| HOME | BACK | DISCUSS |
(Chapters 1 – 4 By EleCivil and Ryan Miller)
The chance to take a deep breath let Hawke slow down enough for fatigue to catch up with him. He had been outrunning it all day--and doing a damn good job--which is why it hit him like a sucker punch out in the hallway. He leaned against the wall and let his back slide down until he was sitting on the musty red carpet. He held up the two-way Kelly had given him and ran his thumb over the smooth surface. It was small and round and felt unusually dense, like a woman’s compact would feel if you filled it with lead. His weak thumb tried to flip it open, but he fumbled it onto the floor. Picking it up, he forsook dexterity and opened the top with his other hand.
Keep this with you at all times, Kelly had told him. It has a secure line and a dedicated satellite, so our conversations can remain clandestine. Call for assistance if anything goes wrong. Any questions?
Does it come in blue?
His quip had gone unnoticed as he was handed the white comm pad.
In the hallway he looked down at the snowy LDC screen on the top lid and dialed the number for John on the key pad below. John’s image flickered onto the screen and he looked a little puzzled to see Hawke staring back.
“That was fast,” said John. “I guess we underestimated your potential.”
“We have a problem,” replied Hawke.
“Wait a minute,” said John. “You didn’t put a bullet in the kid’s foot or anything, did you?”
“No, someone else beat me to the hit.”
“What do you mean, ‘someone else’?”
“I mean I got there and there were bodies all over the place. About a dozen Factioners had been torn to bits and thrown all over the apartment, and Dr. Boudoir was already dead.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Is the kid still alive?”
“He’s alive, but he was shot by whoever ransacked the place. It looks like Grey Faction knew Boudoir was a wanted man and sent guards to protect him. But whoever hit that place wasn’t even phased by 12 armed men.”
“Are you with the kid?”
“Yeah, he’s safe. I got him stitched up and--”
“You took him to a god-damn hospital! Jesus, Raven!”
“Calm down, Johnny Boy. I took him to an old friend who was a medic in the army. And she doesn’t know I’m on a job, either.”
“Good. Just stay there, for now. Whatever you do, don’t leave the kid.”
“I’m not going anywhere, at least until morning.”
Hawke flipped his comm pad shut and slipped it back into a pocket on the thigh of his cargos. He had no problem staying with Seth—no more than anyone would after being told to look after a golden-haired angel—but hated being told to by John.
Hawke walked through Deidra’s place towards the living room in the back and dropped his trench coat on top of the coffee table in front of him as sat down on the couch. The only light left on in the apartment was the lamp on the end table. Deidra and Seth had both fallen asleep and Hawke was musing ideas of following suit. From where he sat he could see the reflection of the front door in the rain-beaten window and, out the corner of his left eye, the hallway where Deidra and Seth were sleeping.
Eyes like a Hawke, his drill sergeant would say. It was a stupid joke, but it still made Raven smile. He took another deep breath and sank back into the couch.
The sound of a doorframe splintering and the front door banging against the wall caused Hawke to dive down in front of the couch onto the floor. He kept low and still, like a good little Special Forces Lieutenant.
“You didn’t have to break down the door,” said the deep voice of a woman with a thick Russian accent.
“You think I got where I am by taking chances?” asked John.
John had arrived no more than half an hour after talking with Hawke on the comm pad. The comm pad, the stupid clumsy device Kelly had insisted Hawke take with him everywhere, was far too dense to be a simple two-way, but just right for a tracking deceive. Hawke made a note to ditch any other electronics Kelly had given him.
“I think you got where you are by being an ass-kisser,” replied the woman.
“Oh yeah?” retorted John
“I’m going to have to side with the lady,” said Hawke, standing up from behind the couch.
The stern look the woman gave him made him consider recanting the lady remark. That, or her ruggedly handsome features. She was tall, broad-shouldered and wore black a leather tunic and matching pants with red pinstripes down each side. Her brown hair was tied back in a tight bun and her eyebrows stood united over her scowling brow. John was sporting his tacky brown suit and faded dress shirt and his rat-like eyes leered at the sight of Hawke. Both intruders were holstering black weapons that resembled compact radar guns, but Hawke knew they were something more sinister.
“Pardon the intrusion, Raven, but your job tonight isn’t over yet,” said John.
“If you told me you were coming, you wouldn’t have had to break down the door,” said Hawke.
“See, that’s the difference between you and me, black-bird,” said John. “You try to ask nicely, I put my boot through things.”
“I tell you vere he can put that boot,” said the woman.
“I don’t think you two know each other,” said John. “Raven, this is Helena. ‘Lena’s one of Kelly’s more specialized associates.”
“I come vith John ven Kelly thinks he might run,” said Helena.
“You must be tough if John tolerates all that smack you’re talking,” said Hawke.
