I swing the door open, big smile on my face. There are three large men standing there, men I recognize, men I would never smile at under any circumstances other than putting them in cuffs or the ground. There's a fourth to my left side, unseen until I feel a pinch at my neck, and I swivel to watch him pull a syringe away. I reach for the light, but before I get there, everything goes dark.
My bed feels unusually lumpy and uncomfortable, then I remember that I am not in it. The floor is hard, not flat by any means, creaking as the movement of what must be a vehicle causes strain in the joints. My eyes are closed, and when I open them it's still dark, but I get the picture. It's not that I can't see, it's that there is a piece of cloth a half inch in front of them. I can't be sure, but it seems to be a blanket, or a canvas sack, that covers me from head to foot. My legs below the bottom of my shorts feel the material, as does my cheek, and the exposed part of both arms. Likely another rental van or truck, me on the floor.
My mouth is full of something, and there is what I assume to be tape across the front of it. I can feel the stickiness against my cheek as I move, or try to move, my lips and tongue. I reach for the light and it is there, eager. I say a word, more intention in it that any word I have ever said before, "Perez," except nothing happens. The word does not come out clear, the intention and the garble are apparently not enough, and I am still me. It's a stupid comic book maneuver. The bad guys, without knowing it, disable the superhero. Clark Kent accidently put down next to a block of Kryptonite. If they came for me, they came for her, and there is nothing I can do about it.
The ride is painful, and not short. Every bump bruises my left side. My hands are in handcuffs, probably my own, behind my back, and I am sideways in a fetal position against the bare metal floor, protected only by the rough cloth. My head takes a shot or two as well, then we smooth out, I assume we have taken to a freeway. I listen, but they are not talking. No hint of where we're headed, no idea of where Kiana is. I keep the light in my hand. I am not strong enough to break out of the cuffs, but it reassures me to have it there, and the second I have the chance, these men will pay.
After what seems like hours, but could be anything, we exit back onto the surface streets, and very shortly pull to a stop. The engine goes silent and there are obvious preparations for departure. The cloth around me starts to move, and which confirms that I am in a bag, or suitcase, or some similar contrivance. I do my best to pretend to be out, not resisting or moving on my own, letting my body go where gravity takes it. There is now a continuous bumping, with my head in what my body thinks is the up direction. If I were a betting man, I'd think that one of the men was walking with me along as luggage. Whatever, it means that my chance, if I get one, is coming.
There is noise suddenly around me, as if we are walking down the concourse at the airport, many, many people on every side. Perez is right, these guys are completely arrogant. We have to do something about that. Then I hear mechanical sounds, bells, doors opening and closing, and we lose the sounds of the people, I realize it's an elevator, and headed up. Another bell, we move again, we must be walking down a corridor, alone. We stop, a door opens, we move again, and then the door closes.
Whoever is holding me shifts me to my front, what must be his right, and then I am falling, not far, and hit the floor. The bag, or whatever it was, leaves me. It takes everything I have not to make a sound. Clearly my well being is not high on their list of concerns, I am garbage spilled onto the floor, garbage that is anxious to return the favor.
Hands take me, manipulate me, sit me, and I'm in a chair. The cuffs are free and then back on, my arms secured around metal, probably the back of the chair. They take the cloth from around my eyes, but not the tape from my mouth. Bastards. I pretend to be asleep though it all.
My ears are not encumbered, but that is of little use. Their conversation is of the football playoffs and the Laker's game last Sunday, not anything about their tasks. Finally, the soggy lumpy thing I use for a brain has a thought. Maybe they are waiting for me to wake up. I accommodate them. Slowly, so as to seem groggy, I raise my head up, pretend to have trouble focusing, let my head sway a little from side to side.
If I could scream, I would. Perez is sitting, still unconscious, in a chair to my right, her mouth taped, a major blue and purple bruise on the left side of her face, what appears to be her blood on the side of her eye. Unlike Mr. Superdumbass, she put up a fight. Fuck them, they are dead men.
I scan the room. They are not all there, only the four kidnappers, and one more, a Middle Eastern man I have never seen before. He is tall and lean, wearing a set of nylon warmups, mid- thirties, shaved head, no beard. He would pass by without a second look on any street in LA.
There is an exchange of $20 bills among the men, they were betting on who would wake up first. The new man tells them to be quiet. I am looking out the window, discovering that the view is familiar, it's the Marquis, though not in the same room, they must have had another that we missed. It's a smart move. If we started a search today, this would have been the last place we would have looked.
"Don't worry, my friend," he says, calm, smooth, a light accent, "your partner should wake up soon and then we can begin." At that statement, Perez raises her head and smiles at him.
"Ah," he says, "she is the snake, who only pretends to be asleep to lure her victims. We should have known by how hard she fought."
He signals his men, who have begun returning and re-exchanging their money, realizing that the other side won the bet, not knowing that I have been awake for quite a while. One man, formerly known as Hammer, walks behind me, gun in hand, and puts the barrel of his automatic behind my head. The light is laughing at him, I am not nearly so confident. My grasp on it tightens. The new man is standing next to Perez.
