by Tara Oakes
Looking disappointed in the lack of order and waste of her time, she rolls her eyes and stalks off, leaving the two of us alone.
“This isn’t what it looks like, buddy,” Simon begins.
Hearing him use the term buddy actually makes my stomach turn. “Oh? So you mean to tell me it doesn’t look like you set Raven up? Buddy?”
I’m just itching to grab the Glock from my back waistband, I’m so angry.
He swallows hard and moves his hand to take a sip of his water glass. The hand is shaking terribly, fingers barely able to hold the drink steady.
What the fuck?
Taking a sip, he manages to spill more than he swallows, that’s how nervous he is.
“Is Raven here? Nearby?” he asks, voice faltering.
Is he kidding? Does he really think I’d ever tell him that? “You’ll never know.”
He closes his eyes softly. “You have to promise me something, Beau.”
He’s not in any position to be asking me for favors right now. I grunt.
“Take care of her. Protect her. No matter what.” His words are slow, full of meaning.
He must be psychotic or something. “Simon. What the fuck is going on?” I ask. Either he’s a bonafide maniac or there’s another piece to this puzzle that I haven’t figured out yet.
“I have to show you something and then tell you something, and no matter what I need you to make sure you don’t give any reaction whatsoever. If she’s around here, watching this, I don’t want her to see the look on your face when you find out.” His words are cryptic.
Controlling one’s reaction is a very difficult thing to do. It’s often a kneejerk instinct and takes lots of practice in overcoming. Luckily for me, it was something we covered in depth back in the Academy.
I nod.
He breathes deep. “Okay. First I have to show you this.”
Very slowly, he moves his hands to push aside the thin jacket that’s wrapped tightly against him. At first, all I see is black, that is, until he manages to move it aside far enough for me to see the rest.
The multicolored wires stringing about are the first giveaway of how serious this situation is. The blocks of explosives and the detonator panel just confirm it.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
He’s wearing a bomb.
Every muscle in my body tenses and I immediately turn into the field agent I was trained to be, doing the mental calculations necessary to determine that he’s wearing enough explosive to knock out half a city block, if not more.
Next, I look around this section of that busy city block and estimate that there must be at least a couple of hundred people in the blast area. Women. Children. Elderly.
No wonder this place was picked for the rendezvous. It’s perfectly out in the open where there can be the most collateral damage.
Fucking coward.
Can’t face someone man to man, has to bring other people into it.
“That’s really how you want to handle this, Simon?” I ask, hoping to appeal to his sense of ethics, if he’s got any.
He looks confused. “What are you talking about? I didn’t strap this shit on my body! You think I really want to go out this way, without giving all those lucky ladies the chance to experience Sexy Simon?”
What?
“I have a message. Raven has twenty-four hours to turn over everything she has otherwise her parents are dead. They’re not playing around anymore. This is ending one way or another. But, there’s something else you should know…” He’s rushing his words now.
There’s an audible click coming from his chest. We both look down only to see the detonator panel come to life, with red blocked numbers counting down. It’s been activated.
Fuck!
Simon looks petrified, turning white as a ghost. There are only forty-five seconds until he is no more, at least according to the small display screen over his heart.
I jump into hyper-drive, doing the first thing that comes to mind. I jump up and scream at the top of my lungs. “Fire! Get out of here! As fast as you can!”
The crowd turns my way, pausing their private conversations, some in mid chew. Once they register what I’ve said, it’s a mass exit, almost a panic to get as far away as quickly as possible.
However frenzied these people are right now, I know it would only be worse if I had yelled out “Bomb!”. At least at this rate, there’s less of a chance of casualties. I grab Simon’s hand and pull him behind me into the now empty café building, and rip off the red jacket used to conceal the explosives.
The time has ticked down to thirty-six second at this point. There’s an unused steak knife on one of the abandoned tables. I grab it and hold it tight as I trace the wires, forming the trail of detonation.
The way most of these work is that a trigger will set off an electrified charge when the countdown ends to one bundle of explosive material. That will, in turn, set off a chain reaction to the next and then the next and so on until all bundles have exploded, combining into one large detonation.
The first thing I do is use the sharp steak knife to cut free bundle after bundle in reverse order until left with only the main initial explosive attached to the detonator timer.
I lost count, but there are at least ten bundles now piled at our feet with twenty seconds left on the clock. Whatever the explosive damage would have been, I can now safely assume that it will only be about one twentieth of what it could have been.
Next, I use the tip of the knife to tear down the sides of the vest, ripping the main seams apart enough for Simon to wriggle his tiny little body free of the device that’s still counting down in my hands.
Thirteen seconds left. I have to get this as far away from the pile of explosives on the ground as possible in that time, otherwise we’re both dead, along with whoever else happens to be unlucky enough to be caught in the blast.
“The alley in the back!” Simon reads my mind.
We race through the dining room, pushing past the swing doors into the kitchen where everything had been left, abandoned in a hurry.
