Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  "Who?"

  She turns around irritatingly.

  "Elizabeth Harvard," I say.

  "I'm sorry, that name is insignificant to me-" replies Gretchen.

  "The waitress at the diner I worked in. She was no threat."

  "Oh, yes, that."

  She turns around and sweeps back her hair, uses her finger to touch up her lipstick.

  "She was messing up my stage. I had to kill her," Gretchen sneers.

  I hear faint beeps from the wall behind me. I pull my arms free and drop to the ground just in time. The blast blows the furniture around the room.

  Wood and debris blow past my head and open the wall behind me. Steve Harvard's men, dressed in black military attire, swarm the room, shooting AK47's.

  Shots, precise shots. I stand and see Gretchen’s guards on the ground. Steve Harvard’s lead man touches his ear, speaking to Harvard.

  "We breached, Sir. He's here," says Harvard’s lead man.

  Gretchen is getting away. The smoke clears and she pushes the doors leading to the stage. She shoves open the doors. Steve Harvard's wife Giovanna is standing in front of her. Her hair in a ponytail and dressed in a black leather body suit with heeled boots and jacket to match. Her lipstick red and eyes piercingly focused on Gretchen, having heard everything.

  Giovanna steps forward, Gretchen opens her mouth to click her tongue but Giovanna lands a full punch in Gretchen's face. Gretchen hits the floor. Gretchen squirms on the floor as Giovanna pounds at her time and time again without any interruption.

  Gretchen tries to reach the device to lower the glass tube to release the Alpha Beaston. Giovanna steps on her wrist. Her wrist pinned in the space between her heeled boots. Her hand opens and the device gets knocked away.

  "He wants to talk to you." The lead man hands me a cell phone.

  I take it. This man is scarred. His hands, his face. He has certainly seen his share of fights.

  "It's me," I say. "I told you, I didn't kill Elizabeth."

  "You were smart to contact me when you were in New York, Caleb.”

  I stuck the last of the clear gel trackers to myself and sent Harvard the signal algorithm. How did I know he would come? His hunger for revenge. He didn’t come to save me as much as he came to get revenge on the person who killed his daughter.

  When I sent him the recording I made of Gretchen admitting she ordered the kill on Elizabeth, Harvard’s daughter, it sealed the deal. I knew he would come.

  “You kept your end of the bargain.” Says Harvard. “I will keep mine. Your warrant in New York will be taken care of. You're a free man, Caleb Promise," says Harvard.

  "Good to hear, thank you." I say.

  "You have the cooperation of my men. As promised. Where is Wilkes?" he asks.

  "Dead." I say.

  "You?" Harvard asks.

  "No. Fate. I need Gretchen alive. She's got information to the big fish," I say.

  "I'll try to convince Gio to leave something for you. Caleb, how did you know I wouldn't kill you?" asks Harvard.

  "I believed you'd recognize the truth when you heard it. You didn't get where you are being blind," I say.

  He's quiet.

  "Don't know what it is about you, Caleb, but I like it. A gift, tell your friend he has a rat in his office," says Harvard.

  "What friend?" I say. I can hear my heart starting to pound.

  "I have a name," he says.

  By this, I will know if he's lying or not.

  "Sam," Harvard says.

  A chill runs up my back.

  "What about Director White?" I ask him.

  "She's clean. Hates me, but she's clean."

  "Our business is done. Correct?" I say.

  "Correct," says Harvard.

  Deep inside, maybe I was trying to give him closure or free my name, I don't remember simply because I was half drunk. Even intoxicated I knew I would need his resources.

  Harvard's men disperse. I have to warn Jason, Sam is the one. No cell signal. I have to finish this. Fast.

  I walk to the stage door and open it. The Beaston is not on the stage. From the blood marks inside the glass cylinder, it dragged Wilkes' body into the pit beneath the stage.

  Giovanna has stopped hitting Gretchen. Legs straddling Gretchen, standing over her, Giovanna pulls the front of her jacket down. Smooths her hair back breathing heavily. Gretchen's face is bloody. With her black high heeled boot she gives her one last kick.

  "Take her to the plane," says Giovanna to one of Harvard's men. Her eyes are piercing gray, even angry, I see why Steve married her.

  "You come for dinner one day, yes?" Giovanna tells me, walking away. Asked and answered.

  Two guards grab Gretchen by the arms and drag her behind Giovanna.

  No! Harvard's man stepped on it. The small black device controlling the cylinder and stage door. It crushes beneath his boot but the glass cylinder is lowering. A roar from beneath the pit. The leaders move to the exterior doors to try to get out of the forum room.

  "Oh, sh-" says Harvard's man, pulling Gretchen.

  "Get her out of here!" I yell.

  Gretchen struggles between the guards but can't get free.

  "I wonder... will it sense you are kin? Waste of time, Caleb! Say hello to your father," she says, laughing while being dragged away.

