ELITE BE DAMNED By
Meredith Boman
“They are those in which suffering finds no vent in action; in which a
continuous state of mental distress is prolonged, unrelieved by incident, hope,
or resistance; in which there is everything to be endured, nothing to be done.”
– Matthew Arnold
DECEMBER
11, 2012
Hobbs
exhaled slowly and evenly, watching the cross-hatching in his scope fall
slightly over its intended mark. At the bottom of his breath, his finger,
already settled on the trigger of his gun, applied the needed pressure. The
steel bucked in his grip silently. As the warehouse in front of him exploded
into frenzied activity, Hobbs
barked commands into his headset. “Elite 1, engage flanking positions. No civilian casualties,
ladies and gentlemen, and I goddamn mean it! If you need to touch anyone but
the target, leave them gift-wrapped for the local PD.”
Joel “Duke”
Hobbs wasn’t concerned about the
riff-raff that were now flowing from the doors of the
warehouse. He had eyes for one person only.
KEITH MICHEALS
DOB: July 8,
1992
CURRENT AGE: 63
CRIMES: Assault & battery, 2013
2nd degree murder, 2020
1st degree murder, 2034
1st degree murder, 2035
1st degree murder, 2048
PRE-DETERMINED VERDICT: Guilty
RENDEVEUZ AGE: 20
RENDEVEUZ DATE: Dec.
11, 2012
RENDEVEUZ TIME: 1300 hours
RENDEVEUZ LOCATION: 4368 Milton St, Nashville, TN
ORDERS: Shoot to kill
Because of
a bad view and a gang member, Hobbs
didn’t know if his shot had found its target. There was only one way to tell –
sift through the debris. For that job Hobbs
had the help of two others, a man and a woman hand-picked for their abilities,
who called him Captain. While perhaps three wasn’t the most effective number,
it also wasn’t very conspicuous.
Leaping
over a scrub bush Hobbs bounded
across the barren expanse of dying, yellowed lawn with long strides that ate up
the distance hungrily. As he reached the main door of the warehouse, a
red-haired hulk burst from across the threshold directly in his path. Hobbs
didn’t slow down. Instead, he ducked as he ran and put his shoulder into the
thug’s stomach. With a protesting shove from his legs, the Captain of Time
Squad Elite Force 1 sent the boy flying over his shoulder. Barreling onward, Hobbs
heard the crack of bone snapping and hoped with a fleeting intensity that it
wasn’t the punk’s neck.
There were
only a few gang members left in the warehouse. The scraggly youths ran back and
forth, trying to scrape up piles of dope. One got in Hobbs’
way and with a sharp right hook the kid was unconscious. He stopped and looked
around, his breathing even and his pulse only slightly raised.
Finding what he wanted, Hobbs made
his way to a back wall. The gang still left inside with him took more notice of
their stash then the tall Asian-American in their midst. Hobbs
ran a gloved finger over a small hole in the concrete wall. With minimal
effort, he chipped away at the crumbling barrier and removed a bullet. The
metal jacket was instantly recognizable; the bullet matched his Les Baer
Concept X. In 2012, they were still relatively new and Hobbs
doubted that any of the trash that hung around this place would have the money
or sense to own such a gun. Of course in his own time, 2055, his friends gave
him shit about preferring an “antique” to a new issue pistol. It was a shame
that even so, they had a damn hard time matching him on target practice. Joel
Hobbs was a self-proclaimed perfectionist. He had been in the government for
years, following his father, trying to make him proud.
He had
missed Michaels. Hobbs’ hand clenched around the bullet. He took a glance about
the warehouse. He was alone now with the smears of cocaine.
“Duke!”
Hobbs
started at the sound of Stenor’s voice crackling through his headset. “What have
you got?” There was a heavy grunt from the other end followed with a colorful
profanity. “Stenor?”
“Yeah.” Stenor was breathing hard. “I tripped over a… cat,
or something.”
Hobbs
growled. “Stenor, what in the hell is going on?” Carl Stenor was the youngest
of the Elite, younger even than Hobbs’
own twenty-three years. Sometimes, on occasions such as this one, you could
smell the youth.
“Right! We’re on… Michaels. He came out of the building full
tilt and… Christ lady, watch it! Me and Richards are in
pursuit. We’re trying to… herd him back towards the warehouse.”
Hobbs
bolted for the nearest exit. “Damnit Stenor, where are you?”
