Chapter 44/45
Chapters Forty-Four & Forty-Five
Mon/September/2008 07:00 AM
Chapter
44
His ears were ringing. His eyes stung from concrete dust and debris. When he opened them, all he could see what a swirling dark blurr. He squeezed the transmitter on the radio again.
Christ.
“I’m gonna need some help up here.”
The radio answered with static, then silence. Ransom pressed the button again as he rubbed at his eyes with his forearm. Whatever was in them was in there good.
“Repeat!” Ransom shouted. “I need back up.”
The radio crackled to life. Luke’s voice shouted out at him as the sounds of gunfire echoed in the background.
“Where are you now?”
“Eighth floor landing,” Ransom replied. “I was trying to cut through the hospital but got hit by one of those explosive sons of bitches they’ve rigged up on all the doors.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m blinded.”
“Permanently?”
“I’ve got no idea!” Ransom shouted back.
The crackle of gunfire again, then Gomez’s screaming voice.
“Luke’s been hit! Luke’s been hit!”
“Christ,” Ransom muttered to himself. This was all just going great. “How bad?”
“In the leg. It went in and out,” Gomez continued. “Kid, where you at?”
“I’m here,” Nick’s voice answered hollowly.
“Can you get up to the roof?”
“No, that's a b-” Ransom started, then he was cut off.
“Yeah, I think so,” Nick replied.
“Brick, I’m blocked off down here. They’ve got me cornered. I’m sending up the kid to be your eyes.”
“Jesus,” Brick thought . This goes wrong and I’ll never gonna hear the end of it. He pulled himself upright and leaned his back against the wall. He picked up the handset again, pressed the button, and whispered into the phone. “Ten four, eighth floor landing, kid.”
The radio clicked, once more followed by the sound of bullets, then the air went dead.
“You better get here fast.”
Chapter 45
Each of the canisters was pressed securely in place on styrofoam packing boards, which were in turn strapped to the gurney that Jeff and his captors were carrying across the roof of the hospital. With the way this little WMD experiment had been produced and packaged, as though ready to be FedExed out to the field, Jeff couldn’t help but wonder what Raj’s final plans had been. Was he driven by revenge? Greed? Lust for power? He flashed back to an image of the cowardly little man standing there, holding one wrist in his hand.
Greed. That was the motive.
No question.
One thing was certain, this had been anything but a routine project inspection. No walking in the door, listening to some arrogant professor's research schpiel, trying to stay awake during yet another unbearable PowerPoint presentation, then faking a smile and nodding when the lights came up, and trying to feign interest once the reception was underway. No chuckling at jokes and conceits, mocking his own perceived stuffiness and wealth, while the whole time struggling to check out the bodies of the undergrad women around him. Those were the parties where the best case scenario involved him going home with some nubile young female companion for the evening, and the worst case scenario involved about four dozen operating systems jokes, or a witticism about the complexity of email. No, no, this had been a different sort of meeting altogether, and while those email barbs could get unbearably tedious, this particular scenario was its own kind of misery.
So what was his plan when they got to the copter?
He was in good shape.
He knew his way around a martial arts confrontation.
Would he just get to the copter, turn the tables on Simon, then Kung Fu it out with Tim? Would he get there, see his pilot, Mike, and through a series of winks and nods, iron out the logistics of their attack, perfectly coordinate their actions, and bada-bing, bada-boom, this would all be done?
That scenario seemed unlikely. For one thing, Jeff’s communication skills were famously poor, he was better known for his indecipherable grunts and impatient hand motions than he was for the types of speeches and grand announcements that his more famous business partner and company co-founder had eventually become renowned. Besides, in shape or not, martial arts expert or not, he wasn’t kidding himself; at heart he was a fifty two year old former computer programmer, who, like all computer programmers, had a nerdy obsession with the martial arts, but that didn’t mean he was at all cut out to square off against a couple of armed professionals, professionals who also happened to have some type of truly horrific weapon, several dozen of them actually, right at their disposal, within arm’s length to be precise.
They ran along the rooftop.
The sky was clear and sunny, but the wind was starting to pick up.
His arms were starting to ache under the weight of the canisters.
Just a little ways further and they'd be to the helipad, and then it would be showtime.
