The Ungovernable

by Franklin Horton

  He wasn’t sure where the rest of his people had gone but instinct told him to return to the fieldhouse with its cinder block walls. He tore in that direction, weaving as he went. He considered leaping the chain link, however, was uncertain if he could do it with the burden of his gear. If he got snagged on the fence, he’d hang there like a sitting duck, a stationary target that no good shooter would miss.

  The shooters had anticipated his obvious plan from the direction he was fleeing. At least one of them already had the crosshairs of his rifle on that gate opening. Hugh expected that possibility because it’s what he would have done. Feet away from the opening, he hit the gas and crouched, trying to make himself a smaller target as he charged through.

  There was a barrage of gunfire and Hugh felt rounds impact his back. The force of the rounds knocked him off his feet and he tumbled into the weeds.

  40

  “What are they saying?” Boss demanded.

  “The ground team is requesting the chopper land to pick up the prisoner,” Stanley replied. “The chopper is hovering over the field.”

  “Did you order them to stand down and get the hell out of here?” Boss asked.

  “I did, sir. They are not responding to my transmissions.”

  Boss had no idea who these people were or what they were up to but there could only be one prisoner down there right now. They had to be talking about the man his bounty had brought in. He was his prisoner and he would not allow anyone else to take him.

  Boss took a position at the M240D and charged the weapon. He was wearing the hook attachment which assisted with operation of the charging handle but it was awkward. He hadn’t operated one of the weapons since losing his hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  Boss whipped his head around to find Gordon standing to his right. “Excuse me?”

  “I asked what the fuck are you doing?” Gordon demanded. “You can’t open fire on that chopper. We don’t know who’s in there.”

  “We’ve asked and they haven’t responded,” Boss stated calmly.

  “That doesn’t mean we can shoot them out of the sky.”

  Boss stared at Gordon coldly. “This is my operation. You’d do well to not interfere with it.” He proceeded to aim the M240D toward the other chopper.

  Gordon stepped in. “And this is my fucking chopper!”

  Then Gordon made the fatal mistake. He put a hand on Boss’s shoulder and attempted to pull him away from the weapon. He did not get a warning.

  Boss shot his right hand past Gordon and then withdrew it with lightning speed. The hook caught Gordon in his calf like Boss was gaffing a large fish. He screamed as Boss yanked his leg from beneath him. Boss raised the heavy tactical gauntlet and slammed it down on the screaming man’s face one, twice, three times, until the yelling stopped. Boss calmly unsnapped Gordon’s tether and rolled him out the door of the aircraft. Gordon bounced once off the landing gear before spiraling to the ground.

  Boss shot a look at the cockpit and found two terrified pilots staring at him. “Hold steady or you’re next!” he barked.

  They returned their gaze to the front and did as they were asked.

  Boss swung the M240D back onto the hovering chopper and hit the trigger. The chopper was around two hundred feet off the ground and broadside to Boss’s weapon. His first barrage was targeted at the engine compartment. The chopper jolted, then swung erratically, smoke pouring from it.

  As the chopper banked and the cockpit swung toward him, Boss pressed the trigger again and the rattle of gunfire filled the cabin. His rounds chewed up the Plexiglas and anyone sitting behind it. The pitch of the engines changed and the chopper swung again, then began a rapid, uncontrolled descent.

  The school itself prevented Boss from seeing the chopper crash and burn, but the plume of rising smoke told him he’d accomplished his mission. Now he just had to get on that field while his prisoner was still there.

  “Put me down on that field!” Boss demanded. When the chopper didn’t immediately move, he added, “If I have to ask twice, one of you dies.”

  The chopper banked and headed toward the plume of black smoke. Boss gave his weapons a quick check. He switched his hook attachment for the tactical knife, smiling at the fit and function of it. If only those machinists knew the field-testing it was about to get.

  In seconds they were over the field. The other chopper was canted awkwardly on the concrete bleachers, a fuel fire spreading around it. There were bodies and screaming people. When they neared the field, Boss caught the flash of rifle fire from the press box.

  “There are shooters in that press box!” Davis said.

