Forced Pair

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  “You. Alone.”

  “And you and the package. Agreed?”

  One more glance at the wall between the package and himself and he said, “Agreed. I’ll send you the address shortly.”

  “Good,” came the quick reply. “And Dent? You’re doing the right thing here.”

  Dent’s quick reply came in the form of ending the call.

  XXI

  Dent exited the 5, took the 22 West, and prepared to make a quick exit.

  He’d picked this exact location for multiple reasons. One was that on a Friday afternoon it would be heavily populated with civilians — shoppers, coffee drinkers, moviegoers, people from all walks of life. Elmerson would not risk his career by killing someone in such a public place, even if news reports claimed that that someone was a suspected terrorist.

  He turned off the freeway, made a sharp turn, and the package slid to the left side of the backseat. Perhaps he should have secured the package with a seat belt. It didn’t matter now. He was here. He entered the parking lot, made a right, a left, and then pulled up alongside the curb of one of the larger openings into the massive outdoor shopping complex. He pulled forward gently, until he was almost nose-to-nose with the Crown Vic with CA Exempt plates.

  John Elmerson stepped out of his driver’s side door and onto the stones of the entryway. He walked away from his car, dropped a bag to the ground next to him and then stood, watching. Waiting. Dent exited his vehicle and walked around the back and then up onto the entryway. Throngs of passersby walked around and between the two, phones to ears or eyes on EB screens, unaware of what was transpiring around them. Overhead, two sixty-foot screens flashed, one facing the parking lot, the other facing the shopping center. A woman’s voice carried over the loudspeakers, proclaiming the newest EB model now on sale at one of the retailers at this very location.

  “Thank you for coming,” Elmerson said, his voice raised to cover the twenty feet between them.

  “It was agreed upon in the contract.”

  “Yes, it was,” he said as he kicked the bag with Dent’s payment. The career military man looked around briefly before settling his gaze on Dent once again. “You’ve created a fine mess, Dent. Usually, you’re the one I call in to fix such messes.”

  Dent opened his mouth to reply, but his former commanding officer cut him off.

  “Don’t talk about contracts, Dent. I don’t know what caused you to divert or why you decided to suddenly grow so attached to the package. I understand self-preservation, but this was beyond that.”

  As Elmerson talked people continued to walk by and not a one paid him the least amount of attention. If it wasn’t at their ear or in their face, they were not concerned.

  Elmerson went on, saying, “You know, it wasn’t us at the airport. That was Takeda. Chisholme greased a lot of palms and pushed you through security to get you here safely, but all Takeda had to do was make one phone call. Her countermove was in play before you even left her country’s airspace. She wanted her … property back.”

  This was information Dent needed so he asked for more. “And the payment?”

  Elmerson looked to the ground before answering. “That was between Chisholme and Charon. I don’t know the specifics, but Chisholme wanted you eliminated after the package was safely in his hands. And Charon, being his usual self, wanted the rest of the payment for himself, as a form of compensation for the expected loss of a contractor.”

  “And they both failed,” Dent stated.

  “I knew they would. I also reprimanded Charon severely when first I’d heard. I did not want to lose such a valuable asset as yourself. You are worth more than a hundred Charons, in my opinion. Which is actually quite funny.”

  He stopped talking and stared at Dent.

  “You really need to learn conversational skills, Dent. It would make things much smoother.”

  If it regarded pertinent information, then Dent would play the part. “Why is it funny?” he asked.

  Elmerson’s lips parted, but his eyes remained fixed. “While you yourself are irreplaceable, the package is not. You are one of a kind, she is not.”

  At this Dent looked to his left, through the backseat window. The package was covered with a blanket from the motel. A big, unmoving, inactive heap.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Which makes your recent actions all the more pointless,” Elmerson replied evenly. “You were protecting a package of which there are more just like it. Well, not perfected in the way she is, but still … Enough research can be done to produce a commercial product.”

  Dent thought he followed but chose to remain silent, allowing the man to continue, to elaborate more for Dent’s benefit.

  It was the correct action.

  “You should know a thing or two about laws, Dent. You used to uphold them.”

  “As did you.”

  Elmerson’s eyes went wide. “Was that actually an insult? Perhaps she is getting to even someone like you. As I was saying, U.S. law is written strictly, precisely. Guidelines, parameters, a contract, if you will, between a nation and its people. The law strictly prohibits the use of electronic means of manipulation of the public’s emotions. It actually falls under direct and intrusive subversion by any hardware of software. Machines, Dent. The law strictly prohibits machines. And people, as we all know, are not machines.” He tilted his head to the side and amended, “Well, most people aren’t, at least.”

  An insult — thanks to time spent with the girl — Dent understood.

