Children of Paranoia (11 page)

Suddenly, the gun went off, a loud bang echoing through the quiet island night. I looked over to see Michael standing over the dark-haired agent's lifeless body. My friend had won. Just then, our last remaining enemy, the leader, leapt on top of me, full of rage. With my hands tied behind my back, I had only my feet to defend myself. I was somehow able to flip him over me once with my legs. In seconds, he was back on top of me, swinging wildly at me with his knife. Michael had the gun now but he couldn't pull the trigger without risking shooting me. Instead, Michael rushed over, grabbed the man with the gray hair by the shoulder, and, using all the strength he could muster, pulled him away from me, gun drawn the whole time. The leader's body twisted as Michael pulled him off me and he swung his right hand around and plunged his knife deep into Michael abdomen. While the leader's body was turned away from me, I planted a foot in his ribs, sending him sprawling down into the sand. Now that the leader and I were separated, Michael lifted the gun. He aimed. Then he fired, sending the sound of another gunshot crackling through the air, shooting the gray-haired man in the head.

 

 

So there we were, a bloody mess, with two dead bodies on the beach and one floating not far off in the water. Our more immediate problem, however, was jammed deep into Michael's stomach. I rolled over toward the dark-haired agent's body, found Michael's scuba knife, and managed to use it to cut through the plastic that had bound my wrists.

Once free, I looked up at Michael to assess the damage. He was still standing there, arm outstretched, gun in his hand. He was breathing heavily and with each breath the handle of the knife bobbed up and down. The knife had pierced through his Hawaiian shirt, pinning it to his side, and the blood was creating a dark circle among the palm trees and red flowers. I looked up at Michael's face. He smiled at me. “And Jared didn't think we could take them.”

“We've got to get you to a hospital.”

“I think that's a good idea.”

“Was their car still parked along the road?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it a cab?”

“No.” I got up quickly and went over to the body of the gray-haired man. I knew that Steve wouldn't have the keys, since he had been chasing me down the street on foot. I had to hope that the gray-haired man had the car keys, because if the cabbie was carrying them, we were in trouble. I checked the pockets of his shorts and felt a jingle in his right-hand pocket. Bingo. We had our ride.

I had to help Michael to the car. He was losing blood fast. I threw him in the backseat and began to drive. “You know where the hospital is?” I asked Michael, looking at him slumped in the backseat through the rearview mirror. The whole left-hand side of his shirt was now a dark red color.

“I told you we could fight them,” Michael slurred. He sounded drunk.

“I'll take that as a no.” As I looked back toward the road, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I was already developing a black eye and there were streams of dried blood coming out of my nose. I looked at my right arm. I could see red marks on my forearm from where the cabbie had stabbed me. Then I looked at the back of my hand. The skin was virtually falling off it. All I could see was a mixture of bone and blood. We were an ugly pair, Michael and I, but at least I knew my wounds would heal.

I pressed down on the gas pedal, moving as fast as I could along the narrow road. I drove toward the only bridge leading off the island. I had to find a hospital.

“Jared's a fucking punk,” Michael mumbled from the backseat. “He didn't think we could fight 'em. But we beat the four of them without him.”

“Relax, Michael. Don't waste your energy. You're losing blood.” I pushed further down on the gas. It wasn't long before we started to hit traffic. I flew past the other cars, passing them on the left and the right. I hit a red light and pulled up to the car next to me. I rolled down the window and yelled over to them. “Hospital!” I shouted. They took one look at my blood-splattered face and yelled back the name of a town just off the island. Manahawkin. I heard the word and ran through the red light. It was about a twenty-minute drive. I didn't know if I had that sort of time. When I got to Manahawkin, I saw signs for the hospital and followed them until I was able to pull up to the emergency room entrance.

“Let's get you inside,” I turned and said to Michael.

“No,” he said. He had regained some of the life in his eyes. “You can't come in.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You go in there with me and neither of us is getting away. Drop me at the door and go.”

