Empty Promises

by Edwin Dasso

  No! It’s do or die time, Bass!

  He jammed the syringe down with the butt of his palm, unable to feel if the needle embedded itself into his flesh. He shoved the plunger down until it would go no farther. Then his world went dark.

  Chapter 54

  Hank arrived home from dropping the women at the old slave camp. As he sat in his idling car in the driveway, the garage door trundled up its tracks, slowly revealing the empty space behind it.

  “Dammit, Jack! I knew you’d sneak off on your own while I was gone. Where the hell did you go?”

  Hank snatched his cellphone from the console and dialed Jack’s number, but the call went directly to voicemail. He made several attempts to reach Jack over the next fifteen minutes, but each time, the phone didn’t even ring before the call rolled over to Jack’s voicemail.

  “Grrr, I hate when you do this sort of crap!” He disconnected after one last try then threw the phone onto his dashboard. “Maybe he left a note inside.”

  He jumped out of his car and rushed into the house, where he scanned every room until he eventually made his way to Jack’s office. Hank plopped in the chair at Jack’s desk, snatching up several notes that were organized on the desktop, hurriedly reading them before huffing and tossing them back onto the desk. None of them offered any hints to Jack’s whereabouts.

  Hank yanked out desk drawers, rummaging through them, hoping for some clue of where Jack might have disappeared to. Hank dug out various notes and papers, glancing briefly at them and frowning before flinging them aside. He slammed the last drawer closed then twisted, hurriedly scanning the room. His eyebrows shot up, and he hurdled over to the closet, throwing the doors wide. He dug through the pockets of all of Jack’s pants and jackets, but his search came up empty. Shoulders sagging, Hank closed the closet doors.

  “Goddammit! I hate when you go dark like this!” He spun and left Jack’s office. “What the hell are you up to now?”

  Hank stepped into his room and got down on the floor and started doing sit-ups, something he’d found helped him focus. He stopped after doing a couple hundred then shook his head slowly.

  “Damn! I sure do wish George was still here to help me figure out this sorta crap,” he grumbled. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

  Chapter 55

  Jack blinked several times, his vision nothing more than hazy impressions. Sunlight invaded his slightly opened eyes, making it painful when he tried to open them farther. His clouded mind slowly registered the feel of the syringe in his hand, which was still in his pocket. He clumsily extracted it and held it in front of his face. His still-blurred vision made it difficult to read the small text on the glass tube.

  “Naloxone?” he croaked, his mind still fuzzy.

  His eyelids shot wide.

  “Oh yeah, the naloxone!”

  His gaze darted about the cabin of the jet, his vision clearing as he continued to blink away the fuzziness.

  “Shit! Schanlon…you dirtbag,” he growled. He flopped onto his side, flexing his hands and guardedly rotating his shoulders, gradually regaining control of his muscles. For some reason, his forehead was hurting, but when he ran his fingers across it there was no blood, just an indentation in his skin. He glanced again at the empty syringe then threw it aside.

  “I’m glad it worked.” He recalled watching the video of Smithson dying. Although his heart ached over what had happened to George, after Jack had seen his friend die on video, he'd begun to fear Schanlon might try to use his new "super drug" to get Jack out of the way for good. Just in case, he'd begun carrying around a dose of naloxone. Apparently, his hunch had been right.

  He reached up, grabbed an armrest, and dragged himself to his knees then groggily gazed up and down the aisle. A shudder suddenly rolled across Jack’s body, and his skin prickled as if he had insects crawling all over him. What the fuck…? Why did he suddenly feel like he’d just finished drinking a gallon of espresso? An intense but indistinct craving clawed at his thoughts. He shook his head hard to try to shake off the unwelcome sensations. He had an overpowering urge to rip the cabin apart to look for…something.

  His cellphone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, frowning as he stared at its screen. Thirty-two missed calls and twelve unread texts from Hank. Jack hurriedly pressed the “return call” button.

