Chronicles of War
Part 1: Way of the Storm
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"Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent
will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with
talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb.
Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts.
Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan
'Press On' has solved and always will solve the problems of the
human race."
- Calvin Coolidge
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Chapter 23: Action
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Jason Clark was not a man prone to flying into rages. He was a man who
believed in thinking things through. Life had not been kind to Jason
Clark, and the FBI agents was cautious and patient for it. Cautiousness
and patience at had served him well.
Sometimes he wanted to put hit fist into something solid anyway.
Normal people--real, ordinary, every-day people--do NOT happily pick up
weapons and march directly into combat against trained killers in an
enclosed area wired with hundreds of pounds of high explosive. They just
don't. And what were the cops here smoking?! Was this what happened when
you lived within fifty miles of a nuclear power plant? They were
actually trying to help the guy! God help him, Clark was going to clap
the man in irons himself if he didn't get his dumb ass killed in there.
He'd questioned sniper team two thoroughly on the point of what exactly
this unhinged lunatic had done to take out--and this he did not believe
at all--no less than four armed men while in plain view of said sniper
team. Grenades, freaky martial arts moves that sent trained soldiers
flying with a feather-light touch? Clark was tempted to have someone
check on the local water supply.
Then there was the problem itself.
Problems had a solution. If a problem doesn't have a solution, it's no
longer a problem, just an unpleasant fact of life. But here he was,
looking at a problem that he knew had a solution, and he couldn't see
it. If there was really one madman with a gun or bomb inside of that
mall, he would have one madman to work with. As another madman, who
somehow controlled both the bombs and entire platoon of mercenaries, had
called in the first madman, and the first madman was apparently killing
people left and right...
Clark sighed. His analysis of the situation was going nowhere. Thoughts
were slipping through his head like water between his fingers. He
couldn't get James' number. He couldn't figure the man, which meant he
wasn't just a little crazy, he was full-on out of his mind, padded rooms
and heavy sedatives twenty-four seven, certified crazy.
That was a scary thought.
"Mr. Clark?" a professional voice broke into his thoughts. Clark turned
to identify the voice and found detective Limbaugh standing in front of
him with that damn note pad.
"Yes?" Clark said, trying to let the weariness he felt spill into his
voice.
"We got an update from North Dakota. Totally legit. James' old boss
sounds pretty surprised he's landed in this mess, but he says that the
guy's always been a fitness nut. Knows a lot about fighting, been
training all of his life kind of expert and beating up people. Just
thought you'd like to know."
Clark smiled sadly. "Thanks. That makes me fell a whole lot better."
Limbaugh half-turned towards the van, then addressed Clark one last
time. "If it helps, you know he's actually on our side."
"For now," Clark said simply.
"Yes, for now," Limbaugh echoed quietly before returning to the van.
----------
The Chief looked at his adversary warily, feeling like a field mouse
trying to stare down a viper. The viper in this case was a trim young
man with hair that screamed Chief Executive Officer and a suit that cost
more than wife's new Prelude. He called himself Dave Handleton and spoke
in simple, complete sentences that soothed worry and eased tension.
Every word was carved from a solid block of truth, cut with a silver
knife and served with a golden fork and silk napkin.
Cameins didn't believe a word he said. Not that there was anything but
truth in his words, but Cameins had been a cop for thirty-five years. He
meet with people on a daily basis that said nothing but true words and
still lied through their teeth. The way no warning bells were going off
at all was the biggest warning at all. Camein's trained cop senses were
telling him to find an excuse, any excuse, to lock Dave Handleton up
behind bars for the duration of this incident and have him questioned by
Chinese torture experts during his stay.
"I don't mean to impose," Dave said politely. The collar of his heavy
leather trench coat was barely affected by the breeze, and his hair just
kind of waved under the winter wind's assault, casual and carefree.
"You aren't imposing. You aren't bothering me, but you aren't helping
either. We've got the FBI here, the Area Task Force, the best detectives
in the force, and we aren't even allowed in the building. Now, I
understand you want to help, but there's really nothing for you to do."
The Chief hated people like this, that wore you down with niceness and
apologized whether or not they did something wrong. It was a damn
poisoned guilt trip.
"I understand, sir. I just couldn't get him on his cell phone. How are
you talking to him if he doesn't have it?"
Ah, so this is what it feels like to have your blood freeze in your
veins. Cameins kept his voice level even though he knew the wind-induced
blush on his cheeks was giving way to panic white. "I don't know. Do you
have the number to his phone?"
"Of course, let me write it down for you."
