by Arno Joubert
“Here, let me help,” Neil offered.
“But you’re injured,” she said, pushing his hand away.
“Let me try. Why do you want to loosen that ring?” he asked, crawling closer.
“To let the gas escape, I guess,” she said.
“OK, let me try.”
Neil opened the cutting blade and proceeded to slash the rubber pipe. After three strokes it was totally severed, and gas started hissing from the pipe.
Alexa rolled her eyes. “Clever boy.”
Neil nodded. “OK, what’s next?”
“Do you have any grenades left?”
Neil handed Alexa a grenade and she pulled out the arming pin.
“Ready?” she asked.
Neil and Voelkner nodded. They didn’t look ready.
She placed the grenade on top of the compressor, and they ran into the front of the refrigerator unit.
“Shit, I hope this works,” she said.
“And you tell me this now, because—” Neil said before a deafening explosion ripped through the room.
The blast sent them crashing into the shelves at the side of the unit. Eggs and milk were dripping from the ceiling. The refrigerator door was ripped clean off its hinges, and smoke filled the room. Alexa saw Metcalfe’s neat lawn, now strewn with rubble, through a hole in the fridge and the wall.
She hobbled out and looked behind the destroyed compressor unit of the fridge. Chunks of concrete had been dislodged, but the gap was still too small to fit through. She started kicking at the edges of the hole with her heel, managing to widen it. Neil and Voelkner helped, and they widened it even more. Alexa crouched down and managed to squeeze her way through. Voelkner followed, squirming and wiggling his way to freedom.
She gestured for Neil to follow.
“There’s no way that I’ll fit through that,” Neil said.
“C’mon Neil, try; put your good arm through first.”
Neil put his arm through and wiggled into the hole. He tried to move his shoulder, but it was too painful. The more he squirmed, the more jammed-in he got. Sweat dripped from his forehead.
“Fuck, I’m stuck, Miss Smarty-Pants. I’m not skin and bones like you starved Legionnaires,” Neil grumbled.
Alexa and Voelkner tried to pull him out, to no avail. She looked around. Some guards had noticed them and started firing. She returned fire and glanced at Neil.
“Neil?” she said.
“What?” he barked, an irritated look on his face.
“I’m sorry,” Alexa said.
Neil’s eyes widened as Alexa’s boot flew toward his face. She connected on his chin and his body went limp. They grabbed him by his collar and free arm and pulled him out.
By the time Neil came to, he was sitting propped up against the wall, a gun balanced on his knees.
“Fucking fire, Neil. Help us out here,” Alexa shouted at him.
He ducked as bullets exploded beside his head. He fell to the ground and aimed several shots toward where he thought the enemy fire was coming from.
Alexa was frantically punching numbers into her phone. Voelkner provided cover fire.
She looked up at Neil. “It’s dead. I think it was damaged in the explosion.”
Neil shrugged, not really giving a shit.
“Cover me,” she shouted at them, then she bolted toward the loading bay door and locked it. She ran back to Neil. “That should keep them inside for a while.”
Neil ducked as a massive blast shook the wall in front of them, concrete and broken chunks of brick flying everywhere. The wall disintegrated, and an entire section fell to the ground.
“What the—” Neil cried, looking for the source of the explosion.
An armored Humvee sped through the gap and powered toward them. Bullets whined and ricocheted off the vehicle.
“Was that a bloody rocket launcher?” Neil shouted at Alexa, holding his arms over his head.
“Yep, the Legion doesn’t take shit,” she said with a grin.
Latorre jerked the Hummer to a stop in front of them and threw the door open. “Need a lift?” he asked casually.
They piled into the Hummer and the truck lurched into gear, speeding through the gap in the wall. They screeched into the street and blasted away, picking up speed.
Neil peered out of the back of the vehicle. Guards were firing shots in their direction, running, trying to catch up with the Humvee, but they finally gave up the chase. Neil turned to face the front, casting accusing glares at Alexa.
