It was a hot mid-July day, another one without a single cloud in the sky, and the sun burning the city with ruthless heat. It was bad. The everlasting sky sludge, heated up for over two weeks and unwashed by rain, was pushing into my mouth and lungs like a hot goo, leaving the sour, rancid aftertaste of metal and old vinegar.
I was sitting in my minivan parked alongside the 345th Street. I pulled over next to a wide, ugly, six storey building, made of glass interspersed with steel pillars and something resembling thick metal ropes. There was a massive logo on the front wall, saying “NetInfox.” I had about ten minutes to wait before I could move to my destination. The image swapper–a clever little device cheating the street surveillance footage–was able to work only for two hours, with ten to fifteen minutes error margin. I had to be surgically precise with my timing. I’d double checked my equipment and remote connection between the swapper and street cameras. The connection was flawless, with the frame per second ratio perfectly synchronized.
I took a bottle of fresh water, washed the smog’s rank from my mouth, leaned through the open window and spat the slop on the asphalt. A minute later I moved to the back of my van, through the passage at the back wall of the cab.
With my flat backpack on, I opened the vehicle’s floor hatch and then a street maintenance lid directly below it. There were metal rungs inside and I used them to lower myself into the tunnel, stopping for a moment to close both car and street flaps. I climbed down the gut and immediately activated the rat repellent. It was necessary. Many years ago the cities finally lost the fight with rodents, waved the white flag, conceding the underground sewage and cabling underpasses to unrelenting tail twitchers. It was their kingdom now–they roamed the veins of the city freely, always hungry and looking for food. Meeting them meant a quick and painful death by being eaten alive.
Once at the bottom, I turned right and walked about two hundred steps, trying not to tread on the rodents’ dead bodies. The kings of the land didn’t bother with the burials of their own kin, leaving the process to the elements. At the crossroads, I cut left and after a minute’s walk I reached my destination–a shallow recess in the wall with a flight of rungs leading up. I made the climb. There was a round flap in the ceiling, about two feet in diameter, sealed with an electronic combination lock. Without touching the lock I examined the area around the hood, and found a smaller cover for the emergency opening mechanism. Internet service providers would install them in case of problems with the main lock.
I took the penetrator out of my backpack, stuck it to the cover of the emergency opening and activated it. Then, I fetched a portable platform, made of two titanium rods with a carbon-fibre tarpaulin fixed between them. It had two long hooks, connected with rods by hinges. I braced the hooks behind the rungs, straightened the rods to form a makeshift chair I could sit on. I opened my laptop, booted it and waited for the penetrator to establish connection. Soon, it started extracting the data from the Internet cable and sending it to my notebook. I needed a one-hour stream of protocol skins, which meant I had sixty minutes of stillness.
I didn’t like it. This job looked like a walk in the park, but in reality was extremely dangerous. I took out a tungsten line from the backpack, snapped one of its ends to the rod, the other end to the repellent and lowered the device. I left it hanging around two feet above the floor. It would buy me some time to pack up the equipment and run away, in case the rats came to claim me.
The repellent, more commonly known as a “squeaker,” emitted some kind of electromagnetic waves, tricking rats’ brains into thinking they were in pain. They would writhe and squeak when exposed. But being driven by constant, insatiable hunger, they would overcome the repellent, especially when somebody was an idiot enough to pause instead of bolt. A large mischief would shove the frontrunners onto the device. Unable to flee, they would frantically chew into the emitter, which was a fragile part. Once it was damaged, the animals were free to do whatever they pleased. The gangs loved it–perfect for snitches. Break the limbs, turn on the squeaker, walk away. The victim, “thrown to the choir”, had to watch the whole spectacle as the rats silenced the device, before being eaten alive.
If the animals arrived before my job was done, I would have to abort, run away and come back another day. And it would be a narrow escape.
The hour dragged like an eternity, but it was uneventful. My download was large enough to satisfy the client. I disconnected the penetrator, reeled the squeaker in, packed up the gear and began to descend the rungs.
I was halfway down when I heard them. Scratching and excited screeching, impatient, approaching in a fast frenzy of numerous hungry animals. Sensing the meat, as fresh as the meat can be, because still alive. Judging by the noise, it must have been a large mischief, easily several hundred strong.
