling illuminated what he figured to be the receptionist’s desk. He surveyed the photo murals of the company trucks on the surrounding walls. The room was decorated with frescos of planes and trains that only existed to perpetuate the illusion of actual commerce. Two grand mahogany doors loomed before him as he made his way slowly across the office. He made sure one last time that his weapon was still in place before he reached for the handles.
“Ah, Mr. Mitchell,” a voice boomed out, “punctual as well as intrepid. Do join us.”
The inner office was cavernous. The entire rear wall was a picture window that looked out onto the city. Cutting across the horizon, a Metromover train streaked by on its monorail track, heading downtown.
“Dad!” young Casey Mitchell cried out. He was seated in the middle of the room, his ankles and wrists bound to a chair with plastic zip ties.
Gabe hadn’t taken two steps into the spacious office before a pair of hands began to brusquely frisk him from behind. The hidden gun was quickly discovered and yanked out of his waistband. Gabe turned to see who was shaking him down and he wasn’t surprised to find his ex-captain, Leon Williams, now brandishing the weapon.
Gabe shook loose of Williams’ grip and ran to his son, kneeling before him. “Are you okay, Casey? Have they hurt you, son?”
Casey shook his head, his long hair flopping into his tear-filled eyes. “I’m alright, Dad, but you shouldn’t have come.”
Gabe brushed the hair out of his son’s eyes. “You think I’d let anything happen to you, tiger?” he whispered into the boy’s ear. “Just stay cool, and you’ll be home before you know it. I love you, you know that, right?”
His son’s lips were quivering. “I know it. I love you too, Dad.”
Gabe wiped Casey’s cheeks clean and kissed him gently on the forehead before he stood up. “Okay Bock, I got your message, and now I’m here … so let my boy go. I’m the one you want; he’s got nothing to do with this.”
August Bock sat behind the largest, most ornately carved desk that Gabe had ever seen. The head of Worldwide Dispatch was flanked on one side by Damon Washington while Shayla Rand stood on the other. Bock was dressed in an Italian-cut, crimson blazer with a black shirt and matching tie. As he pushed his wheelchair away from the desk, he wore a toothy smile that Gabe had seen a thousand times before … on criminals who were being shipped off for observation. “As much as I’d like to, Mr. Mitchell, I believe Master Casey knows a bit too much for his own good. I think it would be best for everyone concerned if he share your fate,” he said, pointing to the Irish assassin. “But don’t worry: unlike your death, Shayla has assured me that the boy’s demise will be quick and painless.”
“Dad?” Casey whimpered.
Gabe instinctively stepped between Bock and his son. “Don’t worry, Casey. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Bock rolled from behind the desk with Damon Washington trailing close behind. Shayla Rand stood in place, motionless and unblinking, her eyes trained on Gabe. “Ah, the paternal instinct in full spectacle. How touching,” she seethed.
Gabe put his hand on Casey’s head and turned to Bock. “I thought killing an innocent child would be beneath you, but I guess I had you pegged wrong. You’re not a champion of justice like you’ve convinced yourself you are. You’re just a delusional mother…” Gabe caught himself in front of his son, “…spiffed up in a $1,000 suit.”
Bock laughed. “I can’t believe you would think killing your son would trouble me. Obviously you don’t read the newspapers or watch television. I will do whatever it takes to carry on my work … and neither you, nor your son, mean more to me than a minor distraction.”
Gabe raised a curious eyebrow. “So why not pull the trigger yourself?”
“Excuse me?” Bock asked.
“If you believe killing me is so righteous, why don’t you take the gun from this contemptible excuse for a police captain and kill us yourself? Why do you need someone else to do your dirty work? Your balls not functioning anymore either?”
“Insolent to the end, Mr. Mitchell,” Bock laughed raucously. “I knew there was a reason I liked you. But to answer your question,” his face turning to stone, “I wouldn’t have the slightest qualm about putting a bullet into each of your brains, but I’ve promised that pleasure to someone who wants it even more than myself.”
Gabe looked over at Shayla Rand, whose emerald green eyes seemed to suddenly sparkle in the light.
“I’m sorry that I’m not going to be able to stick around for the final curtain, Mr. Mitchell, as much as I would like to,” Bock pouted, “but, thanks to you, it seems that my lease here has suddenly expired.” He looked questioningly at Gabe. “I am assuming that Nathan Waxman is still alive and kicking as well?”
The corner of Gabe’s mouth curled upward. “You bet your sweet ass he is.”
“What a pity,” Bock frowned. “Well, you know what they say: if at first you don’t succeed…”
Gabe stepped to his right, blocking the path of Bock’s wheelchair. “Whatever you do to me, I think you should reconsider putting Nathan Waxman’s name back on the top of your hit parade.”