  Four of Harvard's men surround the hole in the stage, cock their guns and aim at the opening as the cylinder descends. The smaller Beaston dotting the shadows of the room, as if commanded, jump over the descending cylinder and dive into the opening of the stage and go down into the pit past the soldiers.

  From my view across the stage the leaders are trying to break open the sealed doors. They are trapped. We are trapped. I can't risk calling them to the door behind the stage. Their movement may call it out.

  The soldiers are almost at the room with the exit hole. The same one with the laptop. That's it! The laptop. Wilkes wanted me to find the entire laptop not just the drive.

  "Shoot anything that comes out of that hole," I say to Harvard's men as I run to the laptop.

  A loud screeching cry like an owl shrill. Running, I have to get to the laptop. Finally. I open it and Wilkes has notes stuck to keypad. It's his laptop not Gretchen's. It starts up.

  Password? Great. What would it be... 'Beaston'? I can't type. This is the fastest I can pluck the keys. Gunshots! 'B-E-A-S-T-O-N'... enter.

  "Incorrect Password entered. DESTRUCTION WARNING," the computer says.

  A small explosion shakes the room. Harvard's men. The Beaston must be close. What could it be? War? "W-A-R", enter.

  "Incorrect Password entered FINAL DESTRUCTION WARNING in 10...9...8...7..." says the computer.

  He is military. He thinks military. It must be this... "BSTN-10 PROJECT"... I inhale. Enter.

  "...2...1," says the computer. "ACCESS GRANTED. Hello, Captain Wilkes."

  I exhale. There it is, a self-destruct file.

  It reads:

  "1. Enter code 82-A76842Z-CD

  on main panel.

  2. Stage door seals.

  3. Exterior doors will unlock.

  If stage door does not seal. Warning, exterior doors will NOT unlock as safety precaution.

  4. Pit Explosives will detonate”

  Got it. Running toward the stage, gunfire is growing louder and rapid.

  "82-A-7684

  Z-CD, 82-A-728..." I repeat.

  I reach the stage. Grateful for long legs right now. Running, I skid to a stop at the main panel. I lift my hand to begin punching in the numbers when I see it. The Beaston leaps, snatching one of Harvard's guards by the gun into the pit. The pull on the gun strap lurches him forward with such a force, I hear his back crack. His yell is gut-wrenching.

  "No!" the guard beside him yells, backing away from the pit opening.

  "What's the plan?" yells one of Harvard's men, firing into the pit.

  "We blow it. It's got a self-destruct. First, I seal the pit door. You three drop everyth
ing you've got down there."

  One of Harvard's men on the other side of the pit is trembling while he shoots.

  "I'M OUT," he yells to the other guard.

  "Got it!" another guard yells, taking his place.

  "Ready?" I yell.

  "Go," the guard says.

  The Beaston sounds like it's tearing the man apart. The leaders are still against the sealed exterior doors. I hold my hands up to them to stay there.

  The main panel. I punch in the code. The door begins to seal. It's working. The stage doors are closing, but slowly. It snarls, then a grinding sound. It stops. No! What's wrong?

  "IT'S NOT EVEN HALF WAY!" Harvard's man yells to me from across the stage. His gun still aimed down the hole.

  "No kidding!" I yell to him.

  I punch the code in again.

  "DOOR JAMMED," it says.

  I punch it in again.

  "DOOR JAMMED," it says again.

  "Can we still blow it?" he asks. I look at him. "Why hasn't it come up yet?"

  "It's waiting for me to override the doors. It wants out, completely out," I say.

  "Is there an override code?" yells a leader standing beside the doors.

  Harvard's man looks at me. He sees the answer in my eyes. He knows that if I say yes, the leaders will more than likely want me to open the doors. The problem, the Beaston and all its friends will escape.

  If I don't use the override and open the doors, and authorize the explosion, we kill the Beaston, all of us... and all the leaders. All of us go up.

  I have to let them know.

  "Yes. There is an override code," I say.

  The leaders look at each other. All of them know what is at stake. They know others will die. What did Gretchen say... leaders at heart are willing to die for others but not have others die for them. Let's see if this is a room of leaders.

  I'm no murderer. This is a call I would rather not make but here it is, the code is in my hands.

  "Blow it," says the French President. "Do it quickly."

  The leader who wanted to buy the Beaston opens his mouth about to say something, then, he stops himself.

  The leaders all nod.

  "We're good," I say to Harvard's men.

  Harvard's men pull their explosives from their belts. Look at me. We don't want to but there is no choice. I'm glad I made peace with my life. That I saw Rosie one last time.

  I type the code into the panel.

  "OVERRIDE ACCEPTED. EXPLOSION IMMINENT IN 3...2..." says the main panel.

  I shut my eyes and pray. The Archbishop would be proud.

  What's that? Is it? Yes, it is. The stage door motor. It starts again. It's grinding but the stage doors are closing, quickly! The Beaston leaps. It's hand grips one of the doors but it keeps closing. Almost there.

  "NOW!" I yell.

  Harvard's men throw their explosives into the hole. We dive for cover.

