Living in Syn (34 page)

As he
walked away, he turned and yelled, "Just stop standing in front of loaded
guns!"

Then he
turned to the rest of the group.  "We're as ready as we'll ever be.  Rest
tomorrow and we'll storm the castle on the day after."

Mission
sat on the couch, cleaning his Glock.  A glass of iced tea sat on the coffee
table in front of him.  Susan rushed through the door saying hello on her way
into the bedroom.  A moment later she rushed back into the room in a state of
undress asking, "You're getting ready to do it, aren't you?"

Mission
turned to look at Susan topless and said, "I'm sorry, but I seem to be
suffering from a severe lack of blood to my brain."

He stood
up and moved toward her.  "I think it's all headed someplace else."

He
kissed her as he ran his hands over her.  She tried to pull away.  "No
really.  Are you planning ... "

Mission
kissed her again and said, "No really.  Let me tell you what I'm planning
for you."

He
whispered in her ear and she surrendered quickly.

Later,
they laid on the bed and talked idle talk.  Then Mission asked, "What have
you heard from Sabrina?"

"Well,
she hasn't been able to slip away and her transmission failed as
unrecognizable."

"How
so?"

"Garbled,
unable to confirm integrity."

"What
about the parity bits?"

"Stripped
or blended, it's impossible to tell.  Elliot says this is one of the risks of
going with high burst transmissions.  We'll get the next one."

They
were silent for a while and then Susan said, "Mission, recognize how
vulnerable a naked man is and tell me why you are cleaning your gun and
drinking iced tea."

"We're
going into the Winwood on Sunday."

"When
were you going to tell me?"

"I
don't know.  I wanted to spare you the worry and me the arguments."

"Mission,
I'm going to spare you the pain of retirement.  I'll kill you before you get
that old.  So, you are going to indulge your macho, death wish fantasies
again?"

"Susan,
I have to do this.  I have to."

"Why? 
Some debt of honor, some act of revenge for Miller?  Do you think Miller wants
you to die for him?  Is it more important to honor him than to spend your life
with me?"

"Oh,
well that's fair.  I can't necessarily explain this, but I can tell you it is
so elemental to me, that if I don't do it, Mission doesn't exist anymore.  Then
you definitely don't have me here as your partner.  At least going to the
Winwood, I have a chance to come back to you."

Susan
trembled with anger.  "That is so slippery.  You've gotten by with that
kind of crap all your life, haven't you?  Well, it doesn't make it with me. 
You risked your life for fourteen years.  How long is enough?  Do you intend to
do this till you die trying?  Or are you going to retire undefeated?"

Mission
exploded.  "I don't know.  How the hell can I tell you what I'm going to
do when I don't know myself?  We'll have some extra money after this mission
and I thought I'd check into an alcohol program and see if changing that part
of my life would help to surface any new career options.  That and planning on
making love to you every day and taking you out to dinner and movies are about
as far as my plans go."

Susan
nodded and said, "The dinner and movies part sounds good."

Mission
threw a pillow at her and then grabbed her and held her close.  "I may
entertain macho fantasies, but I do not have a death wish.  We'll be eating
Chinese takeout come Sunday night."

"If
not, I'm giving your ashes to my father."   

Carson,
Montag, and Pete met at Mission's apartment for weapons check, as it was
closest to the Free Zone.  They put on the flak suits first and then their
grunge clothes selected specially for life in the Zone.  Then they strapped on
the vests.  The pockets and loops for their weapons and equipment were located
on the sides. 

Mission
turned to Pete and said, "I've been meaning to ask.  Why is everything
pushed to the sides on these vests?"

The Army
compiled millions of stats on bad soldiers, great soldiers, and mediocre ones. 
No matter what, the odds say if you take a hit, it will be to the chest area. 
A flak suit doesn't help if the shot triggers a grenade hanging on your chest. 
Make sense?"

Mission
nodded.  "I knew there had to be a reason."

They put
their contact lenses in and then went to work on their firearms, fitting the
holsters around the vest rigs.  Mission had twice the trouble getting his Glock
and his battery pack situated.  Mission added his topcoat and they looked at
the flak suit hoods.  They were designed to look like sweat suit hoods and they
came with tiny speakers for the ears. Fortunately they didn't look strange with
the hoods since it was January and about 36
o
 outside.

Mission
said, "I'll approach from the north and stop about two blocks short of the
hotel.  Arrival time at noon.  Car and Montag approach from the east and stop
two blocks past at 12:30.  Pete approaches from the west and picks up Car and
Montag at 12:45 and meet me in front of the Winwood steps at 12:50.  Are we
ready?"

Montag
nodded solemnly.  Carson bobbed his head and the sheer intensity in Pete's eyes
said yes, yes, yes.  The time was upon them.

