Hammerhead

by Jason Andrew Bond

Freisman’s eyes searched Jeffrey’s face, and Jeffrey saw realization and understanding materialize in them.

  Freisman looked away. “I have no idea what that is.”

  “Now, I may not have your deft skills at reading people, but I know a lie when I hear one.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Oh, good. Well, what we’ll do is just squeeze this here…” The mechanism for the syringe extended the bevel cut needle out of the mouth of the spider. “…and jab it in your arm.”

  Freisman looked back at the spider. Jeffrey took hold of Freisman’s wrist. Freisman tried to keep his arm close to his chest, but could not fight Jeffrey’s strength. Jeffrey pulled Freisman’s arm level and held the spider on Freisman’s forearm. He slid the spider forward, and the needle penetrated Freisman’s shirt fabric. Freisman pulled at Jeffrey’s grip, his arm and shoulder trembling with effort.

  “Stop. Please, stop.”

  Jeffrey let go of Freisman’s wrist.

  “You’re afraid of this liquid.”

  Freisman said nothing.

  “Let’s start there. What’s in the needle?”

  Freisman looked out at the river. Jeffrey lifted his boot and heel-kicked Freisman in the center of the shin. Freisman cried out, but kept his eyes on the river.

  “You realize that someone who knew nothing would be begging right now. Your stubbornness is telling me you know even more than I thought you did. I think you understand that.”

  Freisman’s eyes locked on Jeffrey’s, and the confident anger there surprised Jeffrey.

  “I won’t talk. You can kill me if you want. If I talk, she kills me, so I’m better off here.”

  “Who is ‘she’?” Jeffrey asked. Freisman’s eyes went back to the river. On his knee, a rip hung open where he had fallen earlier. Below the rip, blood soaked the fabric. Jeffrey pressed his fist into Freisman’s broken rib, hard. Freisman tried to push him away, but Jeffrey grabbed Freisman’s arm with his free hand.

  “Who is ‘she’?” Jeffrey asked again, his anger showing in his voice. Freisman yanked his arm and Jeffrey let it go. Freisman fell backwards off the log, and Jeffrey jumped on him, kneeling over him, his knee in Freisman’s chest. He shifted his weight so almost all of his 260 pounds drove straight down on Freisman’s ribs and lungs. Freisman’s mouth opened and closed, but he could not pull air with the weight on his chest and his broken rib.

  Jeffrey shouted at Fresiman, “Who is ‘SHE’? Who will kill you?”

  Jeffrey lifted his knee. Freisman gasped for air against the pain of his broken rib but said nothing. Jeffrey stood and motioned for Freisman to get back up on the log. Freisman rolled to his side, pushed himself onto his hands and knees, and then climbed back onto the log. As he sat up, he pressed the flat of his hand on his broken rib.

  “No answer?” Jeffrey asked, his voice calm again.

  Freisman stared at the gravel.

  “Don’t force my hand, Roger,” Jeffrey said. “I don’t really want to hurt you. Do you know that?”

  “You could have fooled me,” Freisman said, his voice quiet.

  “No, I’m not talking about a broken rib.” Jeffrey stood and grabbed Freisman’s hand. He pulled out Freisman’s middle finger and put backward tension on it. “I’m talking about cutting the flesh of each finger open, burning the blood vessels so you won’t bleed, and then trimming away the muscle and skin.”

  Freisman tugged at his hand but could not get it free.

  “I think you would start talking when you had three fingers with the bones fully exposed. If not, I could keep working up the hand to the wrist, then the other hand.” Jeffrey let the hand go, sat down beside Freisman, and looked out at the river. “But I want something more than that. I’m going to be open with you. You know more than I thought you did. We came to you to find the source of this spider. Your company made it, and I thought you could tell me where it was sent or at least something about it. But now I’m sensing that you’ve got something better for me. You really do know me don’t you? You know that I’m supposed to be dead. You just couldn’t place me because you didn’t expect me to show up on your doorstep.”

  Freisman stared at the gravel.

  “And with each silence I know more and more. It stinks though, doesn’t it, when the dirt you like to keep away from your villa comes crawling up the driveway?”