“Ah… Dodge and 3rd. It’s… four blocks to your west,
Duke. Be aware, he’s coming… in your direction.” Taking off to the left Hobbs
pushed himself hard, measuring his breath unconsciously and keeping alert for
anything out of the ordinary. There were few people living in this run down
industrial section of Nashville, which made Hobbs’ job that much easier.
Tonight the streets were all but deserted. The only thing that he could see
moving was the odd bit of trash being pushed to and fro by the lonely wind and
the occasional stray animal. “Duke, where are you?”
“I’m on 3rd,
heading towards…” he squinted into the almost moonless night, “Madison.”
“Left! Go left on Madison, and your first right! He’s in the… alley!”
Hobbs
lengthened his stride and cut left. The chilled air stung his face and sneaked
under the collar of his black turtleneck. Ducking into the alley, he slowed
down and sidled up behind some trashcans silently. “Stenor, where is he? I’m in
the mouth of the alley.” Stenor, just as the rest of them, had spent days prior
to the jump to 2012 studying, among other things, detailed maps. They all were
familiar with the area, but Stenor could recite streets and alleys in his
sleep. The kid was blessed with a photographic memory.
“He’s about
two blocks… down. Richards is at… his back and I’m flanking… on the right
street so he’ll go straight… down. ETA less than one minute.”
“Copy
that.” Hobbs pulled out his gun
from its back holster. Discharging the used magazine, he slipped it into a
pocket and pulled out a new one. Eight rounds; he wasn’t going to miss this
time. He dropped into a crouch with his back against one of the cans and pulled
his gun into shooting position. Hobbs
was facing away from Michaels, for now, but when the kid blew past him he’d
have a straight and uncompromised shot. Eight of them, if that’s
what it took. For now he had only the romantic view of a musty alley mouth,
stagnant water standing in puddles and dripping from rusted fire escapes.
Breathing shallowly, Hobbs strained
to listen. He heard nothing but the wind for a moment before a loud clatter
from down the alley way caused him to flinch. Hobbs
didn’t need to restrain himself from jumping up; he was trained to wait for the
clear shot. His body relaxed
automatically and he focused his gaze through the night sight of his gun. His
eye scope remained pushed back on his head, at such a short distance it would
only be a hindrance. A moment later a figure burst past his hiding spot. It was
clearly Michaels, his blond hair spiked and his grey t-shirt was soaked through
with sweat. Taking only a second to aim, Hobbs
pulled his trigger once, twice, three times in quick succession.
Michaels jerked around and locked
eyes with his shooter. A sneer and flick of his middle finger sent him into
flight once again. Hobbs was
briefly stunned by the obvious fact that all three of his shots had missed.
Michaels would have at least balked had any of the bullets made contact, unless
he was Superman. Hobbs was off and
running as the thought pelted through his mind.
Richards evened out with him after
a moment. Her red hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail and Hobbs
could see the rise of her chest under her turtleneck and bullet-proof vest. “Heya Duke.” Her airy voice spoke in his ear. She wasn’t
even breathing hard. Hobbs had to
admit that Elaine Richards was probably in the best physical condition of his
whole squad – not to mention the reserves. She pushed herself harder than was
sane for any human being. Hobbs
appreciated her fanaticism; when she did seventy-five push-ups, he wanted to do
a hundred. “Saw the impact of your bullets on the far wall. Stenor’s cutting him
off in front.”
Michaels dodged out of
the alley with a sharp right, and the two Elite ran after. “So where in the
hell is he?” Hobbs yelled after his private failed to show.
“Don’t know, Duke. Should have been there.”
The comm crackled to
life with a male voice. “I ran into another thug! Duke, it’s
Stenor. Asshole clocked me coming around a corner. I’m fine. There’s another
alley coming up on your left, complete with dead end. Try and goad him in
there. I’ll be waiting.”
Hobbs
nodded to himself. He could see the alley now, the
mouth was getting closer with every step they took. Clearing his gun in its
holster, he arched his path out to the right, motioning Richards to follow. It
only took him a second to realize that they were too far back; their presence
alone would not be enough to shy Michaels to the left and into the alley.
Pulling his firearm, Hobbs fired
two bullets into the wall across Michaels’ path.
The shots did their job. Michaels
slid as the two slugs whizzed by him and almost disappeared in the halo of dust
kicked up. Regaining his legs with a stumble, the blonde thug turned from his
intended course and ran into the alley. Richards shot Hobbs
a smile and readjusted her own path. With his well-trained force, it was like
herding cattle.
The two
pursuers got into the alley just as Stenor stepped into Michael’s way. The
young Elite was positioned in front of a high
chain-link fence. Michaels skid to a halt.