I checked the repellent’s battery–about half an hour left. Five minutes to come back to the hatch below my van. It seemed plenty, but with the colony that large it might take much longer. I hung the squeaker on my neck, adjusted the strap so the device was at my abdomen’s level, facing the space in front of me. I yanked a large torch from my backpack, lit it and aimed the light in the direction I had to go. The sewer scum wasn’t yet in sight, and I started running towards the intersection I came from. Just as I almost reached the crossroads I saw them–a massive colony, running through the floor and with plenty of them climbing the walls, sometimes falling on the backs of the others. They were closing in on the intersection and as I made it, so did they–barely discouraged by my device.
I rushed to the right, but a more agile one managed to fall on my neck and chew into it, holding to my flesh with teeth and claws. I felt a painful sting, but ignored it and continued ahead, shifting the squeaker to my back, so it was facing the frantic animals in chase. The device dampened their spirit slightly–they kept some distance–but were closing in, excited by the smell of blood.
I reached the shaft and started climbing as fast as I could. The creeps followed, easily moving up the porous, concrete walls. I reached the flap, pushed it open, and climbed higher to open the van’s hatch. The second rat leaped on my neck, joining his feasting friend. A few of the others tried to chew into my legs and back, but I didn’t worry about them. The tactical suit and Kevlar vest were designed to withstand a sword slash, the animal’s teeth sank into it without doing any damage. With the van’s hatch opened, I climbed inside and slammed the street’s maintenance lid to its place, crushing several animals caught in the shaft’s rim. About a dozen got trapped outside on the tarmac–now sniffing the lid in a frantic search for the way back.
Inside the van, I closed the floor hatch and started dealing with the animals that refused to let go of me. I grabbed the one on my nape, broke its spine and repeated the process with its friend. Then I took care of the other three, clinging to my legs. I felt about four more trying to bite their way through my Kevlar jacket, so I took it off swiftly and threw it on the floor, trapping them under. A few hard stomps of my boots did the job and the jacket ceased moving. I went over it to make sure the ravenous animals were truly dead, then lifted it. One of the creeps was particularly irrepressible, still twitching convulsively despite the broken spine. Its forepaws were moving in a stuttering spasm, as if the beast tried to hug life goodbye. I trod on it again and the convulsions stopped.
I reached the first aid kit, took out a bottle of salicylic alcohol and doused my wounds generously. Then I found a syringe with a dose of penicillin G and injected the full load into my vein. I had about five minutes before the image swapper would begin to work erratically. It was high time to drive away.
I rolled through a few blocks, feeling the blood from the neck trickling down my back. I found an underground parking lot, beneath the wholesale shopping mall. It was quiet, with only a handful of customer cars left in random places. I parked the van away from the other cars, went to the back again, and grabbed some gauze and spray plaster. I dried the blood with the gauze and spritzed the plaster on the wounds. It dried out quickly and the bleeding stopped. Satisfied, I juiced the motor and set off towards the outskirts of the city.
***
My safehouse was located outside the town, on the hill slightly raised above the small, picturesque valley. It was a remote, almost cozy place with lots of natural greenery and some pine trees. The trees grew denser as they advanced higher towards the top of the fell. There was a quiet lake on the other side. It was a natural spot for having a calm, relaxing holiday, while being close to the city if needed. Ten luxurious houses were built alongside the road cutting the valley. Their owners didn’t live there, renting the spaces out instead, mostly for rich tourists, sometimes for people throwing lavish parties–always drenched in gallons of alcohol and snow mountains of drugs. The absence of permanent dwellers meant no nosy neighbours. Exactly what I needed.
My house was a small, modest building at the top of the hill. It was old, built for a local forester in the days when the trees were spanning through miles around, before being grubbed up to make space for the expanding city. The interior included a standard living room, bathroom, small kitchen and bedroom on the first floor. There was a garage attached to the north-side wall, able to house one medium-size vehicle.
I approached the garage door, opened it with the remote and drove in. Inside, I used the mote again and the hidden platform, disguised as a floor, descended into an underground, much larger room. I stepped out of the minivan and sent it back up to the ground level. There was enough space to park it down there, but it would be foolish. If someone saw me drive in and chose to break into the garage, he would be surprised–one second the van is there, next it’s smoke. I needed to surprise no one–I’d rather be perceived as a background extra.