"Officer Perez, my name is Ali," he is standing in front of her now, "We are going to take your gag out. Call out, or speak too loudly, and Mr. Samson will put a bullet into your friend's head. Do you understand?"
Perez nods her consent, her tape comes off, and a ball of fabric is removed from her mouth. She stretches her facial muscles and looks briefly my way.
"You have something I need very badly," Ali is now crouching in front of her, a foot and a half from her face. "Crane assured me you would keep it, unwilling to trust another. He also assured me that this man is not your lover, that in fact, you are a lover of women only."
What the frak? Not her type. Perez is a lesbian? Jen owes me big time. I have to find out the fucking truth from a terrorist? Then it occurs to me that right now, this is not the most important issue in my life.
"Even so, he is your partner and you are his mentor, and I think I can rightly assume that you would not wish to be responsible for his death." He stops talking and nods to the man behind me.
My cuffs come undone, and he pushes in a way that makes me want to stand. I bring my hands around to my stomach, he thinks for a second or two, and then cuffs me again, leaving my hands in front of my body. Perez is staring at me. I move my hands slightly in the direction of my mouth, and wink at her. Samson shoves me toward the door, I start walking.
"Mr. Samson will escort your friend to the roof. If he does not hear from me to the contrary, we will shortly watch your young friend falling past this window, a bullet where his brain should be. Tell me where my item is, and spare your friend that death, and yourself any personal unpleasantness that would follow. It would be shame for such beauty to be permanently damaged."
One of the other men holds the door, Samson stays at my back to let me feel the weapon in his hand. Both the light and I are laughing at him now, though he can't hear either of us. Samson pushes me out into the hall, in the direction of the elevator lobby. Behind me, I can hear Ali asking Perez again.
I walk quickly to the elevator, Samson caught by surprise cannot keep up. I have the "up" button pushed before he can catch me and replace his gun in my back. The elevator takes forever, but eventually we hear the welcome bell, and step insi
de. I push the top floor for him. I'm not sure what he makes of me, but I don't feel the need to speak to the dead.
We get off the elevator on 35, the top floor, and he points me toward the stairs. I move with all the speed I can muster into the stairwell, up to the roof exit, and out into the night. Mr. Samson catches me half way between the stairwell exit and the edge of the roof.
"There is no escape," he says, not knowing that I am in a hurry to jump. "Climb onto that scaffolding." He points to a construction scaffold which both clears the top of the wall, and is next to a 400 foot drop. I do as he asks, my handcuffs slowing me down. I turn back to him.
Samson points his Glock at me, and fires. I am so happy with him I would shout his name if I could. Instead, I let the force of the bullet impact hurl me backwards and over the side of the hotel. There is a searing pain where the bullet struck, and I, who stupidly assumed it would bounce off, have to face the fact that it is inside me. Perez is inside me too, though, and I will not fail her.
Physics tells me I have about five seconds until I hit the ground, which is more than enough time. I reach up and rip the tape from across my mouth, tearing some soon to be healed skin. The cloth in my mouth is not as easy, but it's gone by the time I pass the 27th floor. I can't see into the room, though I know they're watching. I wait another second until I'm out of sight.
Now. I have my hand wrapped around the light and speak, "For I Am Become Death, The Destroyer of Worlds" at the first word, the change happens. It is pure rage, power beyond my expectations, hatred of all which threatens what I love. This time the feeling doesn't leave me, but grows stronger with each word. The light is red, not white, and bursts from me with such intensity that it shatters dozens of windows in the hotel and bank, filling the air with the music of destruction, my handcuffs consumed into nothingness, and my clothes in shreds around me.
Molecules offer themselves in sacrifice pushing me upward to supersonic speed, more windows exploding as the shock waves hit them. I am in the room, and every man in it is silently on the floor as I get to "Destroyer."
For a few seconds, I stand unmoving, gathering myself. Perez is still in her chair, still awake, no more damaged than she was when I left.
"Thanks, Air Force," she smiles as she says it. "Ali is in the hall, you should be able to catch him."
Fuck me. I am in the hall at warp speed, but he is not there. I fly to the stairwell at the end of the hall, but he is not there. I fly back out and try the other stairwell, around the curve of the building, but he is gone.
I get back to the room, unlock Perez, and give her the bad news. We check quickly, and the three men on the floor are still alive. Not what I wanted, but the light knows best, or so I suppose. At least we'll have someone to interrogate. I grab one of their cel phones, dial 9-1-1, and report a large group of men and a shooting on the 27th floor of the Marquis.
"Do we stay or do we go?," I ask.
"There's no way we can explain what happened, is there?," she's looking at him/me. I nod, pick her up, and we are out the window into the night.
"I'm sorry I couldn't stop them from hurting you," I whisper in her ear, "and I'm sorry I can't fix it."
She shakes her head and gives me her patented ‘how stupid are you' look.
