“I’m sorry,” is all she says. She doesn’t press me for more, and I breathe a small sigh of relief.
We sit a while longer in the still of the night, content to enjoy the moment of peace. After a while, she rises and smiles down at me.
“I need some sleep,” she says. “Thanks for the talk.” She pauses for a moment before adding, “I’m glad I’m not going alone on this one.”
I feel a stirring of pride.
“Yeah, um, me too.”
She turns to walk inside and I watch her as she moves gracefully to the door leading to the staircase. She turns her head back and smiles before opening the door and going through. The latch clicks. It takes me a few seconds to realize I’m smiling like a great big monkey. Blast my silliness.
I know I really should get some sleep too. Tomorrow will be a long and trying day, but I find it difficult to convince myself to move. Instead, I sit there long into the night, my mind churning about the mission, the Festers, and most of all, Mira Winston.
Chapter 11
I drop through the night sky like a rock, thankful for the low-hanging clouds to obscure my approach, not that it would be easy for anyone below to see me anyway. My outfit is solid black, a battle dress uniform with combat boots. Less than a minute before, I stepped out of the back of Eckert’s airplane, and now, the adrenaline of the mission pumps wildly through my veins, bringing a kind of euphoria.
Once we retrieve Harbin, our objective is to get to the old West Georgia Regional Airport, a small airfield right outside the former suburban city of Carrollton, approximately thirty-five miles to the southwest of Command. It has long since fallen into disuse, which makes it a perfect jumping off point.
At the old airfield, we’ll rendezvous with a smaller aircraft Eckert has waiting. From there, it should be able to take us under the radar until we’re home clear.
But for now, I focus on the freefall knowing I have little time before I have to deploy the chute. The chilled, southern air whips at my face and clothing, and I aim my body at the small target far below that’s looming larger by the second.
This dive and landing will take precision, but that’s one thing I’m good at. Approximately 2000 feet from the top of the Georgia Pacific Tower, I deploy my ram-air chute, my descent reduced dramatically as the harness jerks against my body. The few lights on the roof are my guide as I work the steering lines, maneuvering ever closer to the skyscraper below.
I circle the roof on the descent, judging the best angle of approach, and finally settle on the north side of the building, pulling the lines at the last moment to touch down on the rooftop like a dove. I gather the chute and jam it into some duct work to keep it from being blown off the roof for someone to see. I won’t be needing it again.
Across the street to my right, the Ferris Building rises into the night like a steel skeleton. Arnold Ferris was a well-to-do entrepreneur from the area who had initiated construction of the building that is his namesake. Intended to be an imposing structure housing multiple office complexes, its construction was halted after The Virus. Like so many other things, it took a back-burner to survival.
My heart is thumping wildly now, but not from fear, from exhilaration. Any misgivings I had before are lost in the moment. Now, there is only the mission.
From a pouch in my vest, I produce a small penlight and aim it at the midway point of the girders of the Ferris Building, flicking it twice to let Mira know I’m in position. I hope she had no problems with her own drop on our way in earlier. After a few seconds, I see her light blink once in response letting me know she’s in place and ready to go.
According to Eckert's intel, the detention area where Jonathan Harbin is being held is on the twentieth floor. His cell is adjacent to the outer wall. I memorized the blueprints of the building to calculate the best route of approach. It should be easy enough to get inside. The trick is not being seen or heard.
I replace the light and unzip my pack. I pull out a long nylon rope, unfurl it, and attach the necessary anchor and clips, tugging on it to make sure the connection is secure, before climbing up to stand on the ledge of the building. Far below, the Atlanta streets are still. Somewhere out there, another Sweeper goes about his business cleaning the city, oblivious to the fact that one of his own is on the verge of committing treason. I lean out and away, and without waiting, repel face first down the side of the structure, counting floors as I go. The wind swirls around the tower, tugging at me, and I grip the line tighter, dropping at a rapid pace until I reach floor twenty-one and jerk to a stop.
