Agents of Change

by Guy Harrison

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning, I spring out of bed, shower and change into a fresh set of clothes. I choose comfort over style with a pair of jeans and an unbuttoned button-up shirt over an undershirt. While brushing my teeth, I study my malformed face in the mirror. Over a full year later, it still looks the same. My face can undergo no more healing. A voice in the back of my mind tells me that last night’s escapade with Elena would not have happened if I didn’t have the ability to hide my true appearance. Another voice in the back of my mind reminds me that everything happens for a reason. Either way, I’m probably far too dependent on the voices in my head. I should probably get that checked out.

  After tying the laces on my Nikes, I hear a knock at my door. When I open the door, I smile when I see Elena. That smile quickly fades, however, when I see the look on her face.

  “Have you heard from Nick?” she says, furrowing her brow and biting her lip.

  “No. Why?”

  “I’ve been knocking on his door all morning. He doesn’t answer.”

  “Did you check downstairs? Maybe he’s at the breakfast bar.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she says, looking over my shoulder. “You ready?”

  “Yeah. Let me just grab my bag.”

  I turn off the TV, which had been tuned in to SportsCenter. It was the first time I had watched any TV since leaving Montreal and yet, there it was, a segment about the riot, including a discussion about the helicopter incident. You know you’ve done something astounding when you’ve made it on SportsCenter without actually dunking a basketball, scoring a touchdown, or hitting a homerun.

  Elena meets me in the hallway, a small satchel in her hand. We hop on the elevator and wait as it drifts down to the first floor. Silence, once again. When the elevator opens, we look to the breakfast bar on our left. Hamilton sits at a table, sipping orange juice out of a plastic cup.

  “There you are,” Elena says.

  “Morning,” Hamilton says, raising his cup.

  “How long have you been down here?” I say.

  “Oh … I don’t know … a while, I guess. Elena, I poured you some coffee.” He points to a coffee cup sitting in front of him. “I didn’t bother with you, Calvin. I know how much you hate coffee.”

  I nod.

  “Thanks, Nick,” Elena says, grabbing the cup.

  I look at my phone: 7:40.

  “Shall we?” I say.

  Nick stands up. He and Elena follow me through the lobby.

  “Nick,” Elena says, “where’s your bag? You know we’re not coming back, right?”

  “Oh, I already put it in the trunk.”

  Outside, it’s another humid, mostly sunny South Florida morning. A steady breeze, however, suggests that one of the area’s patented tropical thunderstorms is due to roll in. I use the car’s remote to pop the trunk.

  “I’ll take those,” Nick says, grabbing our bags.

  “Wow,” I say. “You’re extra nice this morning.”

  He shrugs and flashes a smile before placing our bags in the trunk.

  I climb into the driver’s seat and turn the ignition. Hamilton sits next to me and Jimenez sits behind him. We have a brief, ten-minute drive ahead of us but it’s always nice to get there ahead of schedule, especially during rush hour.

  “So, where’d you guys go last night?” Nick says.

  I look at Elena in the rearview mirror, deferring the question to her.

  She purses her lips and shrugs. “We visited my parents’ gravesite and grabbed a bite to eat.”

  “Nice. What time did you guys get back?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say, holding Elena’s gaze in the mirror. “Nine-ish?”

  “Hmm. I must’ve been dead asleep.”

  “Probably,” I say. “What’d you do last night?” Nick’s asking too many questions. He must sense that something’s up between Elena and I but I don’t know how he’d take to us going out for a little fun on South Beach, given the task at hand.

  “Oh, you know … went to the sub shop, showered, and hit the hay. Knocked right out.”

  With the Tuttle Causeway two exits away on the interstate, I turn on the radio for a traffic update.

  Clear.

  I look to the east and see Biscayne Bay situated to my right, tucked between high-rise condos and palm trees. It’s a shame that Miami, at least in my eyes, has so many issues. It must be nice to wake up along the city’s waterfront every morning.

  “I have a question,” Hamilton says as I turn onto the causeway. “What do we do if the A of J shows up?”

