I woke up around ten in the morning, with a mild headache, a foul taste in my mouth and a bad attitude. I was lying in my bed for a while, thinking about how meaningless my life really was. I realised that the mixture of high stress, bennies, and downers took its toll, so I got a grip on myself, shook off the worthless considerations and jumped out from bed. A hot shower, followed by fried eggs with bacon and strong black coffee, improved my mood considerably. The headache faded, and I was ready to claw my way through whatever the city threw at me.
I walked to the place where the taxi had driven me yesterday and called a cab again. The driver was one of these closed-mouthed guys, playing it strong and tough, wearing a poker face. A cabby who doesn’t stop when you flag him and speeds off if you are running to catch the ride.
I didn’t care and focused on scanning the surroundings as we passed them. The hardcase dropped me on a side street just off the road where I’d parked my car. I paid him and walked the rest of the way.
I bumbled behind the wheel, started the engine and joined the traffic which was already getting jammed. It was about an hour drive to the 21st precinct, and with cars slowing down I decided to kill the time by checking my reflexes. I changed to the curb lane and started observing people walking down the pavement. There was a man and a woman pushing the pram. I noticed that she was about to move her left hand and reach down to the stroller basket – she did it a second later, right on the cue. The guy in the business suit, holding a briefcase and wearing glasses was approaching the couple. He looked like he was about to raise his right hand. Another correct read – the man reached and pushed his glasses up.
Satisfied, I decided to do something more challenging – reading the driver in front of me. There was not much to work with – I could only see his head behind a headrest and a bit of his neck. The rear windshield was not helping either. I focused my senses on him and waited for micro clues. It looked like he would raise his right hand. Correct again: the guy lifted it and adjusted his rearview mirror. I was in excellent shape – skills not impaired by yesterday’s drug cocktail and exhaustion of the narrow escape. I smirked, merged back into the middle lane, and let the city crawl past.
The precinct was located in an old, dull, soul-sucking building with light beige walls and bars in some windows. From a bird’s-eye perspective, the station sprawled across the plot like an European plug yanked from a giant socket. It had a broad front façade, chunky like the plug’s plastic housing. Two parallel wings jutted out of it at the back, like the twin pins of a Schuko. Between them there was a secure police parking lot. There was a public car park in front of the building. I ignored it, drove past the precinct and turned left at the first intersection, into the 42nd Street. Then I turned right into a narrow lane, between the buildings and parked my car half on, half off the pavement.
I walked back to 42nd Street, passing by a gap in the wall, leading to the dirty yard behind the tenements facing the road. I turned left and walked into the small coffee shop I’d noticed earlier. It was called Joe’s Brew. It was an elongated place, with a counter on the right and a row of small tables on the left. There were two extra tables past the counter. Far back in the room there were doors, with a crooked toilet sign. It looked like it had enough, ready to fall off the stained nail and say goodbye to the world. Above the silver barista machine, a big warning sign hung, baring its letters like an angry Doberman:
APPROACHING THE PATRONS OR OFFERING THEM A DRINK IS A SEXUAL HARASSMENT AND IT WON’T BE TOLERATED
The young, pretty girl stood behind the bar. I was the only customer. Her big, brown eyes showed nothing but boredom.
I approached the counter producing my teeth in a flirtatious–but not creepy–grin, and said:
“Good afternoon. Can I have a large ice latte, please? Double shot of coffee and double dash of maple syrup, if you don’t mind.”
A dim sparkle of excitement pierced her vacant expression. She leaned forward slightly and said, “Hello Sir. I don’t mind at all. It’s three fifty, please.”
I paid and waited for my coffee. She made it fast and handed me a cup. I thanked her and she followed her “You’re welcome, sir” with a flirtatious smile.
I put the coffee cup on the table behind the counter and made my way to the toilet. There were three cubicles inside. I opened each of them and the last one had a window, wide enough for a man to squeeze through. I checked the hinges–the slit window would open easily. Peeking outside confirmed that it led to the dingy backlot I was passing by before. I returned to the table, sipped some coffee, took out my burner and dialled the precinct’s number.
“21st police station. How can I help?” The switchboard officer’s voice was officious and stiff.
“Yes, I would like to speak with detective Claire Sounders. She gave me this number and advised to call and schedule the meeting to make a statement.”
“She is in the premises now. You can come over and make your statement.”
“That’s the thing, I’m not around the area at the moment and I don’t want detective Sounders to wait. If you connect me, I’ll make an appointment.”
“Connecting you now.” He gave up and the line went quiet, except for a static hum.
“Detective Sounders speaking. How can I help?”
The cops seemed to be very helpful these days.
“Just wanted to call and ask if you are okay after yesterday.”