Stenor
stepped forward slowly. The Private couldn’t take out the mark, but he could arrest
and detain him until his Captain arrived. “Keith Michaels, by the law of the
United States Government, you are ordered not to resist arrest. By a pre-crime
panel of judges, you have been found…”
Stenor’s
upper leg burst into a cloud of red as a shot rang out.
“Stenor!”
“Jesus,
Duke, where’d he get that firearm? The police files said that they were all
unarmed!”
“Shit.
Something was altered.”
Michaels
turned towards Hobbs and Richards,
who were almost on top of him now, and tried to squeeze off another round. The
gun only clicked unresponsively as the two Elite veered. Throwing the weapon at
the approaching officers, he flung himself at the chain fence and began to
climb.
“Richards,
take care of Stenor.”
“Hoo-ah.” The red-head dropped to her knees next to Stenor.
The young officer was moaning through clenched teeth. Hobbs
hardly took notice as he pulled up his gun and took aim at the fleeing figure.
He squeezed off his last three rounds at a range of fifteen feet. A small ping,
ping, ping of metal on metal reached his ears as Michaels continued to scramble
upwards and finally drop himself over the top of the fence. Hobbs
cursed and jumped on the fence himself.
“Duke! Stenor’s hurt pretty badly. I don’t think I can patch
him up here. We need to jump.” Only the worry present in Richards’ voice
stopped Hobbs from continuing after
Michaels. With another curse, he dropped to the ground. Teammates were first
priority and Hobbs wasn’t about to
let one of his men die on his watch. They jumped together or not at all.
“Alright
Richards,” he said as he crouched down next to her. “Let’s get him home.”
MARCH
13, 2055
“I fired three bullets at a range
of thirty feet and another three at fifteen! He should be dead!”
Director
Marshall Wayne looked at Hobbs through
narrowed eyelids. “Ah didn’t say that Ah didn’t believe you tha first time,
Captain.” His southern accent was thick. “It’s stranger than fur on a cat
fish.” His euphemisms were even thicker. “Did you get checked out when you got
back?”
Hobbs
shook his head. “I wanted to…”
“Ah don’t
give a good God damn what you wanted ta do!” A massive fist slammed to his
desk, shaking it. A few neatly placed ornaments danced. A
old picture of Wayne and his chalk
of Army Rangers fell over with a thud. Hobbs
had seen the picture hundreds of times; he believed that Wayne
still lived with one foot in the Rangers, hence his use of “hoo-ah.” But the
picture was different. Hobbs leaned
forward. There should have been a large man to the right of the Director; his
red hair had always drawn Hobbs’
eye.
Red hair.
It couldn’t
be. That punk back in the warehouse…
“You know that there is a direct
violation of code. You do know that, Hobbs?”
Hobbs
snapped back to the present and tried to remember what they were discussing.
“Yes Sir.”
“Ah could
have you detained. Private Richards is competent and Ah’m
sure that she wouldn’t mind bein’ given a promotion.”
“But Sir!”
“Hold your
tongue, Captain.” His gravel voice softened. “Ah’m not going to detain you.
Although Richards would be competent, ya’re tha best damn man we have here and Ah’m not willin’ ta compromise this mission. The Government
is still breathin’ down my neck; this is only our second mission and they still
aren’t convinced of tha safety of tha repercussions. We’ll prove them wrong.”
Hobbs
resisted smiling. “So, we’re going back again?”
Director
Wayne sighed and dropped his large bulk into the small chair behind his desk.
He ran neatly manicured fingers through his greying hair. “Sure as shit we are.
The computer boys are looking up new coordinates as we speak.” His blue eyes
burned holes into Hobbs. “Captain,
Ah don’t think Ah have ta remind you just how important this mission is. With
four murders ta his name, Keith Michaels might be a small fish, but he’s in tha
mouth of a big pond. We need ta fry him, and hot damn, we need ta do it right!”
Marshall
Wayne wasn’t a man to be deterred from something he set his mind to. He was
like a mountain; there was just no moving him. Right now, he was a mountain
sitting over Washington D.C.
The government might have their fingers over Wayne’s
managerial buttons, but Wayne knew
how to press back.
“This is
tha job that’ll most likely be President McKenzie’s decidin’ factor. As soon as
we find new jump coordinates, you and Elite 1 are going back ta clean up your
mess. In tha mean time Ah want you ta go get yourself a full med and psych
evaluation. If you’re missin’ a mark at fifteen feet, there might be stress
damage. Ah want you perfectly A-OK before tha time comes ta leave, or else Ah
will be putting Richards in charge. Hoo-ah, son?”