Pots are still boiling on the stove tops, the deep fryer is still bubbling, and burning smells of ruined food is filling up the space with light smoke.
Eleven seconds. Ten seconds. Nine seconds.
There’s an emergency exit at the far side of the kitchen. Simon finds a way to reach it first, pushing the door open.
Eight seconds. Seven seconds.
There’s a large metal dumpster parked next to the building’s exterior wall. I throw the vest into it and slam the metal hinged door closed before pushing all my strength against it.
Thank God there doesn’t seem to be much inside to weigh it down. The wheels creek and squeal but eventually begin to move. Simon uses his miniscule body to throw some weight against the dark green metal of the garbage container to help.
Six seconds. Five seconds.
Before long, the dumpster begins to move on its own, rolling down the incline of a hill, picking up speed, taking the bomb further and further away from the building. I pull Simon by the shoulders to keep him back as the rolling bomb on wheels now speeds off, away from us.
Four seconds. Three seconds.
With Simon under my arm, I dive back into the café’s kitchen pulling the door shut and then sliding along the floor to land under one of the industrial metal countertops.
We’ve barely stopped in place before the boom can be heard, then felt. There’s a sound of glass shattering nearby, of pots and pans falling off shelves, of dishes plummeting to the ground and breaking.
I close my eyes and cover both mine and Simon’s heads to prevent any shrapnel debris from causing injury. Lying in wait, I listen closely for any hint of a second blast, knowing that if that were to happen, it’s game over.
Nothing.
Relief floods my system. We did it. We averted disaster.
Without allowing myself one more second to appreciate that fact, I immediately pounce on Simon, rolling him
over to the ground, holding him down by the collar.
“What the fuck was all that about?” My fist is ready, knuckles pumping.
“Wait!” he begs. “They grabbed me this morning. I didn’t know what they were doing. They wanted to send a message to Raven, and were going to use me to do it! I swear! I—I almost died! As in dead!”
“Who?! Who grabbed you? Who’s trying to send a message to Raven?” I have no patience left.
He swallows hard, making a weird gulping sound. “That’s what I was trying to tell you at the table, but they must have heard I was about to tell you and triggered the timer so I wouldn’t--”
“Who?!” I shake him.
His eyes open wide. “Aleksei.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RAVEN
The crowd is in a frenzy, scurrying about in all directions. Some are screaming, rushing to get far away. Some are curious, looking to bottleneck around each other and see the commotion from a safe distance.
There’s a flurry of voices, with everyone wondering where the fire is.
There’s no smoke, no smell of burning embers in the air. Nothing. Because there’s no fire. There never was.
Maybe I would feel relieved in some small way if there actually was a fire, because then it would explain what the hell is happening. The fear of the unknown is always much worse than the unknown itself.
Right now, there is way too much unknown. I have no idea why Beau would jump up and scream what he did the way he did it. I have no idea why he grabbed the man sitting across from him and hurried into the café when everyone else was running in the opposite direction.
Worst of all though, I have no idea where he is right now.
I have no idea if he’s even dead or alive.
Police have arrived on the scene just seconds ago, barricading the growing crowd a safe distance away from the building that everyone believes to be on fire although it’s unseen.
‘Excuse me!” I call over the shoulder of one man who’s standing tall and practically breaking his neck to get a better look. He pretends he can’t hear me, and I’ve had just about enough if it. “I said!” I push him aside, “Excuse me!”
It takes the guy a second to roll me a dirty look for my very uncivilized behavior but he’s right back to gawking at the café in record time. With him out of the way, I now have a front row, unfettered view of the crime scene from across the road, which is the closest the police will let us get.
Sirens can be heard, signaling the approaching fire brigade. It sure took them long enough. The response time is pitiful. Who knows what could have happened in there by now.
The fire engine pulls to a screeching stop directly in front of the building, with men filing out of the vehicle, already clad in protective uniforms. They get to work, unraveling long hoses and attaching them to the closest fire hydrant.
A violent crash sounds nearby, echoing loudly through the alleyways between buildings. Everyone screams simultaneously and falls to their knees, using their arms to cover their heads.
Random bricks shake loose from the brown façade of some buildings, tumbling down to hit the sidewalk, smashing into a bunch of smaller pieces on impact.
One older woman screams that we’re having an earthquake, another that it’s just the fire. I know better. It’s neither.
It’s a bomb.
Glass windows are blown out in several buildings, covering the streets in sparkling shards of glass, all different shapes and sizes.
There’s a black plume of billowing smoke rising and snaking high into the sky.
My ears are ringing with a heavily muted sound, muffling out most everything else around me. It doesn’t take long before a dusty, singed, burnt rubber smell fills the air, being carried in the breeze.
Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, with every person taking stock of what’s happened. The police officers have all rallied together given the new level of severity of the situation.
“Move, move!!” We’re herded even further away from the blast zone, some nearly trampling over others.
