by James Hunt
Mr. Demps was at his desk, looking over paperwork. The office was a mixture of concrete, steel, and wood. All polished, all clean, all simple. It had the same efficiency of space, materials, and content as the office back in New York. All that was missing was the skyline background. Heath dropped a report on Rick’s desk then kept his hands at his sides, staring straight ahead, waiting for Mr. Demps to finish.
“I hope that’s good news,” Mr. Demps said.
“I believe you’ll be pleased, sir.”
Mr. Demps placed both palms on his desk, splaying his fingers out around the manila folder that was the report. A large ring with a ruby centered in the middle of it circled his index finger. He tapped it rhythmically on the flat desk. His eyes scrolled down the text of the first page like a computer processing information then fluidly moved on to the next page. The ritual continued until Mr. Demps reached the end of the report and set the folder aside. He folded his hands together and leaned back in his chair.
“And we’ve confirmed this?” Mr. Demps asked.
“Yes, sir. We double-checked it with her tax statements as well as the checking account. That is her home address.” Heath’s long limbs hung rigid at his sides, his spine thick and tall, like that of a redwood, towering above everything around it.
“What assets do we have in Chicago?” Mr. Demps asked.
“We have a mercenary team stationed there, sir. At least thirty men.”
“Put them into action, and I want you to personally lead them in.”
Heath broke his glance and looked down at Mr. Demps, forcing back a smile from his face. “Yes, sir.”
The long lines of stone stretched for hundreds of yards. The headstones ranged in size from small crosses and concrete plates barely raised from the ground to massive mausoleums of marble etched with intricate designs of faith and family. The multicolored shades of grey contrasted against the bright tufts of green grass cutting between the graves.
Sarah stepped lightly through the tall grass, most of the graveyard lying unkempt and wild, until she made it to two polished-marble headstones so close together that they were practically touching. The small sliver of space between the two stones acted as a parallel line stretching for infinity.
Sarah ran her hand over the smooth marble, tracing the letters of the names etched in the stone. “Hey, guys.” Her words were soft, and she let her hand fall limply to her side. “I know it’s been a while since I’ve visited. Work’s been busy.”
The concussive blasts of gunshots echoed somewhere in the distance, and her hand instinctively went to the pistol concealed under her jacket. Her body went rigid, and she scanned the area, searching for any threats that could be near. The shots were at least a mile away, and there wasn’t a body in sight, at least not a living one. She removed her hand from the pistol’s grip and formed a fist. “I’ll find them.” The words were resilient, harsh. “I’ll bring them home. I promise you that.”
Sarah brought both hands to her lips and kissed her fingertips. She rested one hand on each headstone and closed her eyes. She searched for her father’s words, seeking comfort or wisdom or anything that she could remember about him.
But the words never came. Their memories were fading from her. Their crisp figures began to blur. Remember. Her eyelids spasmed from the building pressure of forcing her eyes shut. For a moment, her father’s face came into view, and he smiled then turned to her mother, taking her hand, and they danced. But the vision flashed for only a moment before it was blurred again.
Sarah opened her eyes, and she felt a wave of tension release from her body. She had not realized the rigidness of her own muscles. The longer her parents were in the ground, the less she remembered them, and with it the feeling of shame grew. Out of all the things she could do, all her physical gifts and her skills, she couldn’t remember what her father used to say to her before she went to bed at night. She turned her back on the stones and trudged through the long grass toward the rusted iron entrance gate of the cemetery.
3
Whatever North Clifton Avenue used to look like, Heath couldn’t tell. Trash cans were tipped over, with their contents spilled out onto the street. Doors were broken, windows smashed, cars wrecked into the lifeless power line poles, void of any electrical current.
Any semblance of order and law had evacuated, and Heath felt the disgust swell up inside until it manifested in the twisted anger of his face. It was a sight one would see in the streets of the Middle East or some war-torn nation riddled with civil unrest. He nodded over to the unit of men on the left side of the street, and they marched down the sidewalk, armed with assault rifles and protected with Kevlar jackets.
Out of his right peripheral vision, he could see a few scared faces look at them through the broken windows of what was left of their homes. These people were used to crime, but it wasn’t likely that any of them had seen something like this.
One man came out on his front steps, wielding a knife. “Hey! Get out of here! Now!” His clothes were dirty and his hair as wild as the expression on his face. He took a few steps down the stoop from the apartment building, despite Heath and his men advancing into the area. “You hear me? We don’t need your help!”
The man’s words had sparked the courage of a few others who had started to make their way out onto the stoops of their buildings. Heath kept his eye on the building numbers, searching for 3324, and he finally spotted it where the man with the knife on his stoop was shouting at them.
Heath took the lead, keeping his rifle up, peering through the scope. The moment Heath placed his foot on the first step of the stoop, the man wielding the knife took a step back but then stopped in front of the door, blocking the entrance. “Hey, man, you can’t just—”
The suppressor around Heath’s rifle couldn’t completely mask the sound of the bullet ejected from the muzzle and into the man’s heart, but the sight of blood spraying from his chest was enough to trigger a cascade of screams and slamming doors from the rest of the neighborhood’s onlookers as Heath stepped over the body and into the foyer of the building.