Making a quick, twisting turn, I lock the apparatus in place that will hold me suspended while my hands are free, and pulling a small, diamond-bladed saw from a pack on my belt, I attack the window as quickly and quietly as possible.
This is the part I'm most worried about. The saw is small, powered by a lithium battery. It's not very loud in and of itself, but I can't do much to hide the grating sound of the blade against the window. It's a long way to the ground, and this floor is not supposed to be in use, but still, the grinding sounds loud up close, and it's hard to imagine anyone inside or on the street below not being able to hear it.
The office inside is empty, used for storage judging by the rows of cardboard boxes against the far wall. It seems like an eternity before I have an opening traced and kick with my right foot, knocking the piece inward onto the carpeted floor. The glass used for these windows is tempered, and it falls heavily without shattering, clanging dully on the carpet. I swing myself through the opening and detach from the line before moving to the door and crouching behind it.
This floor isn't supposed to be occupied, but that doesn't mean it isn't patrolled.
I place my ear against the wooden door and will my senses to expand outside of the room. I can’t detect any movement or noise on the other side, so I risk turning the knob gently. With the door cracked a fraction of an inch, I peer out into the hallway and verify it's empty. The only light comes from emergency exit signs glowing red at the entrances to the stairwells. I move swiftly into the hallway, passing dark offices and closed doors, to the first exit sign on the left.
Slipping inside, I tiptoe down two flights to the landing leading to the twentieth floor. Again I perch behind the door and concentrate on the sounds beyond. This is the moment. Our success or failure hinges largely on the next few seconds. When I move through the door into the detention area beyond, speed will be of the utmost importance. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing exactly what lies inside. The door is thick and heavy, designed to slow the progress of fires in case the building was burning. It's difficult to distinguish sounds on the other side. There could be two guards waiting there, or twenty. Weighing my options, I decide to go for the not-so-subtle approach. After all, this is me we’re talking about.
I push through the doorway, take in the scene, and know this part is going to be a breeze. I walk straight towards the holding room where Harbin is being held, doing my best to appear nonchalant. As per the information from Eckert, the door is a massive block of steel with no bars or windows and a keypad set into a recess on the left side. In my direct line of sight are three armed guards. One guard stands on either side of the door while the third is leaning against the wall about twenty feet from me on the right. No sound comes from the holding room that I can discern. Instantly, Mr. Wall perks up at my entrance and moves in my direction.
“Excuse me, sir. No one is supposed to be on this floor.” He approaches directly, obscuring my view of the other two guards.
I put on my best innocent voice and raise my hands slightly in a placating gesture.
“I apologize. I must have taken the wrong exit,” I say. I turn back and look at the door I just came through, feigning ignorance, a lost man getting off on the wrong floor. When I turn back again, his eyes rove over my outfit with skepticism, but he doesn't notice that there is now a small object concealed in my right hand. I obviously don’t look the part of their normal fare and I don’
t give him time to react.
With a slight flick of my wrist, I launch a tiny dart that embeds itself in Mr. Wall’s upper thigh releasing a highly powerful and fast-acting nerve toxin. He collapses mid-stride and I catch him before he can hit the floor.
Time to win an Academy Award.
“Sir, are you okay?” I say. I look up at the other two guards who are already moving towards us. “Help him, he just collapsed! I don’t know what happened?” I say acting panicked.
They look confused and move quickly to lean over the fallen man. As they do, my arm snaps out to the guard on my right, and my fist crashes into his temple. That's followed by a quick straight kick to the one on my left, catching him right under the jaw. They crumple, unconscious, the surgical strikes having done their magic.
I reach for the nearest guard and yank his badge from his vest, rise, and stride to the cell door. I punch in the security code Eckert provided and swipe the guard’s badge in front of the reader. There's a beep and a red light changes to green. I step back. There’s a hiss like a vacuum seal being broken and the door comes open to reveal a dimly lit room and a cowering figure in the center.