“Raven, who are these guys?” asked Deidra, sleepily leaning against the wall at the entrance of the hallway.
Without hesitating, Lena’s weapon flew from her holster in a black, leathery flash to her extended hand. And, when Deidra fell to the floor with a hole in her chest the size of her fist, Lena’s eyes were as cold and dark as Raven’s hair.
Hawke reached back and grabbed his small, silver Walther from the folds of his trench coat and leveled the pistol at Lena, who was already aiming her jector at him. It was Hawke’s rotten luck that both Lena and John were using Short-Range Bio-Metric Field Projectors, relics of the Faction Wars.
Bio-metrics is the science of using force fields resonating at specific frequencies to filter matter at the molecular level. Bio-metric fields made terraforming and colonization of hostile planets possible, keeping breathable oxygen inside while releasing toxic gasses.
Then Damien Grey had the twisted idea to turn bio-metric fields into weapons. By setting the field to filter human cells and dragging it across a populated area, Grey could wipe out whole cities and leave all the buildings, vehicles and hardware untouched; a massive death toll with no collateral damage or body count.
Short-Range Field Projectors came later, and operated on the same principle–the filtering of humans. The hand-held devices projected fields in thin streams, nanometers in diameter. These streams pierced the target, then expanded at an exponential rate and dissipated when the stream absorbed too much material energy to sustain itself. Shooting someone with a jector was the high-tech equivalent to stabbing them with an umbrella, then opening it.
These weapons came with a high cost: a very limited range. A larger and bulkier capacitor would be required for anything more than 6-10 feet of effective range. But the criminal underworld prized these weapons for their lack of trace evidence. And, for gangsters like John and Lena, they were standard equipment.
“Put your gun down, Raven,” said John, stroking the handle of his holstered jector.
“If Kelly is paying you two to be mindless thugs, you might be overqualified,” said Raven, thinking of what shooting Lena or John first would do to his chances. Lena was poised and ready to turn his ribcage into a sieve, but Hawke would be far more satisfied shooting John, and planned to aim a little right of the bastard’s wrist that time.
“You didn’t expect us to leave witnesses, did you?” said John.
“I hadn’t told her anything,” Hawke said. “All she knew was that she was stitching up some kid, and you bastards shot her anyway.”
Lena’s jector clicked as she pulled the trigger and Hawke jumped to his left, behind the couch again, dropping his gun on the floor. With a wrenching feeling in his gut, he groped his chest for signs of a mortal wound, but found nothing. Lena must have missed him or had been out of range. Either way, the only thing a jector could harm was a human, so the only sign that a direct hit had landed was when the target stopped moving.
“Lena doesn’t like being insulted,” said John, as he walked around the couch and stood at Raven’s feet, staring down at him. John had un-holstered his jector and was holding it idly by his temple in his bandaged hand. “Look, we’ve all had a long night. We came for the boy, not trouble, so be a good lackey and take us to him.”
Hawke didn’t feel like helping just then. The death of Deidra had pretty well pissed him off, so much he was completely ignoring the lackey comment. It wasn’t so much that she was dead, but that it was at the hands of bio-metrics. From the screams of his friends and family, he knew it wasn’t an easy way to die, and there was no way he would let two thugs with jectors go after Scott.
No, Seth, he reminded himself. Not Scott. They already got Scott.
Hawke put his hand on the coffee table and John lowered his jector at Hawke’s head.
“My hand is still a little sore,” said John. “It gets all tingly sometimes from the nerve damage, so I hope this jector doesn’t go off without warning. But it shouldn’t if you move nice and slow and keep your mouth and that pistol to yourself.”
Hawke thought about grabbing his trench coat from the table and throwing it over John’s face, but John had a clean shot and couldn’t miss even if he was looking down the hallway instead. Hawke reached up and braced himself between the couch and the table and thought about kicking John squarely in the groin. That would incapacitate John and Lena would probably laugh so hard she’d be out of commission as well. But the thought of a six inch hole in his cranium made him slowly lift himself up until he stood before John, staring down the solid, square barrel of the most cowardly weapon in the solar system. Lena held her jector with both hands, aiming it at Hawke’s chest and looking intently at him as if longing to not miss the moment when she got to kill him.
“Where’s the kid?” asked John.
Hawke’s eyes darted over John’s shoulder when he saw Seth standing in the hallway, wearing a clean white t-shirt and a pair of blue denim pants Deidra had given him. He was wielding a wooden coat rack in his hands. Hawke looked back at John, hoping the rat hadn’t noticed the stoolie look in Raven’s eyes. The rat had.
As John turned to see what was behind him, Seth charged out of the hallway, planting the coat rack on the floor and vaulting his feet into Lena’s face. As she fell to the tiled floor of the open kitchen, Seth picked up the rack and broke it in half on the side of Johns head before John had a chance to aim his jector.