The inside of the building was hot with the humid stench of filth and human decay. Heath’s face twitched in irritated spasms. Every second he lingered here, his body was poisoned by the unsanitary beasts that inhabited the area. The sooner he killed the bitch, the faster he could get out.
Heath held up his hand as they approached Sarah’s door. He carefully scanned the frame for any potential explosives or trip wires, and once he determined it was clear, he placed a small bit of explosive on the doorframe, wedged right between the handle and the frame. He and the rest of his men stood back, and the bomb exploded into a mixture of wood and dust, sending the door flying backward into the room.
Heath led the charge into the room and burst through the smoke. An old, worn couch and a kitchen table filled the living room. He passed a few pictures on the walls and made his way into the kitchen, where the counters were bare of anything but cobwebs. He lowered the rifle once he made it to the utility room, and the shouts from his men echoed through the small apartment, signaling that the place was empty.
“Bedroom clear.”
“Living room clear.”
“Kitchen clear,” Heath said and joined the rest of his men in the settling dust in the living room. He went to the bedroom and pulled out the drawers of the dresser inside. All were empty except for one shirt and a pair of shorts. He checked the closet—nothing. He stomped across the living room and back into the kitchen. Only one plate, a cup, and a few pieces of silverware were in the drawers and cupboards. The fridge was bare and the freezer the same. He slammed the fridge door shut, and it shook the rest of the cabinets. With the condition the place was in, it looked like she hadn’t been here in months.
The .45 caliber rounds spilled from the box in Sarah’s hand and rolled across the counter. She caught the majority of them in her palm before they hit the floor, but a few clanged against the hard tile. She shook her head, trying
to break up the clouds of fog in her mind. Her knees popped slightly as she squatted down to pick up the bullets, and she gave a light grunt when she lifted herself back up.
“You need to take a break.”
Sarah turned around, and Bryce had his arms folded across his chest. She returned her focus to loading the empty magazines. “Where are we at with locating Demps?”
“Sarah, you’re exhausted. The only breaks you’ve given yourself are when you come to reload or grab some water or something to eat, then you’re back out in the streets.”
“Well, I can’t let my hoes get out of line out there. Just trying to keep my pimp hand strong.”
“Sarah—”
“It’s my fault they’re gone, Bryce.” She slammed the loaded magazine into her pistol and turned around. “We don’t even know if they’re alive. What am I supposed to do, huh? Just sit around and wait for something to happen?”
Bryce took a few steps forward and placed his thin hand on her shoulder, and despite its size, it felt oddly heavy. “I know you want to find them, but you won’t do them any good if you die of exhaustion before you get there.”
Sarah punched Bryce’s shoulder, and he stumbled a few steps back. “Yeah, well, I can still kick your ass.”
Before either of them could talk, Johnny came peeling around the corner of the armory, almost skidding into a pile of grenades. “Decoy house alarm just went off!”
“Whose is it?” Bryce asked.
“Sarah’s.”
Johnny sprinted out of the armory, and Sarah and Bryce both raised their eyebrows. The two rushed to Bryce’s computer where the alert came through, and a few brushes of the keystrokes later, they had video feed of the apartment. “Holy shit,” Bryce said.
“They blew my door down!” Sarah exclaimed. One of the men had his feet rested on the couch while the rest of them were turning the place upside down. They tore into walls, cabinets, the carpet—anything they could get their hands on. The one T-shirt she had at the place was thrown on the ground and covered in dusty boot prints. “So that’s where I left that shirt.”
Bryce adjusted the feed to the building’s exterior, where twenty men sat, positioned in different locations along the street. “I think they’re waiting for you to show up.”
“Well, you know how much I hate to disappoint.”
Bryce grabbed her wrist. “Sarah, you’re going to need backup for this.”
She pulled her hand back. “That’s what I have you for.” She pulled the pistol from her holster and flicked the safety lever off.
Clifton Avenue was in worse shape than Sarah remembered. She passed a yard with a cluster of beer cans and children’s toys littered in it. “I’m all for lowering the drinking age, but that’s just ridiculous.” She kept her eyes peeled on her decoy apartment building down the street. The sniper rifle on her back smacked against it in two pieces. She snuck around the side of one of the apartment buildings and climbed the fire escape. “When was the last time you actually fired one of these things?”
“During my annual training review last year,” Bryce answered.
Sarah grabbed hold of the roof’s ledge and pulled herself up, as the stairs wouldn’t take her all the rest of the way. “And when was the last time you actually fired one of these in the field?”
“Sarah, the training exercises are perfectly realistic.”
“Says the man who has a plastic sex doll.”
“You’re the one who bought that for me! I didn’t want it!”
Sarah chuckled and pulled the two pieces of massive steel off her back and put them together. “I just wish I could have seen the look on your family’s face when you opened that at Christmas. Best hundred bucks I ever spent.” She pulled the stand down from the stock and positioned the rifle on the edge of the roof.
“You know my cousin didn’t invite me to her wedding because of that stunt.”
“Hey, at least you didn’t have to buy them a gift.”