  “On it!” Boss replied. “Swing me toward them!”

  Davis swung the chopper broadside, positioning it so Boss could light them up with the M240D. When they were in his sights, he pressed the trigger and sent a hail of bullets into the press box. He fired until he ran dry, sending shards of glass, drywall, plywood, and roofing materials in all directions. He reloaded but saw no more movement.

  “I think I got ‘em,” Boss said. “Take me down.”

  The chopper swung to drop him mid-field and Boss got his first glance of the agitated figure tied to the goalpost. He was trying his best to yank his bonds loose but was having no luck. A rare smile creased Boss’s face as he recalled the King Kong movies. The prisoner reminded him of the movie’s heroine tied up outside the walls as an offering to Kong. This asshole would not fare nearly as well.

  41

  When the figure disembarked the chopper and started running in his direction, Jim felt like a minnow on a hook being born down on by a toothy pike. He couldn’t believe this whole thing had gone so badly. He had no idea how his friends had fared. They’d scattered under the gunfire from the press box and he’d lost sight of them.

  Worst of all, they’d gambled on their timing, thinking they’d beat the other chopper, and they’d lost. That cost Scott his life. The inferno that was the Black Hawk stood as a testament to that, one more reminder of how badly Jim hurt the people around him. Whatever this man had in mind for him, he probably deserved, but he could not go with him. If he got on that chopper he was a dead man. If he went, it would be kicking, screaming, or unconscious.

  Jim tried to pull free of his bonds. Why the hell had they insisted on making it look this good? Why did they have to really tie him to the goalpost? He tried to shift his body to reach one of the knives hidden on him but they were all out of reach.

  When he couldn’t get free, he searched desperately for his friends. Were any of them still alive? Couldn’t one of them squeeze off a few shots and drive his pursuer away? If not, he was going to be here any minute and it was going to be the beginning of the end for Jim Powell.

  And worse, perhaps for his family too. Could they survive without him? They might have to. He fought to get free but could not pull loose. The cuffs were cutting into his wrists, burning, but they would not let go.

  Then Boss was before him and they stared at each other. Jim didn’t recognize him from the battle at the power plant, and wasn’t certain that he’d ever seen him before. He was several inches taller than Jim and probably outweighed him by sixty pounds, all of it muscle. He had a bullpup rifle around his neck and was loaded with well-worn gear. This told Jim the guy did this often. He was a professional.

  Jim was scared. He was fucked.

  “You send out those flyers?” Jim asked.

  Boss closed to within a few feet of him, stared Jim in the eye, and nodded.

  “What did I ever do to you?”

  Without a word, Boss raised his severed hand, the gauntlet, and the wicked knife extending from the end of it.

  Jim stared at the amputated limb and the impressive weapon that protruded from it. “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” he said. “I’d remember cutting someone’s hand off. I’ve done some shit, but pretty sure that wasn’t me.”

  Boss lashed out, stabbing the tactical blade straight for Jim’s c
hest. Jim squeezed his eyes shut, then the knife hit the armor plate and stopped. When he opened his eyes, Boss was glaring cruelly at him.

  “I thought you were wearing armor. Just wanted to make certain. Probably a good thing for you.”

  Jim couldn’t speak. He’d thought he was a dead man. He probably was. He needed to keep this man talking, though, delay him. He might not know that Jim had a team on the ground with him. As far as this psycho knew, the men he’d killed in the press box were Jim’s people. He needed to play that up.

  Boss raised the knife blade in front of his face and saw that the tip broke off when it impacted Jim’s armor. “You broke my knife.”

  “Sorry,” Jim croaked, his voice tense with fear. He looked toward the press box. “You killed my people.”

  Boss pushed a button on the gauntlet and launched the knife into the air. “Those were your people? Guess we’re even. You killed my people at the plant.” Boss pulled the hook attachment from a pouch on his plate carrier and inserted it into the gauntlet. “We’re getting on that chopper. We’re going for a ride and you’re going to tell me all about that attack at the plant. You’re going to tell me who the other men were. Then I’m going to find them and kill them.”

