Into the Fire

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Evan sank the tip of the spear into the side of Bedrosov’s throat and snapped off the end.

  The tip protruded about an inch, a golf-ball tee sticking out of his neck.

  Beyond that, nothing happened.

  Evan dropped the newspaper stick. The two men stared at each other. Bedrosov blinked a few times.

  Shocked, almost absentmindedly, he reached up and pulled the tip free. Blood spurted from his carotid, painting the wall to his side.

  He sagged forward, knees bending but not giving way.

  Another spurt and he struck the floor.

  His cheek smashed into the concrete. A shimmering halo spread out beneath his head. One foot twitched and twitched again and then went still.

  Evan scooped up a few packs of ramen and jogged back to his cell. Behind the tempered glass below, deputies were appareling themselves in riot gear, readying a charge. There was not much time left. As Evan vectored up the catwalk, he saw Teardrop down in the bay circling frantically around the fallen lieutenant’s body, still trying to get a bead on what had gone down.

  Evan whistled through his teeth. Loudly.

  Teardrop’s head snapped up.

  He backtraced Evan’s trajectory from Cell 37, and his face seemed to constrict around the angry points of his eyes. He sprinted for the stairs.

  Evan hustled to his cell. Inside, a few tufts extinguished themselves on the floor, bits of lit stuffing rising like flares. Ash textured the air, instant twilight. The heat started to fire his symptoms, the first flush of light-headedness threatening.

  Evan went to Monkey Mouth’s bunk and rested the ramen packs on the slab of metal where his mattress used to be. At the end of his own bunk, only two objects remained—the Bic pen refill and that last third of the soap bar.

  He squared to the door. Sparks swirled around his shoulders. It was like standing in a furnace. Footsteps hammered the catwalk, and then Teardrop wheeled around the corner, breathing hard, neck sheeting with muscle. Exertion and rage had turned his face a pronounced red that glowed beneath the patches of his scruffy beard.

  “Glad you could make it,” Evan said.

  Teardrop flew at him. Evan sidestepped his first punch, hooking him around the stomach and hurling him back. Teardrop lunged to grab Evan’s oversize shirt. Rather than step away as expected, Evan darted forward. Catching Teardrop’s chest with both forearms, he drove him backward with all his force. Just before Teardrop struck the wall, Evan twisted his torso and thrust his own chest up into Teardrop’s. The men were the same height and build, their bodies aligning maximally for a triple-tap slam into the concrete. Chest hit chest, Teardrop’s shoulders slammed the wall, and then the back of his head cracked against the concrete.

  A classic wall stun, perfectly executed.

  Zero contact with Evan’s head.

  Evan hooked his hands behind Teardrop’s neck, clamped his elbows around his ears, and slammed his face down into his own rising knee.

  A crackle of gristle as bone and cartilage yielded.

  Teardrop slapped the floor, unconscious, his face destroyed. Shattered nose, cheeks, and eyes already starting to swell.

  Soon enough he’d be unrecognizable.

  Clangs and hisses carried up from the bay, as well as warning shouts about the deputies’ intrusion. “Fire on the line! Hats and bats coming!”

  In rapid succession came three booms, the thundering percussion of flashbangs.

  They’d be upstairs within minutes.

  Evan grabbed his lump of soap and doused it in the sink. He used it to grease his wrist, and then, clamping his fingers into the shape of a tulip to narrow his hand, he tried to slide his electronic wristband off. The hard plastic edge cut into the meat of his thumb pad, but he ignored the pain, ripping it free.

  He repeated the procedure on Teardrop and then switched the loose wristbands, fighting them into place.

  Downstairs came screams, cries of pain, the hiss of teargas deploying. A deputy yelled, “Move it out now, or it’s gonna feel like you went bobbing for french fries!” Batons banged against shields, the sounds of the conflict moving closer.

