Chronicles of War
Part 1: Way of the Storm
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Things got bad, and things got worse/
I guess you know the tune."
- Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Lodi"
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 16: Before Remorse
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Do you think there's a bomb in here?"
"Probably, but I'm not going to tear apart this place looking for it.
There's too much equipment it could be hidden in."
"Only an idiot would hide it in the equipment; fast food places are
pretty hazardous for storing bombs. I mean, the freezers wreck your
electronics, including detonators, and the grease boxes aren't exactly a
hospitable environment either. Then there's the...what?"
"Have you been planning to blow up a McDonald's or something?" James
asked. He squinted intently at Ed as if he were trying to read the
guard's thoughts.
"I'm just saying, maybe we should search the restaurants last. There's
not many other places to hide the bomb, but if--"
James jumped in with, "They hid it there, we'll find it right away.
Brilliant. I still think we should put off an in-depth investigation,
though. With them tightening the net here, they'll be weak elsewhere."
Net? Ed looked around the wrecked food court. There was no net to
tighten. Smoke rolled out of the gutted shells that used to be stores.
Bullet casings lay all over the floor. The southern portion of the
court's dividing wall looked like it had lost a fight with a mob of
chainsaw-welding maniacs. All they needed now was a few fires and this
place would be an insurance write-off. Fortunately, the destruction
caused by grenades did not set fire to anything. And with that thought,
he made a mental note to remind everyone he met from this point onward,
that he had fired a grenade launcher, in the mall, in his hometown. That
was worth writing down.
"Well, let's get going," James said from the end of the hallway.
Ed did a double-take, then remembered James' mysterious ability to move
silently. He had the urge to tie a bell around the man's neck but easily
brushed it aside and followed his friend.
----------
The entrance to JC Penney was at the far end of the hallway which held
the music store. The other end of the hallway was a 'work in progress.'
A massive tank of water, not unlike a giant aquarium, was set in the
middle of the open area. A large number of brightly-colored booths and
stands holding every imaginable type of sporting goods were scattered
around the tank. The walls were mostly covered in a number of red and
green banners, but where the new addition met the existing hallway was
an open space where steel beams and exposed concrete were covered in
thick plastic held down with duct tape.
James made a mental note to talk to Ed about this addition in detail, as
it presented an potential weak spot that the terrorists would exploit.
{add the gun for the greeter?}
JC Penney was a warm and inviting store with pink marble pillars and
brass trim framing a vast entrance big enough to drive two Mack trucks
through. The name was posted above the doors in bronze lettering
illuminated from behind with white light. Someone even stood behind the
perfume counter to greet them, a someone with a wide chest and thick,
stocky arms. His square face was split with a thin, savage grin, and a
gold tooth in the center glinted evilly in the flourescent lighting.
Great. Just fucking great.
"You're covered, give up!" The greeter shouted.
James' eyes swept the entrance. There were a pair of tall fiberglass
ladders to the left, a display of jewelry cases and leather watch bands
on the left. A scattering of glass and polished stainless steel islands
were spread across the beige carpeting. Like the droppings of some giant
crystal bird.
"Shoot down the ladders," James whispered out of the corner of his
mouth.
"We're covered. I can't take aim," Ed said as loudly as he dared.
"Just do it. Don't think about it, just shut the fuck up and do it."
Ed nailed his targets on the first pull of the trigger. James tapped his
twice with a nice sweep to the right between bursts. The greeter went
down without firing a shot, and the second man stayed behind a nice
mahogany piece that James figured would take a whole paycheck to buy. A
third satisfying squeeze of the trigger reduced it to a cloud of dark
splinters.
One second gone. He ran forward. Ed went for the island in the hallway.
James dropped the automatic and drew his pistol, his ribs aching, his
legs pumping, the wind rushing in his ears. He cut his last stride short
and pivoted on his leading foot. He was tempting death by trying to
execute a round-off handspring in the middle of a gun fight. Performing
one while holding a gun was absolute suicide.
It was a testament to the quality of his training that he succeeded
without getting shot.
He turned his attention to his right as he sailed through the air
backwards, arm already in firing position. It hardly mattered if he hit
anything. He squeezed off a few rounds, causing the man by the counter
to stare dumbly at James while the glass next to him shattered and rain
down upon his crouched form.