I went through the door to the living space upstairs. I visited the kitchen, put the kettle on and took two slices of pizza out of the fridge–the leftovers from the day before. They landed in a microwave oven. They tasted like a boring, nerdy woman, only animated by the math equations or lines of programming code. I washed them down with tap water and finished the meal with a cup of coffee–the only thing standing out from the grey. I had a full kitchen with much better food in the subterranean space, but I had to maintain an illusion. Just an ordinary man who returned home for a snack and rest.
I washed the plate and a coffee mug, mooched around the house for a while and went underground. I plugged the remote hard drive with stolen data into the computer and activated a decryption program. It wrestled through the data for a few seconds and gave me almost two hours of estimated time to complete. I frowned. The encryption was sophisticated, with multiple layers of protection to give my rig such a long time to crack. No wonder the client was so wary about the theft, insisting on being stealthy and extremely cautious. He was up against people who were overprotecting their data–no doubt the stakes were high and nobody was in the mood for jokes.
I had about an hour to make a call. I used it to shower, change my rags and kill the hum with another cup of coffee. I drank half of it and dialled the number on my burner.
“Hello?” Johnson answered with the voice of someone who just ploughed a cornfield with his bare hands.
“It’s me. I’ve got your swag.”
“Thank God. How do we arrange the pickup?” He seemed more alive now.
“Your lunch break starts in two minutes. You will walk outside, head towards the smoking area and turn left. Do about fifty steps along the south wall and stop. Light a cigarette and wait for my call. You will have about a five-foot radius of a blind spot–none of the surveillance cameras cover it, so don’t walk around too much. Is everything clear?” I asked dryly to make sure he stayed focused.
“Yes,” he answered.
“It’s about one minute to your break now. I’ll call you in three. By my calculation, you should be down there already. Don’t answer until you’re there.” I disconnected the call and looked at the watch. Then I called again. Johnson answered immediately.
“Act casually. You picked up after the first ring. It suggests you are under stress, which in turn suggests that you know something. You need to stay stupid to stay alive.”
“Okay.” His voice was slightly trembling.
“Focus and try to smile as we talk. It will look like you were waiting for your mistress to call and now you are happy. You will mitigate your fuckup.”
“But I don’t have a mistress,” he said with a slightly playful tone. He was adapting. Good.
I ignored it and said, “You will stay behind your hours today, catching up on a backlog. Until eight o’clock. At five to eight you will pack up, get your car and drive toward the Washington Junction, as always. Right after the junction you will turn left into River’s Avenue. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes. I take it sometimes when the traffic ramps up.”
“Ok. You will drive until you reach the river and turn right into 13th Boulevard.”
“The long road with no intersections? Are you sure?”
“That’s exactly why you’ll take that road.” After five years of dealing with civilians I got used to explaining the obvious. “The people who follow you will have to keep their distance–no shortcuts there. It will buy us time. Now, when you reach the first intersection, you will turn right, slow down to about two miles per hour and open the passenger window. I’ll drop the hard drive through it. Then, you will roll up the glass and drive home, as if nothing had happened. Are you with me?”
“Yes, sweetheart.” Johnson was almost flirtatious, putting on an act and improvising.
“All right. You will pay me as agreed,” I said and disconnected.
***
I chose to drop the data in the corner of an area called in local slang, a “jumbo barn.” It was around two square miles of terrain with nothing but industrial storage buildings of different sizes. On the north side, there was a river bank with the 13th Boulevard stretching along. The storage buildings facing the river were huge–about the size of the M hangars–squeezed together. There were footpaths between them, barely wide enough for two men to pass without bumping on each other. The gates of the hangars faced the river, so the lorries could drive straight inside from the street.
The south side was occupied by tinier constructions of different dimensions, used by smaller companies and private contractors. There were narrow lanes between them, so the delivery vans could pull in, unload the goods and leave. It was a maze of driveways, widened by occasional small yards and ending at the southern walls of the huge hangars. The first rows of these buildings were commonly called “the filth zone”–reeking with piss and sour sweat under flickering sodium lights. The courtesy of the homeless frequenting the place after dusk.
I parked my car outside the jumbo barn, on the south. Driving into the maze was out of the question–a deathly trap in case anything went wrong. I walked into the maze, passed through the stench of the filth zone and headed north, to the corner of 13th Boulevard and 25th Street–to the place where Johnson was supposed to turn and slow down. I had the layout of the route memorized, after spending about a week staring at the satellite imagery of the area. At the destination there was a smaller building, tucked to a massive hangar. It was a fuse distribution room for the electricity powering the whole complex. I hid in its shadow and waited for Johnson’s car.