“Ah, it’s you. How did you get this number?” Her voice was a mix of surprise and caginess.
“There is such a thing as Internet and your precinct has a website with contact details. You are welcome, by the way.” I said sarcastically. Strange. I’m never sarcastic.
“Ok, will you come to make a statement or shall I find you in the streets and bring you in?”
I told her that I couldn’t come to the station, explained where I was and that I would be waiting for five minutes. I might have mentioned something about her coming alone, without bringing the cavalry. She let out a curt scoff and cut the line.
She looked nice cleaned up, without blood on her face and her hair no longer dishevelled. Her big eyes flashed with angry lightnings, dimmed only by wariness typical for the police officers. She was likely wired, with her phone already dialled so her partner could hear and record our conversation. She was alone. When she sat down, she produced a gun and pointed it at me under the table. I had my gun on my lap already. I had already activated the little device in my pocket, which disabled her phone and possible bugging.
“Ok, mister. You don’t want to come and make an official statement, so say what you want to say and don’t waste my time,” she said sharply, her mouth clenched as she finished.
“Well, I could rant a bit about how people are ungrateful for saving their lives these days, but I have much less time than you, so I’ll go straight to the point–”
“What makes you think that I couldn’t save myself back there?” She interrupted. I was warned about people getting overly ambitious, even when faced with cold facts. I guessed that this was a textbook example.
“Well, if I didn’t knock you down off your feet, you would have a hole in the heart, instead of a bullet scratch on your arm. That’s for starters. The rest I can explain when there is a social occasion.”
“There won’t be any social occasion, you can be sure of that,” she said coldly. “Anyway, I’m listening.”
“The images from two CCTV cameras in jumbo barn. I guess they were retrieved by your uniforms. I also suppose there is no chance to destroy them, isn’t it?”
“Not a chance,” she said curtly.
“I thought so. I’m just ticking the boxes. Now listen, you have to process these recordings with extra care of proper procedure. Strict chain of command. Only for the eyes of those who have to look. And don’t upload them to the cloud. It’s important.”
“We always stick to proper procedures. Why do you insist on that?”
“Because these recordings reveal who I am. And the people who are looking for me have eyes everywhere. Rigorous procedure will reduce the chance that they will see it. Keeping the footage off-line will prevent hacking.”
“So you are an outlaw. A fugitive. That means I should arrest you on the spot.” Detective Sounders was very serious now.
“I cannot let you arrest me, detective. If I do, you are dead. I didn’t save your life yesterday just to kill you by succumbing to your policeman’s zeal.”
“You don’t make any sense. How come I would be dead if I arrested you?”
I had to give her something. Otherwise, she wouldn’t connect the dots on time. Young, dedicated, probably made a detective not long ago. Eager to prove herself. Blinded by emotions which sent hard core logic into the abyss.
“Listen. I don’t know much about myself. All I know that my whole life I was being prepared to run extremely difficult covert operations. We did twelve missions. Then our unit was disbanded. Something felt off about it so I ran away. It turned out, I did good for myself, since all other members of my squad were killed. I’m the last one scheduled for termination and I’ve been hunted ever since.”
“Right. It sounds like a fantastic story, but what does this have to do with me? And getting me killed?” she asked. It was a reasonable probe. From a person who apparently didn’t understand military politics.
“Have you ever touched dead rotten flesh? It stinks, and the reek clings to your fingers. It’s hard to wash away. Every time somebody finds out who I am, they learn something about my unit. And whoever made me, doesn’t like it. Everything I touch has to be cleaned. Thoroughly, with bleach. My creators don’t want loose ends.”
“I’m sorry, but I find it hard to believe. You sound like you’re spinning an urban legend.” She looked at me pityingly.
“Lose the schematics. Think. How much time did it take me to neutralise your attackers?”
“I don’t know. A minute, maybe two.”
“Wrong. The guys were dead or maimed within about twenty to thirty seconds. I didn’t bear a scratch. This thing alone should make you wonder that something is amiss. Fuentes, one of the top assassins in the world, was dead within less than a minute from the moment I’ve reached the roof of that building. This should raise your antennas even more. Think, detective Sounders. With your prefrontal cortex instead of your amygdala.” I looked at her sternly.
“How do you know Fuentes?” She was somewhat perplexed.
“Because, he’s one of the few who could be hired to eliminate me. I know all the top mercenaries and hitmen. My survival depends on this.”
“Well, you might as well be a combat enthusiast, well trained and curious about the well-known bad guys. As you said, Google’s a hell of a thing.” She returned to a defensive stance.