Then James' hip clipped the top of the island before he wiped out the
legs of a round table covered in small, decorative boxes. The table
seemed to spin in the air while he hit the floor with a bone-jarring
landing. The table hit the floor next to him, and to add insult to
injury, the stupid little decorative boxes on the top started landing on
him. One near his face had the top removed to display an overpriced
Chinese timepiece.
Inexplicably, his mind wondered how to pitch this product.
The perfect present for the professional killer on the run.
Synchronize your next murder!
He rolled to his feet and crouched next to the island that had given him
the slowly growing ache in his hip. The man he'd covered in glass was
getting behind cover now, leaving him a golden opportunity to start
clearing out the store.
Bulletproof timekeeping!
Change your clips, not batteries!
He kissed the floor as the island came apart in a spray of broken glass
and silver rings with tiny white price tags. His fire ripped apart two
small cabinets and tosses several cardboard boxes around like they had
been kicked by a petulant three-year-old. The white metal stand for the
jewelry boxes was nicked by a few rounds, and fell over, landing on top
of the bleeding corpse laying on the floor.
And James was out of bullets.
Murder by numbers!
That was lame, even for him.
He reloaded, his hands a blur as he worked the action and controls on
his gun even while spinning a hundred and eighty degrees while lying on
his stomach. A second later, he sighted down his gun and slowly peeked
around the base of the island. The soldier was indeed hiding behind the
opposite counter. James took the opportunity to get quickly to his feet
and jump over the main counter.
He came down on top of a dead soldier with an MP5. He snatched the gun
and checked the clip before snatching the high-tech communications gear
the soldier was wearing. "Score!" He whispered in quiet triumph.
A hail of bullets answered him, prompting him to quickly press his nose
to the floor again. Now that wasn't fair, interrupting his little
victory--but it gave him an idea. He searched the radio device pilfered
from the soldier, and decided to bet on the biggest button he could
find; the one labeled TALK. He held mic in front of his mouth, mashed
the button down, and screamed.
A muffled curse issued from the other counter. Popping up like an insane
jack-in-the-box, James emptied the MP5 in the general direction of the
swear word, then went prone as another volley ripped apart the drywall
above his head. Several of the bullet caught a rotating display on the
top of the counter, shattering the Plexiglas and sending the remains of
the display and several dozen watches onto James' back.
----------
Ed had worked his way behind the pillar at the south side of the store's
entrance, and watched a small display of watches get shot off of the
counter. One to the left that James was shooting at a second ago, plus a
few rounds from somewhere on the right. He took a moment to psyche
himself up, then peeked around the corner.
The man was tall, with thick curly black hair sticking out from
underneath a dirty Yankees hat. He had a five o'clock shadow that looked
like a handful of instant coffee smeared across his face. His eyes were
bright blue and hard as crystal. They were locked onto their target,
intently watching the wrecked counter.
Easy money, isn't that the kind of words James would use?
Ed considered his options. Was he really ready to do this? Was he ready
to kill in cold blood? Murder a man from the shadows without at least
giving him a chance of fighting back? He hated to admit it, but asking
himself any such question was a pointless waste of time. The answer was
already burning in his mind.
Hell yes.
In the movies, there is always the a last minute interruption after the
hero's struggle with his morals. Or someone jumps out of the shadows and
makes the issue a moot point, or the hero has the time to move on and
come up with a plan that isn't outright criminal.
This was not the movies.
He pulled the trigger.
----------
James heard a single shot ring out. Was that the killing round he'd been
hiding from? He felt around, but no new holes. A quick mental inventory
listed a bruised hand, bruised back, bruised ribs, bruised hip, and the
sharp sting of two close calls with hot lead, but nothing else.
Ed had come through. James grinned, then checked the action on his new
gun. He got to one knee, preparing to take out the last guy, when two
men in black body armor stormed around the corner. The lead man had a
pistol, which he promptly level at James' head. The second was carrying
something that had to be an AK-47. By the time he noted these facts,
he'd already slid under the lead man's arms and was rising to his feet
to execute a judo throw. He followed through, rolling over the man, and
coming up with his arm around the soldier's neck, using him as a human
shield. He pointed his submachine gun at the other soldier.
"Drop it!" James screamed.
"Put the fucking gun down!" The soldier retorted.
James tried again, with some emphasis, "Now!"
"Back down, Rick, or I will shoot that arm--" The soldier was cut short
by a sudden wall of lead that nearly sheared his head from his neck in a
bloody spray of bone and gore.