“What?” she asked.
He pointed to his jaw. “I think it’s broken.”
“Oh that,” she said and shrugged. “Your diaphragm was full of air. When I knocked you out, you exhaled the air and went limp, making your torso smaller. That’s how we managed to drag you out of the hole.” She looked at him and smiled weakly. “Don’t I at least get a ‘thanks’?”
Neil scowled and stared out the window.
Alexa parked outside the house on Ben Gurion drive. The whitewashed wall was drab and faded. Pieces of white paint flaked off the gate. The dry hinges creaked as she pushed it open. Grass and weeds grew in the gravel pathway that led up to the front door. The faded stones were barely visible.
Thistles had taken root in the flowerbeds. An old, hanging flower basket swayed in the wind, shriveled plants dangling from the sides.
She ambled to the front door. The ornate colored glass on the front of the door had been replaced by a chipboard panel, and shreds of the tinted window lay scattered on the porch.
She turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. She entered the hallway. Everything was a rundown version of the precise memories she recalled.
She walked into the living room. The carpet had been ripped out and replaced by heavy-duty industrial plastic tiles.
Someone was busy in the kitchen. She walked inside.
A stocky blonde guy looked up in surprise when Alexa entered. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be in here,” he said, reaching for his weapon.
Alexa dispatched him with a bullet between his eyes.
She climbed the flight of stairs to the first floor, trailing her fingers along the perished wooden bannister. The passageway was dark and grimy, covered by a threadbare carpet, the doors boarded down. A light shone in a room at the end of the passage. Her parents’ bedroom. She peered inside.
Zachary Cohen was lying on a metal hospital bed. He was neatly tucked in and his head was propped up on two cushions. An oxygen mask had been strapped over his mouth and nose. A transparent tube connected the oxygen mask to a machine that looked like a vacuum pump, a large black rubber piston moving up and down. Zachary Cohen’s chest billowed and receded in tune with the oscillating pump.
Intravenous drips had been connected to each arm. A thick plastic tube coiled from beneath the blankets, dark yellow liquid gurgling to a container hooked to the bottom of the bed. Zachary’s scalp was cleanly shaven. Wires were connected to electrodes on his skull. The wires led to a PC screen. Behind the screen was a large metal box with diodes and lights, knobs and needles.
Alexa walked closer. Touched his hand. She thought she could see his eyes move beneath the lids, like he was in REM-phase of a deep sleep.
“Hello, Becky,” a tinny voice said.
Alexa turned around. The voice came from a grey box in the top corner of the room. A swiveling camera was attached to the box. It whirred this way and that and finally focused on Alexa.
“Hello, Zachary. Or whatever you call yourself. Please, call me Alexa.”
“I see you found my hiding place. How did you know?” the voice asked.
Alexa crossed her arms and thought for a moment. “This is the only place that you could be. The happiest moments of your life were spent here. And the saddest, I guess.” She shrugged. “Home.”
“Yes, memories. I really loved this place. Why are you here?” the voice asked.
Alexa sauntered around the bedroom. The walls were covered with old framed photos of her as a l
ittle girl. Faded wedding photos of her dad and mom. The camera whirred and clicked and zoomed, following her around the room.
“Why did you betray us?” Alexa asked, examining a photo of her as a child, sitting on Zachary’s knee. Her mom stood behind them, her hand on his shoulder.
“Betray? Isn’t that a bit melodramatic, Alexa? I have ascertained that you do have some trust issues,” the monotonous voice answered.
Alexa laughed, placing the photo back on the wall. “Metcalfe knew exactly where we were. We couldn’t get close to the bastard. You were the only person who knew our precise locations. You told him—”
“What are you accusing me of?” the voice asked in a harsh tone.
Alexa studied the PC screen. Their conversation was being typed out, line by line, as the words were being spoken.
She walked toward her father’s body and pulled an electrode from his skull. It came off with a soft pop. “Sure, you kept Perreira and Callahan away from us. But you protected Metcalfe. Why?”
