A Question of Will (3 page)

The men reached a central cul-de-sac just inside the gate area, where the residents ceased to be neighbors and traveled upon long, isolated driveways to their secluded homes, as much as a mile away. The men veered sharply left, indicating that they were off to rob the Starks.

Mark cringed inwardly. The Starks were the family in this neighborhood he would least want to see harmed. The other four families residing here represented every negative stereotype of wealth imaginable: old, arrogant, condescending, cheap, and stingy. The Starks were the polar opposites. They were young, in their thirties at most, which made them young enough to be the children or grandchildren of the other residents. Both were active in the community, with far more trips outside the fortress due to community and charitable activities than commutes to Will’s office building or personal outings. Most importantly, they were exceptionally generous with their wealth, always looking for excuses to give money away, funding new business ventures to such a degree that the domed city of Pleasanton had become an entrepreneurial haven. The children in the community played sports and engaged in various activities on fields, courts, and diamonds funded by the Starks, an endeavor likely driven by baseball-enthusiast Will. Rumor was that the Starks furnished uniforms, handled fees for umpires and officials, and generally made sure that a lack of funds was never a reason to deny a child the chance to participate in athletics.

Mark was cringing for another reason. Hope Stark was at home, and the three men were likely to encounter her as they searched for whatever item that wanted to take. Given what happened to Deron already, it was difficult to see Hope surviving their raid on her home.

He needed to do something to help Hope, without appearing to help her. “What do the Starks have that you don’t want them to possess?”

The killer didn’t respond.

“I’ve been to their house. I don’t think they keep much money there, and they really don’t keep many possessions in the house either, at least nothing of any value. Surely, men of your skills can find better places to rob? What do they have that you don’t think they should have?”

The soulless red eyes turned to him. “Freedom. Life.”

“What?” Mark spluttered. “I... I thought you said you weren’t going to hurt anyone?”

“Those men will deprive Mr. Stark of freedom.” He smiled, a look which chilled the air in the room. “And I will deprive Mrs. Stark of life. She will not suffer.”

“You... you can’t do that!” Mark shouted, surprising himself. “I’ll stop you!”

The killer snorted.

Mark charged him. He once again found himself on the ground, face-down, with his arms pinned behind his back. “Listen closely,” the killer hissed. “I am tolerating your presence solely because you will yet be of service to me. Your cooperation for the remainder of your useless life determines whether Gena Adams lives... or how slowly she dies.” He paused, the scars seeming to sear more deeply into his face. “I am not pleased at the moment.”

The killer walked to the control panel and placed his left hand on the panic button, his right hand still holding the sword. He never took his eyes off Mark, but Mark watched the control panel, puzzled. A small burst of fire erupted from the man’s hand — no, that was impossible, wasn’t it? — and suddenly the circuitry for the panic button was in flames.

“Not pleased at all.” The threat was clear. This man could do more than hurt Gena with a sword; he could burn her until she was in excruciating pain.

Mark would do what he could to save Hope Stark’s life, but he was terrified of a man who could kill with such efficiency, attack with such swiftness...and who could somehow shoot flames from his hands at will. With his own death now imminent, though, his courage would be focused on preventing any harm to Gena...even if that meant sacrificing Hope Stark. Courage was in short supply at present. “What do I do now, then?” he asked, his voice timid.

“Wait.”

“Wait? For what?”

“A phone call.”

And he waited.

II

Appeasement

The man wore a black shirt with a golden circle emblem, black pants, and matching black boots. On his belt was a sheath that held a short, sharp sword, a weapon the man had used to kill on many occasions. Killing was something which provided him great satisfaction, especially those kills affecting the group he referred to as humans. It was rumored that each of the scars marring his head signified a single authorized kill, and his bald head was littered with dozens of such markings. He had earned his title: Assassin. His blood-red eyes were a testament to his skill.

The Assassin crept along the inside of the massive concrete wall surrounding the community called De Gray Estates, moving slowly so as to avoid detection by the many cameras watching for intruders. As he neared each camera, he would hold out his hand, and a small flash of light would render the camera inoperable. He reached the base of the giant Guard Tower flanking one side of the wide driveway serving as the vehicular entry to the community. The driveway was blocked by a massive concrete gate that lowered into the ground only when a resident passed a retinal scan test, at which point the on-duty guard acknowledged their identity and opened the gate. Guards were able to allow entry via a double-door “man-trap” as well. Guests could enter using the same procedures, provided that a resident had previously authorized the visit.

Three other men walked toward the ground-level Guard Station on the other side of the driveway, traveling on the well-lit sidewalk. The man in the Station and the man in the Tower both watched these men, and neither of them noticed the greater threat as he reached the base of the Tower. The Assassin scaled the outside of the Tower, gripping the mortar gaps with his fingertips as he moved upward. Upon reaching the top of the Tower, the Assassin paused momentarily, and then an instant later he was inside. Below, the Station guard ordered the three men to comply with procedures for entering the community. His partner in the Tower turned away from the window to contact the police about the situation.

The guard saw the scar-faced Assassin, and he sensed the aura of pure evil about the killer, and saw the blood-red eyes. He opened his mouth to scream, to yell out a warning to the man on the ground. The sword was faster, though. The Assassin removed it from the sheath and slashed out, his movements a blur, and the guard could not cry out a warning as the blade severed his windpipe and jugular vein at once. The guard clutched his throat, but it was a futile gesture. The blood gushed from the fatal wound, and the guard’s eyes widened as he was unable to get air to his screaming lungs. He collapsed face-first to the ground, his body in shock and twitching as it desperately fought to live. It was a fight he would lose.