  Evan wiped the soapy residue from his wrist and his hands and then bit the top of the Bic pen reservoir to crack it open. Using the metal side of the commode as a mirror, he squeezed out a dot of ink onto the pad of his bare pinkie and dabbed it three times at the corner of his eye, simulating Teardrop’s tattoos. He couldn’t tell if the reflection was blurry or if his eyesight had slipped further. He blinked hard, refocused.

  The tattoos looked imperfect but passable.

  Especially given Evan’s growing beard and what he was about to do to his face.

  He ran his palm across the floor, besmirching it with a layer of ash. Then he smeared it across his cheeks and forehead, even into the creases of his eyelids. For good measure he dirtied up his shirt as well. He streaked Teardrop’s face heavily also until—between the soot and the swelling—he could pass for Evan’s alter identity, Paytsar Hovsepian. The sutures in the cut on Teardrop’s chin had strained but held, remaining obscured by his beard.

  After finishing, Evan rose and staggered out onto the catwalk, doubled over, hacking as loudly as he could manage. With all the heat he’d breathed into his lungs and the fire blazing in the neighboring cell, it wasn’t hard. He didn’t have to fake being unsteady on his feet. A smoky yellow haze of tear gas billowed up from below, creeping through the metal mesh of the catwalk. The first sip sent him over the top.

  Deputies ghosted through the haze below, turned insectoid in gas masks, herding inmates out of the pod. Many of the prisoners had removed their shirts and tied them over their mouths bandito style.

  A few deputies pounded up the stairs, leading with their shields. Evan collapsed on the catwalk, curled up, coughing until he gagged. He balled a fist and rubbed his eyes hard, working the ash, grit, and tear gas deep enough to prompt swelling and redden them up even more.

  They reached him and dragged him out. “Looks like smoke inhalation.”

  “Christ, let’s get him to the med bay.”

  Evan found his feet, fought off an urge to throw up, and waved the deputies off. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” His voice came out strangled, unrecognizable.

  They steered him downstairs, out the security door, and through the mantrap he’d first entered twenty-seven hours ago.

  The stream of prisoners passed the central control room, and then the men were packed into an adjoining dayroom insufficient to accommodate the pod’s overcrowded population.

  The room simmered, a press of bodies. Shoving matches broke out, threatening to erupt. Evan shoved his way to one side of the room and stood with his back to the wall to aid his balance. He needed the building to hold him up.

  The temperature was on the rise, rivulets of sweat working down Evan’s forehead. He mopped his brow and then finger-pasted more soot in its place, needing to keep the cover intact. He hoped the inked teardrops weren’t running. He was seeing spots; he desperately wanted to lie down.

  Tension escalated, skirmishes flaring, resolving, flaring again. Deputies patrolled, pulling out prisoners for the medical bay and taking others in groups to store in various locations. The room thinned out a little at a time. Around eleven o’clock a deputy swung open the door and rapped it with his fist. “Anyone due for release tomorrow, come with me.”

  Evan joined a half dozen other inmates, following the man out. More deputies materialized to flank them all the way to the inmate-reception center. Evan had to look down at his feet to make sure he was walking straight.

  He found himself seated at a familiar table before a deputy he didn’t recognize.

  “Your lucky day, homey,” the deputy said. “We don’t let you go day of release, you can sue our asses. And since we gotta unfuck that mess in 121 B-Pod today, we’re kicking you at midnight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Social and date of birth.”

  Evan had memorized Teardrop’s personal information
in advance, having chosen him for his size, build, and release date. But for an awful moment, he drew a complete blank. The ringing in his ears drowned out all recollection. The only thing he could picture was the awakening he’d received with Casper’s fist on one end and the concrete wall on the other.

  The deputy leaned over, muscular forearms bulging. “Well?”

  And then, like a dream, the numbers were there again, rippling up to the surface of Evan’s shattered thoughts. He recited the data quickly before it vanished once more into the deep.

  The deputy grabbed Evan’s arm and twisted it to bring the wristband into view. He scanned it and then rubbed his fingertips together, eyeing the filmy residue.

  Soap.

  “What’s this?”