  “Jack! Where the hell you are you? Why haven’t you answered my calls?” Hank rattled off the questions, having answered on the first ring.

  “Sorry, Hank. You might say I’ve been a little…out of it,” Jack whispered.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. Look, I can’t talk long. I need you to meet me at Leesburg Executive Airport—it’s a little west of D.C. Sorry, I’m still too addled to give you directions…but when you get there, find the hangar Senator Cinch flies out of.”

  “Now?”

  “If you can.”

  “Even if I leave now, it’ll take me a while to get there.”

  “Not a problem—I’m not sure how long it’ll be ‘til I get there, anyway.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “I have no idea, Hank.” Jack leaned over and peeked out a window. Water stretched as far as the eye could see. “No idea at all.”

  “Should I be armed?”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  “Jack! What the fuck—?”

  At the sound of riotous laughter coming from the cabin located in the back of the plane, Jack snapped his head around to stare in that direction.

  He pressed the phone back to his ear. “Gotta go. See you soon.”

  He disconnected and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He balled his hands into tight fists as the memory of recent events slinked back into his mind. His face grew hot as his pulse pounded in his head. Jack hoisted himself fully upright, balancing against a seatback as he glared at the rear cabin door. “Payback time, boys…”

  He took a step down the aisle toward the cabin then froze, his gaze landing on the syringe Schanlon’s lackey had thrown onto a seat earlier.

  “Huh—I think you assholes called that your ‘just-in-case dose’.” A devious smile crawled onto his face. “I just thought of a ‘case’ for you.” He scowled at the rear compartment again. “‘Just-in-case’ I find some dirtballs on this plane.”

  He snatched the hypodermic off the seat and stumbled down the aisle.

  Chapter 56

  Jack stood next to the rear compartment door, taking up a position on the side where the hinges were located. Drawing a deep breath, he steeled himself. He reached across the door and jiggled the handle then jumped back, poised for attack. Bursts of laughter intermingled with softer discussion continued within the compartment.

  “Are you dumbasses deaf?” Jack muttered.

  He shook his head angrily, a wave of intense irritation thundering through his mind. He slammed a fist once on the door then hopped back. The room went silent. Jack listened intently for any movement from within, smiling when he finally heard voices.

  “What the fuck was that?” Schanlon asked, alarm obvious in his voice.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Chip responded.

  “Well, get the fuck out there and check it out. That dipshit ought to be dead by now—but go check and make sure. If there’s still a pulse, give him all of that second syringe—squirt it right into his fucking carotid. I want him dead! Now!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Maybe his dead body is just twitching,” Schanlon said acerbically then laughed.

  Cinch chuckled, too, but not quite as loudly.

  Footfalls approached the door, and Jack raised his arm, tightening his grip on the injector he held. The door handle jiggled. Jack didn’t breathe, his gaze laser-focused on the door. The door inched open a bit and stopped. C’mon out, you asshole! Jack screamed in his mind. The door was pushed open farther, then Chip peeked his head out through the opening. He slowly twisted his head in Jack’s direction.

  Jack smashed his s
houlder against the door, pinning Chip’s neck between the door and frame. Chip shoved against the door and Jack bounced as he kept his body pressed against the wood. He swung the syringe around, aiming for the man’s neck. Chip’s eyes shot wide as he viewed what was coming. He wriggled more frantically, his gaze never leaving the needle flying toward him. Jack slammed the needle into Chip’s neck until the hub of the needle created a deep indent in the man’s flesh. Jack jammed the plunger down with his thumb then leaned his face close to the assistant’s face.

  “Looks like one of us is getting it squirted in their carotid, eh, asshole?” he growled.

  Chip gripped the edges of the door and frame and shoved, ramming the door against Jack and sending him stumbling backward. He bounced off a seatback and spiraled down the aisle. Chip snarled like a wild animal as he dove through the door at Jack.

  “Bass! You fucking asshole!”