Lena gave a rumbling shout of rage and sprang back to her feet, but her attempt to shoot Seth was foiled when the boy grabbed her forearm with one hand, shattering her bones as he nearly twisted it off. Lena howled in pain and dropped her weapon as she cradled her withering arm.
Hawke felt like he was watching an action movie in fast forward, with a star he never would have figured for the violent type. He was coming to his senses about the time John stumbled to his feet like a drunk who had just been thrown out of his favorite bar—disoriented and bewildered. Hawke leaned over to pick his gun up off the floor. When he stood again to face John, Seth had jumped over the couch onto the coffee table and held John by the collar of his off-white dress shirt. With less effort than it should take someone to throw a man across a room, Seth hurled John like a javelin through the outside window and three stories to the pavement below. Hawke ran to the window and looked down into an alley at the rain falling on John’s face, though the rest of the thug was facing down. He turned back to watch as Seth took Lena by her leather collar.
“Wait, I need to talk with her,” he said.
“What for?” asked Seth.
“I’d like to find out why I just watched my war buddy die and a teenaged kid throw a grown man out a window,” replied Hawke.
“I’m afraid you won’t get much out of her,” said Seth. “She already passed out from the pain.”
Hawke looked at the limp, pallid body of the Russian homely queen. He sighed and ran his fingers through his shining black hair and said, “This has been one hell of a weird night.”
Seth started dragging Lena around the couch with one slender hand and Hawke said, “Don’t you think you’ve created enough corpses tonight? You’re the one who littered your father’s apartment with bodies, aren’t you?”
Seth looked up at Hawke and asked, “Do you know why those men killed my father?”
“I don’t even know why these two attacked us,” said Hawke. “Is there something I need to know about you, something your father did to you? And don’t you think she’s already been through enough tonight?”
Seth looked down at Lena and let her taut head fall to the ground and said, “There’s nothing I should share with you for necessity’s sake. My father was a brilliant scientist who worked for a very hated man, so it’s easy to see why someone would want him dead. But why they pursue me, I don’t know. Maybe a grudge over the death of a loved one during the war. It isn’t the first time I’ve had to run for my life, but my father usually ran with me.”
“I really need a smoke,” said Hawke, something he hadn’t muttered since the day he enlisted. The army didn’t have a problem with smokers, just with fires in oxygen-rich environments. He leaned over and gleaned three mangy cigarettes from Lena’s jacket pocket and got a lighter from his trench coat. Putting the butt of a crooked death stick between his lips, he lit the end and let the warm, mind-clearing fumes fill his lungs. He fell down onto the couch and let out a heavy, carcinogenic sigh.
“What the hell is going on?” he mused.
“Do those even taste good?” asked Seth, dragging a chair from the kitchen and sitting across from Hawke.
“Want one?” Hawke offered. Seth shook his head. Hawke took another long drag and said, “These two thugs, who you effortlessly sent to the hospital and the morgue, respectively, were gangsters who were paid to find you and bring you to a man named Kelly. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No,” replied Seth. “But he had nothing to do with the men who attacked me before. These two were clumsy, hardly a challenge.”
“Is it a hobby of yours to slaughter ne’er-do-wells?”
“It became a necessity over the years. Some disgruntled survivors of the war were sore about my father’s work and sought revenge through posting bounties or trying to kill him personally.”
“Your father was better at earning hate than most men.” The embers of the cigarette glowed at Seth in Hawke’s dark eyes.
“I don’t make any excuses for him,” said Seth, sternly. “Many are dead because of him, but such can be said of even the most righteous men.”
Hawke put his cigarette out on the coffee table and lit another.
“Arguing the war with a kid as green as you is the last thing I want to do tonight. But don’t go thinking the ability to kill a man means you understand the ethics of death. Now why did the other men in our apartment attack you?”
“Before we keep talking, I want to know how you found out about the others and why you followed me to the docks. Are you connected to these two?”
“Why should I answer you? If I’m wrong, I might get thrown out a window.”
“I could throw you out now.” The innocent look in the blonde’s face had frozen over and his deep blue eyes told Hawke to tread lightly through the next few moments. The kid didn’t seem to be fond of bullshit, so Hawke didn’t give him any.
“Kelly recently hired me to be an assassin for him. He said he liked my war record and that he could make good use of my talents, for good pay. I was assigned to kill your father and bring you back to Kelly in one piece. For what, I don’t know. The two who barged in here earlier were a cleaning crew, sent to tie up the loose ends Kelly didn’t want to leave lying around and to bring you back ASAP. This had all been another job to me, until Deidra died and that rat-faced bastard in the alley held me at gunpoint.”
Seth leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, you’ve been crossed by slimy villains. I hope that doesn’t surprise you.”
“You’re taking this rather well, considering I’m still conscious and in the room.”
“I don’t make a habit of killing what few allies I have.”
“What makes you think I’m an ally?”