“And why is that?” Bock asked.
Gabe made sure his words sunk in. “Because he didn’t kill his wife.”
“Come on, August,” Washington urged from behind. “The plane’s waiting. We’re going to be late.”
Bock grinned slyly.
“And I’m sure Mayor Waxman has convinced you of that himself?”
Gabe shook his head. “He didn’t have to convince me; I trust my instincts. But, if you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask your sidekick here?” he said, nodding toward Washington. “He knows the truth.”
The man guiding the wheelchair fluffed off the question. “You’re not taking any of this seriously, are you, August? This guy would say anything right now to save his son’s skin. He’s playing you.”
Bock’s good eye darted back and forth between his trusted pilot and Gabe. “I’m sure as a former prosecutor like myself, Nathan Waxman has made a persuasive case in his own behalf for you, Mr. Mitchell. But like you, I trust my instincts. I can’t begin to count the number of convicted felons that have lived with treachery for so long that they themselves begin to believe them as the truth. I’m convinced this fantasy world is where Nathan Waxman now finds himself residing.”
“The jury was convinced of his innocence,” Gabe argued.
Bock grinned knowingly. “Robert Frost once said: a jury consists of 12 persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer.”
“So you’ve never even considered the possibility that he might not have committed the crime?”
Bock held up his right hand and examined his perfectly manicured nails. “I’ve studied the case files. Guilty as charged.”
Gabe shook his head. “You’re dead wrong this time. The man that had Waxman’s wife killed now sits at the Mayor’s desk, and your pal here knows it.”
“He’s babbling,” Washington blurted out. “Why are we even listening to this bullshit? Let Shayla have her fun already and let’s get out of here.”
“I have to take my colleague’s side on this matter, Mr. Mitchell. Damon has never been anything but loyal to me.”
Washington was grinning behind Bock like a jack-o-lantern.
“You may as well have patches over both your eyes,” Gabe said, regretfully. “You’ve been blinded by your own ambition.”
Bock pointed toward the office door and Washington began to push him toward it. “Well, I must be off. My helicopter awaits on the roof, ready to shuttle me to my plane, and soon I shall be planting my roots elsewhere. Perhaps somewhere less humid, I should think. I haven’t quite decided yet.”
“And just like that, it’s over?” Gabe asked.
Bock held up his hand for Washington to stop pushing. “Mr. Mitchell, regardless of Nathan Waxman’s guilt or innocence, you and your son have become a liability to me, and must be dealt with accordingly.” He paused. “I will make you a promise though: I promise to keep my eye on His Honor’s situation, and should he prove to be innocent as you claim … I promise to have an extra two dozen roses delivered to both you and your son’s graves in a show of my heartfelt remorse, how’s that?” He cocked his head back and began to laugh again.
Washington turned to Shayla Rand. “No fooling around with them this time. The chopper’s already primed, and I want to lift off in less than five minutes.”
Gabe looked over at his Captain who still had the pistol poised and ready. “Feeling good about yourself, Captain?” Gabe muttered under his breath.
“So long, Mr. Mitchell,” Bock said, as Damon Washington escorted him out through the office doors. “You were a worthy adversary.”
50
“Let’s just get this over with quickly,” Williams urged, “I don’t want to miss our ride out of here.”
Shayla Rand waited for the door to close before she stepped from behind the desk.
“If your finger even twitches on that trigger,” she said to Williams, “it will be the last muscle you ever move. I have a score to settle,” she said as she ran her hand along the jagged scar on her face, “and if you interfere with me, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Gabe moved to his right to keep himself between the woman and his son. In any other venue, Shayla Rand would have been considered a perfect 10. Even with the hideous scar, she was as beautiful as she was lethal. Her hair was dyed bright crimson to match her skin-tight red leather jumpsuit and matching heels. Circling like a hungry predator, she oozed a deadly sensuality that she manipulated as easily as any other weapon.
“You don’t need to protect your son, Gabe. Although killing him first would probably reduce you to a blob of quivering mush, I want you at your best. I want him to see you ripped limb from limb, and then I’ll just snap his neck quickly … like a dried twig.”
“Dad!”
Gabe glanced over at Leon Williams. “Nice gang of characters you’ve climbed into bed with, Cap. I hope they’re paying you well.”
Williams lowered the gun to his side. “I didn’t have much a future left here with you and Waxman rising from the dead. They’re giving me a new identity and plenty of cash to live the good life overseas. So, I wouldn’t worry too much about me, if I were you. I think you’ve got enough on your plate at the moment.”