  “What do you mean?” I say with a snicker. “Of course they’re going show up.”

  “You never know. They could actually be on the plane,” Elena tells me.

  I shrug. “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. Why do you ask, Nick?”

  “They’re already here,” he says.

  I look over at Nick and he looks at me. Suddenly, our SUV swerves out of control, first fishtailing to the left. I pull the steering wheel hard to the right, but the car doesn’t respond. Instead, it skids against the grain, crossing the road’s three eastbound lanes on its way toward the causeway’s grassy median.

  Elena chops Nick in the neck. As he recoils, the car suddenly responds to my steering and veers back across the three lanes and hits the guardrail at full speed. Our airbags deploy. The windshield shatters. The three of us let out a collective scream as the SUV flips over the guardrail, first with a dizzying quickness, and then in slow motion. Someone’s using the equivalent of a telekinetic parachute.

  In front of us lies a small sliver of land, just before the bay, just before the causeway’s exposure. Nick elbows Elena in the face, knocking her back in her seat as the car comes to a safe landing. Elena, bloody nose and all, reaches around Nick’s headrest and puts him in a headlock.

  “What the hell are you guys doing?” I say.

  Nick struggles for air, trying to pry Elena’s arm away from his throat. “She’s an A of J.”

  “He’s the A of J,” Elena says.

  My eyes dart between the two of them before focusing on Elena. There’s no way … there’s no way that Ronni, Valerie, and Elena are all A of Js. I can’t be that doomed. After last night, I feel like I know Elena better than I obviously ever knew Valerie … and, perhaps, even more than I knew Ronni.

  “Calvin,” Elena says with a soft tone. “Please. You know I’m not an A of J. Remember last night?”

  Hamilton’s eyes widen as he turns his head to look at me.

  Elena sits with her cheek flush against the back of Nick’s headrest, both of her arms firmly entrapping his neck as she looks into my eyes. “I … would never try to hurt you.”

  That was never an obstacle for certain people in the past. Still, I can’t not trust Elena. We’ve come too far.

  I hold her gaze for a few brief moments, mostly to observe her vulnerability before placing my gaze onto Nick. “Who are you?”.

  “Quick, the plane’s coming,” he manages to say.

  “Shut up,” I say, punching him in the face.

  Swoosh!

  Nick lowers his head. His unblemished complexion becomes darker, red. His body shrinks and his hair grows long and black.

  I stop breathing for a moment, shocked by what I see before me. “Ronni? You’re still alive?” I only recognize her because of her eyes. The wreck was far worse on her than it was on me.

  “What have you done with Hamilton?” Elena says with her arm still around Ronni’s neck.

  She doesn’t respond. She only looks past me, through my window.

  “Calvin, look!” Elena says.

  I can’t take my eyes off of Ronni, though, even though I want to. A girl once beautiful has become monstrous, in more ways than one.

  Elena nudges me with her elbow. Out of my trance, I turn around to look through my window. A Delta airliner descends toward the causeway, no less than two miles away. I can only imagine th
e terror running through the cockpit.

  I can feel Ronni’s eyes on me. “Can’t look at me anymore, can you? Don’t kid yourself. Deep down, you know you’re just like me. A freak.”

  I force myself to look at her. “You’ve killed people.”

  “But you still love me. Don’t you?”

  Elena’s eyes meet mine.

  “You know she’ll never love you,” Ronni adds. “Not the way I did.”

  “Calvin …” Elena says nodding at the plane.

  Is Ronni manipulating this plane? Doubtful. She could not have seen the plane for long enough to bring it this close to the causeway. There must be an A of J on the flight.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Ronni says in a low tone, still grasping at Elena’s arm. “You couldn’t do it on the train … and you can’t do it now.”

  “Elena,” I say, opening my door, “let her go.”

  “What?”

  “Let her go.”

  “What are you doing?” my partner says, leaning back in her seat.

  “I think we need to talk this out.”

  “What is there to talk about? She—”

  “Get out the car. Please.” I turn back to look Elena in the eye. She gives me a dumbfounded stare. I respond with a subtle wink.