“You haven’t pointed your gun at me yet.”
“You need higher standards, kid. But being crossed by the likes of Elliot Kelly doesn’t surprise me one bit. I had to deal with his kind in special ops. But why does he want you? You obviously have a great deal of combat skill. Has anyone ever approached you about being a gun for hire?”
“I don’t use guns. They take the thrill out of the kill. But no one has ever implored my skills, because most never survive to tell about them.”
Hawke chuckled as he lit his third cigarette.
“What?” asked Seth, sitting up straight and holding his arms at ease.
“You sound like something out of a comic book. I made a living off of killing people for seven years, and I’ve never met someone who was so good at dealing death or enjoyed it as much as you.”
“I don’t enjoy it, not the killing. I was always in it to protect my father. And I’m no better than most people at death, at least not those who try.”
“You threw a man out of a window like he was a rag doll. That isn’t normal.”
“Sure it isn’t. People don’t just do it all the time. But, if you had to, I’m sure you could.”
“I’d have to use both hands, and I would need a good chiropractor when I was done.”
“Come on. A guy like you should be able to lift at least 500 kg.”
Hawke felt a little flattered, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to be. “If that’s a joke, kid, you have a terrible sense of humor.”
“I’m serious. I can lift about 350 kg over my head, and you have at least 15 kg on me.”
“I can press 100 kg on a really good day. The last time I saw 350 kg lifted over someone’s head, they were using a forklift.”
“But I’m serious.”
“No, I believe you. I saw what you did to John, and I know guys twice as big as you who couldn’t do that so easily. My only problem is that you probably didn’t get that strong just from eating a healthy breakfast every morning. Did your father ever mention anything to you about genetic experiments?”
“No, he was against the genetic alteration of human beings. He said a man should be appreciative of what he was born with, good and bad.”
Hawke took one final drag from his last cigarette and put it out on the coffee table next to the others.
“He sounds like he might have been a decent man, except for getting involved with Grey Faction. So do you know any reason a team of Factioners would go to your apartment and try to kill your father?”
“None. Do you?”
“No, but I’m going to find out.” He stood up and got his coat off of the table and put it back on. “We can’t stay here tonight. Kelly’s men would know where to find us. And my apartment and yours are out of the question, too.”
“I don’t mind spending the night at the docks,” said Seth.
“Neither do I, but I have a better idea, another old friend,” replied Hawke. He walked to Deidra’s closet by the front door and pulled out a warm denim jacket and threw it to Seth. “Get some shoes on. We might have a long walk.”
Seth put the jacket on and asked, “Can you really only bench press 100 kg?”
“Do you want to see what the barrel of an antique Walther looks like?” replied Hawke, opening Deidra’s refrigerator and taking out a few bottles of beer and stuffing them into his pocket.
Seth smiled and said, “You didn’t have a lot of friends in the special forces, did you.”
“Maybe three,” said Hawke, closing the fridge. “Two are already dead. You met one tonight, and you’ll meet the last soon.”
Seth walked back to the room he had been sleeping in and put on his shoes. When he walked back, he saw Hawke slip a box of bullets and a black Berretta he had found in Deidra’s kitchen drawers into his coat pocket.
“Have you always used guns?” asked Seth.
“I grew up around them,” said Hawke, pulling the slip back to check the chamber of his Walther. “I’ve never been afraid of a gun, and can use most of them. But I don’t like revolvers, they feel too awkward, too off-balance.” He clicked the slip forward, put the pistol back in his pocket and kept rummaging through drawers.
“How old are you?” asked Seth.
“Twenty-three,” replied Hawke.
“And is your real name Raven?” asked Seth.
“No, I’m Lieutenant Preston Hawke,” he replied, his eyes lighting up as he found a pack of smokes in one drawer. He slid them into the inside pocket of his trench coat. “Only my friends and old war buddies call me Raven. But call me Preston and I’ll break your arm.”
“You couldn’t if you tried, Raven,” said Seth.
Hawke walked over to Deidra and leaned down to gently close her eyes and kiss her on the forehead before stepping over her into the bathroom. He came back out with a bottle of pills and tossed them to Seth. “You hold on to these.”
“What are they?” asked Seth.
“Pain killers,” replied Hawke. “I don’t plan on using any, but they’re one thing you never want to be caught without when you need one.” He pulled his coat tight and popped the leather collar over his neck and opened the front door. “Ready to go?”
“I think you forgot the plasma screen and the stereo,” replied Seth, zipping up his jacket.
Hawke grinned and said, “They have a special place in the army for smart-asses like you.”
“Where’s that?” asked Seth.
“The front lines,” replied Hawke. “Now come on.”
He stepped out into the dark hallway, shoving his hands into his deep coat pockets, and walked towards the stairs as Seth closed the door behind them.
| HOME | BACK | DISCUSS |