I have no choice but to mix in with the crowd, unable to fight against the current of panicked people swarming against me. The café building is fading from view the farther I’m pushed away.
Black armored vehicles speed into the area, no doubt transporting emergency services units to combat the threat. Immediately, I hide my face, knowing that I’m a wanted fugitive.
Shit!
This keeps getting worse and worse. There’s no way I can risk doubling back and getting caught by any of the now dozens of agents crawling around. I don’t know what to do…
Do I just leave Beau to fend for himself? I don’t even know if Beau is in any shape or condition to be able to protect himself if swarmed by agents. He’ll be taken in no time at all.
My heart begins to race, thinking I’ll never see him again. The last memory I’ll have of him is him telling me what to do if things go south. Did he know this would happen? Did he foresee me being left to figure something like this out?
My parents are gone.
Simon’s gone.
Now Beau’s gone.
I’m all alone. I have no one.
I jam my hands into my pockets to occupy them and keep them from shaking any worse than they already are. The fingertips of my right hand press into something that crinkles and I remember the folded piece of paper that Beau had handed me, making me promise to follow the directions on it if needed.
Overhead, several helicopters fly in the direction we’re fleeing from. At least one of them looks to be a news team looking to score the story as it’s unfolding. The streets are closed off to traffic, with police vehicles parked awkwardly to act as barriers, yet media vans are parked as close as possible without actually crossing the newly erected blockade.
The large extendible antennae and satellite dishes perched atop the converted vans are hoisted up, turning that section of the street into an instant impromptu newsroom. Camera lenses begin to scan the crown settling on the fleeing victims of the incident.
Fuck!
I hide my face once more, not willing to be captured on film. I don’t need anyone recognizing me. I need to get out of here, somewhere where I can pull myself together, think straight and think of what to do next.
~*~
With not many places to go, I chose the only place that seems viably safe at the moment for a wanted fugitive on the run from both the law and the hired assassins on her tail, in the midst of what’s being described as a terrorist attack.
All security levels have risen, with everyone on heightened alert.
This just so happens to be the place Beau had instructed me to meet him after his meeting with the man in the café. He chose this place, this public park, without knowing much about it, but it couldn’t be more perfect of a place.
It’s far enough away from the café that I’m not at risk of getting caught in the crosshairs of authorities. Beau had done a quick Google search to find a place centrally located that would be within distance of three cell phone towers this way I can use a signal scrambler to mask my true location just in case someone tries to trace my call.
I hold the unfolded piece of scrap paper in one hand and my cell in the other, staring back and forth between the two. I can’t believe I’m going to do what I’m about to.
I justify that it was Beau’s last wish, and I need to honor it if only for that reason.
That doesn’t make this any easier, though.
I’ve dialed the phone number at least three times. I’ve hit the clear button just as many times. Each time I curse myself for not being able to follow through with it. A yuppie looking woman pushing a stroller overhears me cursing this last time and gives me a surprised look.
I must look like a crazy person, sitting here alone on a park bench, disheveled.
Oh, fuck it. I just need to get this over with.
I hit the redial button on the disposable cell phone and wait for the interna
tional connection to be placed.
“Gibson,” a deep voice calls out through the receiver.
I freeze, not knowing what to say and not having thought enough ahead to have planned out some type of script. I mean, what exactly am I supposed to say: Hi, you don’t know me, but I just wanted to tell you that your friend is probably dead and he wanted me to call you and ask for your help?
“Uhm, is this Chris Gibson? Agent Chris Gibson?” I manage to get out.
I hear the phone shuffle as if it’s being adjusted. “This is agent Christopher Gibson. Who’s this?”
I swallow. “You don’t know me. My name is Marina. I have a message for you from Beau.”
“Where is he?” he interjects. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of him for days.”
I bite the inside of my cheek nervously. “He can’t call you himself,” I decide to be vague. Technically, I’m telling the truth. He doesn’t need to know why Beau can’t speak to him personally. I convince myself that’s why I don’t go into detail, and not the fact that I can’t face the possibility myself.
I can’t bring myself to even think that Beau could be gone for good.
“I’m a friend of his. He asked me to call you and tell you that he needs to cash in on one of those favors you owe him.” I realize how shady I must sound.
The tone of his voice changes. “How do I know you’re legit?”
“Beau told me you’d say that,” I inform him. “He also told me to remind you of the time you thought it was a good idea to sneak around with a Senator’s daughter.”
I feel crazy silly for making an accusation like this with a person I don’t even know, but it’s what Beau told me to say.
There’s a pause. “Is he okay?”
My lower lip begins to quiver suddenly. The last hour or so has been so chaotic that I haven’t allowed myself a second to process it all.
Shock, I tell myself.
It must be shock.
Unable to hold back any more I feel like the person dangling from a high window, clenching with all their might to the sill, fingernails digging in. You can hold on for so long, waiting, fighting against the gravity that is pulling you down. Eventually though, you get to the point where the burden of holding your own weight becomes too much.