Mission
pulled in a lungful of smoke and smiled.  He sprawled on the littered and
broken pavement of an alleyway with three other drunks.  He got his double shot
first and then passed the bottle over to the winos.  Pete almost died when Carson
told him that Mission wouldn't wear a watch, but he would get over it.  Mission
estimated it was a little after 12:45 and he rose unsteadily and plotted a
weaving course in the direction of the Winwood.

He moved
to just outside the steps of the hotel and steadied himself on the railing,
swinging around in a slow arc that revealed Montag and Pierce about twenty-five
yards behind Pete and approaching slowly.  They were close enough to cover
Mission and, as they agreed, he went up the stairs first.  Junkies laid on the
landing on either side of the doors and as Mission pulled on the right side
door handle, a monstrous man, at least seven feet and 380 pounds appeared.

His
voice ran so low it was like a foghorn.  "Who the hell are you?"

Mission
said, "I just wanna come in for a minute."

He
looked around and noticed the junkies were unusually alert since he had touched
the door.  Goliath said, "I don't know you.  You get the hell out of
here."

The door
slammed shut and Mission staggered back down the steps, although he had
definitely blown his cover.  He made his way to the alley beside the hotel and
noticed the others moving in the opposite direction.  They would meet him to
confer.

Mission
extended a bottle and Pete grabbed it and took a swig.  They huddled as Pete
passed the bottle on to Carson and Mission whispered, "Goliath there fills
the whole damned doorway and those junkies laying around are guards too.  We
won't get in without a big scuffle."

"Hey!
Hey you guys!"  They looked up to see a fifteen or sixteen year old kid
with a weird patterned haircut and an Army jacket over chinos motioning to
them.  Mission moved over first with the rest following.

"Whatcha
want kid?"

"Money. 
I saw you.  All of you.  You want in the hotel.  There's five different service
entrances in the back.  I'll show you where you can crawl in the laundry chute
for a hundred bucks."

Mission
looked at the rest of them and then turned back to the kid.  "Done.  When
we see the entrance."

The kid
motioned for them to follow and walked them through the alley.  Mission stayed
closest to him and a thought hit him.  "What about guards up top?"

The kid
pointed up toward the southeast corner and his arm pulled far enough out of his
Army jacket sleeve to reveal a
Doctor Robert
tattoo. The file cards spun
like lightning in Mission’s mind. …Doctor Robert was a song…a song from The
Beatles Revolver…a song written by…John Lennon…

 He was
a Johnson! Mission knocked the kid flat yelling, "Retreat!"

The
cardboard boxes and trash piles erupted with five Johnsons, screaming and
charging with knives almost long enough to qualify as machetes.  Carson,
Montag, and Mission hit the ground while drawing their weapons.  Pete only went
down on a knee and sprayed the alley with his Stiletto.  The brick wall of the
building in front of him threw off huge chips of masonry as the ionized charges
exploded into flame.

Four of
the Johnsons died on the spot.  The fifth one screamed in tortured agony.  He
had a least three shots in the abdomen and the fire was eating him up.  Pete
walked up to him and fired a shot into his forehead.  Mission screamed,
"What in the fuck did you do that for?"

"Hey,
this is the Zone.  Anything goes."
       Mission looked at Pete for a second and then hit him so quickly with a
left to the face, it was difficult to believe it actually happened.  Mission
stood over him and hissed,  "You like this too goddamned much.  You kill
without a reason again, and I'll drop you on the spot."

He was
about to give Wells even more grief when he realized a crowd formed at the
entrance to the alley and was impeding several of the
junkie
hotel
guards.  Mission caught Montag's eye and motioned toward the
junkies
. 
Montag understood immediately and moved toward the crowd, along the hotel wall
to avoid any lookouts on the roof.

Mission
motioned to Carson and Pete and they moved in the opposite direction.  Mission
whispered, "We drew the interest of the guards.  Montag is taking them out
with the interrupters.  If we catch a break, Goliath may come out on the steps
to see if he can figure out what's going on."

Carson finished
for him.  "And we come up from the opposite side and get in the hotel
behind him.  How did you know it was an ambush?"

"
Doctor
Robert
tattoo on his wrist.  Definitely one of the sons of John."

He
looked at Pete and nodded toward Goliath.  "Don't kill this guy.  We knock
him down the steps and he won't get up for a while."

Pete
said nothing.  They reached the back of the hotel and raced across it to the
alley.  The kid lied.  Everything in back was welded and padlocked shut.  They
reached the end of the alley and took a cautious right.  They came to the steps
and Mission motioned for Carson to give him a boost.  Crouching on Carson's
shoulders, Mission could peek under the bottom of the stair railing.  Sure
enough, Goliath kept moving a step or two from the door to look over toward the
alley, wondering why the
junkies
hadn't reported back.