A gust of wind whipped his tie back and forth in the air, and Jeff followed the motion of the fabric to the side, only to be distracted by the mass of people and vehicles swarming out across the campus up the hill from the medical center.
Was this on live TV?
Jesus.
He didn’t want to die on live TV.
He’d have to stay focused. He’d have to get out of this successfully, otherwise he’d be the famous billionaire who bought the farm in a graceless show of incompetent self-defense, all on live TV, from chopper FIVE no less!
He’d better not split his pants.
Then they were at the end of the roof, where the building rose another two stories, and the only way up was by climbing a series of metal stairs that seemed to shoot straight up into the blue sky. No final destination, just air.
Course, he’d been up and down this ramp countless times before, the most recent time being, God, within the last few hours.
It seemed like days ago.
Maybe weeks.
Stop the maybes!
Decisive.
Action.
He’d get to the landing pad. They carry their load to the copter. Mike would be there. They’d radioed him to be ready. He’d open the door, he’d get out, they’d all start lifting in the gear, then Jeff would give him a look, Mike would know what to do, and they’d be in action, turning the tables on these motherfuckers.
That was the plan.
That was the plan.
Then they got to the helipad.
The copter was there.
His pilot was waiting.
“This is it,” Jeff called to Tim, who glanced over his shoulder at him.
The doors to the copter were opening.
Jeff glanced at Simon, who seemed to be studying everything around him. Measuring the distance from one potential weapon or escape route to the next.
What an exhausting way to live.
Focus.
They got to the copter. The wind was really whipping around them now.
FOCUS!
The doors were opening, and Mike was walking out. Time for the head nod. The knowing exchange of glances. The pause, the briefest hesitation, before taking action.
His pilot was walking down the steps toward them.
Jeff looked down at the gurney they were carrying, shifting his hands under the weight, preparing to bend his knees, twist his body to the side, and heave the weight of it onto Simon’s legs.
Only, that’s when he looked up, and saw that the person coming towards him was not his pilot. This wasn’t Mike. It was a man with a much sharper, harder looking face, one with darker, sunken eyes. Eyes that suddenly lifted, looked directly at him, held his gaze, and nodded at him ever so slightly.
Son of a bitch.
He was gonna have to do this. He was gonna have to try this kung fu shit on live TV.
He had better not split his pants.
His ears were ringing. His eyes stung from concrete dust and debris. When he opened them, all he could see what a swirling dark blurr. He squeezed the transmitter on the radio again.
Christ.
“I’m gonna need some help up here.”
The radio answered with static, then silence. Ransom pressed the button again as he rubbed at his eyes with his forearm. Whatever was in them was in there good.
“Repeat!” Ransom shouted. “I need back up.”
The radio crackled to life. Luke’s voice shouted out at him as the sounds of gunfire echoed in the background.
“Where are you now?”
“Eighth floor landing,” Ransom replied. “I was trying to cut through the hospital but got hit by one of those explosive sons of bitches they’ve rigged up on all the doors.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m blinded.”
“Permanently?”
“I’ve got no idea!” Ransom shouted back.
The crackle of gunfire again, then Gomez’s screaming voice.
“Luke’s been hit! Luke’s been hit!”
“Christ,” Ransom muttered to himself. This was all just going great. “How bad?”
“In the leg. It went in and out,” Gomez continued. “Kid, where you at?”
“I’m here,” Nick’s voice answered hollowly.
“Can you get up to the roof?”
“No, that's a b-” Ransom started, then he was cut off.
“Yeah, I think so,” Nick replied.
“Brick, I’m blocked off down here. They’ve got me cornered. I’m sending up the kid to be your eyes.”
“Jesus,” Brick thought . This goes wrong and I’ll never gonna hear the end of it. He pulled himself upright and leaned his back against the wall. He picked up the handset again, pressed the button, and whispered into the phone. “Ten four, eighth floor landing, kid.”
The radio clicked, once more followed by the sound of bullets, then the air went dead.
“You better get here fast.”
Chapter 45
Each of the canisters was pressed securely in place on styrofoam packing boards, which were in turn strapped to the gurney that Jeff and his captors were carrying across the roof of the hospital. With the way this little WMD experiment had been produced and packaged, as though ready to be FedExed out to the field, Jeff couldn’t help but wonder what Raj’s final plans had been. Was he driven by revenge? Greed? Lust for power? He flashed back to an image of the cowardly little man standing there, holding one wrist in his hand.