  Jim stared at the sharp tip of the hook. It was as terrifying and wicked a weapon as he’d even seen. He could imagine a multitude of torturous things that could be done to him with it. He hoped he died before it came to that. Then he noticed the man’s rank.

  “Captain...” he muttered.

  Boss paused and stared at him.

  “Captain...Hook,” Jim said with a grin.

  Boss lashed out and struck Jim in the side of the head with the gauntlet. It was a powerful blow, like being hit in the head with a bat. Stunned, Jim sagged forward against his bonds. Boss moved around behind the post, the zip tie binding Jim to the goalpost was severed, and he staggered forward.

  “Run!” screamed a familiar voice.

  It was Hugh and Jim obeyed. Although disoriented by the blow to the head he ran blindly in the direction of the voice. There were gunshots from ahead of him and he hoped they were aimed at his attacker. Gunshots exploded behind him, and he knew his would-be captor was returning fire in Hugh’s direction. Jim felt like he was slewing to one side, that he was running in sand. It had to be the blow to his head. He fought to stay upright.

  Boss closed on him and lashed out with the hook, snagging Jim’s plate carrier. Jim lurched to a stop and dropped. Boss had been trying to keep his prisoner between him and the shooter, banking on whoever it was not wanting to hit his prisoner. With Jim now on the ground, there was nothing blocking him from gunfire and Boss hit the ground, laying prone behind Jim.

  Jim tried to crawl away. His hands were flex-cuffed and he couldn’t use them. He moved like a caterpillar, arching and pushing, arching and pushing, then he felt a sharp pain in his calf. He saw that the captain had snagged him in the leg just above his boot. He yanked and Jim screamed in pain. He felt like his calf muscle was being torn loose from the bone.

  Boss slithered on top of Jim’s body, wrapping a powerful arm around his neck and jerking Jim’s head back. The sharp point of the bloody hook touched his neck and Jim could only imagine it tearing into him in the same way it had his leg. He wondered if that might be more merciful than what this man had in store for him. Maybe he should just get it over with.

  “We’re getting to our feet and we’re backing toward that chopper,” Boss hissed in his ear. “If they shoot, you’ll take the round, so you better pray they don’t.”

  Boss rose to his feet, using his power to tug Jim up in front of him. He pulled Jim against him. No one would be able to shoot Boss without taking the risk of hitting Jim.

  “I’m not sure I can walk,” Jim said.

  “You’ll walk or I’ll drag you with this hook!”

  The pain in Jim’s leg was excruciating but each step cleared his head. As they backed toward the chopper, Jim wondered about his other friends. Where were Lloyd, Gary, and Randi? Were they dead? Had they been hit by the shooters from the press box? He couldn’t bear the thought of it.

  A figure rose from the weeds near the fieldhouse and staggered toward them. Hugh. He was bloodstained and moving slowly, but he headed for the gate and onto the field.

  Boss drew his handgun and levelled it over Jim’s shoulder. Before he could pull the trigger, Jim pushed his shoulder up, throwing off the shot. At the sound, Hugh dropped and flattened himself on the ground.

  “Son of a bitch!” Boss hissed. He dropped the hook to Jim’s shoulder and yanked, the point tearing through shirt and into muscle.

  Jim screamed.

  “You try something like that again and I’ll pull you the entire way like that,” Boss warned.

  With every yard, they moved closer to the chopper. With every yard, Jim felt hope slipping away from him. He thought of everything he’d been through to get to this point. He recalled all of his preparations and his fight to get home. He thought of what his family had gone through and what they would continue to go through without his help. His children would get older and he wouldn’t be there for them. He thought of his wife growing old without him. He would never live to see his grandchildren, never live to see his country rebuilt.

  Then they were at the chopper, his thoughts pushed aside by the powerful roar of the engines and the buffeting of the blades. In the distance, he could see Hugh on his feet and moving steadily toward them. The captain didn’t seem to be concerned about Hugh now. He ignored him and didn’t attempt to fire on him. Jim assumed it was because they were at the chopper. This was over.

  Jim made one last attempt to break loose and was clouted on the head for his effort. He nearly passed out, seeing flashing lights before his eyes. His stomach heaved and he vomited on himself. Another hit like that might cave in his skull.