This was explained to us thoroughly. People tend to stick to the comfort of their knowledge, prejudices, and beliefs. When they are confronted with reality, they tend to create plausible explanations and arguments to protect their belief system, so they can reinforce their emotional safety. “One of the most difficult things for civilians is to find out and accept that nothing is like they thought it was. They will fiercely defend their own picture of the world, sometimes in very intelligent and creative ways. It’s called confirmation bias. Use it,” our trainer elaborated and I remembered it well. Psychological mastery can win many fights, without even producing a weapon.
I had to wrap this meeting up and fast. We were going nowhere and I was wasting my time. I took out a card from my pocket and handed it to Sounders. The card had a picture of pizza, a flashy name, “Gino’s Italian Food”, with the subtitle “The Best Taste of Napoli in the US” and phone number at the bottom. She looked at it mockingly.
“And what is that now? Secret government meal warfare designed to make the enemy fat and immobilised?” she asked. I ignored the sarcasm.
“If any time in the future, you are paid a visit by people posing as FBI, or other high – jurisdiction body, asking about this case, you would excuse yourself, call this number, and pretend to order a takeaway pizza. I will answer the call and tell you the delivery time, so you know how close I am. When I’m around, I will call you back and say that the food is delivered and where to pick it up. You will get out and I will drive you to safety.”
There was nothing but utter contempt in her gaze. Before she attempted to kill me with another snide line, I excused myself and went to the toilet. I headed straight to the cubicle with the window, crawled through it, crossed the yard and drove away. It was as much as I could do for Detective Sounders. The rest of her fate depended on her brain. And dumb luck.
***
I tooled around for a while, making sure no one was riding my bumper. Nobody was interested, so I drove to my house to get ready. First, I disconnected my account from Tomson & Sons hedge fund. It had been over a week since I started copying their algorithmic trading, and it was high time to let go. It was a simple sync of the fund’s computers and my account. The days when sole traders were entering the markets were over–nobody was stupid enough to get quashed by large institutions and their supercomputers opening and closing positions in milliseconds–unless you hacked them, so your account would replicate their moves. The trick was to walk away early enough before the firewall software was updated and able to detect the hit.
I began scanning for a new meal ticket. “Jacks, Goldman & Tubbs” was always a solid pick–playing safe and hedging their investments well. I decided to ignore them, though. I marked them a month ago it was too early to come back. Time to find something new. After rejecting “Bold Investment Ltd”–overly aggressive betters inclined to go long–I came across “Fuchs Bets.com.” Established ten years ago, trading wisely without unnecessary risks, protecting their funds by hedging on correlated instruments. They looked like a sharp call. After about three hours of fighting with their top-notch intrusion protection, I was almost ready to change my mind. They forced me to re-write my script several times, before I finally got to them.
“You better be worth it,” I snarled, then uploaded the exploit to my cloud server, so I could control it from anywhere.
I climbed the stairs to my decoy house, stepped out through the front door and walked towards the lake. It was late afternoon, warm and breezeless. The surface of the tarn was flat like a mirror–the waterfront trees were almost perfectly reflected in it, and it was hard to tell where the water’s edge began. I drew a lungful, savouring its scent–one of the last natural reservoirs in the country, free from lingering skunk trail of swamp breath and dead fish. It dawned on me that I took to it. What good is a lake if I’m dead? I snapped out of the reverie, marched back to the house and descended to my underground lair.
I grabbed my go-bag and packed passports, cash, spare tactical suit and a set of combat knives. Two semi-automatic Heckler Kochs with silencers and extra ammo joined them inside, followed by the most important equipment: image swapper, penetrator, laptop and box of buzzers–tiny artificial insects resembling domestic flies, capable of transmitting full video footage and implanting nano taps under the subject’s skin.
I tucked the bag in a hidden compartment in my car’s boot, returned to the computer room and set the house’s security level to maximum. A few minutes of digging around the Web yielded both layout and structure schematics of the 21st Precinct. Memorising them ate the rest of the evening.
***
The annoying sound of a ringing phone woke me up. It was the burner phone rigged to snag calls as Gino’s Italian Food.
“Good morning, it’s Gino Italian Food. How can I help you?” I made my voice sound polite and ready to serve.
“Hi, I would like to order one large Margarita and one Four Seasons, please. Standard toppings from the menu will do.” Sounders came off relaxed and casual.
“No problem. This will be 15 credits exactly. What’s the delivery address?”
She gave me the precinct’s address and asked to deliver through the back door rather than the main entrance.
“21st Precinct it is, madam. Your food will be there in forty minutes.”
“Why such a long wait?” She was a bit annoyed.
“I’m sorry, madam. There are many orders this morning, but we do our best to rush the service. I can add extra toppings free of charge for the longer wait, if you wish.”
“No need, thank you.” Sounders hung up. Apparently, she didn’t like extra toppings. And phone conversations.