“I can't leave you. You'll be arrested, at best. I've got to stay with you. You can't protect yourself now. You came back for me. I can't desert you.”

“I didn't come back for you.” Michael actually strained a smile. I could see a hint of blood on his lips. “I wasn't trying to help you.” His voice was weak. Each word was strained. “I get my kicks out of this shit. Go. Go away and try to get in touch with people who can get me out of here. It's what Jared would tell us to do.” He was right. It is what Jared would tell us to do. If Michael had listened to Jared, however, I'd be dead.

What he said made sense, though. I told myself that I could help Michael more if I left than I could if I stayed. So that's what I did. I dumped my friend, who had just risked his life to save mine, in the lobby of the hospital with a knife sticking out of his abdomen and I ran. I drove to the highway and headed south toward Atlantic City. I thought about pulling over and calling the Intelligence guys to let them know about Michael's situation, but I knew that it was useless. We weren't even supposed to be there. I didn't have enough clout to get anything done. I got to the casino twenty minutes late. I had pulled over at a rest stop on the highway to try to clean myself up at least enough that they would let me into the casino. I wiped the blood off of my face and did my best to bandage my hand. I had to hope Jared hadn't left yet. When I got the blackjack tables, I saw Jared sitting there, a stack of about a thousand dollars in chips in front of him. He looked almost dapper. As soon as he saw me, he cashed in, tipping the dealer with a hundred-dollar chip.

“You're a fucking mess,” he said to me. It was going to take more than one pit stop to make me presentable again. “We've got to get you out of here. You'll attract attention.” He quickly began to lead me toward the exit. “You seen Michael?” he asked me. So I started to mumble the whole ordeal to Jared. “Short version,” he said to me. So I skipped the story and simply told him that Michael was stuck in the hospital with a knife in his gut and that, if we didn't get him out of there, he'd be found by both the police and our enemies. “Michael will be fine. I'll take care of it,” Jared assured me. He placed a hand on my shoulder and pushed me toward the exit.

“What does that mean? What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to make a couple of phone calls. While you two were out playing cops and robbers, I was working on getting us out of here. Sometimes you have to count on our guys being better than theirs. That's the benefit to being the good guys. Here you go, Mr. Robertson.” Jared handed me papers from inside his pocket. It was a plane ticket from the Atlantic City Airport to Atlanta. I was traveling as Dennis Robertson. God and Jared only know what had happened to the real Dennis Robertson. “Now lay low until tomorrow. Get to the airport on time. Clean yourself up. I'll work on getting our friend out of trouble.”

“He saved my life, Jared.” I looked at Jared, trying to impress upon him how important it was that we help Michael.

“I know. But whatever you do, don't go back to that hospital.” He shook his head. “Fucking heroes. You're going to get us all killed one day. I'll handle it. Trust me.”

 

 

I was hoping that I'd see Jared or Michael at the airport—that Jared might have arranged for all of us to leave for different places at the same time. Jared was too smart for that. When I boarded the plane to Atlanta, I boarded alone. When I boarded, I still didn't know what had happened to my friends.

After landing in Atlanta, I rented a car, or should I say Dennis Robertson rented a car, and drove west. I drove aimlessly for a few hours before finding a roadside motel where I could lay low and heal up. The desk clerk didn't even look at me twice when I checked in, despite my bandaged hand and black eye.

Once in my motel room, I slept for nearly thirty straight hours. When I finally woke up, it was morning, a full day later. It was a crazy feeling knowing that I could just miss a day like that. When I woke up, I could hear the couple in the room next to mine fighting. I needed quiet, so I went out for a run. I had new sneakers and new clothes that I purchased at the airport with Dennis Robertson's credit card. I ran for nearly an hour and a half before coming back to the motel. When I came back, I showered. I was running out of ways to delay the inevitable. I picked up the phone. I dialed and waited. The phone rang twice. It was answered by a chipper-sounding woman. “Global Innovation Incorporated. How can we help you?”