Zachary’s eyes moved rapidly beneath his lids. “Metcalfe didn’t have a bone to pick with you, Alexa. When you started pursuing him, he warned me to keep you away. I had to, Alexa. Metcalfe threatened to shut me down. You must understand that this was a matter of life and death.”
“How long have you known him?” she asked.
“I first met him after I was shot. He managed to resuscitate me and keep me alive, although I was in a comatose state. His doctor injected me with the nanobots. It was cutting edge technology. And it worked. He funded my research. I had more inventions up my sleeve. It was the perfect symbiotic relationship,” the voice said.
Alexa removed Frydman’s scribbled note from her pocket, held it up to the camera.
“You see this, Zachary? Frydman knew something was wrong.”
The camera whirred and clicked. The metallic voice crackled over the grey speaker. “Bah, he is an idiot. He would never be able to decode my data encryption.”
Alexa walked closer to the camera. “You’re wrong, Zachary. He figured everything out. He decoded the encryption and went through your telephone records. You sent many SMSs to us. But even more to Metcalfe.”
“How?” The metallic voice demanded. “I was monitoring all his computer access. He wouldn’t be able to run a decoding program without me knowing.”
“He did it the old fashioned way, Zachary. With pen and paper. Meticulously, line by line, away from any snooping cameras.”
The grey box kept quiet.
Alexa clenched her fists and glared at Zachary’s body. “Do you know what Metcalfe did, Zachary?”
The grey box kept quiet.
“Answer me, dammit. Do you know what he did?” she shouted.
“It had nothing to do with me. After you uploaded the search algorithm on his PC at the estates, I realized just how sick he was,” the voice said.
“You were a conspirator in a heinous plot to murder thousands of innocent children. You are not my father. My father had principles,” she shouted.
“I didn’t know. I have already compiled an inventory of the children and tracked down some of the parents. Look,” the voice pleaded.
Alexa’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket.
She shook her head slowly. “It’s too late now, Zachary. You didn’t need to give him any information, you know that. It was a matter of principle,” Alexa said.
“But I would have died, Alexa. Surely you understand.”
She pursed her lips. “Then you die, Zachary,” she shouted. “Don’t you see? You are dead already. Stop acting like some self-righteous god. It isn’t natural.”
She walked to the bed. Pulled the IV needle from his arm. A transparent fluid started leaking from the needle, dripping onto the floor.
“Alexa, I’ve always loved you and your mom. I would have done anything for the two of you. I never did anything wrong. I simply warned Metcalfe when you were close to him. He would never harm you.”
She removed a silver USB memory stick from her pocket then held it in the air. “You knew that Metcalfe wanted to kill Bruce. You helped him. You set us up,” she said, her lip trembling as tears rolled down her cheek.
“I never meant to, I swear.”
Alexa shook her head, laughed bitterly. She made up her mind and looked up at the camera. “Zachary, you are going to die here, today. You deserve to die. But first you’re going to phone Metcalfe.”
Alexa gave Zachary the instructions.
“I cannot do that,” the voice said.
Alexa pulled the IV needle from his other arm. “Do it now; it’ll be your saving grace. The story that I tell your grandchildren.”
The voice went quiet for a minute, then said, “It’s done.”
“Good-bye, Dad.” Alexa said. She leaned over and gently kissed Zachary Cohen’s forehead. His eyes moved beneath his eyelids.
She removed the oxygen mask from Zachary’s mouth and unplugged the final electrode. She switched off all the machinery at the plug. A reserve UPS unit kicked in with a beep. She switched it off as well. She waited. Thirty seconds, a minute. Zachary Cohen’s lips parted slightly.
She walked to the computer screen and read the transcription of their conversation. The final sentence read, “I’m so sorr—”
She switched the screen off and turned around to face her father’s corpse. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“So am I,” she whispered and emptied her clip into his body.