"I'm alive Air Force, I'm alive."
I fly to an area a few hundred yards south of my apartment, which I know is dark and usually empty this time of night. I have no feeling of being watched, and my eyes agree. Still holding Perez, I reach inside and squeeze the light. There is a small glimmer of escaping white from me, and a small giggle inside of me. I put Kiana down into the soft sand of the beach, she looks at me and says, "Thanks."
Then, "You have that stupid look on your face, Air Force."
I reach out to touch her left cheek. She pulls her head back slightly away from my hand, then lets me touch her. A surprised smile lights up the night.
"It's gone," I say, "The bruise is gone, and your cut is healed."
"Thanks. How come you didn't show me this ability the other night?"
"Because I don't have it. It must have been the Fog Bastards." She laughs. "And stop thanking me, you almost got killed again tonight because of me."
"And, I am still alive because of you, again."
We walk down the beach to my place, Perez interrogating me about my adventure with Mr. Samson, and the sounds she heard, then grab my cleverly hidden spare key, and go upstairs. As I'm changing into new clothes, Perez has a thought, and dashes outside. She's back a couple minutes later and on my phone, reporting that my FBI detail has been shot to death in their vehicle.
"Come on," she says as she hangs up, "All hell is breaking loose, we have to go in, and my gun and shield are at my place. We need to hurry."
I throw her the keys to Starbuck. "In that case, you better drive."
Chapter 18
The three men on the 27th floor of the Marquis are dead, shot execution style through the back of the head. A fourth man was also found dead in the room next door. It makes sense to us, but we can't tell anybody. Ali left the room to answer his phone. When he heard the exploding windows, he must have ducked into the adjoining room, waited until we left, and then finished off his team. Now we have no one in our custody, no one to ask where the gas is.
All four are former Rangers, specialists in counter terrorist operations who received bad conduct discharges for various offenses. They also all have sizeable amounts of money in their bank accounts, and recent charges on their credit cards in San Francisco, Las Vegas, and Salt Lake City. The point is obvious and not reassuring. The bad guys had two vans and lots of miles. They have been collecting methane and oxygen in small amounts in many places, making it impossible for us to trace, or to even know how much they have available. They also were so arrogant they didn't cover up their travel, assuming we couldn't catch them. So far, we haven't given them much reason to think otherwise.
Our plan, which was based on the assumption that they would be making last second large purchases of gases, has fallen completely apart.
The rooms in the Marquis were marked unusable for maintenance problems in the hotel computer system, which means someone on the inside. The FBI has crew downtown, interviewing the staff one at a time. Perez and I agree that they will find the culprit, not by an interview, but by who does not show up to work.
I learn all this in the wee hours of the morning, then around eight, Johnson lets me know it's time for me to go work Terminal 7. "I'd let you go home," he says to me, "but we're really short handed and I can use your help." So the world's strongest dumbass spends his morning helping little old ladies find their gate. I do call dad, and tell him not to ask why, but to get mom and him out of town for the weekend. Go check out the Las Vegas operation or the San Francisco operation for a couple days. There was a long pause on the other end, and then he agrees, and says he'll take Jen with them. I love my dad.
Perez comes by for lunch, buys me tacos, and we go down to my office, also known as the flight deck of a 757. Good news and bad news. One of the managers at the Marquis didn't show up for work this morning, and his picture was instantly familiar to Perez. When the FBI started acting as if he wasn't worth investigating, she argued that he might be the person in charge. Did we know who was leading this operation? No. Were any of the people we've identified likely to have mounted it? No. They bought it, at least enough to check it out. Bad news, they can't find our friend Ali.
I'm being paged on the radio. "Air Force 1," it's Officer Bradford, who brought her own lunch and was eating in the LAPD office. "Air Force 1, report your 20." In other words, tell her where I am.
"Red 18, Air Force 1, I'm at Gate 70B, on board the aircraft. Over."
"Roger, expect company. Over"
"Roger, out."
Perez looks at me, "Company?"
"Hey," I laugh at her, "I'm the one out of the loop here, if you don't know, how should I?"
Within a couple minutes, Sergeant Johnson and Special Agen
t Flaherty are staring at us through the floor to ceiling windows of the gate. We wave hello. Not long after, they are at the cockpit door, trying to decide without talking who walks in first. Flaherty wins. She looks around at the flight deck, and then looks at me.
"You sure it's legal for you to be here?," she has a puzzled expression on her face.
"Sure," I respond, "this is N702MP, she and I went to Hawai'i together last week. And besides, I'm teaching Perez how to fly."
They both look at Kiana, who has a mouth full of taco, not sure if I am telling the truth, but impressed either way.
"We came to talk to you about Hawai'i actually," Johnson is easing toward something. "What exactly did you do with that nozzle?"
I was wondering when they'd get around to asking. "I gave it to Pele."
Neither one of them has any idea what I mean, and from their faces, I would love to get them into a poker game.
"I put it into a 5,000 degree lava flow. It's gone." Now they get it.
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