  Evan fought not to alter his breathing. “I was washing up in my cell when the fires started,” he said. “I didn’t have time to—” He feigned another coughing fit, leaning over the table toward the deputy, who drew away.

  “Okay, okay. Jesus.” The deputy tossed him a blue fishnet bag. “Here’s your shit. Get dressed.”

  When Evan stood, it took his full attention not to topple over. He carried the bag to the concrete room where he’d changed before. After stripping off his uppers and lowers, he pulled Teardrop’s clothes from the bag. Wallet holding a debit card, driver’s license, eighty-some dollars, and a tattered photo of a woman in a bikini. Pack of cigarettes. Pack of chewing gum. Filthy jeans and a blood-crusted flannel shirt that had no doubt been soiled during whatever altercation had split Teardrop’s chin and landed him in here.

  The two dollars and seventeen cents Evan had walked in with would remain behind, along with the fake license that would have faded to invisibility by the time anyone thought to pull it from deep storage.

  Evan had to sit to yank on Teardrop’s dirty jeans, and then he buttoned the soiled shirt. His fingers felt numb, and he had a tough time shoving the buttons through the holes. Caked blood blackened the collar in the front. Swallowing hard, Evan ground it against his chin, bits catching in his emergent beard. If anyone thought to look for a cut on his jawline, the mess would provide ample cover.

  He stepped out of the room, cleared his throat, and said, “I’m ready.”

  As the deputy led him downstairs, he could hear his pulse whooshing in his ears. The air-conditioning blew down sharply on him, drying the back of his throat. His legs had turned to rubber, his knees threatening to buckle with every step. When he saw who was standing at the metal detectors in the front, he had to resist a powerful urge to draw up short.

  It was Willy—the deputy who had classified him on the way in. His mustache, fringed with brown coffee stains, bristled as he bunched his lips.

  He stared Evan straight in the face.

  Evan lowered his gaze, prayed that the beard and soot and teardrop tattoos were sufficient cover. How many prisoners did Willy process through in a given day? Dozens? Hundreds? Moving past Willy, Evan sensed the man’s glare on him.

  He willed himself to walk. He could feel every bone in his foot struggling to hold balance as his weight rolled across it. One step. Another. Another.

  He cleared the detectors.

  The front door was ahead, and it was oscillating only slightly.

  “Hey,” Willy said, and Evan’s skin went to ice. “Hey!”

  He turned.

  A drop of sweat trickled from his hairline, nearing the ink of the fake tattoos. He didn’t dare reach to wipe it away. His head hummed, spots dancing everywhere, pixelating the deputy.

  Willy squinted at him.

  Each second held the weight of an hour.

  The drop of sweat reached Evan’s eyebrow, a few millimeters from smearing the teardrops.

  Willy lifted a pair of scissors into view. For an instant Evan had a bizarre vision that the deputy might attack him here and now.

  “Want me to cut it off?”

  Evan cleared his throat. Cleared it again. “’Scuse me?”

  Willy jerked his chin at Evan’s arm. “The wristband.”

  “Oh,” Evan said. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  He held out his arm.

  A snip.

  The wristband fell away.

  Evan turned as the drop of sweat tickled down through the Bic ink at the side of his eye.

  He walked out through the glass doors into the embrace of midnight.

  The front gate, topped with concertina wire, rolled open. He nodded at the deputies and stepped through.

  He had eighty of Teardrop’s dollars in his pocket. He’d have to walk to the garment district, see if there were any street vendors who could sell him a fresh shirt. He’d find a gas-station bathroom to wash the ash, ink, and dried blood from his face. And cab home.

  Then he’d finally get this mission in the rearview mirror once and for all. And set about figuring out who he wanted to be for the back half of his life.

  The night sky brought not relief but a dull kind of terror, as if he were standing on the brink of an abyss. The time inside had reacquainted him with his inconsequentiality. You know what it’s like to be powerless.

  Yes.

  He’d been within an eyelash of living it for the remaining seconds and minutes and years of his life.