It took me about half-a-hour to reach the police station. I turned from Southern Boulevard into Jackson Lane–the short road alongside the east wing of the building–and pulled over next to the back door entrance. I called Sounders again.
“Hello?” She answered.
“It’s Gino’s Italian Food. Your delivery has arrived. Back entrance, as you requested.”
“Great. I’ll pick it up in a sec.” She cut the line.
The trace of her voice was broken by the wail of police sirens. The patrollers drifted hard, three from each end of the street, boxing me in. They drew closer, halted, and officers swarmed out of them, pointing guns at me. The precinct’s rear door burst open and more cops ran through it, led by Detective Sounders.
“Cut the engine and step out of the car!” She shouted, aiming at me while slowly walking around the car, blocking the driver’s door. I went dark. Without opening the door I took my gun out, holding it in two fingers. I removed the magazine and the bullet from the chamber, then put all of it on the passenger’s seat. All my knives and shurikens followed suit. I cracked the door open and stepped out, hands raised.
“No need to shoot. I’m unarmed. Left all the gear on passenger’s seat,” I said loud enough so most of the cops could hear me. Last thing needed was an overzealous dumbass opening fire and trying to make a name for himself. I got out, turned around and placed my hands on the bonnet, spreading my legs slightly. The jackboots jumped at me and started their groping, like perverts fishing for a thrill.
“He is clean!” One of them shouted.
“Okay, take him to IR1.”
I was taken to the interrogation room and cuffed to a table. Before leaving, the officer set the air conditioning to maximum heat. He gave me a heavy, mocking look, expressing his superiority and overwhelming power. You think you are tough, punk? We are Police. We run the shit here. Know your place or we will slap it outta your mouth quick. Be a good citizen–don’t cut corners, crawl when we say crawl and you will earn a pat on the cheek. Or you’ll be one sorry son of a bitch before you know it.
I looked straight at him with an expressionless face. He didn’t like it. He pulled a water bottle, unscrewed it slowly, and mocked the toast before gulping. I locked my gaze with his and waited, watching his look change from bloated grandiosity into pathetic unease.
“Fucking freak!” He barked and stormed out. Another emotional weakling with a gun.
I looked around the room. There were two cameras pointed at me, the table I was cuffed to, and one chair opposite. Aside from that, the space was empty. My combat suit was designed to sustain the human body exposed to temperatures between minus and plus 122ºF–standard range for most places on Earth. I felt heat only on my face and palms–the flatfoots should have stripped me naked for their “torture” to bear any significance. The only nuisance was the typical fetid skank of long-neglected air conditioning ducts–last time cleaned around previous century.
I knew they were watching me, so I decided to mess around. I laced my fingers, propped the chin on my thumbs and stared straight ahead, without blinking and completely motionless. I counted to ten and then blinked: two short blinks, one longer and one short. Then short, short and one long. Followed by long, short, long and short. I continued until I’d spelled the whole, well-known phrase indicating–to put it mildly–my lack of sympathy. Then I stopped blinking, wondering if any of these morons knew the Morse Code. I deliberately kept my eyes open, closing them only once every twenty seconds exactly, curious if they would pick up on it too. A little exercise in psychological warfare.
It had been over two hours and nobody had shown any interest. Either they didn’t get the message or they were sitting now in the briefing room, analysing the footage, biting their nails in a hopeless attempt to “profile” me. I didn’t care. Legally, they had almost nothing to hold me on. They could try to interpret the death of Fuentes as a murder, but they had one problem–I killed him on top of the building, beyond the reach of cameras. And I used the needle. It required
thorough autopsy to find a cause of death. Without a specialist, it’d just look like the body gave up. For all they knew, I was fighting him to protect Sounders, he had two nasty knives and an unpleasant reputation, so I used my combat expertise to defend us both. There’d be no blood. No wound. Just the corpse. And Sounders’ apparent lack of faith in my story supported the idea of natural death rather than surgical execution.
I was thinking that maybe the cops forgot about me, when I heard the first shots. Short, controlled bursts from automatic rifles, followed by shouts of startled policemen as they returned fire. Time to check out. I stooped over the table, so I could reach the collar of my suit. I pried out the small, elongated polypropylene capsule containing hydrofluoric acid. After making sure it was facing the right direction, I pressed it and squeezed a small amount on the chain of my cuffs. It dissolved them quickly with a hushed hiss. Then I dropped a small amount into the locks of handcuffs–after a few seconds they gave up and I was free.
Without wasting time I stood on top of the table and used my titanium knife to cut three sides of the ceiling tile and the thin aluminium sheet of the air duct hidden beneath it. I bent it downward, making enough space for me to pull myself up and fit in the duct, facing south. I crawled back a little, reached out for the bent tile and pulled it up so it wouldn’t stick out much. If someone looked closer, they’d notice the tile was cut, but at first glance the ceiling would appear to be normal.