  As the plane bears down on the exposed slab of causeway in front of us, we file out of the SUV.

  “Elena,” I say, “you get the plane. I’ll take care of Ronni.”

  My partner nods and raises her arms. Ronni looks at me, her eyes widening. I then raise my arm, steadying Ronni as I lift her over the car and toward the causeway.

  “What are you doing?” she says.

  “I’m giving you a choice,” I say. “If that plane crashes, it’s going to take you with it.” I hold her no more than twenty feet over middle of the causeway as cars honk and swerve out of her path, undoubtedly startled by what they’re seeing. I’m almost certain that there is an A of J on that plane. If it crashes, I won’t be the person solely responsible for her death. In the off chance that she is controlling the plane, she has a chance to redeem herself.

  “Calvin!” Ronni yells as she tries to wriggle free of my grip.

  I turn away from her and look at Elena. “How’s it coming?”

  “It’s heavy, but I got it,” she says, coming around to the front of the car. The plane is now less than a mile away. With her arms fully extended, Elena lifts the plane higher in the air, one inch at a time. It looks like it may just miss us and land safely in the bay.

  Suddenly, I hear a cracking noise behind me. A sizeable shard of the SUV’s damaged bumper breaks away from the car and impales Elena in the abdomen, close to her left hip. I call out her name as she’s thrown backward into the bay.

  I turn my attention back to Ronni. She’s on the grassy median, running away from the scene. I must’ve dropped her when I was distracted by Elena.

  Cars honk and swerve as the drivers are no doubt startled by Ronni’s grotesque features as she runs up the Causeway. Meanwhile, the plane resumes its precipitous drop.

  “Ronni!” I yell, my heart racing.

  I turn around, hoping to see Elena.

  Nobody.

  I then turn my attention back to the plane and attempt to give it one good push upward but it’s too late. This plane will crash, into the causeway.

  I turn around and look at the bay. I never learned how to swim but Elena’s submerged in that bay. And regardless of what happened last night, she is a true friend. She didn’t lie to me on daily basis, the way Ronni did as she lived a dark, secret life. Elena didn’t accidentally kill someone only to compound that by purposefully killing countless others. No, Elena believed in me and trusted me to stand by her side during this campaign, however lofty it was. She’s also made more than her share of personal sacrifices.

  I can’t swim but … screw it.

  Sprinting towards the bay, I belly-flop into its brackish waters. The water surrounding the man-made peninsula is not particularly deep. Still, there’s no sight of Elena anywhere. Not on the surface, anyway.

  My feet on the causeway’s concrete, I stand in the water and look to my left and right. “Elena!”

  The scream of the plane’s engine is deafening now, causing me to peek back at the causeway. The aircraft’s nose is no further than 60 yards away. The A of J has slowed down the plane, hoping for a more accurate hit.

  I turn my attention back to the water. Although this portion of the bay is only five feet deep, I try not to venture too far. Meanwhile, the city of Miami beckons a mile and a half in front of me. With no sign of Elena, I start swimming toward the Miami shore, being sure to stay close to the peninsula.

  As my mind braces for the crash of the plane, and seemingly going nowhere, I start gasping for air, hyperventilating, even. Despite my unwieldy kicking, my heart rate is the only thing accelerating. This is one attack by the Agency of Justice I don’t think I’ll survive. The wreck’s maelstrom of salt water, concrete, fuselage, and jet fuel is certain to overwhelm me.

  Now a mere twenty feet from where I started, a blob of auburn-colored water contrasts sharply against the aquamarine hue of Biscayne Bay. I take a deep breath and let myself drop into the water. At the risk of burning my eyes, I take a peek downward. Elena Jimenez leans against the island’s concrete wall, her eyes closed, blood seeping from her midsection.

  I hurriedly thrust my legs backwards, pushing towards Elena’s lifeless body. I wrap my arm around her back, peeling her away from the concrete. If I were a better swimmer, we might survive. Instead, we’ll surely die together.

  I nearly go deaf. Behind me, flames and a large plume of smoke and dust rise into the air as the plane plows through the causeway. I hold Elena tightly along my right side and kick my legs as fast as I can, moving only a few, short inches away from the concrete wall.