“Michael Bullock, please,” I responded.

“Please hold.”

I waited a few moments before the phone began to ring again. After two rings it was answered by an equally chipper-sounding woman. “Spartan Consultants, how can we help you?”

“Dan Donovan, please,” I responded this time.

“Please hold.”

Again the waiting. Again the two rings. Again the chipper female receptionist. It wasn't enough that they had us risking our lives but they had to mimic the worst of corporate culture too. “Allies-on-Call. How can we help you?”

“I'd like to speak to Pamela O'Donnell.”

“Please hold.” This wasn't a prearranged call time. I was pretty sure someone would answer, though. My code would let them know who was calling. My guess was that after the debacle I'd just lived through, they'd be eager to hear from me.

It was only half a ring this time when someone picked up the phone. “Jesus Christ, Joe, what the hell happened?” It was Matt, my contact.

“Have you just been sitting by the phone for the last two days waiting for my call?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Don't they let you go home?”

“Not after the shit you pulled. Not when you were supposed to be in Montreal. What the fuck happened, Joe?”

“I don't know. We were ambushed.”

“Yeah, so was I. By my bosses. You got me in a shit-storm of trouble.”

“Funny. I thought trouble was standing on a beach with your hands tied behind your back with some psychopath explaining how he is about to butcher you. I was pretty sure that was trouble. I guess I was wrong.” I wasn't in the mood for any bullshit.

“I'm sorry, man. I know it was bad for you, but I'm just trying to do my job here. The guys that you three took out were some serious characters. They had at least fifty-four kills among the three of them. It's the only thing that kept me from getting demoted.” Three of them? They must not have found the cabbie's body yet. Gone and forgotten, just like that.

“Listen; do you know what happened to Michael?”

“No details. They don't share that sort of thing with us, only with his own contact. All I know is that we got him out.” I let out a breath of air, a breath that had been knotted up in my lungs ever since I'd dropped Michael off at the hospital.

“So he's okay?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“Okay. I need you to do me a favor.”

“Listen, Joe, I may be out of favors here.” Matt's voice sounded nervous. His nervousness was reasonable. My last favor had gotten us into this mess.

“I need you to get me in contact with him.”

“With Michael?” There was a pause on the other end of the line. Matt's voice dropped. “That's impossible. You guys are radioactive right now. The guys upstairs don't want you three near each other. They think it's too dangerous.”

“Look, I'm not trying to meet up with him. I just want to talk to him,” I argued.

“There's no way. I wouldn't have a clue where to find him and, even if I did, if I passed you that information, I'd have my ass handed to me on a plate.” I wasn't in the mood for this. I took the phone and slammed it hard on the desk three times. Someone from one of the other motel rooms shouted at me to keep it down.

“What the fuck is your real name, Matt?” It was breaking protocol to ask. I didn't care.

“You know that I can't tell you that, Joe.” I heard his answer and slammed the phone down on the receiver. I stood up and paced around the room for about five minutes trying to calm down. I called back, using the same three names that I had before. I was breaking more protocol, using the same code twice, but after going through the motions, Matt picked up again.

“What's your fucking name?” I demanded.

“Pedro. Rondell. Jesus. What difference does it make?” the voice on the other end of the line shouted. I slammed the phone down on the receiver again. I waited another five minutes and called for a third time.

Matt picked up. “You can't call on that code again. If you do, you won't get through. Calling with the same code again will send red flags flying all over this place.” I knew it would. They monitored the codes. If a code was used more than once, they checked it in case it was the other side digging for intelligence. Use a code three times, and they assume the worst.

“Then tell me your name. We've been working together for five years. My name is Joseph. My parents' names are James and Joan. It was a big freaking
J
thing. My older sister's name was Jessica. She was killed in front of me when I was fourteen. I grew up in a little town in New Jersey. Just tell me your name.” My voice went from yelling to pleading. I don't know why it became so important to me.