  Freisman looked up at Jeffrey. “I won’t talk. Kill me, torture me, it won’t help.”

  “No,” Jeffrey said, patting Freisman’s knee, “you don’t have the training to keep quiet. Once I start cutting the muscles off your arms one at a time and cauterizing the wounds, when you see nothing but skeleton and tendon below both elbows, you’ll talk. But I think I can get it done without having to listen to you scream, and I can ruin your life at the same time.”

  Freisman had a question in his eyes now. Jeffrey took the sat-phone from his pocket. He dialed a number.

  Leif, who had walked with Stacy upriver along the gravel shoal a good distance, answered, “We’re ready.”

  “It’s me,” Jeffrey paused, listening to nothing as Leif remained silent on the other end.

  “Yeah, it’s time,” Jeffrey said. “He won’t talk. Tell his wife that he could stop it at any time, but won’t. Rape the wife first, make it bad. Put it on speakerphone so he can listen.”

  Jeffrey activated the speakerphone and held it out in front of Freisman. A man laughed as fabric ripped. The crack of a brutal slap came over the phone followed by a woman sobbing and cursing through a gag. Jeffrey shrugged his shoulders at Freisman.

  “When he’s done with her, you’ll get another chance before we do the same with your daughter.”

  Freisman’s eyes went from Jeffrey’s calm stare, to the phone in his hand, and back. More tearing of fabric was followed by sobs and muffled pleading.

  “You know she’ll never forgive you,” Jeffrey said. “We’ll let you talk with her while the boys work over your daughter. You know you won’t let it happen. You know you’ll talk to save your girl.”

  Freisman stared at the phone, his eyes frantic now.

  “You can stop it right now.” Jeffrey paused as a shriek came from the phone. “You are going to break Freisman. The minute your daughter screams, you’re going to break, so you might as well do it now and save your wife too.”

  Freisman, eyes wild with rage, looked from the phone to Jeffrey. He seemed ready to throw himself at Jeffrey. His eyes measured the larger man. He looked back to the phone, and another scream came from it. Freisman gripped his hands into fists, and then let out a breath through his teeth. He looked at Jeffrey and the wildness bled away, leaving only desperation. “Please make them stop. I’ll tell you what I know.” He lowered his gaze to the gravel and sobbed. A tear ran down his nose. “Just don’t let them hurt her, please.”

  Jeffrey took the phone off speaker and held it to his ear, saying, “Boys, stop. He says he’s going to talk.” He paused to listen. “No you will NOT. I am in control of this situation, and when I tell you to stop, you STOP.” He listened again. “Good, because if you cross me, I’ll have another crew have a go at you. Got it?” He listened. “Good.” He hung up the phone.

  “Look at me,” he said to Freisman.

  Freisman did as he was told.

  “Your wife is somewhat roughed up, torn clothes and a few slaps, but not violated. You made the right decision fast enough, and I am sure she’ll be grateful. The bad news is that those boys are not very reliable, and–as you can imagine–they’re pretty worked up right now. We need to get this over with quickly so I can get your wife and daughter away from them.”

  Freisman nodded, tears running down his face. He said, “Okay, sure, I’ll help. Just don’t tell her I told you anything, okay? Can you at least give me that?”

  “Oh, I think she’ll probably guess as much no matter what happens.” Jeffrey put an arm around Freisman and squeezed him. Freisman pulled away from Jeffrey’s embrace.

  “But,” Jeffrey
said, letting go of Freisman so he fell sideways and yelped in pain, “you have my personal guarantee that I will not put a name to any information you share with me. Hell,” Jeffrey said with a laugh, “after what I’ve been through, whoever is responsible might not live long enough to ask questions anyway.”

  “You can’t stop her,” Freisman said, “not now.”

  “I thrive on low odds. But we need progress here. Begin with who ‘she’ is.”

  Freisman looked at his hands. His face glistened with tears. He shook his head as if he could not get himself to talk, but then in a quiet voice said, “Maxine King.”

  Jeffrey said nothing for a moment, processing what Freisman had just said. He looked at the river, let out a long sigh, and said in measured words, “By that, do you mean Maxine King, President of United Aerospace?”