Chapter 12
To say the man in the room is in bad shape is a pitiful understatement. He looks at me in a dazed fashion, his eyes dull and unfocused. I cross to where he sits on the floor, blood caked on his face and staining his jumpsuit. Deep purple bruises cover his arms, neck, and face. He wheezes when he breathes, a raspy, constricted sound.
I bend over and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Harbin, can you stand?”
He swears at me, his speech slurred, and takes a weak swipe at my face which I easily deflect. “Easy, pal. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m taking you out of this place.” A vague sort of realization seems to be dawning on him as he looks me over, and I take his hands and start pulling him to his feet.
“Who are you? Where are you taking…” his voice cuts off mid-sentence as he comes face to face with me. “I can’t believe it!” he whispers. “You came for me.”
That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting and an odd chill creeps up my spine, but before I can respond, he suddenly throws his arms around me, pulling me to himself, his grip weak.
It must be a result of the ordeal he’s been through. He’s probably hallucinating or delusional. I push him away. “Listen, I want you to get in the corner,” I say moving him in that direction. “I want you to sit facing it and curl into as tight a ball as possible. Do you understand?” I’m really worried about this dude’s mental state. He looks at me like I’m crazy, but sits nonetheless.
The guards went down easily enough, but it’s still possible I’ve tripped an alarm by entering the cell. Time is of the essence.
Moving to the outer wall of the building, I pull a small pack of c4 from my belt. It’s a special construction surrounded by a high impact polymer that will direct the blast outward as much as possible. Pretty state of the art stuff, really. It adheres to the wall and I press the switch that starts the countdown from ten seconds. If I haven’t already managed to do so, this is going to draw attention. Lots of it.
Once the timer blinks on, I run to the other side of the room and crouch over Harbin, blanketing as much of his body as possible with my own.
“Cover your ears,” I yell, doing the same myself. I brace just as the explosion rocks the room causing a shock wave that slams us into the wall. I have an instant headache, but turn to see a gaping hole revealing the night beyond. Harbin starts to rise, but I hold him in place as another small burst comes from the girders across the street. In a second, a large grapple embeds itself in the steel cell door. The line attached to it will be our escape route as well as the means of holding the door in place against any would-be intruders from beyond.
Grabbing him by the arm, I yank him to his feet, push him in front of me with his back to my chest, and quickly attach a harness under his arms before clipping it to my own. He seems to be regaining some semblance of sense and doesn’t fight me. At least he’s smart enough to remain still and let me do my job.
As I clip onto the zip line he says, “Are you sure about this?”
In answer, I push us out the opening and we race along the wire to where Mira waits on the other side. By now, alarms are shrieking behind us and soldiers are pouring into the street below. Bullets streak around us as they take fire in an attempt to end our escape. I squeeze the brake just as we hit a small platform in the girders, grinding us to a stop, and immediately begin detaching from the line.
Mira is already there. She passes us, keeping well back from the edge as bullets zing and clang into the structure above and around us. In my peripheral vision, I see her toss several small round objects to the street below. I turn Harbin forcibly away from the street as several pops sound in quick succession and the street lights up like noon. Below I hear the soldiers screaming and cursing, blinded by the flash grenades and unable to get their bearings.
There’s no time to waste and I push Harbin across the partially finished flooring, both of us stumbling awkwardly because we’re still harnessed together. Mira throws out a hand to steady us as she moves alongside us. It’s inefficient, but I need Harbin hooked in for a little bit longer. We come to the far side of the building that opens onto an alley below, and hook onto the lines Mira has in place there. In seconds we’re down in the alley and moving to the main street to our right, Harbin now cut free from my harness and stumbling along on his own, limping a good bit. Mira strides ahead of us and sweeps the street, gun outstretched.
“Festers at three o’clock,” she says as we emerge behind her.