Greed. That was the motive.
No question.
One thing was certain, this had been anything but a routine project inspection. No walking in the door, listening to some arrogant professor's research schpiel, trying to stay awake during yet another unbearable PowerPoint presentation, then faking a smile and nodding when the lights came up, and trying to feign interest once the reception was underway. No chuckling at jokes and conceits, mocking his own perceived stuffiness and wealth, while the whole time struggling to check out the bodies of the undergrad women around him. Those were the parties where the best case scenario involved him going home with some nubile young female companion for the evening, and the worst case scenario involved about four dozen operating systems jokes, or a witticism about the complexity of email. No, no, this had been a different sort of meeting altogether, and while those email barbs could get unbearably tedious, this particular scenario was its own kind of misery.
So what was his plan when they got to the copter?
He was in good shape.
He knew his way around a martial arts confrontation.
Would he just get to the copter, turn the tables on Simon, then Kung Fu it out with Tim? Would he get there, see his pilot, Mike, and through a series of winks and nods, iron out the logistics of their attack, perfectly coordinate their actions, and bada-bing, bada-boom, this would all be done?
That scenario seemed unlikely. For one thing, Jeff’s communication skills were famously poor, he was better known for his indecipherable grunts and impatient hand motions than he was for the types of speeches and grand announcements that his more famous business partner and company co-founder had eventually become renowned. Besides, in shape or not, martial arts expert or not, he wasn’t kidding himself; at heart he was a fifty two year old former computer programmer, who, like all computer programmers, had a nerdy obsession with the martial arts, but that didn’t mean he was at all cut out to square off against a couple of armed professionals, professionals who also happened to have some type of truly horrific weapon, several dozen of them actually, right at their disposal, within arm’s length to be precise.
They ran along the rooftop.
The sky was clear and sunny, but the wind was starting to pick up.
His arms were starting to ache under the weight of the canisters.
Just a little ways further and they'd be to the helipad, and then it would be showtime.
A gust of wind whipped his tie back and forth in the air, and Jeff followed the motion of the fabric to the side, only to be distracted by the mass of people and vehicles swarming out across the campus up the hill from the medical center.
Was this on live TV?
Jesus.
He didn’t want to die on live TV.
He’d have to stay focused. He’d have to get out of this successfully, otherwise he’d be the famous billionaire who bought the farm in a graceless show of incompetent self-defense, all on live TV, from chopper FIVE no less!
He’d better not split his pants.
Then they were at the end of the roof, where the building rose another two stories, and the only way up was by climbing a series of metal stairs that seemed to shoot straight up into the blue sky. No final destination, just air.
Course, he’d been up and down this ramp countless times before, the most recent time being, God, within the last few hours.
It seemed like days ago.
Maybe weeks.
Stop the maybes!
Decisive.
Action.
He’d get to the landing pad. They carry their load to the copter. Mike would be there. They’d radioed him to be ready. He’d open the door, he’d get out, they’d all start lifting in the gear, then Jeff would give him a look, Mike would know what to do, and they’d be in action, turning the tables on these motherfuckers.
That was the plan.
That was the plan.
Then they got to the helipad.
The copter was there.
His pilot was waiting.
“This is it,” Jeff called to Tim, who glanced over his shoulder at him.
The doors to the copter were opening.
Jeff glanced at Simon, who seemed to be studying everything around him. Measuring the distance from one potential weapon or escape route to the next.
What an exhausting way to live.
Focus.
They got to the copter. The wind was really whipping around them now.
FOCUS!
The doors were opening, and Mike was walking out. Time for the head nod. The knowing exchange of glances. The pause, the briefest hesitation, before taking action.
His pilot was walking down the steps toward them.
Jeff looked down at the gurney they were carrying, shifting his hands under the weight, preparing to bend his knees, twist his body to the side, and heave the weight of it onto Simon’s legs.
Only, that’s when he looked up, and saw that the person coming towards him was not his pilot. This wasn’t Mike. It was a man with a much sharper, harder looking face, one with darker, sunken eyes. Eyes that suddenly lifted, looked directly at him, held his gaze, and nodded at him ever so slightly.
Son of a bitch.
He was gonna have to do this. He was gonna have to try this kung fu shit on live TV.
He had better not split his pants.