  Chip wrapped his hands around Jack’s neck, his nails digging painfully into Jack’s flesh. Jack gasped for air. He clawed at Chip’s hands, finally breaking Chip’s grip and twisting free. He jumped away then spun back toward Chip, his eyes going wide as Chip reached inside his jacket. Jack flung himself at the man, making a flying tackle like he did as a middle linebacker back in high school. He wrapped his arms tightly around Chip’s chest and squeezed hard. Chip struggled to pull his gun from the shoulder holster, but Jack had his hand pinned tightly between their chests.

  Chip flailed wildly, and they tumbled to the floor between the rows of seats, Jack astride his would-be killer. The muscles in Jack’s arms burned with his effort and his arms weakened. Chip continued flailing, inching his pistol out of the holster as Jack’s grip slipped. Shit! When is that stuff going to kick in? Jack drew on his last bit of strength. I can’t hold on much longer!

  As they wrestled on the floor, one of Jack’s shoulders became wedged under a seat. He lodged himself against the metal frame, using the leverage to put more pressure on the man trapped beneath him. As Chip continued to thrash, Jack forced his other shoulder under the seat on the other side of the aisle, helping him add pressure. The blazing pain in the muscles of his arms tapered to a smolder.

  “You’re a dead man, Bass!” Chip screamed in Jack’s face as he pulled the trigger on the gun still lodged in the holster.

  “Ahhh!” Jack yelled as the muzzle flash burned his flesh, a bullet ripping across his chest, before ricocheting from a seat leg and burying itself in a headrest. In spite of the pain in his chest, Jack focused on maintaining his hold on the other man. Someone pounded on his back.

  “You stupid fucker—you should be dead!” Schanlon screeched as he rained feeble blows onto Jack’s back and head. “Why can’t you cooperate and just die?”

  Whether from the shock of the gunshot wound or the strain of the brawl, Jack’s strength was waning quickly. Chip was inching his gun out of its holster. I’m dead if he gets that out! Jack’s arms and shoulders were on fire, his arms now shaking uncontrollably.

  “Feeling weak, Bass?” Chip snarled.

  A groan escaped Jack’s throat as his body faltered in obeying his mind’s commands. Shit! I-I can’t hold out any longer…

  Jack’s muscles gave out, and he collapsed onto Chip, cringing as he waited for a bullet to rip through his ribs and heart.

  Chapter 57

  Jack gasped for air, his eyes squeezed closed, wondering why Chip hadn’t yet pulled the trigger.

  He opened one eye then raised his head enough to see Chip’s eyes were closed, and his breathing had slowed.

  “Finally!” Jack yelled.

  Jack raised himself farther, looking down at the blood that covered his chest as well as that of his assailant. He reached inside the man’s jacket, wrapping his fingers around the butt of the pistol, yanking it free of the holster. He spun and jumped up, pistol-whipping Schanlon across the head then pointing the gun at his face.

  “Back the fuck off, Schanlon, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you right now!”

  Schanlon screeched like a little girl, stumbling back and throwing his arms up to cover his head. “Don’t hurt me!”

  “Then don’t tempt me!” Jack snarled. “Back up!” He motioned with the gun at the aisle behind Schanlon.

  Schanlon stepped back a couple of steps then peered through his arms at Jack. “How?” he asked, a dumbfounded look on his face.

  “How, what?”

  “How are you still conscious…let alone, still alive?”

  “Back up more.” Jack waved the gun at Schanlon again. “Stop,” he yelled after they had both moved several feet up the aisle.

  Jack reached down and snatched the empty naloxone syringe from the seat, where he’d tossed it earlier. He threw it at Schanlon, who fumbled to catch it. Schanlon stared down at it for several seconds then slowly raised his gaze to Jack.

  “Naloxone, eh?”

  “Yes—I always come prepared when I’m invited to a party hosted by assholes.”

  A noise sounded from behind him, and he twisted around, swinging the gun to bear on Cinch.

  “Speaking of assholes, glad you could join the party, Senator.” Jack waved the gun at him. “Put your hands up.”

  Cinch held a cellphone in one hand as he raised his arms slowly above his head.