  "...1," says the main panel.

  The explosion rocks the room. Fire and smoke squeeze through the slit in the stage pit doors. The monitors crash to the floor. Chandelier smashes on the stage. The room shakes and dust falls down on us. The floor trembles.

  Horrible screeching sounds and the sound of fire burning crackling meat sounds beneath the room. Then. Finally, silence. A distant rumble is heard but stops soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The shaking stops. The sound of steel bolts unlocking and the air pump locking system. The locks on the doors release and the sounds echos throughout the room. The doors swing open. The leaders rise from the floor slowly and look at the stage.

  Harvard's men stand from behind the seats they dove behind. I stand. We look at the pit doors. They are sealed. The remainder of a claw is burning on the stage at the slit of the opening.

  I jump off the stage and walk out of the forum room last behind the leaders into the long corridor dusting off their clothes. They compose themselves as they approach the elevator, one of the leaders looks up and realizing he’s walking behind the leader who wanted to purchase the Beaston. He shoves him from behind.

  "You belong here! You're not getting on this elevator coward! You should die with your precious beast," bellows the Italian Prime Minister.

  The leader's suit torn and glasses broken, he's sweating profusely but standing by his decision for trying to buy the Beaston.

  "My people suffer for not having a strong Defence. You fault me for wanting to better our position! Then hate me," he says with great conviction.

  This has to stop. Watching from the forum room door, I am angry. I'm angry at Wilkes and Gretchen. They pulled the thread of already torn relationships. They can't leave like this or war is imminent. Gretchen's mystery man will swoop in to profit from it.

  Something has to be said. How can I say it? I live in the shadows. A bus boy. A fired bus boy. Homeless without a penny to my name but somehow, the evolved 'me' feels passionate enough to speak. The elevator is here. I rush in front of the open doors, reach in and push the 'hold door' button. I open my mouth and the words fall out.

  "The world can't know what happened here tonight. They can't know. Your families are safe, Wilkes is dead and the Beaston is destroyed. So what is left? The bitterness they sowed. If you let this build contention among you, evil wins. You united in there." I point at the forum room. "Do it again."

  "Who are you?" asks Madame Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

  I didn't expect that question. I push my fists into my pockets.

  "Caleb, Caleb Promise."

  “Your name is Hebrew.” Begins the Israeli Prime Minister, “it means faithful, devoted, whole-hearted, bold and brave.”

  “It truly shown today.” The President of Mexico says.

  “But,” says the UK Prime Minister, “You sound American. What country do you represent?”

  This question defined me instantly. It was all clear for me suddenly. Who I am, what I’m meant to do. What all my training and trials birthed.

  “I represent no country. I work for all countries. This was a problem that needed to be fixed. That’s all. I want to do what’s best for all man-kind.”

  “So, you are Caleb… the fixer.” The UK Prime Minister says smiling. "What is your plan, Mr. Promise?" she asks.

  A graceful polish comes out of me, seemingly from nowhere. Not fake, just refined. My mother would be proud. But I'm still blue jeans and leather jacket kind of guy. But, this suit truly makes me feel the part.

  "This was a peace summit. Let's make it one. In every way," I say.

  "That man is a traitor!" says a leader from behind. "He shouldn't be allowed to live! He was willing to put all our lives, our people’s lives in danger for power."

  The President of France turns to the crowd of leaders.

  "What would you do for love, Monsieur?" The President of France turns to the shouting leader. "To protect the ones you love? Your people? I did everything to protect my wife. He lost his wife before his eyes. I’m not saying what he did was right, but we all feel this burden from time to time." Pointing to the Leader whose wife was murdered for all to see.

  The entire group turns silent. They understand the weight of being responsible for a country. It is something they all bear.

  Funny, I don't see their titles right now. Some of noble birth. I see men and women with families like mine. People with something to protect. I see them no different from Lou or the chef who would slip me a fresh roll, seeing me staring at the food when I hadn't eaten all day. I had to serve platters of meals I couldn't afford to buy. These leaders are just people. I wonder, would any of these leaders slip me a roll?

  Here they are, wide eyed, some of them having found a new reason to hate the United States because of Wilkes. Madame Prime Minister of England extends her hand to me.

  "We are grateful," she says sincerely.

  "Yes. We are," says the President of France. "Your advice, Monsieur Promise?" he says in a friendly tone.

  "You need to leave here united. The oth
er issues can be sorted out later, when the world is not watching." I say. You need to look as if nothing has happened. As if this truly was a Peace Summit," I say, gesturing to their dusty clothes and disheveled hair. "The world is watching. Forget what happened in there. The future may hold things worth going to war for. This is not one."

  They look hesitant to agree, despite my words. They don't seem convinced. I run my hands through my hair feeling this may all fall apart. The Archbishop steps up beside me. It's nice to see I'm not the only one he has a profound effect on. They look at him from head to toe. His calm. His steady character. He clasps his hands behind his back. Walking forward, he speaks to them.