  “There are no laws as of yet regarding human influence. Oh, down the road I’m sure there will be. In fact, I’ll probably write half of them as head of DUUP. But by then, American innovators like Chisholme will have already had made billions using this new non-technology technology. And money earned in the U.S. is taxable by the U.S. Say what you will of the man, but Grant Chisholme is an American, through and through. And he pays his taxes. Having Japan spearhead this new non-tech takes money away from the American People. I’m ensuring that Americans get what they deserve.”

  “At the cost of lives?”

  Elmerson waved a hand before him and said, “And you’re so concerned about lives now? You opened fire in one of the busiest buildings in L.A. during broad daylight. I hardly think you have anything to say in the matter.”

  Dent had to concede the man’s logical point.

  “How much of this was your plan, Elmerson?” he asked.

  “Who says this was my plan?”

  “You never made a personal appearance like this during any operations when I served under you.”

  Elmerson nodded. “I’m only here to ensure everyone gets what they want, Dent. The package gets delivered and you get to keep your life.”

  “Will she be safe?”

  “That information is not relevant. To you, or to me. We serve as the means, not the ends.”

  “Justified,” sad Dent.

  “Exactly.”

  “Like your actions were justified when you found me as a young boy.”

  Elmerson’s eyes narrowed. “You were an exceptional young boy, Dent. I made you even more so. So yes, I believe I was justified in making you what you are today.”

  “And the package? What happens to her will be justified.”

  “Yes. And out of both our hands.” Elmerson looked to Dent’s car. “So. Now we come to it. The conclusion of the contract. The package, Dent?”

  With only a brief moment of indecisiveness, Dent turned and opened the back door. He tugged the blanket off the package and pulled it from where it still rested against the other side of the backseat. He grunted with the effort, but managed to drag it toward him. This was it, and he was unsure if he wanted to go through with it. He lifted his head to regard the man waiting less than twenty feet away over the opened car door.

  “No time for second-guessing,” Elmerson said. “We have a binding contract.”

  “We do,” agreed Dent.

  He pulled the packag
e from the car and set it on the ground. It made a deep, metallic thud as it hit the stones of the walkway.

  Eyes going from the delivered package to Dent and back again, Elmerson raised his voice and demanded, “What is this?”

  Stepping from the car after closing the door, Dent answered. “The package.”

  Before the other man could make any more comments, Dent leaned down and connected his phone to the docking station Fischer had built into the machine. The machine that he’d earlier confiscated from the techie’s sanctuary. Once connected, Dent pushed a few buttons on the phone and then two more atop the surface of the machine.

  The device hummed.

  Every electrical device capable of pairing within a one-block radius went dead. And then hundreds of devices, now completely overridden by Dent using Fischer’s creation, began to stream out an audio file. TVs, phones, public speakers, the two sixty-foot screens overhead, all of them emitted the recorded conversation from the very phone Dent had used to call the man who now stood before him.

  The voices had a reverberated quality to them as they drowned out all other sounds:

  “Dent,”

  “John Elmerson.”

  “I knew you’d be calling. You’re predictable to a fault.”

  “The news program ….”

  “I had it running since yesterday. It was the only way to get your attention.”

  “Dent!” Elmerson screamed. “What are you doing?” He had to raise his voice even more to carry over his earlier recorded voice. “This was not part of the contract!”

  The palm ID clicked and Dent drew his gun.

  Elmerson took a step to the side, closer to his parked car. “You have no idea what you’re doing, Dent. Think this through. You will be hunted down. The girl will be recovered.”

  Dent shrugged.

  “I followed the terms!” Elmerson screamed at Dent.

  “Everyone else took the liberty to change the details of agreed upon contracts. It was time I did as well.”

  There was a hiss and a pop.

  One tap, one drop. Right index finger, center of forehead.

  Screams rippled outward as the body fell to the ground, but still they were not loud enough to drown out Dent’s traitorous commanding officer’s voice over the multitude of force-paired speakers.

  Dent opened his door as his own voice came out of the speakers.

  “And the package?” it said.

  Over the loudspeakers Elmerson’s voice came in response. “Will be taken care of.” Flat tone, no discernible inflection.

  Leaving his XO’s body next to a satchel full of money, Dent exited the parking lot, found the 5 South.

  And drove away.

  EPILOGUE

  Califon, New Jersey

  20:17

  Four months later

  It all led up to this. Dent had adhered to the mission’s strict parameters, and it had all gone according to plan. Or as close as he’d managed.

  His handler on this mission had guided him through the specifics this night, had drilled them into him.

  He followed the target out of the restaurant as she crossed the empty, quiet street to gain access to the equally empty and quiet parking lot where her vehicle was located.

  His target stopped. He did as well, just within three feet of her. The desired distance, according to heavy research on his part at his handler’s insistence. His target looked at him in the weak glow of the single lamplight and then turned slightly, reaching behind her neck with her right hand and pulling her hair away from her shoulder to let it spill down her back, leaving the left side of her face and neck exposed, making access that much easier.

