Anarchy in New Enlgand (21 page)

There were no other signs that the first wave of gunmen had entered this floor yet, and White wondered where the partners had gone. His sunglasses lit up with an alert. A responding AP unit had arrived on the scene, and moments later he heard an exchange of gunfire erupt outside. Before it ended, he decided he needed to make his move. White couldn’t decide whether to get out now, or to first attempt to inflict more damage on the building, and possibly kill Atlas in the process, which would substantially increase his pay. Just when he decided to look for a back exit, White heard the muffled sound of something heavy clunking against thin metal, followed by an explosion. Then he heard another object clunking against metal, followed by a small pop, and the distant and muted sound of steam escaping.

A commotion quickly ensued from one hallway over on the same floor White was on; the top story. There was coughing and yelling, and then another clunking sound, followed by another hissing gas sound. On the roof, the two partner thugs were tossing their tear gas canisters into the vents which had been opened up by a grenade to ensure they would sufficiently leak the tear gas into the offices and command center.

In the secure control room, the tear gas was leaking out of the vents and enveloping the operators. Atlas was yelling to remain calm, as people dropped to the ground coughing. A sliding metal sound told White that someone was unlocking the secure room, and a man came running around the corner coughing, fleeing the gas. Agent White fired, and he thought he hit the man, who fell back bending at the knees and catching himself with his hands, before doing a crab-like walk to drag himself out of the line of fire. The woman who came immediately behind the first man gasped, and threw herself backwards avoiding another bullet sent by White toward the terrified Atlas Protection employees.

White heard a couple whispers, a click, and then something the size of a baseball flew from around the corner where the employees had come from, hit against the wall, and started rolling toward Agent White. White dove back through the twisted remnants of the door, but his right leg got caught on the jagged strip that had cut his back, and now dug into his calf, keeping his leg in the hallway as the flashbang exploded just inches away. As his vision went white for a second, he felt searing pain shoot up his shin. His ears rang worse than before, and his head throbbed more painfully than the most intense hangover. Yelling expletives White yanked his foot into the stairwell to find his left leg had been badly burnt below the knee to the point where blisters abounded, and one flap of skin appeared to be dangling and melted. His calf was bleeding from the jagged door’s puncture wound, but it didn’t look like anything major had been severed.

Agent White could hardly focus on anything but his agonizing injuries, until he heard the footsteps of someone quickly climbing the stairs a few floors below. Not quite sure what his next move would be, White buried the pain, and jumped to his feet, limping, looking around for the method used by the partner thugs to get to the roof. If they didn’t have a plan of how to escape off the roof, White still liked his chances there better than trying to storm out the front door with Atlas units waiting outside.

White had to jump to reach the metal ladder which ascended through a vertical shaft toward the roof. It was usually blocked by a metal cage at the bottom, but this was left open by the others’ bullets. Looking up, White was happy to see the roof hatch likewise left open, so he pulled himself up, and began to climb, babying his throbbing right leg.

A lead projectile clinked on the ladder and sprayed hot fragments of metal into White’s hand a split second before he heard the gunshot from below. The footsteps had been the employee from the first floor firing up the stairwell at White. The other bullets didn’t land as close, and White sped up his climb to the roof. The employee reloaded and climbed another set of stairs as White heaved himself out of the hatch and onto the gravel-covered roof, narrowly avoiding the next barrage of bullets from a few floors below, which whizzed into the air above the building.

On the roof, Agent White rolled onto his back, and took a moment to catch his breath before looking over to the partner thugs, who apparently had come well prepared. They were strapped into harnesses with black ropes attached, hammering anchors into the top of the roof. They saw White, but didn’t bother waiting for him; their payment was in escrow and did not depend on White’s survival.

In unison, the two jumped backwards off the side of the roof, and began to repel down the wall of the building. Stumbling to his feet, White half crawled half limped to the front edge of the building, and looked over to see the bodies of the two thugs that were left outside to hold off the responding Atlas Protection unit. He could also see a group of three AP officers nursing one unit’s wounds, and NESA cars turning onto the street, sirens blaring. Officially the NESA agents were responding to the AP distress call, but really they were doing everything they could to obstruct the AP team that had arrived despite NESA’s best efforts.

Agent White did his best to run/limp to the side of the roof where the two thugs had repelled. In the distance he could make out a large white skyship drifting toward the roof. White took off his ripped bloody t-shirt, and wrapped it around one of the ropes, placing his hands around the wadded-up t-shirt. He moved to the side of the roof, and looked down, which he immediately realized was a mistake as his stomach lurched and his heart sank – he should have just taken the plunge. He gripped his t-shirt wrapped around the rope, alternating between a tight hold, and a loose grip, allowing himself to slide down the rope, guided by his feet, without the rope burning his hands.

About three or four stories above the ground level ally, the thug whose rope White had latched onto saw White, and yelled at him to get off the rope, since White’s weight on the line was destabilizing him. Agent White ignored him, but the thug started to tug at the rope, and swing it back and forth to loosen White’s hold. White’s feet slipped, and he fell three meters before being able to once again grip the rope tightly enough through the t-shirt to stop his descent. Agent White grabbed the rope with his feet again, and gritting his teeth, let go with one hand to grab the knife in his pocket.

"Get off, you piece of shit!" The thug bellowed from below, but White again ignored him, and reached down in a crouching position so that his right hand could reach below where his feet and bent knees were tightly holding the rope.

Supporting his weight mostly with his left hand and feet, White ran his blade across the rope, swinging wildly to and fro, hardly able to keep from plummeting. Three more quick slashes with the blade, and the rope snapped before the thug below realized what was even happening. The thug screamed unintelligibly as he plummeted to the ground over 13 meters, landing on his back. His partner yelled wildly, and then proceeded to descend double time down his rope toward his friend.