Manhattan, New York
Metcalfe was studying the menu of the Michelin-star bistro. Waiters rushed to and fro, taking orders and showing patrons to their seats. The place thrummed with the expectant excitement of lunchtime business deals being closed by industry mavericks and gossip being shared among bejeweled girlfriends with big bosoms and long nails.
Someone walked up to him and greeted him, shaking his hand. They exchanged small talk and smiles, and the man departed with a friendly pat on Metcalfe’s back. Metcalfe winked at a woman across the restaurant who waved and blew him a kiss.
He decided on the Salmon rillettes with a white wine and garlic reduction as a starter, and the pan-seared prime fillet for his main. He ordered a bottle of Chateau de Beaucastel Chateuneuf-du-Pape that would complement the meal perfectly.
The past week had been a PR nightmare. His spokesperson had to explain away the explosion. Luckily, it was a damn old fridge. The cops came, looking for the bodies. Monroe had dealt with them.
He looked forward to the meeting. Perreira had phoned that he was in town. He had opened a new shipping route. And he had news on the Guerra bitch. He had made contact with her commander at the French Foreign Legion, and the man wanted to make a deal.
This was going to be so good.
Something caught his eye as the waiter turned to leave. A strongly-built man was approaching. He was dressed in a black tux, and the first two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned.
He walked smoothly toward Metcalfe, casually pulled out a chair, and took a seat. “Good day, Senator,” Neil Allen said, leaning back in the chair.
Metcalfe looked around, bewildered. He searched for his guards and couldn’t find any.
“Your entourage decided to take a nap. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine. They’ll wake up with an awful headache, wondering how they ended up in a garbage bin,” Allen said, a gentle smile on his face.
“You cannot do this. I’m going to call security,” Metcalfe whispered, leaning forward.
Neil waved him away. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that. Take a look at these first.”
Neil slid a brown envelope toward Metcalfe. He tore it open, removed some photos. He glanced at them, placing one behind the other.
He looked up at Neil and smiled. “So, you are going to blackmail me? You have nothing on me. It is not my fault that my staff use my residence for their sick little shows.”
Allen shook his head then smiled. “You can’t bluff your way out of this one.” He shrugged. “Besides, we have a lot more. Paper trails,
exact times of entry to your estate. I think you’re pretty much screwed.”
Metcalfe slammed his fist down on the table. People stared. “I will not be intimidated by a pathetic army dropout, you gypsy bozo. I have my own army of lawyers that will get this case buried so quickly you won’t have time to unzip your fly and take a piss.”
He stuck a finger in Allen’s face. “And then I’ll come after you, my boy, and Bryden and Guerra, and I’ll make my own little videos that I’ll watch with my milk and tea every night while jerking off. So don’t threaten me, boy,” he said, his nostrils flaring.
Metcalfe stood up. “I’m calling security.”
Neil fired the dart gun from beneath the table. Metcalfe sat down, hard. His eyes widened in shock, and he slipped to the floor. He started convulsing, kicking and frothing at the mouth.
Neil kneeled next to him and pulled the dart from his thigh. He scanned the room. “I think we need a doctor,” he called urgently.
A man came rushing to his side. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s having a fit or something. Could he be epileptic?” someone asked.
The doctor shook his head. “Never saw a seizure like this before. Dial 911.”
Neil punched the numbers into his phone and described the situation. Five minutes later two paramedics arrived on the scene. They loaded Metcalfe onto a gurney and wheeled him to the ambulance waiting outside. They activated the siren and strobe light and sped away.
The ambulance briefly stopped at an intersection a block down from the restaurant. Alexa shifted up and Neil climbed inside.
“Good job,” Bruce said and pulled away.
Howard Johnson, Midtown Manhattan
Bruce joined Neil and Alexa at the restaurant table. He ordered some coffee.
“Have you guys seen the newspaper today?” he asked, tossing it onto the table.
Alexa shook her head, propping the remainder of a bagel into her mouth. She pulled the paper toward her and Bruce pointed to the article at the bottom of page three.