I began to inch along towards the forensic lab, located at the end of the west wing, away from the main entrance to the station. When I was more or less above it, I used my knife again. This time I was cautious–the knife was making a noisy screech and I didn’t want to alert anybody hanging around inside the lab. I made a short cut, waited, and tried again. No reaction. I finished carving through the sheet, lowered myself down to the room and looked around.
There was a small desk with microscope and small forensic centrifuge on it. There was a cabinet with different kinds of chemicals. It contained two bottles of sulfuric acid, three litres each. It seemed a bit strange to store so much acid in a small lab like this, but I didn’t complain–it could soon be very helpful. The lab had a window, leading straight to the police car park at the back of the building. I quickly checked it, and it would open easily. There was a police patrol car parked right in front of it. The lab personnel must have been very grateful for having such an inspiring view.
I moved towards the door and cracked them open. Then, I lay on the floor, looked around briefly and hid back in the room. The corridor to my right was clear. There was nothing but an armoury over there and the passage ended with a wall. No one could come from this direction, unless hidden in the gun room.
The corridor on my left led to the intersection with the main hallway–stretching from reception desk to the rest of the complex. I saw one dead cop lying there and two others crouched round the corner, returning fire. One of them was Sounders. I opened the door of the lab again and dashed towards them. Before I made it, the other police officer dropped dead. I stopped near the Detective and she turned around quickly, pointing the gun at me. Her face held the frightened resolve of someone fighting for her life, knowing that she probably wouldn’t make it.
“Don’t shoot,” I said quietly, “I’m here to help. Move over and let me look.”
She stepped back, and I dropped to the floor again, stealing a quick glance around the corner before pulling back. Two bullets struck the floor where my head had been a second earlier. The attackers were sharp, unfazed by the usual instinct to aim at standing height. They were approaching in formation, two by two, covering the entire corridor. There was no way to get past them.
“They use tactical body armour. You are wasting your ammo,” I said.
“Fine, so why aren’t they just rushing to kill us?” She snorted.
I didn’t answer. There was no time for tactical lessons. The assassins were moving cautiously, because they didn’t know if we had a rocket launcher or not. And their armour couldn’t handle it. I decided to give them something to think about. “Hey, Bane. Get this fucking baz over here, double quick!” I shouted, so the attackers could hear me.
“Who the hell is Bane?” Sounders looked at me furiously.
“Who cares?” I answered. “Help me with these bodies.” I grabbed the ankles of one dead cop, dragged him about two yards into our hallway and turned him over, so he sprawled across the walkway. Sounders was dragging the other one. I took over and whispered, “The IR rooms. Grab the chairs. Quick.”
The second stiff was placed next to his colleague, making the low barricade wider. Sounders came back with chairs, and I chucked them behind the bodies. Then I dashed to the third IR, grabbed more chairs and added them to the barrier. The attackers were now forced to step over the bodies and kick the chairs out of their way, losing time.
“To the lab–now!” I hissed and ran to the forensics. I took out two canisters with the acid, loosened their caps, making sure they barely held on to the containers, then slid both along the hallway floor. When they stopped near the barricade, I shot both of them. The rounds tore through the plastic, blasting the loose caps free. The acid surged into a wide puddle behind the chairs, stretching wall to wall–a sizzling barrier cutting off the attacker’s path. I shut the lab doors, opened the window and quickly scanned the parking lot and the roof of the building.
Nobody was covering them. Scrubs. I climbed through the window and Sounders followed me. I opened the patrol car’s door, busted the steering column, connected the wires and drove the car into the window. Then I clicked the remote control in my belt and Toyota beeped. We dashed to it and hopped in. I drove slowly towards the gate. The barrier was down and there was nobody in the control room. I stopped, broke the shack’s window and pressed the opening button. I was back behind the wheel before the bar was fully up.
I turned left onto Southern Boulevard, crept forward and cut right onto 53rd street. It looked like the assailants didn’t cover the back lot and exit from it either. Nobody was shooting or chasing us. I was suspicious. They bolloxed the job, making our escape too easy, and I didn’t like it. On the other hand, if they were private contractors, they might not have enough resources to cover the big building like this. They focused on the inside, hoping that I would be held in a cell. I still didn’t like this angle, but it was possible. There was no time for speculation, though. I assumed the worst scenario: they already had control over the street cameras around the station. They could monitor us remotely and prepare the trap later. I had to do something about it.
There was a shopping mall nearby, with the indoor parking garage. I drove inside, grabbed a ticket to raise a barrier and parked in the nearest space.
