Chronicles of War Part 1: Way of the Storm ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Zap the son of a bitch again!" - Guns & Roses, "Coma" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter 22: Synthesis ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Ed stared at the innocuous panel and its flashing lights with a look of strenuous concentration. He longed for it to reveal its secrets, to give off some sign that it was okay to touch it, or even push some buttons, flip some switches, without the bombs it was surely wired to blasting him and his friends to kingdom come and back. He stared until James nudged his arm and held out his left wrist--bereft of a watch, mysteriously--like a signboard. "Today, please." Ed sighed and shook his head. "I'm not really the guy to ask about this." James looked like a boy who'd just killed his pet hamster. "But you knew how to make homemade dynamite in high school! You made the television speak in the tongues! You made a detonator out of a pocket watch and cafeteria food! I thought you'd be the expert...shit!" The guard shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, dude." "No, no, it's okay." Kat finally managed to stop staring mutely at Ed and force words out of her mouth. "You knew how to make dynamite when we were in high school?" Sheepishly, "Yeah." "Right on, dude!" Carl exclaimed, pumping his fist. Ed exchanged high fives with the Marine. James looked at the woman over his folded arms. "Lay off him, Kat. Those were hard times for all of us." Kat managed to erase most of the surprise from her face. "You're right." That's been happening too much, she thought. "Ed, I'm sorry." "No offense taken, Kat." "But what do we do now?" "I have," James paused dramatically, staring over the top of Jimmy's head as if looking into the future. "A plan!" "Is it better than this one?" Jimmy asked. Kat turned on the radio and brought it to her ear. "This is Kate, how are things going there?" A wavering voice answered hesitantly. "This is...is Cynthia. We're fine." "No terrorists?" "No, none," Cynthia replied. Kat looked at the small box, finding little good to say about it. "We've found the bomb. We'll be heading back in just a few minutes." "Yeah, this field trip sucks," James quipped. Kat rolled her eyes as she made an addendum to the woman over the radio. "You sure it's been quiet?" "No. No sign of a-anything. Except for the...for the gun sounds, it's like the place is deserted." Kat's brow developed a small crease. It was indistinguishable from the dozen other small creases that sat around it. "I understand. Thank you, Cynthia." "Y-you're welcome." "At last, my ambitions bear fruit," James announced as Kat clipped the radio to her jeans. Every eye turned from the bomb's magical box of wires to lock onto the assassin. "You planned to eliminate them all from the start, didn't you?" Jimmy said, as if he were peering directly into James' brain. "Tapping into the cameras just made that task laughably easy." Carl switched his gaze of shock to Jimmy, turning it into a look reserved for lawyers circling an accident victim. "He's going to liquidate them." "Actually," James paused and pulled out his phone. "I'm going to call the police." "Oh no you don't," Kat barked, "I want an explanation." James leaned into her personal space. "Don't you mean a justification? You already got your explanation." "Then give me a justification," she said, standing resolute. "I'm a murderer. Can I get on with my call?" he said simply. Kat felt like grinding her teeth together. Her fists were so tightly clenched that her bones felt like they were fusing under the pressure. "I'll take that as a yes," said James. He dialed. ---------- Limbaugh activated their recording equipment and nodded to Dan. The negotiator answered cheerfully. "Hello, is this James?" "One and the same, Dan. Listen, the Bon Marche is clear." "Clear? What do you mean?" "Why does--does everyone need a damn--look, I killed the terrorists in here, okay? They're all dead." "Are you okay?" "Yeah, we're all fine. We found the bomb too, and we're not going to touch it. We're going to leave it right here and go get the rest of them." "You're going to get the rest of them?" "I don't mean to offend, Dan, but these guys aren't here to negotiate. I'm hunting them down, flushing them out, and executing them. Once they're out of the way, we stand a much better chance of disarming the bombs and living to see the sunset." Dan ignored the sensation of two ice-cold fists closing around his stomach and forced his mouth to move. His vocal cords sounded like he was trying to throw his voice to the surface of the moon. "It's still cloudy out. Nobody can see the damn sun." "Yeah," James affected a tone of mock-sadness. "Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed. So, we're going, okay. If your guys see anyone back in the Bon, ring me. Got it?" "I got it. We'll be in touch, okay?" "Tell the FBI I said hi." He hung up immediately, not giving Dan a chance to fling back a fitting response. Questions were circling Dan's mind like sharks in a kiddie pool. How had James known about the FBI agents? Had he seen them from inside the store? The snipers hadn't reported anything. Before Limbaugh started asking for his impressions of James' sudden about-face in tone and mood, before the Chief barged in and the FBI agents started writing miles of notes, Dan took a moment for himself. A second, really, he spared to wonder just how James knew what he did, when he did. He wasn't sure who the man really was now, and he wasn't sure what the man was capable of, but damn if he didn't want to know. ---------- James hung up the phone, a goofy grin on his face. "Man, I'm pumped! I should call, someone. I dunno, maybe mom." He stared his phone, concentrating. "Nope, still can't remember their number." "James?" James turned to the security guard. "Ed?" "The expo area, where the new construction is...it doesn't have any cameras." Ed looked thoughtful. "And?" James gestured for him to continue. Ed's eyes swept knowingly over the disaster of the lower floor. "Where are they hiding the bodies?" Carl looked around like he'd just fallen off of the mango truck. "Holy shit. How many of these guys did you ice?" "They left them in the fishing tank." Jimmy said out of the blue. "Dude, don't scare me like that!" Carl barked. "He's right," said James. "If not in the tank then under those curtain things the booths are separated with." "By," Kat corrected. "Whatever. Carl, Jimmy, when we get to the music store, you guys trench in. Ed, Kat, how about a threesome?" Kat groaned. Ed stared, too much residual adrenaline in his system to support a blush. James grinned like a maniac, but that was hardly news. ---------- When James and the foursome returned to the music store, he was greeted with a pack of guarded smiles. A hundred people screaming his name and their thanks breathlessly, pushing at one another to shake his hand in appreciation would not have had one tenth the impact of this quiet greeting. He raised his hands to get everyone's attention, then announced his plans for the next fifteen minutes. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are almost through this. There is a serious problem which we have identified and needs to be corrected. Myself, Mr. Flemming, and Ms. Dogson will be attending to it shortly. We have the locations of three bombs nailed down with certainty, and have identified the general location of the fourth. Two to go, and it's only a quarter to twelve." Dim smiles rose to the surface, blossoming across panic-stricken faces like the dawning of the sun. "So," James continued, some random dust or something making his eyes water. "Jimmy and Carl are going to be on guard, and everybody else is going to sit tight. Everything will be all right." He turned away before the 'dust' got the better of him and made a few marks on the counter. "A serious problem?" Ed asked. "Why is...you-know-what, a serious problem?" James met his friends eyes and saw simple, honest confusion there. "Weapon stockpiles, military-grade wireless encryption and transmission equipment, a collection of cables that tap into the various cameras around the mall. What do you think I found in the Bon?" Ed looked like he's swallowed a week-dead raccoon. "Their base?" "In a manner of speaking. I think the military calls it a beachhead, but what the fuck that mean, I have no idea." "Forward base," Carl supplemented from behind James. "Thanks. We're eliminating their forward base." "The cops don't know about this?" Kat asked. James affected the depressed air of a teacher whose word was never heeded. "They aren't military experts, Kat. They think a bunch of rag heads are in here waving around AK's, but what are we facing? A bunch of the 'gold of boys' and 'decent god fearing people' trained up to their eyeballs in special tactics, wearing quartermaster-fresh uniforms and wielding the advanced weapons on earth. For the umpteenth time, I know a professional when I see one, and these guys might as well have giant neon signs over their heads just screaming it." His voice dropped to a silky whisper. "These guys are on a mission, and there's more to this than just snatching some guy named Rick. He had to have done something unbelievably huge to piss these guys off. They'll flay the lot of us out there in the parking lot with the news cameras rolling if we so much as ask them what he's done." "That is the one question I can guess you haven't asked them," Kat said in a matching whisper. "But what did Rick do?" James shrugged helplessly. "Cured cancer? Finally rid us of our dependence on foreign oil?" "That would explain the FBI," Jimmy remarked dryly. "He would have found a cure for liking country music," Carl said in awe. "Because the FBI is only domestic concerns." Kat prodded James. "Why doesn't the CIA step in if the cops think these are terrorists." "No positive identification; and as long as you don't know a foreign government or person was in some way involved, the CIA can't be called in. The FBI can ask for consultation about some specialized shit, like where the weapons came from if they weren't bought in the U.S., but that's pretty much it." James answered. "You certainly know your stuff," Kat replied. "Personal experience," James said proudly, then blinked. He looked around like the cat with canary feathers sticking out of its mouth. "I didn't just say that out loud, did I?" "Your secret's safe with us, dude," Carl said, "Go get 'em." James took in the Marines as they flanked the doors, guns at the ready. He threw a jaunty wave at the hostages and grabbed some freshly reloaded guns on his way to the doors. Ed and Kat followed like scolded children, each too worried about surviving the next ten minutes to wonder if the place would still be here when--no, if--they came back. The expo area was only a few dozen yards away, and James faced it and began marching without waiting for the other two to catch up. About halfway there, he came to a sudden halt, though. "Guys," he said, "There's something I need to tell you." "What?" Kat asked. She seemed to be speaking for the pair. "Another old school friend, Dave Handleton, he's in on this now. I gave him the call a while ago and he should be here by now. I don't know how else to put this, but I have something important to discuss with you guys and the two Marines, and it's going to have to happen soon." "Why? What's going on? How does Dave fit into this?" Kat asked, holding half of the trepidation on her face while Ed's displayed the other half. "We have a phone number set up, an anonymous one eight hundred number, that's untraceable and can't be connected to either of us, that lets the other know exactly two things. First, the shit has hit the fan. Second, we're bringing more people into the fold." Kat gestured wildly. "You have a phone number just for that?!" James shrugged. "We figured it would come in handy." Ed finally broke rank and raised his hand. "What if only shit hits the fan?" "That's different a number, but I've never used it. 'Shit hitting the fan' usually means the events in question will wind up on the evening news, in which case Dave already knows." From Kat, "Already knows?" "Dave's in the habit of knowing things. It kept us alive for two years. Hell, it's keeping us alive now. I bet you a million bucks that man could get the serial number of the engine powering the bus I was sitting on before we get out of here if I asked him for it right now. Actually," James pulled out his phone. "You wanna ask him for it now? It's a pretty cool trick." He ignored the shocked faces that watched him. "Never got it to work as a good party trick, but usually we skipped the bad dancing and got straight to the booze and sex. Ah, those were the days." He put the phone away. "I have no idea what you're getting at," Kat announced. James sighed. He hated being direct; it seemed like every time he was direct, good people died in bad ways. "It means I'm going to walk away from this and assume someone else will take care of the problem. I'm going to get revenge, and I'm going to ask you guys and several other people for help. Just watch, help get us out of this situation, and you can think about it later." They would think about it later. They would think about it for a very long time, and mostly, they would wonder what 'revenge' entailed.