The man under his arm bucked wildly. Ed comes through again, James
thought. He tried to angle his gun around to blow off the top of the
struggling soldier's head while avoiding the pistol that the man was
waving around. This proved supremely insane. The MP5 was good for most
close-quarters situations, but James didn't have the rubber arm he
needed to bring the muzzle to his opponent's scalp. He let go of the
soldier, and the man kicked the gun free and nearly blew off James' head
with a parting shot from the pistol. James flailed his arms out as he
fell back, and felt one hand dig into the ruined wall, tearing out a
chunk the size of a baseball. As he hit the floor, he rolled and chucked
the ball of gypsum at where he guessed the soldier's gun would be.
The puff of powdering gypsum board was drown out by the sound of more
automatic gunfire and bullets tearing into another human head. The fresh
body landed directly on top of its comrade with a meaty sound. James
looked around and grabbed the MP5 again.
Silence. Which lasted for all of three seconds before Ed's voice came
over the counter. "James?"
James didn't move. "I'm alive, dude."
"Thank God. Uh..." Ed trailed off.
"I don't know, but put some eyes in the back of your head. We make for
the escalator next."
"Oh...okay. I guess. You wanna talk to Kat?" The last sounded like a
hastily added afterthought.
James gently probed at his shoulder, which felt freshly wet and sticky.
"Why don't you do it. I'm going to sit here and...contemplate life and
everything."
----------
Ed shrugged and backed away from the main counter. He pressed his back
to the southern pillar of the entrance and pulled out the radio. "Kat,
this is Ed, do you read? Over."
Kat's voice came clearly through the radio. "I'm here. What the hell is
going on there?"
"We're fine, we're fine. Just, uh...how is everyone there?"
"What the fuck are you talking about? Where is James? Put him on." Kat
said, her words cracking like a whip.
Ed held the radio at arm's length. He'd didn't like that talking thing
which women did. Damn near impossible for him to understand, and never
worthwhile if he tried to. Living with three older sisters taught him
some valuable life lessons. "It's for you, James!"
"Slide it across the floor."
Ed followed the directions, and watched as James looked around like he
was preparing to cross the street before snatching up the radio. The
guard frowned. "You're bleeding."
"I'm fine." James said instantly.
"You said that before, but now you're bleeding."
"See? It took a long time to get worse, relax." He ducked back behind
the counter and Ed listened to him key the radio. "Kat."
"What the fuck is going on there?" Kat's voice echoed from the radio.
"Ed's coming back. I'm going to go looking for that bomb for a minute."
"What?"
James put some false sincerity into his voice, "Shore up your defenses.
I'll be done in a few minutes. Please."
Kat sounded insistent, but calm. "I know you're worried about us, but
can't you tell me what's going on?"
"Not much to tell. We've won so far."
So far? Ed wondered whether he was talking about the mall or just this
store. They had won. They'd mopped the floor with these guys.
"Okay," Kat said reluctantly.
"I've got to go," James pleasantly insisted.
There was a short pause, then, "I'll see you in a few minutes."
James turned off the radio and slid it back across the floor to Ed.
"Dude," Ed began.
James cut him off with a wave of his hand. "No more words. Take that bag
and get back to the music store. I'll take care of the riff-raff here."
Now two and two made three? Ed boggled. Mere minutes ago, he'd saved
James' life, and the assassin was jovially telling him to skip down the
hallway to the music store and sing his praises?
"What the hell, dude?"
"Assassins work alone, Ed. You're a great help, no mistaking that, but
I'm using Plan B."
Plan B? Clarity returned to Ed's mind. Someone was holding James hostage
and he had it fully under control. He looked for any hint of the man,
but he couldn't see the mystery man or James.
Trust, that was what it came down to.
"Dude! Move it!" James shouted.
"I'm going," Ed groused. He stopped at the pillar for another head
check, ignoring the pink marble before him and the plastic holly hanging
above his head.
He could trust James.
Couldn't he?
----------
James held his eyes closed and let the sound of Ed's footsteps fade.
Then he opened them slowly, sighed, and took in the long-faced fellow
holding a Browning M1911A to his nose.
The man spoke for the first time, with a British accent that fit his
neatly trimmed black hair. "I'll give your performance a C minus."