“I did still have to buy them a gift.”
“Really? If that’s the case, then I think I know why my extended family doesn’t talk to me anymore.” Sarah locked the stand into place and booted up the rifle’s connection link to the satellite. “How’s it looking?”
“I’m live.”
“Just make sure you don’t shoot me.” Sarah scaled down the side of the building and retreated toward the back. The row of apartment buildings was backed up against a chain-link fence, and beyond that was a large lake that stretched for a few hundred yards to another set of apartment buildings on the other side. She continued down the back until she made it to the last building, where there wasn’t a gaggle of henchmen standing guard. “Light ’em up, Cowboy.”
The gunfire from the automated rifle on the rooftop boomed and targeted as many pieces of flesh as Bryce could locate with the target sensor. The sudden burst of gunfire confused them, causing the men to duck for the cover of the alleyways to avoid the rain of lead.
Sarah worked her way from the rear of the alleyway, her feet swift and light as four guards concentrated their efforts on the rooftop ruse. She wielded both pistols and put a bullet in each of their heads before they could turn around. She sprinted back along the fence behind the apartment and moved on to the next alleyway.
The .50 caliber gunfire blasted whatever bits of brick and concrete the goons tried hiding behind, and if Bryce’s shots didn’t kill them, Sarah’s did. She crept along the back side, taking them out in small clusters. None of them heard her gunshots, as they fitted neatly into the bullet-ridden chaos surrounding them. Ten bodies lay in her wake before Bryce’s rifle’s magazine was spent.
The gunfire stopped, and the remaining henchmen stretched out their necks from behind the buildings, looking into the street for their hidden assassin. Three men were at the front of the alleyway as Sarah crept forward, keeping her steps light. Before one of them turned, she squeezed the triggers of both pistols, killing all three of them before they could lift their rifles.
The breach of silence triggered the remaining henchmen to gather at the front of the alleyway, where they funneled their bullets toward Sarah, who ducked behind a dumpster for cover. Loud thumps smacked the opposite side of her metal shield, sending vibrations through her body as she ejected both empty magazines and reloaded.
“You’ve got company headed around the back,” Bryce said.
A few seconds later, three men turned the corner from the back side of the building, and Sarah kept her arms steady as two bullets pierced the metal less than three inches from her head. She lined up both pistols simultaneously to the foreheads of two of the assailants and squeezed the triggers then shifted her left hand, bringing the third man’s neck into view. The man hit the ground before the ejected shell did. Sarah looked to her left and her right to examine the bullet holes only inches from her head. “Is it just me, or are these guys getting worse at shooting? I mean, I’m not even moving right now.”
“Three more are heading to the roof,” Bryce said. “You’re in a kill box, Sarah. Get out of there now!”
Sarah peeked around the corner of the dumpster toward the front of the alley, where the rest of the men had gathered, slowly turning the metal trash container into Swiss cheese. She looked down at the wheels locked in place under the dumpster and slammed her foot on the lever, releasing the brake. She shoulder checked the massive container and pushed it forward.
“You’re going the wrong way!” Bryce said.
“What are you talking about?” Sarah asked, her face turning a light shade of red from the effort of pushing the massive steel tank. “The party’s out front.” Bullets ricocheted into the brick building next to her as her feet gained some momentum. She reached up top and pulled the dumpster’s steel lid over her head just before the shooters on the roof showered a storm of hot lead upon her.
Thunderous vibrations echoed above her from the deadly rain, and keeping one hand supporting the top of the lid and the other pushed up against the sid
e of the dumpster, her legs finally started to break out into a sprint. “Okay, maybe this wasn’t the best idea.”
“You have three above, four on the left, and seven on the right,” Bryce said.
“Left it is!”
Sarah pivoted her weight to shift the behemoth dumpster toward her target, and she scraped against the other side of the alleyway, losing some of her momentum.
“There’s a wall there,” Bryce said.
“Shut up.” Sarah dug her heels in and ramped the dumpster back up to the speed she had attained before.
“Ten feet,” Bryce said.
The bullets attacked from all angles now, almost completely drowning out Bryce’s voice as she pushed harder.
“Five feet.”
The fire in her legs reached a fever pitch as her muscles sensed the end of their journey. She clenched her teeth, pushing through the pain, feeling the pounding of her pulse in every vein in her body.
“Three feet!”
Sarah dropped her arm from the lid, and it swung down and smacked her side. She reached for both pistols, using nothing but her shoulder to guide the dumpster now.
“Contact!”
The front of the dumpster knocked into two of the men on the side railing of the left building, and the recoil reverberated through the dumpster and into Sarah. She wielded both pistols and jumped from the left side of the dumpster, eliminating the threats there, then pushed her back against the dumpster, positioning it to guard her from the barrage of bullets on her right.
One of the guards on the left made contact with the Kevlar on her chest before she put him down, but the rest were easy kills. Sarah leaned into the dumpster’s far corner to continue its spinning slide, and she made sure to keep the dumpster between herself and the gunfire still coming from the right and the roof. She scooped up one of the rifles from the grip of a dead mercenary and tucked it under her shoulder. She smiled. “Did you see that?”