The Assassin seemed distressed. He moved to the dying man, and using his boot rolled the guard over, in order to see the man’s face, and watch his eyes as the light signaling life slowly faded. It took only a few moments, and a hideous smile crossed the Assassin’s face. He was overjoyed, drunk on the thrill of the kill, and was eager for more. But he knew he must follow the plan, and must get his companions inside the walls so that they could set the trap for the man known as Will Stark. He must get down to the ground-level Guard Station, prevent the guard there from notifying the human authorities, and coerce him into letting his men inside. He could eliminate all human police that came at him, but the group’s rules were clear: do not be seen, and kill as few humans as possible. The first rule was inviolate; all other portions of the plan must be adapted to ensure there was no trace of their presence.

It would take too long to climb the stairs to the ground, and doing so would give the guard the opportunity to hit his panic button and notify his police. The Assassin needed to get inside the building before the second guard recognized trouble. The man would eventually realize his partner wasn’t responding over the microphone link established a few moments earlier between the two buildings. The Assassin’s blood-red eyes fell upon the dead body, and the large glass-sided wall nearest the Guard Station. A cruel smile invaded his scarred face, his evil eyes lighting up in anticipation.

He’d never launched a missile before.

He picked up the dead body at his feet, got a running start, and hurled the body through the glass, shattering the window into thousands of pieces. His watched as the body arced through the air, sailed over the driveway, and crashed into the Guard Station roof, falling into the single room below.

The Assassin’s emotions were a rising thrill of anticipation as he contemplated the two remaining deaths he would initiate this day. He raced to the opening in the glass with a burst of adrenaline and leaped through, covering the distance across the driveway as he fell. He landed, catlike, on the roof, where he could already sense the terror in the guard below. The man had seen his friend’s corpse. The Assassin dropped through the opening...

Hope Stark woke, her breaths short, and she sat straight up in her bed. She’d only meant to take a short nap after a long day working with her son, enough to re-energize her for the evening, but a glance at the clock told her she’d overslept. Tonight, she and her son would join her husband, Will, for dinner at Will’s favorite steakhouse. It was Will’s thirty-fifth birthday.

Right now, though, she was having trouble getting the nightmare out of her mind. In that nightmare, four men dressed in black had worked together to kill one guard at the entrance to her gated community, and those men planned to use the second guard to gain entry and kill at least one other person. Was it her? Her son? Her husband, once he arrived home? She wouldn’t have the dream if a member of her family wasn’t the intended victim, would she? She tried to convince herself it was nothing more than a bad dream, but the images and sounds were incredibly vivid. Worse, she was still sensing the emotion of the killer, feeling his thrill in killing one man and the joyous anticipation he had at the prospect of causing more deaths. She shuddered.

Hope stretched, rose from the bed, and marched into her bathroom. She glanced at her reflection, deciding that she presently met the definition of frumpy: jeans, an over-sized sweatshirt, and her golden hair pulled back in a ponytail. She splashed cold water on her face, both in an effort to fully wake up from her nap, and to shake the dream and the ongoing sense of dread from her mind. Though a success in terms of waking her up, the cold water had no impact on her tense mood. Why would someone want to kill her, her husband, or her son?

She re-entered the bedroom and walked to a large wall painting. She pulled on one side, and the painting swung open on its hinge, revealing a hidden wall safe. Her hands were trembling; the sensation of dread, and the feeling that she was somehow being watched, was increasing. She finally got the combination entered correctly, opened the safe, and pulled out the gun. Guns were illegal in 2030 for anyone not granted a license as a militia member; most States had passed laws stating that their official militias were exclusively formed of the members of local police departments and the National Guard. Somehow, Will had convinced someone that an exception should be made for him, and the gun and several clips of ammunition appeared in the safe one day. Hope knew that somewhere, a family was living much more comfortably today than they might otherwise, courtesy of a large cash contribution from her husband. She didn’t mind. They had more money than they could ever spend in many lifetimes, and the peace of mind that came from owning the weapon was worth any price.

Whatever that price was, however, it wasn’t enough to eliminate the sense she now had that she was being watched, a sensation so powerful that she believed someone unwelcome was in the house.

She heard a thump from down the hall. Josh’s room. She heard the dog, Smokey, growl, and then bark. No. She would not let them hurt her son. Gun in hand, Hope sprinted for the boy’s room. Drawing a deep breath, she flung the door open, dreading what she’d find inside, expecting to find a scene of horror.

What she found was a miracle.

Josh, her six-year-old son, was not lying down on his bed with his dog Smokey at his side, mortally wounded by the hand of the unseen intruder. Rather, he was sitting on the side of his bed, a baseball in his hand. Smokey, his four-year-old black Labrador retriever, stood several feet away, tail wagging furiously, eyes watching the baseball with great intensity. As Hope watched, the dog began to growl, and then barked twice at Josh. The boy smiled and tossed the baseball over the dog’s head. The ball thudded into the wall and bounced to the ground, with Smokey following in hot pursuit. The dog finally retrieved the ball, tail high and wagging, and she trotted back to Josh with the treasure in her mouth. The boy held out his hand, and Smokey deposited the slobbery baseball in Josh’s hand.

“Josh?” Hope’s voice was barely above a whisper.

The boy and his dog both turned, having just then realized she was there. “I couldn’t sleep, Mommy,” he said. Josh spoke in a slow, measured pace, as if English were a second language he was learning and he had to first translate from his native tongue.

Hope put the gun on a shelf near the door and raced to her son, smothering him in a fierce hug, smoothing down his sandy-blond hair. Smokey, irritated at the temporary loss of her playmate, barked, and Josh dropped the ball on the ground, his throwing arm pinned to his side by his affectionate mother. “It’s a miracle,” Hope whispered, her eyes full of tears of joy. “A miracle.” For the four words Josh had said as his mother entered his room were the first words the six-year-old had ever spoken.