Chapter 34/35
Chapters Thirty-Four & Thirty-Five
Mon/September/2008 07:00 AM
Editor's
Note - We have
another slightly shorter update since we're sure all
of you are out there enjoying the last weekend of
summer. We'll be spending Labor Day putting the
finishing touches on "On/Off" so it will
be ready for its November 11th publication date.
In the meantime, check out the cover art for our first
published title. Oh, and
enjoy Chapters 34 and 35. They're good ones!
Chapter 34
Phelps was on the phone now, trying to get an answer from inside the building. Tim hadn’t answered the phone on the last three attempts. This did not bode well for the chances of negotiation. He hung up, dialed again, and waited. The phone rang five times, started to click into the lab’s voicemail account, then, just as Phelps was about to hang up, a voice came on the line.
“Are you trying to sweat us out?”
“Excuse me?” Phelps asked.
“Agent Phelps,” Tim responded. “The ventilation inside the building has been turned off. Are you aware of this? I have a hard time believing that you aren’t.”
“There could be a million reasons for that.” Phelps responded. He was trying to sound in control. “As you know, there was a pretty good sized fire at the construction site next door. And in case you’ve forgotten, the front of the building just got chewed up pretty good with gunfire. More likely than not, something’s shorted out or gotten nicked.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you still with me?” Phelps continued. “I think we have more important things to discuss than the status of your air conditioning, don’t we? I’d like to know a bit of the objective behind this whole operation of yours. What’ll it take to get you let some hostages out of there?”
“There won’t be any hostages coming out of here.”
Phelps stopped cold.
He’d dealt with guys like this before. In most cases it was just talk, swagger. A few comments about what they were doing there, what they wanted, and then they’d let something slip, something telling, the name of their home country, or a mention of their family, something, anything that would let Phelps get a little knife blade in there, so he could work and jiggle the blade, pull back the cover and get inside the workings of the big machine. These guys all had a purpose in their heads, cracked or otherwise, something that made them think they had a right, an obligation, to do whatever the hell they wanted, just so long as it was all in the pursuit of their “mission.”
Only this guy was different. He didn’t seem to have the need to talk, which led Phelps to believe that he wasn’t planning to use the people inside the building as pawns. More likely than not, the folks he had squirreled away in that building were more of a hassle to him than a negotiating chip, and if Murray was right about Griffin’s past operations, those people were in some serious danger.
“What do you mean ‘there won’t be any hostages coming out of there?’”
“I’m not interested in these people, or in trading their lives for mine. You’re going to let me out of this building, Agent Phelps. You’re going to provide me with transportation out of here. And then you’ll find these people inside the building, safe and sound.”
“I’d like to see that happen, but I’ll need some sort of good faith gesture on your part,” Phelps said slowly.
“Good faith,” Tim laughed. “Ohh, Agent Phelps-”
Then there was silence again. Jesus, what the hell did that mean? What a goddamn annoying laugh! What in the bloody hell was this guy here for?
Phelps flashed on the image of that guy Drake going up in cloud of pink mist.
Whatever the hell was in the canister, that was what Ted, or Griffin rather, was here for. He was just out on the town, picking up new and exotic weapons. Nabbing a few essentials with a five finger discount, and all he wanted to do was get out with minimal hassle. But what happened with shoplifters when they got caught? They either gave up, ran, or put up a fight. This guy was definitely gonna put up a fight, unless Phelps found a way to make him happy.
“Look, let’s talk. What kind of transportation do you need? How many people are we talking about here? How many men do you have with you?”
That’s when Griffin said something that really made Phelps worry.
“One. I only need transportation for one.”
Chapter 35
Everyone tried to read the expression on his face as he hung up the phone, but it was no go. By now they were sure law enforcement was in communication with the group, but it didn’t seem like any headway was being made.
“You know they were rigging up the doors with something as we were leaving, right?” one of the women in the back the room whispered.
“We’re not getting out of here,” another replied.
Jeff seemed to be mulling something in his head. If anyone could do something to convince this guy, or buy him off, it would probably be him. It would have to be. Thats what he was asking himself anyways.
Could money buy your way out of trouble?
Sometimes.
Course, it didn’t work for Martha.
It sort of worked for those White House buddies though. Bastards.
But this wasn’t anything like that. These guys were terrorists, or at the minimum, militant whack jobs. Their idea of reasoning was blowing something up, or shooting someone in the back of the head when they got too vocal. So far the group had been lucky.
The bleeding in Renoir’s leg might have stopped. The pant leg, which had stopped seeping blood, was drying into a caked, blackish mass of fabric. The older man smelled of blood now, a mix of iron and humid breath that was enough to curdle your stomach. He had stopped sweating. The cold chills still quivered through his body every few moments, but maybe he had stabilized. Then again, maybe he was slipping into shock.
“I’ve got to use the facilities,” Renoir said suddenly.
“Good luck with that,” Someone muttered from the crowd.
Jeff turned and scowled. “Knock it off,” he grunted.
Renoir lurched to his feet and hobbled to the glass window, where he wrapped his fingers on the glass.
“I’ve got to use the facilities!” he said louder.