It was dark, and this route was dead after dusk, so when I heard the vehicle approaching, I braced to drop. Johnson’s Continental turned around and slowed down, with passenger window opened. I saw his face behind the wheel–pale like the skin of a few-hours-dead stiff. I took three brief strides, threw the hard drive into the car, turned around and walked back, hiding between the buildings.
I strolled back the same way I came from. When I entered the last walkway leading to the narrow yard, I heard the sounds of a fight. Heavy breathing, shoes shuffling the ground and punches landing. Probably around five to seven people. They fought on the yard ahead, blocking my way. The clash was not my problem. I turned around and started going back to use another path– longer, but allowing me to avoid the plot. Suddenly, I heard a woman’s voice piercing through the commotion. No words, just a loud, hollow moan of a person who took a heavy hit.
I turned around again and snuck towards the scene of the fight. I crouched at the end of the footpath, hiding in a shadow. There was a halogen lamp on top of a building to my right, casting strong light on the plot. The tall, slim woman, with hair black as tar, was pressed against the wall of a storage building, surrounded by six men, fighting them off. It was an assassination attempt, the woman was a target and the men were paid to do the job. The attackers were well-built and wore comfortable drab gear. Their hair was cut short, so no one could grab them. They fought well, although they were not specialists. Just a group of thugs doing beatings or occasional murder for money, with a lot of practice.
The tar-hair was in a bad strategic position, with her back pressed against the wall. It provided the illusion of safety, but in reality it constrained her movements–the thugs surrounded her and she didn’t have a place to go. In any moment they could jump on her–all at once–and immobilize her by sheer weight of their bodies. Then they would finish her off. They were toying with the woman, probably to give her some bruises and defensive wounds before killing. The murder would look like a random attack of drunk, horny boys, attempting to force the bird to do what she wasn’t interested in. Then things got out of hand, drunk turds got violent and after a punch up they accidentally killed her. Sign of the times–Police wouldn’t be able to find the suspects in the filthy maze of the rotten city–the cases like that were so common that nobody was even shaken by them anymore.
The woman was getting tired–her movements slowed down a few nanoseconds, breathing turned into panting and her eyes showed subtle delay when scanning the opponents. A narrow trickle of blood hung from the corner of her mouth. The assassins were about to wrap this up, probably in less than a minute.
I should have walked away. Joining the clash was very dangerous if any of this scum managed to run and tell the story. There were two CCTV cameras attached to buildings, and they would record me. If the police arrived before I could wipe the footage, they would surely collect it and I would be exposed to authorities. I should have walked away and let the punks kill the woman.
I stood up and approached the group with quiet, swift steps. They didn’t notice me. I sneaked behind the guy in the middle–his body language told me he was just about to deliver a kick with his right leg. When he shifted the weight to the left one, I kicked his knee from outside. The joint broke with a wet crack. He dropped on the ground in a ghoulish way–kneeling with the leg bent sideways instead of ahead. He yelled from pain and shock. I didn’t pay attention to him anymore.
The thug to the right began turning over towards me, raising his hands for a guard. I hit his throat with a half-curled fist, crushing his trachea. He dropped on the ground, wheezing–his windpipe closing fast from swelling. By the time he collapsed, the woman punched the third man, the one most to my right. I could focus on the remaining three opponents.
The bodies of my previous two victims lay between me and the remaining attackers. To reach me, they had to go around them. They couldn’t jump over the bodies–it was a long leap over two people sprawled in one line. One of the thugs swayed to me from the left, the other two started circling the bodies from the right. I moved to the right and for a second the two boys stood in one line–like two kids in a queue for an ice cream. The assailant on the left was now forced to jump around the bodies or go around–a simple setup to delay him.
Nobody had time to regroup. The thug in front of me tried a hook punch. I hit him precisely, mashing his eyeball. He instinctively raised his hands to protect the face, making plenty of space for my knives. I stabbed his abdomen on both sides, pushed the blades up and slid them out, to maximize the damage.