“Are we going shopping now?” Sounders snarled. “Hey, perhaps we should focus on running from the chase?”
“We haven’t been chased and that’s not normal. Indoor parking has its own internal CCTV system, separated from street surveillance. I need to make some changes to my car.”
“What? Do you think that they tapped to street surveillance? Nobody has that kind of pull.”
“Exactly. Just like nobody has the pull to launch a full-scale attack on a police precinct in broad daylight without fear of getting caught.”
“Fuck!” she hissed, slapping a hand to her face.
I pressed the rim of the car’s navigation screen and it opened, revealing the hidden control panel inside. There were three buttons. I pressed the right one and the narrow shelf slid out. It was a slick computer screen, controlled by touch. I pressed the key saying “Screen.” The front windscreen took on a subtle hue. I pulled out and drove to the exit, with the touch-panel still on. I put the ticket into the slot, the barrier rose, and I stopped the car just past it. I pressed the other key, which read “Plates” and took off.
“Panel in!” I said. The screen slid back to its place, covered by the navigation panel.
“Clever toy,” Sounders said, “What did you do exactly?”
“I put the projecting LCD screen on the windshield. Front cameras will see someone else–two elderly people driving. The second button changed the licence plates. I had to wait until after the barrier–these parking systems scan plates at the exit.”
“That’s why you needed the parking lot,” she nodded. “So, what’s next.?”
“We have to leave the city immediately, out of range of its surveillance system. Then I have to re-paint the car and change to a new set of plates. I have a place to do it, about fifty miles outside the city.”
“The Interstate I-80 is the nearest way out,” she said.
“I know. I’m heading there right now,” I answered. Nobody seemed to tail me and after a few minutes I hit the slab and shifted to the middle lane–just another car in the grind.
“So, do you have a name, mister stranger?” Sounders broke the silence.
“Yes. Number Six.”
“That’s not a name. Jesus, don’t throw some hard-boiled story cliches at me. Please.” She sounded genuinely irritated.
“Well, the cliché by definition is an overused phrase that lost an impact due to frequent repetition. Everybody has a first name and a last name. But it’s never ‘Number Six.’ So, logically, having a regular name is a cliché.”
“Smartass,” she scoffed. “I’m serious. What’s your real name?”
“I told you. Number Six. I don’t know my real name, I mean the name I was given by my mother. Never met her. Never heard of her. In the Army, I was always called ‘Number Six,’ like the other members of my unit. There was ‘Number Five,’ ‘Number Three’ and so on,” I answered with a dismissive shrug.
“Ok, listen. I know that you saved my life, twice by the looks of it. But you don’t have to be mean,” she said.
“I’m not. We were not given normal names. You grow attached to them and might make a mistake. Sometimes I had to use two or three different aliases during one mission. It’s easier to use them when you don’t have your normal name added to the mix,” I answered honestly.
“What are you talking about? What kind of mistake?” Sounders was quite pissed off now. I didn’t want her to be pissed off. Not out of sympathy–whatever that meant. I simply found her voice annoying when she was like that.
I took a routine check of the rearview mirror. Nobody was following us. No choppers, no cops, no murderers. Just the low hum of the engine and the air con. Although, I’d have taken a horde of bloodthirsty zombies snapping at my neck over Sounders’ needling questions—less hassle, cleaner fight.
“Are you going to say something?” She asked.
“What? About the mistakes with the name?”
“Yes, for example.” Her tone oozed venom.
“Fine. Let’s say that your name is Michael. You heard this your whole damn life. Then, on the mission, you’re stuck playing John. You walk with your mark down the crowded street. Someone shouts ‘Hey Michael!’ and you instinctively turn or flinch. Boom–you are made. Nobody ever would shout ‘Hey, number six!’ It keeps you from getting torched by some dumbass habit.”
“So, you’re trying to tell me that you were called ‘Number Six’ your entire life? How old were you when you joined the army?” Sounders wasn’t salty anymore. She sounded ok, when she wasn’t.
“I didn’t join.” I kept my eyes on the road. “Snatched from an orphanage at one. Names are for those who have a chance to live long enough to matter.”
“Fuck!” She collapsed in the seat and shut up. Finally. She probably liked the word.
I drove for about an hour and then took exit 142. After a short while I turned left, onto the road leading into the countryside. We passed a small village and continued north. The road was narrow now, with two lanes and no traffic. The landscape opened into vast meadows, abandoned and neglected, overgrown with grass and weeds. Artificial grain production eventually pushed small and mid-size farmers out of business, forcing them to ditch the fields and try to make a living somewhere else. The lands lay fallow–now a home to wild greenery, rodents and stray dogs. People still kept their houses–desperately clinging to whatever was left of their way of living, waiting for death to wipe out the last echoes of what they’d lost. I focused on the road. No use dwelling on a world already buried.