  I look over to Elena’s emotionless face, her head lying on my shoulder. This is reminiscent of my very first impression of her. The fact that her face was emotionless in the past is irrelevant, though. She has been clandestinely sensitive throughout. If only I could speak with her one more time.

  The concrete of the causeway and peninsula crumbles. Various vehicles drop into the bay like Micro Machines into a kiddie pool.

  Out of options, I concentrate on the water, hoping for one more stroke of luck. Remembering my encounter with Valerie in Clearwater, I wave my left arm toward me, as though beckoning the bay’s living organisms to follow me. The water swells away from the meager remnants of the plane and lifts Elena and me to its surface.

  Our heads above water, the chaos of the scene back on the causeway fills my ears. People scream, sirens wail, debris falls on top of debris.

  When I wave my arm a second time, the water swells again. This time, it rises higher than the causeway itself. A virtual tidal wave stands over Elena and me like one of Miami’s waterfront high-rises. With the water edging closer, I fully embrace Elena, holding her head close to mine.

  I close my eyes, concentrating on the water. The wave washes over us, silencing the chaos. Unsure of where we’ll land, we’re thrust forward toward Miami proper. I maintain my airtight grip on Elena.

  In a brief instant, the water opens up just enough for me to get a clear view of the land ahead. I see a dock, upon which Elena and I are rapidly closing in. I close my eyes again as the water envelops us and I brace for our landing, lessening my concentration on the water and aiming for the dock.

  The wave subsides but we’ve missed the dock. Overshot it, in fact. Instead, we hurtle toward a pool behind one of those aforementioned condo high-rises.

  No longer engulfed by the wave, Elena and I fall into the pool in a collective heap. This pool is not deep, thankfully. I bring us back to the surface, allowing the fresh water to roll away from my face. I gasp loudly as I inhale a large amount of air.

  With the causeway chaos behind us, we’re met with several pairs of eyes. They don’t know on which spectacle their attention shoul
d be focused. These scantily clad men and women stand poolside with their jaws nearly falling to the pool’s concrete deck.

  I paddle to the pool’s steps and carry Elena onto the deck before letting her down easy. I take an inventory of her vital signs. Her face has turned a bluish tint but her heart is still beating, slowly. Blood continues to leak out of the left side of her abdomen.

  One of the onlookers, a Latin man, walks over to us. “Are you okay?”

  “She’s hurt,” I say. “Call 911. Please.”

  The man nods his head and runs back inside the building.

  Meanwhile I take off my button-down and twist it before wrapping it firmly around Elena’s waist. I start pushing on her chest before holding her nose and bringing my mouth to hers, hoping to fill her lungs with air.

  I pull away.

  Nothing.

  “Please, Elena,” I whisper. “Please.”

  With another lump forming in my throat, I push on her chest three more times before conducting mouth-to-mouth again. With tears now forming in my eyes, I push down on her chest twice more before water starts jumping out of her mouth.

  Coughing, Elena suddenly opens her eyes. She winces and clutches at her tourniquet.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I say.

  Almost whimpering, she starts shaking her head.

  I hold her face in my hand. “Shh, shh, shh. Relax, you’re going to be okay.”

  “I called 911,” the man says, returning from the building. “What happened?”

  I turn and look up at him. “We got in an accident, right before the plane crash.” I return my gaze to the scene of the crash. All manner of emergency vehicles—including a helicopter—have descended upon the scene. What’s the likelihood that any of them will make a stop at a nondescript, condominium that’s presumably safe from the carnage?

  “Do you have a car?” I say.

  “I do.”

  “You mind driving us to the hospital?”

  “Not at all, man. There’s one right down the street.”

  The man runs to his lounge chair and grabs his towel and keys. I put my arms underneath Elena and lift her up, looking into her eyes before taking a peek at the deck. A large blot of bloody water, no smaller than a manhole cover, glistens on its concrete. With the blood she’s already lost, Elena’s chances of survival slip away with each subsequent drop of blood.