The other attacker–the one who was forced to go around the bodies alone, placed himself behind me. I whirled in a quick spin, almost touching the shoulder of the punk in front, and stabbed him with three fast jabs before he knew what was going on. The last boy standing took out a knife from his pocket and started weaving, gauging the right moment to slash me. I calculated where his hand would be and delivered a fast bottom-to-top kick. The boot met his wrist, the knife flew up a few feet and he grabbed his broken hand. By the time he finished the movement, I made a spin again and killed him in the same fashion as his friend. No need to sacrifice efficiency for the sake of variety.
The whole fight lasted less than twenty seconds, give or take. I looked around quickly, checking if the two thugs left alive were not trying to reach for guns. Apparently, none of them had one. The woman was still standing close to the wall, a bit shocked by a rapid change of circumstances.
“You okay?” I asked and saw a small, red point reflecting from her breast, close to the heart. I jumped down ahead, knocking the woman off her feet. The bullet barely grazed her left arm, hit the metal wall of the storage building and went inside. Someone was using piercing rounds and we both didn’t have much time. I wrapped my arms around her and forced us both to roll on the ground towards the passageway I came from. Another shot hit the pavement, barely missing my leg. I got up, forced the woman on her feet and pushed her inside the footpath, protecting her from the sniper. He was hiding on top of the building with the halogen lamp, blinding anybody who would look up–perfect concealment.
The sniper was with us the whole time–the insurance in case the thugs botched the kill. He was clearly a pro–the precision of his shots, the rounds used and the speed of his aim unmistakably indicated a very well trained person. We could escape him through the maze–it would be difficult to chase us and it would get messy fast. But he saw me–the word would spread, and sooner or later there would be too many people curious about my humble existence. I needed him dead right away to keep his mouth shut forever.
Hidden just behind the corner of the building I listened. The sniper didn’t move, probably deciding what to do next. He was counting on us to make a mistake. From his point of view, we might have been unfamiliar with the layout and simply hiding to wait him out. Then we would make our way back through the yard–an easy target to pick up.
There was a hollow silence. The woman was calmly breathing through her mouth wide open, which told me she was a law enforcement or a soldier. She clearly understood to be quiet and she composed herself fast. This was a mark of a trained person, not just some random broad who got jumped on the street. Another problem for me–now I was exposed to authorities. A crazy idea flashed through my mind: Why not strip to your bare ass and walk the High Street in the broad daylight? At least you will go with a big bang.
I needed the sniper pinned on the roof. I could run around and climb it from the other side, but there was no guarantee he would stay put that long. I took out my grip gloves, produced the gun from my pocket, swiftly leaned out from behind the wall and shot the lamp. The sniper replied at once–his bullet pierced the wall an inch from my head. With the light out, there was a brief moment for him to adjust his eyes to the sudden darkness–my window to get him. I jumped towards the wall of his building, climbed on top using the gloves, which allowed me to take advantage of the wall’s corrugated steel.
I saw him on top, still trying to aim into the plot, distracted by loss of light. I didn’t have much time. I ran to him, my path forming a circle ending somewhere behind the sniper. He heard me and turned around. I was too close now–trying to shoot me from a rifle wouldn’t make much sense. He tossed the weapon and reached out behind his back, drawing two machetes from the sheaths.
His name was Carlos Fuentes, one of the most sought-after mercenaries in the World. The machetes were his signature mark, very well-known in underground circuits. It was also a part of his twisted ‘moral code’. Instead of popping a cap in me, he was inviting me for a combat challenge, treating me as a worthy opponent. I could easily shoot him, but I needed a real-life practice to make sure my skills stayed sharp.
Fuentes started whirling the machetes in swift, circular motions, showing off how good he was. His technique was excellent: the long knives formed a barrier, moving so fast that they created smooth silhouettes, like aircraft propellers. It was a cool show. Too bad it couldn’t last for long. Without slowing my run, I threw two shurikens–one into each of his ankles. It caught him off guard, the propellers stopped suddenly and he wobbled, trying to keep the balance. I was already at him, standing to his left. He blundered–raised his knives, leaving his lower abdomen without protection. I kicked him in the stomach, just above the groin. He bent down and I hit his neck with a knife-hand strike. Fuentes fell and smashed the roof with his face. He wasn’t moving. I jumped on him, pressed the body down with my knees and checked his pulse. He was still on this side. I fetched a titanium needle from my suit and stabbed him just below the base of the skull, aiming for the brain stem. I made it through–his body twitched and froze for good.