After a few miles, I turned onto a rural road covered with old, edge-to-edge concrete slabs. It sliced through two meadows and aimed straight for the dark wall of forest ahead. When it reached the trees it turned into a narrow sandy track with shallow furrows. I drove slowly, dodging deeper ruts that could swallow a tire and leave us stranded. The road led to a wide glade, a patch of grass with a small house and a garage tucked against the tree line. I opened the garage door remotely and drove in.
There was a multifunctional robot inside, standard issue, used in most body shops. It would repaint the car and change the plates. We stepped out of the car and closed the doors.
“Quite the machinery you’ve got here.” Sounders looked around and added, “Is there any electricity to get it going?”
“Compact rechargeable generator. Solar panels on the roof are enough to keep it juiced. I don’t live here, it’s a go-station for quick vehicle changes,” I explained.
“How long will it take?”
“I will set it to top quality. It means about two hours, including drying time.” I opened the control panel, fired it up and adjusted the delayed start to three minutes.
“Right, let’s get inside before it begins.” I pointed into the door leading to the house.
The interior was very modest. One living room, with a couch, a cocktail table and two armchairs. There was a fridge, sink and small oven next to the worktop. On the opposite side of the kitchenette there were doors to a small bathroom. A large spider web stretched across one of the windows–empty and abandoned like the meadows. Even flies wouldn’t stick around. I removed plastic covers from armchairs and sofa, folded them and sat down.
“There is some canned food in the fridge. I have to warn you, though. It’s a military high-protein concentrate. Very nutritious, but it tastes like crap.”
“I’m so hungry that I don’t care.” Sounders opened the fridge and took out two cans. “Do you want one?”
“Yeah. I need to keep my engine going.” I held out my hand and she tossed the can. I caught it, detached the spoon from the can and opened it. “You can warm it up or eat it cold. Not that it makes much of a difference,” I said.
She had already opened her can, scooped out a bit of white mash and tried it.
“I wouldn’t say that it tastes like shit. It’s more like… nothing,” she said.
“Six of one, half a dozen of the other.” I took my chow and swallowed it.
We ate the military goop in silence. I felt uncomfortable around Sounders. I had never spent so much time so close to a woman. We had talked to women during missions, it was sometimes necessary. It was a business talk, a superficial flirt or sex, if the objective required. This time, it was weird–talking to a woman in some kind of ‘normal’ way, without trying to seduce her to extract the information. Sounders was getting irritated about petty things, then she would calm down, without an apparent reason. I felt like walking through a patch of heavy mined terrain–a wrong step could cause an explosion, but there was no way of knowing what the right step was.
I looked at her discreetly. She was sitting on an armchair, one leg hooked over her thigh, men-style. She wore police tactical boots, black leather trousers and leather jacket. Her black hair was a mess again, but she didn’t care, as if she had forgotten about them. She was just about to turn her head to face me. I shifted my gaze to the wall and let out a soft, neutral cluck. I checked the watch–it was still an hour wait. Can somebody please come to kill us? At least I will know what to do.
“Are you OK?” she asked with a faint smile on her face. I never saw her smiling–another puzzle for me to solve.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking about what to do next. I mean, after the car is ready,” I said vaguely.
“Something tells me that you already know what to do?” She locked her eyes with mine.
“Roughly. I’m just re-thinking it. It’s always good to do the second round.” I didn’t know what the hell she wanted from me again. I got up, approached her and reached out for the empty can she held. I made my way to the bin and threw the metal out. She propped her cheek on her palm, looked at me and said, “There is no way I’m calling you ‘Number Six.’ It’s weird. From now on, you are Owen.”
“Owen is as good as any other name. Fits one of my aliases anyway,” I said casually.
“Why did you save me? The other day, in the jumbo barn,” she asked.
“I keep asking myself the same question, Sounders. I shouldn’t have.”
“You call me by my last name one more time and I will punch you in the face. My name is Claire.”
“I know. You told me before.”
“You are not very sympathetic, anyone told you that?” She said wryly.
“I know. I wasn’t raised to be sympathetic, unless my assignment required it. At the moment, there’s no need.” I shrugged.
“I get that. But there’s no need to be a dick either.”
“Sounders, what do you want from me? I’ve saved your life twice. I’m still trying to keep you alive, although I should have thrown you out of my car somewhere on the highway. Why are you drilling me about some silly things that don’t matter? Can you just keep your mouth shut?” I had enough. I realised it wasn’t normal. I never had enough of anything, it wouldn’t make any difference if I had. But she kept prodding, and I had no clue what to do with that. It was annoying. But not annoying enough to slit her throat.