  “The same,” Freisman said.

  CHAPTER 20

  Glass doors hushed open, and Carter Roberts followed Maxine King into an expansive space under a dark, vaulted ceiling. The only light came from the far corner where medical staff had set up a temporary hospital area. The doors shifted closed behind Roberts, and he followed Maxine across the dense carpeting. A large, multi-lensed lamp hung over the bed, illuminating the area in a subdued light. In the bed lay a man in his mid-twenties. His mop of blonde hair stuck out in all directions. A scar on the left side of his face lifted his upper lip into a slight sneer. A stainless steel device encased the left side of his chest. Metal-braided hoses led away from the device to a cabinet-sized machine, the surface of which was smooth and white. At its center, a screen glowed with various images: a tracing heart-rate, respiration, and half-formed ribs latticed with glowing green lines. The cabinet filled the area with a low-frequency resonation, which Carter felt in the center of his chest.

  A doctor stood in front of the machine. He touched the screen and the ribs expanded. The green lattice traced the future path of the ribs. The marrow of some had already joined.

  Maxine cleared her throat.

  The doctor looked over at them and said, “Welcome back. Did you have a good flight?”

  Maxine smiled at the doctor. “Yes, thank you.”

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she leaned over the man. She touched the metal enclosure, scowling, and then stroked the man’s face with her fingertips.

  “He is a handsome young man, isn’t he?” she said in an absent tone, her fingernails combing into his blonde hair.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Carter said, taking up the man’s chart from the end of the bed. It identified the soldier as ‘Lieutenant Commander Brennan Morgan’, age 28.

  This one doesn’t look 28, even with the scar, which should add age to his face.

  “Are we sure this is the right information for this man?” he asked the doctor.

  “Yes,” the doctor said. “I performed the standard DNA verification.”

  Carter drew his finger across the chart. The screen shifted, showing data on the progress made by the nano-machines now crawling around the empty cavity of Morgan’s chest, rebuilding its framework: ribs, tendons, and major blood vessels.

  “Barely alive,” he said, and put down the chart. He walked over to a long, glass tank, which sat beyond the bed, against the wall. There, half-formed and suspended in a light-green nutrient bath, grew a whitish-pink lung and several strips of red muscle.

  “What do we hope to gain for this effort?” Carter asked, looking back at the bed.

  Stupid punk gets himself shot, and she moons over him as if he were a hero.

  Maxine looked at Carter. “This man was willing to give his life for our cause. Do you not appreciate that?”

  “I apologize,” Carter said. “I’m sure he’s a good man.”

  “Oh, he is. I can see it,” she said, looking back at Morgan. The platinum links of her bracelet clinked as she moved her hand to feel the pulse on his neck.

  “Shall we rouse him, Doctor?” Carter asked, and then looked to Maxine to see if he had overstepped his bounds. She continued looking at Morgan.

  The doctor walked to a stand and filled a syringe with clear liquid from a vial. He connected the syringe to the Y-adapter on Morgan’s IV and pressed the liquid in.

  A few moments passed, filled only with the low hum of the equipment. Then Morgan’s eyelids split open and his eyes rolled in their sockets. When he looked up at the light, he grimaced and clamped his eyes shut.

  “Do you know who I am?” Maxine asked.

  Morgan opened his eyes again, squinting at her through the light, and said in a weak voice, “Yes,” and then, “Where am I?”

  “You are at my estate,” Maxine said. “You have served the cause well, and I wanted to make sure you had the best medical care available. You were very near death when we found you.”

  “How long…” Morgan began, but then faltered, looking up and around him, confused. “He shot me.” His eyes searched out into the darkness beyond the lamp’s light. “I was dying.”

  “Please do not worry yourself,” Maxine said, petting his forehead, her voice as smooth and soft as the silk of her shirt. The seductive tone of her voice made Carter clench his jaw.

  Maxine continued, “You have been in an induced coma for a few days now. You are doing very well, and will suffer no long-term injury. You are by no means dying.” She moved her left hand to his thigh just above his knee. “You are young and healthy. You will heal well.”