I hid the needle back in my pocket. Then I pried the shurikens out of his ankles, wiped the blood off on the goner’s shirt and stood up.
“Hey, what’s going on up there?” The woman shouted.
“It’s okay, you can come out now. It’s safe,” I replied.
She emerged from the passageway and lit a flashlight, pointing it on me.
“You have to come down from this roof and make a statement. My name is Claire Sounders, I’m a detective. Here’s my badge.” She produced the shield.
“Which precinct are you from, Claire?” I shouted back.
“21st on the 45th Street. Now, come down, please,” she said firmly.
“I’m afraid I cannot do it, detective Sounders. I’ll find you and we will talk soon.” I ran towards the other side of the roof, climbed down and dashed to the north side, heading towards the big hangars. At the next intersection I turned right and ran to the place where I made a drop for Johnson. The detective must have already called her friends from the precinct to arrange the blockade of the jumbo barn. The distant wail of patroller’s sirens began to cut through the noiseless dark of the night–soon the place will be swarming with flatfoots, sticking their snouts into each corner.
I reached the fuse distribution room, crouched next to it and looked around. The banshee cry of the 5-0 was getting louder every second. I could also hear the chopper approaching. The time was running out and I was short of options. The opposite side of 25th Street was a tactical nightmare–old terraced houses lined along its stretch–no chance to go behind them and hide in the rear gardens. I would have to climb the roofs to get to the other side. With the helicopter approaching, I’d be as visible as a lobster on a serving plate.
I ran to the left, crossed the road, jumped over the crash barrier separating the street from the river bank, and plunged straight into the water, trying to land as close to the bank as possible. The river was dredged, and after I hit the surface I sank three feet below without touching the bed.
It was a dicey river, with a strong current occasionally giving birth to treacherous maelstroms, capable of sucking even a very good swimmer under the water. I had to keep as close to the bank as possible, where the river floor was fairly even, reducing the chances of breeding whirlpools. The current washed me away at once–after I broke the surface the storage area was already behind me. I was lucky–the water flew opposite to the jumbo barn, carrying me away from the police blockade.
The problem was the bank itself. Made of concrete, about six, seven feet high from the water surface. No way to climb and get out. I had to let the current carry me someplace I could drag myself up the embankment. I lay flat on the surface, in a crawl position and relaxed, trying to feel the water. I began to swim towards the bank, steering gently to preserve the energy. At last, I touched the concrete and glued to it with my whole body, so the current wouldn’t wash me away. I started moving further away from the jumbo barn, using the water flow to push me, yet taking care not to lose contact with the bank’s wall. The river was nasty, trying to pull me off the bank and take me–I had to make an extra effort to stay close to the concrete.
I crawled like this for over an hour until I saw a large gutter pipe spitting the sewage into the river. The upper edge of the pipe hung about three feet above the water and was sticking out from the wall. Not much space on top of it, perhaps one foot or less. If I managed to climb and stand on it, I’d have a chance to jump and grab the edge of the bank. I had to try. Swimming around the gutter wasn’t on the table–the filth chute was wide, belching the slop with a high pressure–it would push me towards the river centre, straight into a large vortex forming just behind it. I would be gone in a jiffy–a stank-ass burial with nobody to shed a tear over an eulogy.
Slowly, carefully I approached the rim of the gutter and grabbed its edge with my hand to keep in touch with it. The stench of the sewage was nauseating, but I ignored it. I began to crawl on top of the pipe–not an easy task. The surface was slimy and slippery from the constant exposure to humidity and remnants of waterweed growing on it during high water levels. Finally, I managed to lie face down on top of the culvert. I stayed like this for a while, trying to figure out how to stand on its slick surface and not to fall into the river. I couldn’t crouch on the thin surface–one wrong step and I’d drop face-down, straight into the ugly mug of the maelstrom.
I needed to be able to grasp on something on the concrete wall. First job was to turn my body face-up. I began the slow process of lifting my torso gently and gradually moving myself closer to the bank–a small lift, a slide over. Repeat. I ended up lying on my side, hugging the concrete. I turned over to my back like threading a needle, to avoid falling down. About one-third of my frame hung outside the rim of the gutter, just above the spluttering backwash. But now, I could reach into the pockets of my tactical suit.