White was then left hanging almost four stories up from a rope which he had cut from underneath himself. He caught his breath, and looked down to see the fallen thug writhing in pain; it surprised White that he had survived the fall and was still conscious. As the thug screamed in agony, White hoped he could make it to the ground before units in front of the building heard the pitiful cries of the crippled thug, and came to investigate.

White reaffirmed his grip on the rope, and placed his feet against the building. Taking a deep breath and clenching his jaw, he ran sideways across the wall until the rope was pulled tight, and he could run no further. He pushed off hard with all the might his legs could muster, reintroducing searing pain into his burnt and lacerated right leg. As he let go of the rope, he fell another three meters before reaching the intact rope of the second thug. Grabbing at that line, White slipped even further down, almost losing his grip twice as his stomach dropped with him, his hands sliding over the rope with no t-shirt to stop the burn. Flesh was ripped off his left hand, but stayed on, forming a bloody flap, as White finally stabilized himself on the rope, two floors above the ground.

The second thug was just reaching the ground and unhitching himself from the rope. He ran over to his fallen friend, and threw himself to his knees next to him, trying to help, knowing full well there was nothing he could do. Nevertheless this gave White the opportunity to descend the rest of the rope in peace, babying his torn hand, burnt bleeding leg, and sore right hand embedded with lead shrapnel from the bursting bullet spray.

White quickly surveyed his surroundings once down in the alley next to the building where the unharmed thug tended to his fallen partner. He was surprised that still no units had surrounded the building, and guessed this was due to the obstruction of NESA troops. Catching his breath, White turned away from the thugs, and walked as swiftly as he could limp to take his leave.

Agent White was a sorry sight to behold. Both hands were bleeding, the left mangled, the right embedded with lead. His shirt was gone, and there were rope burns on his chest and arms. His back was crusted in blood, with a long cut from his shoulder blade to his lower back still dripping on and off. His pants were ripped and torn, bright red flesh showing through on his right shin where the flashbang had scalded him. The same leg was still bleeding from the puncture wound in his calf from the exploded metal door.

He was sweating, his eyes were red and swollen from the pepper spray, his ears still rang, and he kept coughing from various smokes and other fumes that had found their way into his lungs. He tried to act as natural as possible for someone without a shirt, in his condition, while limping down the sidewalk away from the building that was lit up with alarms, sirens, and arriving units, as wisps of smoke floated toward the sky. Bright search lights descended from the AP skyship that was searching the roof, and would undoubtedly soon begin to canvass the area for the escaped attackers.

The one remaining uninjured thug came running around the corner. "Agent White," he yelled, not quite angrily, more pleading. It looked like there may have been tears in his eyes. "Don’t leave me here!" he begged, his voice cracking on "me." He looked even younger than before, despite the bags under his eyes, dirt on his face, and sweat-drenched clothes and body.

Agent White paused, turned to look at the boy, then turned back away without a word, and continued limping in the direction of the mag pod stop (reopened with the help of Drake). White got there, ordered a pod, and by the time it arrived seconds later, the remaining young thug was jogging up behind him, eyes wide, breathing heavy, mouth agape. White was in the pod, and the thug could see he was about to close the door.

"Just let me come with you! If they catch me they are that much closer to catching you!" he shouted, attempting anger, but sounding more like a child whose parent wouldn’t get him what he wanted in the grocery store.

White sighed, like he was giving in, lazily placing his right hand in his pocket. He nodded toward the pod as if to say, "come on", and the young thug stepped forward thinking he would gain entrance and share the pod in escape. But White, in one fluid motion pulled his hand out of his pocket, aimed his handgun at the youngster’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. His face was emotionless, he felt nothing. It was just easier to have no loose ends. The thug, looking more boyish than ever, crumpled to the ground dead, eyes wide, as the pod door closed.

White entered the location of a busy pod terminal in the sketchiest area he could think of, so that he could switch pods in order to elude any agents who might be following him. In the chaos it was unlikely that anyone would be on his tail anyway. He called Drake from his glasses.

Drake answered immediately, his eyes wider than normal, obviously on the edge of his seat. "Is it done?" he blurted out. "The men you sent here are dead."

"It’s done. We inflicted a lot of damage on the building and equipment. It should be tough for them to run operations smoothly for a while."

"And Atlas?" Drake almost yelled it, unable to hold back.

"He’s alive as far as I know."

Drake frowned, pushing his mouth to one side. He was disappointed that Atlas hadn’t been taken out, but was still satisfied with the progress.

"Okay. The money is in your account." A notification presently popped up on White’s glasses that confirmed the money had been deposited into an account under a false name, from an account under a false name.

Without another word, White ended the video call. Drake was left mid-sentence saying something like, "Whenever you feel up to it-."

Stepping out of the pod in the terminal, White briskly continued, walking onto the street. He ignored the stares of a few onlookers. They were no one to worry about; not the type to report that they saw him anyway. It was getting later and the area was frequented at this time mostly by drug addicts and other miscreants.

Agent White walked, still shirtless, ignoring the pain in his leg until he spotted a man with a relatively clean coat and pants. The man looked like he was coming down from some drug, and was slumped sitting against a wall at the entrance of an alleyway just off the main road, one knee bent with the foot on the ground, the other leg outstretched.

"I need your pants and jacket," White told the man in a nonchalant tone.

Looking blankly, glazed eyes lazily surveying White, the man slowly replied an unintelligible word, "whaa," that expressed confusion. White pulled a wad of notes from his pocket, rapidly counted $500 and tossed it down to the addict. The man’s eyebrows raised, and his eyes widened, no doubt thinking about the next hit he would now be able to buy.