Mission
motioned down for Carson and Pete to give him a push on three.  He mouthed the
count and on three pulled on the railing with all his strength as they pushed him
up.  Mission let go and grabbed the step railing at the top.  He gained enough
momentum to swing over and onto the landing.  Goliath saw him and turned but it
was too late.  Mission stood between him and the door.  As Goliath pulled back
his right hand, Mission kicked him on the left kneecap. The shock of the blow
gave Mission time to set up for a kick directly to the sternum.  Goliath
tumbled over backwards down the steps and lay very still at the bottom.

Mission
looked down to see Montag giving him the thumbs up signal and then Pete and Carson
joined him at the top of the stairs.  Mission took a deep breath.  They all had
their right hands inside their coats.  Nothing suspicious there.  He opened the
door and they calmly walked in.

There
was no one inside.  They walked through what was once the lobby of a grand
hotel.  Now it was arranged like a sort of flea market church.  Mission always
felt uncomfortable inside magnificent churches with elaborate pipe organs and
stained glass, and velvet and pewter and so on. 

Perhaps
he would feel more comfortable in this place.  Abandoned sofas, weather beaten
lawn furniture, picnic benches, school desk/seats, a section of movie theater
chairs, and any other type of seat imaginable were all arranged into rows with a
center aisle leading to a three step elevated area.  At the front of that area
stood a four-foot refrigerator with the door open and what looked to be a
family Bible on top.  The pulpit.  Behind the makeshift pulpit sat a reclining
chair which now served as a throne.  It was spray painted purple and draped
with imitation gold chains and other jewelry.  Old, torn oriental rugs hanging
from the ceiling covered the walls.  Perhaps their purpose was to cover all the
windows or perhaps to deaden the sounds of the Zone outside.  They moved more
than halfway down the aisle and still no one appeared.  That seemed strange for
such vigilant protection right outside the door.

Mission
cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Hello!  Is anyone
here?"

He
stopped and listened.  Nothing.  He would try again.  "Hello!  We are
looking for Paine!  My name is ... "

A voice
from somewhere beyond their sight said, "You are Pilate.  Pontius Pilate. 
I know all about you."

Up from
behind the throne stepped a bearded, robed, long haired man with eyes like twin
beacons.  It could only be Paine.  He pointed at Mission and said,  "I
know all about you.  You are a murderer and a mercenary and yet you come to me
today, too moral to kill me yourself.  You come here to wash your hands of me
and turn me over to a frothing and foaming crowd, shaking your head sadly and
saying that at least my death is not on your hands."

Mission
shook his head.  "I am no Pontius Pilate, I am here as a negotiator.  And
you are definitely no Christ."

Paine
looked at Mission with eyes still blazing.  "I am willing to look at this
from your point of view.  Perhaps I should call you Burke instead?"

Mission felt
like he was back in school, and being severely tested. What did he remember
about Edmund Burke?  He cocked his head to the side. "Maybe. He rooted for
the American revolutionaries and opposed the French? You know why? Because one
group did it the right way. The French, not so much. Combat models?
Assassinations? You don’t deserve to lead.   And I’m already tired of your
games.  I’m here to negotiate."

Paine
jumped up to the pulpit and pointed along finger at Mission.  "Good for
you!  Strip away the deceptions.  Get to the heart of it.  You keep saying you’re
here to negotiate but you all carry weapons to kill me and my people."

He moved
to the side so they could see his entire body and he made a dramatic gesture,
raising both of his arms to the heavens.  Then he looked at them
confidentially, almost conspiratorially.  "I will make the first gesture
of honesty and sincerity."

He moved
back to his throne and reached up to grab the bottom of the rug that hung on
that wall.  He tugged on it and it fell to the ground.

Mission
looked up and said, "Oh Jesus!"  The rest of the team gasped along
with him.  Upside down on the wall hung Sabrina, crucified.  A single nail
pierced both her feet and then a nail through each wrist.  They had burned her
eyes out and blood trickled down across her face and through her hair.

Paine
yelled, "Start it back up!"

A slow
stream of water ran down over her and Paine picked up a rod which he touched to
her.  Sparks jumped off her and she screamed pure agony.  Paine seemed
delighted. 

"Just
enough volts to trip every nerve in her body, but not enough for any permanent
damage.  I'm afraid I can't say the same for you."

Mission
turned and looked at more than twenty synthetics training weapons on them.  He
saw another twenty or so still rolling out from underneath the old sofas and
other pieces of covered seating.

Paine
looked at them abstractly.  "You know, Peter's guilt in denying Christ was
so great that he insisted on being crucified upside-down.  Do you think it's an
act that builds character?"

He
jumped down and approached Mission.  "Alright Pilate.  It's time for the
two of us to talk.  You and your followers can throw down your weapons so you
and I can chat, or you can all die now.  We didn't destroy Sabrina's ears, so
she can hear your screams when they come.  I'm excited about either
option."

Mission
dropped his Glock on the floor and said, "Why, I'm dying to talk to you,
Paine."

He turned
and motioned for the others to follow suit.  Each of them only dropped one
firearm and the syns seemed content to leave it at that.  Perhaps it had
something to do with the forty to four odds.