  If the spear hadn’t worked—

  If he hadn’t been able to lure Teardrop into his cell—

  If he hadn’t been able to slide off the wristband—

  If—

  He was shaking. Even here beneath the open expanse of the sky, he couldn’t draw a full breath. He staggered a block and then another block, and then he sat down on the curb. His beard rasped against the crusted collar. He couldn’t stop his hands from trembling.

  A voice washed down at him. “Hey, pal. Need some money?”

  “No, thank you,” Evan said. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m fine,” he repeated.

  “I’m fine.”

  49

  An Orphan’s Best Friend

  The tonnage of Advil in Evan’s system kept the pain in his head to a low roar as he disabled the various front-door locks and pushed into his penthouse. The first thing he saw: dirty plates on the kitchen island. The first thing he smelled: dog. The first thing he heard: pounding footsteps and claws scrabbling across the concrete floor.

  He held up a hand as Joey and Dog the dog flew up the hall from the master suite. “Wait, my head’s really—”

  But Joey slammed into him with a hug, her cheek pressed to his chest. Despite the thunderous throbbing in his skull, he held her. The dog nudged his wet snout between them until Evan lowered his palm to be nuzzled. Joey’s hair smelled of fresh shampoo, the shaved right side bristling against his chin. Her hands were clamped around the small of his back, ratcheting him tight enough that his bruised ribs ached.

  But he didn’t let go.

  Not until she shoved him away, wiped her nose, and averted her gleaming green eyes.

  “I’m glad to see you, too,” Evan said.

  “I’m not glad to see you,” Joey said. “I’m just relieved you didn’t get yourself killed. There’s a difference.”

  “I understand.”

  She wiped at her nose again. Her face was still flushed. “I tore Bedrosov’s life apart and didn’t find anything else. I think you did it. I think he’s the end of the line.”

  The finality seemed to weigh at them both. Was this really the end of the mission? The end of the Nowhere Man?

  Evan broke the silence. “Nice work.”

  She nodded. “Remember that when you get all anal-retentive about the fact that me and Dog slept in your stupid floating bed.”

  “You let the dog—”

  Joey held up a finger in warning. “Not a word. Except thank you.”

  Evan clenched his jaw. “Thank you.”

  “You look like shit. How’s your concussion?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. It’s over. Which means you do nothing now but rest. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

 
Joey snapped her fingers, and Dog trotted over to her side. “So me and this stupid dog you stuck me with better get out of here before anyone notices. Every time I took him out to go potty, we had to Scooby-Doo our way around that tight-ass HOA guy with the Where’s Waldo? glasses.”

  “I have no idea what any of that means.”

  Already she was out the door, her voice wafting back. “You need a shower. And shave already. You look like a hobo. A concussed hobo.”

  The door closed.

  He stood a moment in the quiet, trying not to let the crusted plates on the counter and the dog hair on the floor aggravate him. What a different way to come home. Footsteps, a hug, a warm muzzle in the palm.

  Maybe his new life could include these things.

  He took Joey’s advice, showering, shaving, and then dressing in his own clothes. The bedsheets were swirled atop the mattress and flecked with dog hair. The floor was a mess. A half-drunk glass of OJ had left a ring on the nightstand.

  All the imperfections felt overwhelming, scratching at his focus, and he felt a compulsion to clean and order, to curate the environment until it was pleasing to his eye. He entered the Vault and checked the corner where Dog had relieved himself. Joey had cleaned that up at least, though various plates were scattered across the L-shaped table. And crumbs. Was it that hard to position one’s mouth over a plate while eating?

  He supposed he shouldn’t complain. He was finished now, with nothing ahead on the calendar but getting Max back to his life and doing some light cleaning.

  He glanced up at the OLED screen and froze, his compulsion vanishing.

  His e-mail, the.nowhere.man@gmail.com, showed a new message.

  A rarity.

  He glanced over at Vera II in her dish of cobalt pebbles. She, too, seemed surprised by the e-mail.

  He moused over and clicked.

  No sender. No subject line.

  It contained nothing but a single phone number. A code word. And an extension.

  (202) 456-1414. Dark Road. 32.