One of the men walked over. He motioned with his gun towards the back of the room.
Renoir shook his head angrily.
“The fuck I will!” he boomed.
Renoir started pounding on the glass.
Hard.
His right hand was balled up in a fist, moving back and forth in a disjointed, mechanical motion. His left hand seemed to fall limp at his side.
Jeff looked closer.
No, the left hand was clenching something against Renoir’s leg, pressing it against the place that had been bleeding.
“Renoir,” he whispered. “What are you trying to do?”
Michel’s eyes rolled in Jeff’s direction, then he spun back to the window, and pounded on the glass still harder, until Tim himself turned and marched into the room, stopping on the other side of the glass.
Renoir stopped knock and stared at the man.
Tim hesitated, then motioned to the man beside him, who nodded his head and walked over to the entrance of the testing room and opened the door.
“Come on, lets go,” the man shouted in at Renoir.
“Thank you,” the older man replied. He ran the fingers of his right hand through his
sweaty hair, took a deep breath, and limped towards the door.
“Be careful,” Jeff muttered to him as he passed by.
Renoir sighed softly and left the room.
The guard closed the testing room door behind them, and the group watched through the glass as Renoir walked towards the lab exit.
A wave of tension hit the room.
Jeff felt nauseous. This was not going to end well. Whatever was happening, it was not going to end well.
Tim nodded his head towards the door, barking an order to the man with the gun, who nodded his head in agreement.
Renoir stared straight ahead of him as he limped on his injured leg.
That’s when it happened.
Nothing showy.
No sudden movements.
Jeff wasn’t even sure how it went down. He was watching one moment, and in the next, in a blink, Renoir had pulled something from his pocket, had held it in his bloodstained hands, and had pressed a switch on top.
A blue light winked on.
It was one of the canisters.
Tim had turned his head away.
The guard was oblivious as he reached for the doorknob.
Renoir scanned the room, then crouched to the ground, reached out his arm, and rolled the canister along the concrete floor towards Tim’s feet.
The metal housing must have made a noise when it hit the ground. As the canister rolled within six feet of Tim, he spun around, and in one swift movement, pulled a gun from his side, crouched to one knee, and shot a single bullet straight into Renoir’s forehead. Then he reached out, picked up the canister, and reset the switch.
The blue light went out.
Renoir’s arms and legs went slack as he crumpled to the ground and lay still.
Jeff turned away as two of Tim’s men walked over, grabbed each of Renoir’s arms, and dragged his body out of the room.
Tim got to his feet, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. Jeff watched Tim’s hands closely as he ran them up and down the sides of the canister, then reached behind his back, and tucked the monstrous little weapon into a pocket on the back of his coat.
Simon walked over to the entrance to the testing room and flipped a switch on the wall. The power lock on the metal door clanged shut.
Chapter 34
Phelps was on the phone now, trying to get an answer from inside the building. Tim hadn’t answered the phone on the last three attempts. This did not bode well for the chances of negotiation. He hung up, dialed again, and waited. The phone rang five times, started to click into the lab’s voicemail account, then, just as Phelps was about to hang up, a voice came on the line.
“Are you trying to sweat us out?”
“Excuse me?” Phelps asked.
“Agent Phelps,” Tim responded. “The ventilation inside the building has been turned off. Are you aware of this? I have a hard time believing that you aren’t.”
“There could be a million reasons for that.” Phelps responded. He was trying to sound in control. “As you know, there was a pretty good sized fire at the construction site next door. And in case you’ve forgotten, the front of the building just got chewed up pretty good with gunfire. More likely than not, something’s shorted out or gotten nicked.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you still with me?” Phelps continued. “I think we have more important things to discuss than the status of your air conditioning, don’t we? I’d like to know a bit of the objective behind this whole operation of yours. What’ll it take to get you let some hostages out of there?”
“There won’t be any hostages coming out of here.”
Phelps stopped cold.
He’d dealt with guys like this before. In most cases it was just talk, swagger. A few comments about what they were doing there, what they wanted, and then they’d let something slip, something telling, the name of their home country, or a mention of their family, something, anything that would let Phelps get a little knife blade in there, so he could work and jiggle the blade, pull back the cover and get inside the workings of the big machine. These guys all had a purpose in their heads, cracked or otherwise, something that made them think they had a right, an obligation, to do whatever the hell they wanted, just so long as it was all in the pursuit of their “mission.”
Only this guy was different. He didn’t seem to have the need to talk, which led Phelps to believe that he wasn’t planning to use the people inside the building as pawns. More likely than not, the folks he had squirreled away in that building were more of a hassle to him than a negotiating chip, and if Murray was right about Griffin’s past operations, those people were in some serious danger.
“What do you mean ‘there won’t be any hostages coming out of there?’”
“I’m not interested in these people, or in trading their lives for mine. You’re going to let me out of this building, Agent Phelps. You’re going to provide me with transportation out of here. And then you’ll find these people inside the building, safe and sound.”
“I’d like to see that happen, but I’ll need some sort of good faith gesture on your part,” Phelps said slowly.