  “But,” Morgan said, and his hand groped along the metal surface clamped across his chest. He looked down, eyes frantic again.

  “Do not worry,” Maxine said, took his hand with both of hers, and turned it over, stroking his palm. She smiled at him and Carter remembered years ago when Maxine had treated him that way. It had been years since his time with her, and he grew less tolerant of each man she drew in. As she had sent each one out, addicted to her beauty and her vision, only Carter had remained by her side. She had mentioned many times how important he was to her for his ability to avoid “animalistic jealousy,” but with each new lover she took, Carter’s sense of infidelity cut more deeply.

  “Maxine,” Carter said, “we don’t know how badly this interview will impact his recovery. We need to ask our questions and return him to his coma so he won’t disturb the healing process.”

  “Yes,” Maxine King said, without taking her eyes off Morgan, “of course. You always were one to pull me back to the purpose.”

  She patted Morgan’s chest. “I think it a crime that I have not come to know you before this.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Morgan said, his face still bewildered.

  “Please,” she said, “call me Maxine,” and she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. Carter felt anger flushing his face and neck.

  “What do you know of the man who shot you?” Carter said.

  Maxine looked over her shoulder at Carter, eyes hard and a slight smile on her lips.

  She’s pushing me again… always pushing.

  “He,” Morgan began, and then covered his eyes with his hand and went silent.

  The doctor held up a smaller syringe, saying, “I have something that will help him remain focused, but it will counteract his pain medication to a degree.” He attached it to the Y-connector and pressed it in.

  After a moment, Morgan opened his eyes. “I remember. We flew into the landing strip.” He looked at Carter and then back at Maxine, his eyes clearer now. “We came up on the wreckage. A demolition mech sat parked beside it. I sent my men out camouflaged and then made an attempt to attain the situation’s status before proceeding with the cleaning of the area.” He lowered his hand and looked at Maxine. “I guess if I could do it over again, I would have just shot missiles into the area and leveled it, but those weren’t my orders.”

  Maxine glanced over her shoulder at Carter again and said, “Another failure.”

  Carter looked at the electrical plugs on the machines and thought of yanking them from the wall.

  Morgan winced and gripped at
the metal housing on his chest. “I found the shipbreaker up in the bridge of the freighter. I thought the guy was an idiot. He played me right into his trap. I let him make me angry. I walked right up to where he could get his hands on me. The guy was huge. I don’t know what I was thinking. I suppose I saw just what he wanted me to see.”

  “And what was that?” Carter asked.

  “I only saw an old-timer who wouldn’t shut up, the kind of guy who sees military and wants to be part of the gang.”

  “When did he shoot you?” Maxine asked, still holding Morgan’s hand.

  “He didn’t shoot me,” Morgan said. “One of my own men shot me.”

  Maxine spoke the next words slowly: “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Morgan said, looking down at the metal casing on his chest. “My chest’s really starting to burn.”

  “Just answer the questions,” Carter said, “then we can put you back to sleep.”

  Maxine looked at Carter with disapproval.

  Morgan said, “The ’breaker grabbed me and spun me around and held me so I was in one of my own men’s line of fire. My man fired before he assessed what was happening. He intended to shoot the ’breaker, but hit me instead.”

  Carter scowled. He didn’t believe one man could take out five soldiers, one by friendly fire. “Didn’t you try to break free?” he asked Morgan.

  Morgan shook his head, his face pinching with pain. “You don’t understand. It was so damn fast. The ’breaker spun me around, killed a soldier with one shot, then fired into a second, and then I was shot. Someone else shot the man who shot me. I was looking right at my own man; he fired on me, and then his head blew apart.”

  “Holt shot three soldiers that fast?” Carter said with a slight scoff.

  “No. You’re not listening.” Morgan looked at Maxine. “There was someone to my left.”

  He put his hand on his forehead, where sweat had begun beading. “It was the body. I couldn’t piece it together until now.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth at the solution. “It was the girl in the chair. She wasn’t dead.” He coughed and gritted his teeth. “I knew it. There was something strange about that arm.”