I gazed at the concrete surface of the river bank. It was fine, no crevices or cracks to grasp on and pull myself up. Stalemate, I thought and relaxed–time for brain to do work. I recalled that the river’s shoreline was strengthened with the concrete about one hundred years ago. The grey slab was smooth, but a long exposure to the elements must have weakened it, at least on the surface. I pried my gun and silencer from a pocket, stuck the can to the barrel and aimed at the wall, about a foot above me–trying to keep a ninety-degree angle to avoid a ricochet. I took a shot and the piercing round lodged in the slab, leaving a small bit poking out. I could work with it, so I repeated the process, this time aiming higher and slightly to the left. The first bullet bounced up, but the second attempt was a success–the round stuck in.
The bullets were holding quite firmly. I waited about half an hour until my grip gloves dried out, and tested the grip on the slugs. Satisfied, I grabbed the lower one with my right hand, lifted myself slightly and used my freed left hand to hold the other round. I pulled myself up cautiously until I could bend my leg and place a foot on top of the gutter. Still holding the bullets I pushed my leg up, making space for the other foot. Now standing, I glued myself to the wall, preventing my feet from slipping.
I stretched my hands up against the wall. It looked like I had around one-and-a-half-foot jump to reach the bank’s rim. There was no need to rush now–one wrong, hasty move would bust the whole effort. I took a deep breath, composed myself and focused. Then, I crouched slightly and jumped, grasping the edge of the bank with tips of my fingers. I pulled myself up fast and with head and torso above the rim, I corrected the grip, palm by palm, placing them flat on the bank’s surface.
The rest was easy. I shifted my elbows up, pushed myself and landed safely on the crest. I rolled away from the edge, landing on a narrow swath of the grass planted around the crash barrier. I was far away from the jumbo barn–the flashes of police cars’ light bars were distant, barely apparent. I was lying almost directly under the street lamp, too visible for my liking. I crouched away from it to the shadow, and rested for a short while.
This wasn’t an end of the party yet. I had to get to my car and see if it wasn’t impounded by the police. If it was, it had to be retrieved, no matter how risky this might have been. The vehicle had a few interesting custom additions, which sooner or later would have been discovered by technicians, making policemen agitated like dogs meeting the bitch in heat. It was about five-six miles walk from my position. I wasn’t exhausted yet–the relentless years of brutal training paid off. But if the car was seized, there was no telling how much effort I would have to make to get it back.
I reached into an internal pocket of my suit, took out a flat pack with high-energy food supplement, sheared off the top and squeezed the whole load to my mouth. Then, I fished a small vial, opened it, sprinkled a bit of pure amphetamine on my hand and sniffed it. I seldom used the narcotic to prevent the addiction, but tonight I had to be extra sharp and awake. After a short while, the nutrient mash combined with zip started to work. With the heat in the stomach and sharp, fresh clarity in my mind I set off on foot towards the street where my car was parked. I could call a cab, but even the most patient driver wouldn’t appreciate the customer in an outfit dripping with water.
The area wasn’t tight anymore. There were apartment houses and alleys between–perfect layout for walking while avoiding the main road and street lights. It took two hours to reach the place where my car was pulled over. The police ignored it, probably because of the other rides slotted in the parking space. Hiding in the side street, I observed the police blockade, now dispersing. The officers were returning to their cruisers, clearly disappointed, waving their hands in dismissive resignation. The chopper was still hovering above the jumbo barn, reluctant to follow the departing patrollers–as if it was hoping to spot something worth an alarm. Finally, it gave up and flew away.
I couldn’t use my car now. It was late at night, no traffic and frustrated cops would likely have halted anybody driving around the area. I waited until the whole cavalry disappeared and made my way toward the safehouse, taking no notice of my ride. Soon after my suit was dry enough, and I called a cab, which drove me to the corner of 345th and 230th Street–about two miles away from the valley where I lived. The rest of the distance I made on foot.
I went straight to my subterranean dwelling, stripped, showered and ate some canned goop stashed in my fridge. Then, I took a pill of diazepam to counteract the zip and help me sleep. I knew it would leave me a bit groggy the next day, but I didn’t have anything pressing to do, so staying in bed longer than usual was all right. Surely, Detective Claire Sounders would be at work early afternoon, enough for me to be fresh and handsome for her.
I fell asleep almost instantly. I was dreaming about being chased by an army of bacons, all with faces of Carlos Fuentes. They were led by Detective Sounders, whirling two machetes like Cessna’s propellers and shouting something about a witness statement.