At the end of the block I can see the small pack of three running towards the soldiers, drawn by the commotion. Good, a little extra distraction is just fine by me. Hopefully, that will keep our pursuers busy for a while. Suddenly, the whole street is rocked by a massive explosion from inside the detention area of the tower we just vacated. Flames and debris shoot into the night sky followed by the rapid staccato of gunfire.
What the heck was that!?
I look at Mira who’s smiling naughtily. “A little going away present to buy us some more time,” she says.
“Okay then.”
We make our way as quickly as possible down the street to an old parking garage, both of us supporting Harbin to help him move faster, and slip inside to the designated area where Johnson had his men stow a car for us. I see it and balk – a navy blue Ford LTD that’s older than I am.
“Classy,” I say sarcastically as I reach under the wheel well feeling for the keys that are supposed to be taped there. Mira shoves Harbin into the back seat and climbs in beside him. For now, he’s gone back into his dazed stupor. Five minutes later we’re streaking down the interstate towards the rendezvous.
As always, the roads are empty at this time of night. There doesn’t seem to be anyone following us. I wish I could breathe a sigh of relief, but we’re only halfway there and my skin is crawling from Harbin’s reaction to me. I’m starting to have a bad feeling about all of this.
Chapter 13
We rocket down I-20 as fast as this bucket will take us, which is about 85 miles per hour. Really, they couldn’t get us something better than this for our getaway? I’d take a minivan over this piece of dung.
Harbin moans in the back seat as Mira tends to his wounds with a small med-kit she was able to fit in her jump pack. So far he hasn’t said a whole lot, and even if he did, I don’t know if it would make any sense. Electrocution marks, infected lacerations, and bruises galore are evident on his body. Who knows what all they did to him in there?
Mira leans forward and sticks her head between the seats. “He’s stable for now, but they really put him through the ringer. He needs real medical attention, a lot more than I can do.”
I glance at her in the rear view mirror. Her expression is terse. From the corner of my eye, I can see Harbin slumped against the passenger side window. “Is he conscious?” I say.
She s
hrugs. “Maybe. He's in and out.”
“Be straight with me. Is it common for The Council to treat people this way?”
She sighs hard. “I don’t know. I heard rumors from time to time, but nothing more. I really thought we were better than this now as a country. I guess I’ve still got a lot to learn.” I can hear the heaviness in her voice, the same heaviness I feel.
Ahead, two Festers emerge from the woods lining the interstate, drawn by the lights and noise of the car, but we're past them before they can even reach the shoulder.
Harbin stirs a little and mumbles something, his head lolling back against the headrest. I think again of his reaction to me in the holding cell. He acted like he knew me, but that couldn’t be possible. Could it? My name is well known as a Sweeper, but The Organization doesn't plaster pictures of us everywhere for the public. Any of us could go out in daylight and remain completely anonymous.
The more I think about it, the more unsettled I feel. There’s something just under the surface of this whole mess, and I don’t like being in the dark. But for now, there's nothing I can do, so I drive.
A short while later I turn the Ford off the interstate and speed down the off ramp. To our right, several drive-thru restaurants and an old grocery store sit in disuse, windows shattered and dark. A spattering of equally lifeless gas stations mark the highway on either side, and a hotel sits directly across from us, an Econo Lodge with a couple of trees lying against its sides, downed by weather or age.
At the end of the ramp, we take a left for a couple of miles. A right and another left, and we pull through the dilapidated gate of the old airfield. It hangs loosely from rusted hinges. The rest of the place isn't much better. Several small, abandoned aircraft lay scattered about the area, most with flat tires, broken wings, and other various forms of degradation. What's left of a small control tower sits off to the left, nearly stripped of its paint. A few small hangars finish out the scene. The runway is sufficient, but not long. The concrete bulges in places. The West Georgia Regional Airport was in truth nothing more than a rural landing spot cleared out from the encroaching woods. On its very best day, it probably saw no more than two or three flights. In the center of the tarmac, a stark contrast to everything else, sits a small, shiny black jet. Its engines are idling, and I can see the silhouette of the pilot through the cockpit window.
The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) Page 6