  “And throw that phone over here.”

  Cinch nodded and tossed the phone on the floor by Jack’s feet.

  Jack stepped into a row of seats and turned back to Schanlon. “Get your hands up, too!” Jack used the pistol to direct him down the aisle toward Cinch. “Get down there by your buddy.”

  Schanlon slithered past Jack then stopped, positioning himself just in front of Cinch.

  “Now what?” Schanlon asked.

  Jack fleetingly scratched at his arms, feeling as if ants were covering his skin. An intense irritation flared in his mind like a flash fire. He stepped back into the aisle, pointing the pistol at Schanlon’s face, struggling to keep himself from pulling the trigger. No! You can’t! Think of something else to do. He slipped his cellphone from his pocket, holding it out of sight behind a seatback as he pressed the video camera icon to start filming. He kept it low at his side then turned to the other two men and drew the hammer back on the pistol.

  “I need to ask you trolls a few questions…and I wouldn’t suggest playing any games.” Jack swiped at the foamy saliva at the corners of his mouth. “I have an overwhelming desire to kill both of you right now.”

  Cinch and Schanlon both nodded excitedly and raised their hands higher.

  “What was the plan?” Jack asked.

  Schanlon and Cinch exchanged quick glances, their faces masks of confusion.

  “What? What plan?” Schanlon asked.

  “You thought you killed me—what were you going to do with my body?”

  “Jack,” Cinch started as he smiled broadly, “what are you talking about? Kill you? I don’t think so—”

  Jack swung the gun toward him. “Shut the fuck up, Cinch! If you talk again without my permission, I’ll shoot you in the knee,” he growled.

  “We were going to give you the burial a pain-in-the-ass like you deserves,” Schanlon replied snidely.

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Which is?” he snapped.

  “We’re heading out over the Atlantic. Once we’re out far enough,” he turned to the senator then back to Jack, “the good senator and I were going to dump your body—let nature take care of the rest.”

  “And the senator knew of this plan?”

  Schanlon glanced quickly at Cinch then back to Jack and chuckled. “Of course, he did. It was his idea.”

  Jack grinned broadly as he raised the phone higher. The senator’s eyes shot wide when he saw it. He dove to the side, out of the frame of Jack’s camera.

  “Too late, Cinch. You’re busted!” Jack pointed at the back of the cabin. “I’ll get back to you shortly, but for now, I need you to go back into your office.”

  Cinch backed slowly down the aisle, stopping at the door. “Jack?
” he implored.

  “What did I tell you about talking without permission?” Jack bellowed. “Now, get the hell in there, and pull the door closed behind you!”

  Cinch cringed then nodded and backed into the room. The door clicked closed.

  Jack pointed the gun at Schanlon. “Drag your hired gun over there and lean him up against that door.”

  Schanlon struggled to drag the man’s limp form down the narrow passageway. He grunted as he positioned the body against the rear compartment door then turned to Jack.

  “Is that good enough?”

  “Yes.” Jack pointed the gun at the seat nearest Schanlon. “Sit.”

  A metallic click sounded from the door to the back compartment a few times as the senator attempted to push it open.

  “You come through that door, Cinch, and it’ll be the last thing you ever do!” Jack yelled.

  He glared at the door a few seconds, but Cinch made no further attempts to get out.

  “That’s better.” Jack turned to Schanlon. “Put your seatbelt on—nice and tight.” Jack grinned fiendishly. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt in the event of unexpected turbulence,” he said acerbically.

  Schanlon wrapped the seatbelt around his waist and cinched it tight, never taking his gaze off Jack.

  “What’ve you got in mind, Bass?”

  “Your plan for me sounded excellent. What say we follow it…with a slight alteration?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means you’ll have to wait and see!” Jack yelled.

  Schanlon looked puzzled. “Wait? Wait for what?” he demanded.

  Jack shrugged. “For the next part of your plan to play out.”

  Jack took a seat a few rows away, facing Schanlon.