The polite man was pulling out a card and pen even as he spoke. Every
move was excessively telegraphed, his body language screaming 'look at
me, everybody! I'm not dangerous!' He wrote a full phone number
carefully on a small business card that said something about investors
while he asked, "How have you been keeping in touch with him? Landline?"
"I can't answer that," the Chief said, taking the card. He looked at the
ten digits written on it, then noticed the title, which basically
repeated everything Dave had told him when he'd first shaken hands with
the man.
"It's okay, it's okay. I don't mean to pry, I'm just worried."
The Chief nodded and made his way back to the command van. Once he was
inside, the business card made its way from his slack fingers to
Limbaugh's sweaty hands. "James had a cell phone. This is the number. I
want that piece of hardware found in the next ten seconds."
"I'm on it, Chief." Limbaugh said, dropping his notepad and going for
the nearest phone.
"Where's Clark?" the Chief asked.
"I heard," the FBI agent breezed into the van. "We need a way to tap
into this backup line; see who he's working with."
"Crazy idea," Bates said, getting everyone's attention, "suppose it was
left behind as a red herring. Suppose he's running from these guys?"
"If he's really running, why stick his neck out for a bunch of people he
doesn't know?" Kelly countered, vocalizing exactly what Clark was
thinking. It was intended to be a rhetorical question, but Bates gave
the notion substance like he'd been waiting for this opportunity.
"If that bastard blew the mall before he got out of the area, he'd be
stuck. Maybe there's something with the phone that he needs to get away
from and if we find it, we'll have a real reason to lock him up." Every
eye was on him, even Limbaugh, who was on hold. "Think about it. These
guys aren't here fighting for the sake of fighting. They're fighting
over something. If we find that--"
"Then we've got 'em both by the balls." Kelly finished.
Clark noticed her fingers were hammering against his shoulder. Giving
them a quick glare to get them to stop, he rose to his full height. "We
can't spread ourselves that thin." He looked at Cameins. "This could be
a red herring."
"It could be coincidence." Limbaugh said. "It's obvious there's a lot of
planning going on here, but he could've just forgotten about that phone.
He has enough on his mind."
"If he makes it out of there, he's going to be questioned anyway," The
Chief said, ending the matter.
"Where'd you get that, anyway?" Clark finally asked.
"Dave Handleton, that kid who claims to know Rahn."
"Has he been questioned yet?"
"Gunter's giving him a full cavity search as we speak," The Chief said
with a straight face.
"Not funny. What if he's in on this?" Clark pressed, stepping directly
into Cameins' personal space. This wasn't hard; he only had to move
about eight inches.
"Of course he's in on this, but we can't jail and question him for no
reason. I'll take his statement myself if you can do me one favor."
Clark didn't waste a second on breathing before answering: "Name it."
"Talk to Rahn."
"I'd love to," Clark bit off the words.
Cameins was out of the door without another word.
Clark turned to the detectives. "Call that number and see who picks up."
----------
Crouched behind a table covered in pamphlets for a motorboat that cost
more than most people made in a year, Ed and Kat listened to the ravings
of a madman.
"I'm going to go out there and goad them into a fight, then lead them
into that open area where you shoot and kill them without hitting me,"
James said.
"I can't begin to explain how stupid that is," Ed replied.
"Who's the expert here?" James asked pleadingly.
Well, Ed had to give him that, but if he would up burying his friend
next week...well, best not to think about it. Ed hefted his weapon as a
signal that he understood and was ready to obey. The scowl on his face
informed James that he still thought it was a stupid plan.
"We're supposed to kill them in cold blood?" Kat asked, her eyes not
meeting James.
"Our other options didn't pan out," James said simply.
"Okay."
James rose and strode into the open area that functioned as a short
hallway to the edge of the new addition. Along the far wall it made a
wide turn and exited at the opposite side of the main entrance. Most the
entrance was taken up by a large water tank complete with marine plants
and a small school of bass, a freakishly huge aquarium.
Halfway down the hallway, he looked up to see no less than eight
soldiers crouched along the scaffolding tied to the exterior walls.
Showtime.
"Attention government fuck-tards! I'm here, and we need to talk!"
A voice fired back. "You're covered from an elevated position by thirty
armed men. It's over Rick!"
"Jesus Christ, I said we need to talk, not boast," James grumbled.
"Shut the fuck up and get on the ground!"
"You can't kill me. You might try to wound me, but if you do, then you
all die. It's that simple. So...wanna talk?"
"Get on the floor!"