"Indeed," James replied coolly, watching the man's small brown eyes as
if he had nothing better to do. He did have better things to do, and was
working on them in his head, but the soldier didn't need to know that.
And a soldier he was, accent and all. The uniform he wore was a standard
battle dress uniform, complete with mirror-polished black boots. A
strange-looking radio was on his belt, along with a pouch for pistol
clips and a holster for the pistol currently in his hand. He wore
nothing else. No rings, no dog tags, no fancy head-set, no big automatic
rifle, no grenades, no handcuffs, no watch, and no Taser. The man didn't
even have a scar on his long face, and every hair was positioned
precisely.
"So, you're the big bad assassin," he said.
James kept his face relaxed. "Well, since I'm killing you guys, I guess
you can call me that, but what makes you any different?"
The soldier ignored the commentary track. "I'm talking about your little
boast--or was it a dramatic revelation--to your friends back at 'home
base.' By the way,interesting choice, that music store."
"Let me guess, you like salsa music?"
"Your affection for inarticulate banter has been well documented, Mr.
Whoever-you-are. Don't expect it to get a rise out of me."
James snapped his fingers. "Aha! You would be the big bad interrogator
dude."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps."
"I can tell you something you want to know," James said in a
conspiratorial whisper.
The soldier didn't look impressed. "Probably not."
"You can't beat me."
"We--"
"I was stating fact there, not making idle chit-chat," James spoke over
the soldier's words.
The man smiled. "Thanks for getting rid of your friend, and I think you
know when you are beaten."
"Indeed," James said, straining all the emotion he could from his voice.
"Now, I can tell you how I eventually take you guys out, throw off some
memorable one-liners, save the day, and spend my vacation in Disneyland,
or you could just hand over that gun and save me some trouble."
"You chatter far too much for your own good."
"It won't take long to explain."
The man's gun was rock-still. "You're already dead. You just don't know
it."
James leaned back and smiled. "All a matter of perception, my 'good'
man. Ready to see my magic trick?"
"Don't move." The soldier's voice hardened.
James remained perfectly still. "Keep your eye on the bird." The man's
eyes tightened just as the word 'bird' left James' mouth. He struck like
a rattlesnake, grabbing the soldier's gun hand and forcing the pistol to
point up at the ceiling. Then the man made his fatal mistake; he tried
to use his other hand the force the gun back on James.
James' other hand shot out and closed around the three fists encircling
the gun, pinning them there. Using his superior strength, James slowly
forced the gun to rotate toward the soldier's face. A note of fear began
to creep into the long smooth face, and James smiled his most sincere
smile--promising intense pain and a slow death.
"BACK--URK!"
James slowly pulled his left hand away from the soldier's chest, a
savage snarl coming out of his mouth. He pulled the gun free and hit the
soldier in the throat again.
The man stumbled back, clutching at his chest, his long face slowly
turning white. His mouth jerked open and closed like the death-throes of
an android in a low-budget science fiction film.
James stood and closed his hands into fists. Now he had a second to
prepare for the coming violence.
The soldier was beginning to regain his breath, but looked deathly pale.
He grabbed the metal frame of the counter for support and sagged against
it like a coat thrown in a corner.
"You aren't the negotiator." James said emotionlessly, his face
promising the death of the soldier and the annihilation of his entire
country.
The man shook his head.
"You guys don't know who I am." James said in the same flat voice.
Again, he shook his head.
James fought the urge to wipe at his eyes, stinging as they were from
the dust, which was obviously the thing making his eyes tear up. "I told
you...you can't beat me."
The soldier began to stand straighter, his grip on the counter firming,
his knuckles turning white. James jumped at him threateningly. One hand
snapped back for a knife-hand blow that never landed. The soldier
stepped back, and James noted the leg that moved and kicked out a knee.
The soldier toppled like a doll dropped by a petulant child.
James was on him like an attack dog, hitting vital points so quickly
that he couldn't even see his hands moving. In a scant few seconds that
passed by like long minutes of intense combat, James stopped. The
soldier was an unconscious pile on the floor.
He retrieved the soldier's pistol, looked the gun over carefully, then
pulled the action apart and threw the different pieces this way and
that.
"You can't win," he said to the soldier, "Remember that."
(
geocities.com/tokyo/subway/1888/txt) (
geocities.com/tokyo/subway/1888) (
geocities.com/tokyo/subway) (
geocities.com/tokyo)