Gabe gritted his teeth. “Well, if I were you, Captain, I’d make sure to fasten my seatbelt on that chopper out of here. You’re just as big a liability to these people as we are.”
Gabe could see the hesitation on Williams’ face, and it made him feel good to know he had struck a nerve. He didn’t think he had much time left, but what little he had, Gabe decided to spend like Johnny Appleseed, planting seeds of doubt wherever they might have a chance of blossoming.
“Enough talk,” Shayla shouted.
Her left heel shot up in a crimson blur, catching Gabe squarely on the side of his face, whipping his head savagely to the right.
“Dad!” Casey screamed.
“Shut your mouth, boy,” Shayla growled at the youngster, “this is only the beginning.”
Gabe was still reeling from the first blow, when Shayla caught him with a vicious roundhouse punch that knocked him backward over a glass coffee table. He was on his back, blood streaming from a gaping wound on his upper lip. The taste of his own blood was bitter, and he spit it out.
“Get up,” Shayla yelled as she bounced on the balls of her feet in classic kickboxing style. “Get up or I’ll kill your son like I killed your partner.”
“Shayla,” Williams interrupted, “I think we’d better hurry.”
She turned to Williams with a glare that would have curdled milk. “Speak to me again, and you’ll never leave this office alive!”
Gabe had to summon every ounce of strength to push himself up off the floor. It sounded like there were a billion wasps making a nest inside his head, and it felt like they were all stinging him at the same time.
“I told August I should have killed you in the alley when I had the opportunity,” she announced to Gabe, who was staggering up from his knees. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
“You killed Joanne Hansen?” Gabe asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Of course I did … with your gun after you collapsed. I killed that big galoot too. It was either him or us.”
Too much information to absorb. “Just let my son go. He can’t possibly do you any harm.”
Shayla flexed her fists. “Where I come from, children spend their entire lives avenging the deaths of their parents. Do you really think I’d let that happen here?”
“Please…” Gabe begged.
“Dad!” Casey struggled, rocking his chair back and forth in an effort to free himself, but the plastic straps held firm, digging deep into the tender flesh of his wrists and ankles.
Shayla did a front-facing scissor kick, catching Gabe just beneath his chin. If he hadn’t brought his left arm up to slightly deflect her foot, it might have taken off his head. Regardless, the power of her leg snapped his neck back with such force, he thought he felt his teeth rattle.
Gabe stumbled backward against Bock’s desk with Shayla lunging toward him. He managed to roll to his left, but she still caught him with two of her razor-sharp nails across his right ear. Gabe had his back to her now, and she hit him with a fierce jab just above his kidney, sending ne
arly all the air out of his lungs. He was gasping for every breath as he searched frantically for anything he could defend himself with. His eyes were wide open, but he was practically blinded by the intense pain in his lower back and head. He groped across the top of the enormous desk and came away with a Lucite paperweight. With all the strength he could muster, Gabe brought the clear weight around in a sweeping arc. Shayla was too fast, too adroit, to be caught off guard by Gabe’s slow-motion haymaker. Her arm shot out to block the punch, and the paperweight flew harmlessly across the office.
Shayla yanked Gabe off the desk, spun him around, and held him up by his collar. She pulled him so close; he could smell the leather and feel her hot breath on his face. Their eyes were mere inches apart as she reached up and dipped the tip of her finger in the blood that poured from the cut on his mouth. “This is what I wanted,” she purred as she touched the bloody finger to her tongue. “Now I have your taste.”
Gabe’s left arm came out of nowhere, rising upward with all of his weight behind it, catching Shayla point blank in her midriff. The air blew out of her lungs in one shocked gust. She teetered backward, her face as red as her dress, and her eyes bulging. Gabe continued forward, keeping his head down, giving his opponent as small a target as possible. Shayla had been surprised by the uppercut, but hundreds of sit-ups a day had toughened her abdomen into a rock-hard slab of muscle. She winced a bit, rubbed her hand across the damaged area, and just as quickly was ready to retaliate.
Shayla stood her ground against the approaching onslaught, blocking every one of the feeble counterattacks, and landing her own powerful combinations to the sides of Gabe’s head. Blood and spittle flew from Gabe’s mouth with each new blow. His face was hideously swollen, the initial redness already fermenting into grisly purple and black bruises.
Casey was crying and screaming uncontrollably, no longer fearful of his own fate, but petrified of the unmerciful beating his father was taking. With each kick, with every punch, more blood sprayed from Gabe’s disfigured mouth, hitting everything within a couple of feet of where he stood staggering. Casey was spattered head to toe, and, as much as he wrestled against his restraints, the young boy was helpless to do anything about his father’s predicament.