James started laughing. Was this what it all came down to? He couldn't
pay for comedy this good. He laughed and laughed, not sure if he would
ever stop. At the cops would have some common sense!
He was laughing until the Taser got within about two feet. Before it
moved another two inches, he caught the wielder and hurled him into a
display of fish hooks.
Two more came down the isle, and the ones hidden in the scaffolding had
faded from view, probably to provide backup. James set his stance, ready
to move faster than the eye could follow. The two started firing, and he
did what he'd trained for years to master. Dashing at the attackers, he
bobbed and weaved in a pattern impossible for the eye to follow and the
hand to predict.
After a dozen feet, a blade came flying at his knee. James shifted
seamlessly from attack to defense, kicking the machete blade away at the
handle and nearly tearing off the fingers gripping it. He twisted in
place and fell back as a grizzly bear of man emerged from under one of
the display tables. He hadn't given any kind of warning before standing
to his full height. His friends were obviously expecting this, and cut
their fire as soon as he moved into view.
Perfect. James gave the mountainous man and his thick black beard a
feral grin and dodged a foul-smelling cloth thrown at his head. Coming
out of the wild dodge, he found himself directly beneath two assholes
with handcuffs descending rapidly.
It was moments like these that James was thankful for his training. He
met his air-born attackers head on, literally smashing them out of the
air with a few well-placed punches. A follow-up blow was thrown over his
shoulder, catching the machete man in the nose. He spent a half-second
looking for whoever threw the cloth at him, but could not identify
another assailant. Higher brain functions were reporting the odor as
chloroform or a similar chemical. Pretty clever, but whoever threw it at
him was a dead man.
The big man was ready for another rush, his eyes watering. James checked
on the Geronimo imitators--just getting to their feet, good--and decided
to take down the big man next. He was blocking most of the walkway,
which reduced his escape routes to zero.
Not that he planned on escaping or anything.
He charged the huge man, feeling like a baseball thrown at a brick wall.
For a bare instant, he wondered if he would simply bounce comically off
the huge man's chest when he finally hit it. If he hit it. He faked a
powerful punch to the face, then shifted to a crushing kick designed to
relocate kneecaps. The man shifted his legs and let the kick fly clean
through. James smirked as he went for the groin. The man was wearing a
cup, but that hardly mattered. For all of his speed, James didn't hit
anything. His fist flew clear, and snapped open into a claw. Four
fingers with the strength to yank a man off of the ground bit into soft
flesh, pulling and tearing.
The big man, beet-red from beard to forehead, crashed to the floor in a
fetal position. A crimson stain was slowly spreading across his pants.
One down.
James noted the second body on the floor. Two? He didn't have time to
continue asking himself questions, as the two guys with handcuffs had
returned to their feet and taken out baseball bats. Four more men, also
armed with shiny new wooden bats, flanked James. Slowly, he crouched.
Waiting.
The first attack came from the left, mirrored a split-second later from
the right. James launched himself into the first attack, and shattered
the bat with a single strike. He immediately brought up his trailing
leg, ducking another wild swing and contorting his body like a gymnast.
The lunging attacker originally on his right missed entirely and
overextended; the wild swinger had more control and was ready for a
second attack right away. James ignored him, dropping his foot on the
open opponent, feeling something give way under his heel.
He slapped aside three swings that could have broken his arms.
Then he ran.
----------
"You have any idea what he was talking about?" Kat asked breathlessly,
her eyes scanning the spot where James had just disappeared from view.
"James has his winning ways."
"Winning," Kat deadpanned.
Something occurred to Ed, something that James had said to him long ago.
He repeated it almost word-for-word. "But you have rules to tell you who
wins."
"I think the rules here are who is left alive."
It sounded so simple; she made a good point. Yet there was doubt. "No,
that isn't it."
"It isn't? What else could there be?" she said.
"They're trying to capture James alive. If he dies, they fail."
"Then we die," Kat said, realizing the obvious but terrible truth.
"But he wins," Ed pointed out in a fatalistic voice.
"He wouldn't let us die, would he?" Kat asked.
For an instant, their minds returned to one moment in time, James
towering over a young soldier--no, a young man--rising before a young
man like a force of nature. He was implacable as a hurricane and he
struck like a tidal wave. His wrath was absolute, his sentence
unwavering. He had murdered in cold blood to protect a group of people
who could not protect themselves. Like he'd just said not ten minutes
ago; he was putting down mad dogs.
It shook Ed to the core to think that he knew such a person. Thoughts of
what James was really capable of made his skin want slide across his
bones like a herd of cockroaches.
And James was the good guy here?
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