I made a mental note of this strange state of mind and boxed it into the drawer labelled ‘For Later Consideration.’
“It’s called a small talk. A chit-chat. People do it all the time. Nobody is trying to kill you now. I’m just bored and you are intriguing. I’m simply curious. No hidden agenda,” she said with a touch of mockery.
“Fine, have it your way. Why did you set me up to be arrested? You realise that if you listened to me in the first place, your colleagues from the precinct would still be alive?” I said coldly.
“Fuck off, Number Six! When the car is ready, you drive me back to the nearest town. I don’t need your help. I’d rather take my chances alone then spend time with such an ass.” Sounders was seriously ticked off. I regained my confidence at once.
“Sounds good to me. Before you do that, take out your smartphone and watch the latest news. It might be interesting.”
She snatched the phone from her jacket, scrolled a bit and found the news feed. The voice of female presenter was grim and overly dramatic–perfect recipe to send a saint over the edge.
“…THIS IS CHANNEL 9 WITH A HEART-STOPPING BREAKING NEWS ALERT THAT WILL LEAVE YOU SPEECHLESS! A catastrophic tragedy has EXPLODED in our city’s core, shattering the very fabric of our community! Detective Clare Sounders, a trusted guardian of justice, has UNLEASHED A TERRIFYING KILLING SPREE at the 5th Precinct this morning, leaving a trail of unimaginable carnage! Armed with a deadly CT-25 automatic rifle, Sounders gunned down her own colleagues in a frenzy, screaming wild accusations that they were ALIEN SPIES plotting to seize control of the precinct! SWAT teams stormed the scene in a desperate bid to stop the rampage, but the damage was done. Shockingly, authorities reveal Sounders, age 32, PASSED her recent mental health evaluation with flying colors, showing NO signs of instability—until now! Experts are buzzing with chilling theories that a HIDDEN LIMITED DISSOCIATIVE DISORDER may have triggered a psychotic meltdown, possibly sparked by a near-fatal assassination attempt on Sounders just two days ago. This horrifying bloodbath raises ALARMING questions: Are our police officers ticking time bombs? How SAFE are our streets? Detective Sounders has VANISHED from the crime scene, leaving police baffled and our city on EDGE! The public is urged to call emergency line 232323 if you spot this dangerous fugitive—BUT DO NOT APPROACH HER UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES! Stay glued to Channel 9 for heart-pounding updates, exclusive eyewitness tears, and expert speculation on this nightmare unfolding LIVE! Our thoughts are with the shattered families, but the question remains: WHAT’S NEXT?!…”
Sounders shut down the feed and snapped, “What the fuck?!” She definitely liked the word.
“Yeah oh shit, right?” I said sternly. “Are you still willing to use the amygdala instead of prefrontal cortex, Detective Sounders? You have just been branded as a raving looney, seeing green people everywhere and shooting them dead to save Mother Earth. Care for another chit-chat? A small talk perhaps?”
“Shut up. You are not helping.” She slumped into the armchair.
“Oh, you want help? A sympathetic shoulder to cry on? These things don’t exist in my world. Good bye civilian reality, welcome to Hell.”
“I’m a police detective! I’m not a fucking civilian!” She barked.
“You still don’t get it, don’t you? You guys operate on totally different premises. You always have a backup. If there isn’t any, you can call for one. You have the whole legal and enforcement apparatus behind you. At least you believe you have.Today, there is no help. So I don’t need your sympathy or social interactions. I need your eyes open and senses sharp, so I know that when somebody tries to pop a cap in my head, you’ll take him down. Without hesitation. Did I strike a chord? Did I make you angry? Do you hate me? Good. Use it. Until you can do that, you are a civilian.”
“You are a monster.” Sounders’ look was showing a funny mixture of disdain, disgust and contempt.
I checked the watch. The car was ready.
“We are good to go. Time to make a decision. Are you going with me to the safehouse or shall I drop you somewhere? Tick tock, tick tock. I don’t have time for analysis of my personality.” I looked at her with a blank face.
Sounders bit her lip, her expression tense. I saw that on people several times before–the look of a person who just realised that the world is not what he thought it was, but the wishful thinking and false sense of security sticks like a leech, trying to pull him back to the dreamland of safety and illusion of kindness. She made her decision fast.
“Safe house it is. Do you have anything else sweet to say, Number Six?” She got up, ready to go.
“Yes.” I nodded, pointing at the handcuffs at her belt. “Swap these with a knife or another gun. It’s harder to kill someone with the rings.”
“Fucking gentleman,” Sounders snarled and got up.
I turned around and led the way to the garage. I was glad not to be called ‘Owen’ anymore.