  Do it, the voice in his head said.

  Dent looked at his target, framed perfectly in the soft glow. He edged closer, eyes on her neck.

  Do it! Nobody’s watching. There are no witnesses.

  Everything had led up to this moment. The perfect planning, the countless mock simulations. The memorized floor plan of the restaurant. This very parking lot where he expected the target to park. The entire block, actually.

  But Dent didn’t move in time, perhaps unsure of the fallback of completing this mission. The target turned her head back to address him, covered her face and neck with the protection of her thick hair once again.

  Extending her right hand toward him, she said, “This was … nice. Thank you for dinner and a wonderful night.”

  Dent shook the offered hand lightly. When he let go, she pulled her keys out of her small purse and got in her vehicle. Before closing the door, she said, “I’ll be out of town on business for a while. So if you don’t hear from me ….”

  The door closed and she pulled away, leaving Dent alone in the weak glow of the single lamplight. Alone, except for the voice in his head.

  Dammit, Dent! You blew it. Again!

  The voice in his head was getting too loud to for him. He pulled the small ear bug out and put in his pocket. His phone then rang. There was a very high probability of him knowing who it would be.

  “Why didn’t you kiss her?” Fifth asked him when he picked up.

  Dent had no answer. Didn’t offer one.

  There was a long exhaling of breath on the other end of the line. “Maybe we should start off by getting you a puppy or some other small critter to care for. Go from there.”

  “Why do I need a puppy? I have you.”

  There was an empty pause.

  “Dammit, Mary,” she said, but her inflection was softer than when she had said it before. He could almost … feel … a smile around the words on the other end of the line.

  On his end, Dent smiled back.

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  eMOTION: Hard Wired.

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  PROLOGUE

  The three left the house, taking with them all signs of life. The front door they had left open wide to the unseasonably dry afternoon heat, and when they made the end of the walkway and hit the sidewalk, only one of the trio looked back. There was a slight tremble below her lower lip which matched the almost imperceptible tic in her right eye.

  Cherry loved what she did, loved spreading the warmth she had found with others of like mind. But sometimes there was a crack in the façade, a fissure in her foundation. She didn’t know what it was, but it came over her in waves. It wasn’t depression, she knew that much, but it was more of a lack of … something. Something stronger, something warm, something that made waking up every morning worthwhile.

  Something real?

  Her steps faltered — maybe she’d hit a raised crack in the concrete of the sidewalk — and she ran her eyes over the empty house they were leaving behind. Green, verdant lawn on the verge of going brown and dormant, gently swaying porch swing painted the same faded beige as the rest of the single storied house, rose bushes along the front bay windows gone to a wild mass of thorns above a bed of wilted petals. And inside ….

  She shivered.

  The two others she was with stopped and turned back.

  Looking carefully at the house with the front door slightly ajar, the clean cut man asked gently, “Everything okay, Cherry?”

  She tore her gaze away from the empty house, the same house that had not been empty when they’d been invited in, and let her eyes take in her companions. Connor, the younger of the two, was sixteen by just a few weeks, and still carried more of a childish aura about his chubby frame and in
his wide and round dark eyes. His skin was the color of a latte with heavy cream and his mop-top of unruly brown hair bespoke of his mixed parentage. His gaze was on the ground, aptly watching a pincher bug traverse the sidewalk.

  Jeffery, the African-American who’d inquired about her well-being, was in his late twenties, had close cut hair, and the build of someone who respected his body as a temple. His light brown eyes opened up just a touch as he regarded her, and she could do nothing but smile up into those warm and caring windows. And when he put a tender hand upon the boy’s shoulder, she felt that warmth seep into her very being.

  Her lips parted and her eyes crinkled as her smile attempted to split her face. She let the memory of the house they had just left behind to be just that — a memory. She tucked an errant lock of her shoulder-length blonde hair behind her ear and assured Jeffery that she was fine.

  “Good, good,” he beamed.

  He pulled out his EB, scrolled through a few apps and pages, and pulled up the map of the neighborhood. As his fingers searched and his eyes scanned the screen, he spoke to Cherry and Connor.

  “Okay. Looks like the next candidate is down two streets and over one.” He looked up, pocketed his EB, and ushered his two companions along.

  “Do you think the next one will be open to our message?” she asked.

  “I do hope so,” Jeffery answered over his shoulder. “Some people just don’t realize that they need help, and those people, like the poor soul back there, just don’t know how to handle such welcoming bliss.”

  It was sad, Cherry thought, that people reacted in such drastic ways when they met the three of them. Sometimes they couldn’t handle the bliss, and they did things that were so … She shook her herself, knocking that thought from her mind.