“Good faith,” Tim laughed. “Ohh, Agent Phelps-”
Then there was silence again. Jesus, what the hell did that mean? What a goddamn annoying laugh! What in the bloody hell was this guy here for?
Phelps flashed on the image of that guy Drake going up in cloud of pink mist.
Whatever the hell was in the canister, that was what Ted, or Griffin rather, was here for. He was just out on the town, picking up new and exotic weapons. Nabbing a few essentials with a five finger discount, and all he wanted to do was get out with minimal hassle. But what happened with shoplifters when they got caught? They either gave up, ran, or put up a fight. This guy was definitely gonna put up a fight, unless Phelps found a way to make him happy.
“Look, let’s talk. What kind of transportation do you need? How many people are we talking about here? How many men do you have with you?”
That’s when Griffin said something that really made Phelps worry.
“One. I only need transportation for one.”
Chapter 35
Everyone tried to read the expression on his face as he hung up the phone, but it was no go. By now they were sure law enforcement was in communication with the group, but it didn’t seem like any headway was being made.
“You know they were rigging up the doors with something as we were leaving, right?” one of the women in the back the room whispered.
“We’re not getting out of here,” another replied.
Jeff seemed to be mulling something in his head. If anyone could do something to convince this guy, or buy him off, it would probably be him. It would have to be. Thats what he was asking himself anyways.
Could money buy your way out of trouble?
Sometimes.
Course, it didn’t work for Martha.
It sort of worked for those White House buddies though. Bastards.
But this wasn’t anything like that. These guys were terrorists, or at the minimum, militant whack jobs. Their idea of reasoning was blowing something up, or shooting someone in the back of the head when they got too vocal. So far the group had been lucky.
The bleeding in Renoir’s leg might have stopped. The pant leg, which had stopped seeping blood, was drying into a caked, blackish mass of fabric. The older man smelled of blood now, a mix of iron and humid breath that was enough to curdle your stomach. He had stopped sweating. The cold chills still quivered through his body every few moments, but maybe he had stabilized. Then again, maybe he was slipping into shock.
“I’ve got to use the facilities,” Renoir said suddenly.
“Good luck with that,” Someone muttered from the crowd.
Jeff turned and scowled. “Knock it off,” he grunted.
Renoir lurched to his feet and hobbled to the glass window, where he wrapped his fingers on the glass.
“I’ve got to use the facilities!” he said louder.
One of the men walked over. He motioned with his gun towards the back of the room.
Renoir shook his head angrily.
“The fuck I will!” he boomed.
Renoir started pounding on the glass.
Hard.
His right hand was balled up in a fist, moving back and forth in a disjointed, mechanical motion. His left hand seemed to fall limp at his side.
Jeff looked closer.
No, the left hand was clenching something against Renoir’s leg, pressing it against the place that had been bleeding.
“Renoir,” he whispered. “What are you trying to do?”
Michel’s eyes rolled in Jeff’s direction, then he spun back to the window, and pounded on the glass still harder, until Tim himself turned and marched into the room, stopping on the other side of the glass.
Renoir stopped knock and stared at the man.
Tim hesitated, then motioned to the man beside him, who nodded his head and walked over to the entrance of the testing room and opened the door.
“Come on, lets go,” the man shouted in at Renoir.
“Thank you,” the older man replied. He ran the fingers of his right hand through his
sweaty hair, took a deep breath, and limped towards the door.
“Be careful,” Jeff muttered to him as he passed by.
Renoir sighed softly and left the room.
The guard closed the testing room door behind them, and the group watched through the glass as Renoir walked towards the lab exit.
A wave of tension hit the room.
Jeff felt nauseous. This was not going to end well. Whatever was happening, it was not going to end well.
Tim nodded his head towards the door, barking an order to the man with the gun, who nodded his head in agreement.
Renoir stared straight ahead of him as he limped on his injured leg.
That’s when it happened.
Nothing showy.
No sudden movements.
Jeff wasn’t even sure how it went down. He was watching one moment, and in the next, in a blink, Renoir had pulled something from his pocket, had held it in his bloodstained hands, and had pressed a switch on top.
A blue light winked on.
It was one of the canisters.
Tim had turned his head away.
The guard was oblivious as he reached for the doorknob.
Renoir scanned the room, then crouched to the ground, reached out his arm, and rolled the canister along the concrete floor towards Tim’s feet.
The metal housing must have made a noise when it hit the ground. As the canister rolled within six feet of Tim, he spun around, and in one swift movement, pulled a gun from his side, crouched to one knee, and shot a single bullet straight into Renoir’s forehead. Then he reached out, picked up the canister, and reset the switch.
The blue light went out.
Renoir’s arms and legs went slack as he crumpled to the ground and lay still.
Jeff turned away as two of Tim’s men walked over, grabbed each of Renoir’s arms, and dragged his body out of the room.
Tim got to his feet, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. Jeff watched Tim’s hands closely as he ran them up and down the sides of the canister, then reached behind his back, and tucked the monstrous little weapon into a pocket on the back of his coat.
Simon walked over to the entrance to the testing room and flipped a switch on the wall. The power lock on the metal door clanged shut.