  Boss looped his hook into Jim’s web gear to hold him in place as he climbed into the chopper. Once aboard, he grabbed the drag handle on Jim’s plate carrier and hefted him aboard. Jim didn’t know what to do. He had no idea what lay ahead of him but it could only be pain, torture, and misery.

  He resolved at that moment that, once they were airborne, he would jump out to his death. It was all he had left. He couldn’t take a chance he might disclose anything under torture and put his friends at further risk. At this realization, his eyes filled with tears. It was the last thing he wanted. He was a fighter, not a quitter.

  “Take us up!” Boss yelled at the pilots.

  He holstered his weapon and shoved Jim against the wall. He clipped a tether onto the front of his web gear. With Jim’s hands cuffed behind him there would be no way for him to unfasten it.

  “I said take us up!” Boss repeated when the chopper didn’t move.

  He spun toward the cockpit to repeat his order and found the helmeted pilots turned in their armored seats and staring at him. He immediately noticed that their clothing was wrong. These were not his pilots, and they had weapons leveled on him.

  Boss let out the bellow of an injured bull and went to draw his weapon. Just as he’d feared, in the heat of combat he defaulted to the wrong hand, the missing hand. There was no holster and no hand to grab with it.

  “Move!” one of the pilots barked.

  It was Randi and she was screaming at Jim, afraid to take the shot with him so close. It was too late. He wasn’t thinking clearly.

  Boss corrected his bobble and drew with his left hand this time. He raised his handgun toward the pair of pilots and got off a shot, striking one of the helmeted figures. There was a cry and the figure twisted away, falling in front of the seat.

  Jim had a flash of fear. Randi had been hit and it was his fault. He’d failed to move, failed to give her a shot. His hesitation had gotten her shot.

  Before Boss could fire on the other figure in the cockpit, Jim lashed out with a powerful kick and struck Boss in the side of the knee. He folded and fell, his shot going wild and punching a hole in the windshield of
the craft. He fired again, the shot clipping the edge of a pilot’s seat. The second helmeted figure crouched in front of his armored seat, trying to escape certain death.

  Boss was on his side, flat on the deck of the chopper, swinging his weapon for another shot at the pilot when Jim stomped viciously on his hand. He pinned it to the steel deck and put all his weight on it, trying to break the fingers wrapped around the pistol. The gun fired a wild shot, then jammed from the pressure of Jim’s boot. Boss lashed out with his hook, burying it in Jim’s leg and pulling it away.

  Jim cried out with pain but got some satisfaction from the fact that he’d possibly broken a finger or two on his attacker’s remaining hand. Boss had some trouble regaining his grip on the weapon. He struggled as he fought to clear the jammed weapon, then swung it toward Jim. Jim met his eye and knew that Boss was making a decision. Was Jim worth the trouble or should he kill him now?

  Their locked gaze was broken by a mechanical ratcheting from the doorway. They both turned and found a bloody Hugh glaring at them over the barrel of the M240D. It was unfastened from the mount and aimed directly at Boss. He had a split second to process the face on the other side of the gun. It was the man who’d cut off his hand.

  Jim threw his body as hard as he could toward the back of the aircraft.

  Boss managed to get out a “NOOOOOO!” as he swung his handgun on Hugh but there was not enough time. Hugh pressed the trigger. Boss’s body thrashed as the rounds ate him alive. When Hugh let up on the trigger, there was only the sound of the twin engines.

  Jim’s ears rang and smoke filled the cabin of the chopper. “Get me out here!” he yelled, his face red, bloody saliva strung from his mouth.

  Gary popped up in the cockpit and flung the pilot’s helmet from his head.

  “Check Randi!” Jim yelled, unable to hear his own voice anymore.

  Gary crouched over Randi. Jim felt a hand on him. He jerked, startled, and turned to find Hugh in front of him, a knife in his hand. He unfastened Jim from the tether and cut the flex-cuffs loose. Jim staggered to the cockpit and found Randi sitting up, conscious. Gary was pressing a bandage to her arm.