“Hoo-ah, Sir.”
“Glad you
checked out, Duke.”
Hobbs
glanced at Richards and punched her playfully in the shoulder as she approached
the med labs. She had changed out of her cargo jump uniform and now sported
tattered jeans, sneakers, and a green sweater that clung to her breasts and
brought out the emerald of her eyes. “Sure you are. The walls have ears around here, I know that you heard what Wayne
had to say.”
Richards
smiled as they walked down the steel corridor together. “Well, Ah can’t say
that Ah didn’t.”
Hobbs
laughed at her impersonation. “Hoo-ah.”
“I have to
admit, it’d be nice to Captain my own Force. But it’s a lot of responsibility.”
Hobbs looked sideways at her.
Richards planted her hands on her slim hips. “Not that I couldn’t handle it!”
“I never
insinuated as much.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “I like
where I am, Joel. You certainly don’t smother me. You’re in control but give us
room to work; besides, it’s not a cake walk having the burden of commanding
lives. You’re good at what you do.”
Hobbs
took the compliment in stride. “Thanks, Elaine. I couldn’t ask for a better
second.” He paused. “Or third. Have you heard anything
on Stenor?”
Richards
nodded. “Yeah. I went and checked up on him. He’ll
hold up just fine. He was damn lucky, though. That bullet clipped his femoral
artery – if it had been two millimeters to the left, well, it wouldn’t have
been pretty. He’s a trooper, I’ll give him that, but he won’t be jumping with
us again for awhile. I guess we’ll have to take McCoy.”
The last time they had practiced
with McCoy, the “target” had gotten away – not to mention that two “innocents”
would have been dead, or pretty damn close, at his hands. McCoy had to try to
better everyone else, it made him careless and less
than prone to following orders. He’d be a last resort, if Hobbs
had anything to say about it.
Reaching the hatchway, Hobbs
placed his hand on the gel scanner and waited for his print to clear. The sheet
of metal in front of them slid into the wall silently and he motioned for
Richards to go first. She nodded and stepped through into the cafeteria. “So,
nothing interesting show in the tests?”
Hobbs
shrugged again and fell in stride. “Nothing.
Everything’s how it should be.”
Pulling out
a chair, Richards sat. She ignored the menu in front of her and instead folded
her arms on the table and looked at Hobbs,
who was sitting down across from her. “I don’t get it, Joel. I saw you shoot at
Michaels both times. If it were anyone else, I’d be willing to except that they
missed.” She glanced down and her voice dropped just enough that it was
noticeable. “But it wasn’t anyone else. It was you. You’re the best shot I’ve
seen in my life – better than most of the guys we see on the old vids. There
has to be some reason you missed. At fifteen feet, you could shoot a fly of the
wall.”
Hobbs
ran his fingers through his short black hair. He didn’t like excepting
mistakes, especially his own. “I don’t know, Elaine. The tests read normal. There
was no stress damage. There was no break
from reality. There was no reason I should have missed.”
“It doesn’t
make sense. As Captain, you’re the only one approved to carry out termination.
If you can’t hit this kid, we’re all going to be in a load of trouble. I mean,
you’re the only one allowed to carry a gun because every extra firearm equals a
risk better left untaken. Sometimes I wish they’d just approve the whole
squad.”
“It’ll
never happen.”
She shrugged and touched a spot on
the screen menu in front of her. A moment later a can of milk was moving down
the conveyer belt situated in the center of the wide table. Richards grabbed it
as it passed by and popped the tab. She took a swallow.
“It would be mayhem if we were all
taking shots at the mark,” Hobbs
continued. “Even with the most together team, there’s a big chance that someone
other than the intended guy would be taking a bullet. The ripples in the time
stream would be beyond count. I mean, there are certain ripples that we cause
by just being there, but those can be kept to an acceptable limit.” The
red-haired boy ran through his head. He had snapped his neck after all. Hobbs
quenched his rising guilt savagely. Shit happens; he’d be more careful next
time. “Besides, to take the mark, you’d
all have to go through the battery of pysch tests that I have to, for
preventing the strain that comes with intentionally altering time, breaks from
reality, and everything else. I don’t think the program’s got that much funding
yet.” He smiled. “It’s all about the benjamins.”
Richards
laughed and sipped her milk. “Where do you get this stuff? It’s from the
twentieth century, right? Sometimes I wonder how it is you didn’t end up a
historian.” A shrill beeping interrupted her flow of speech. She glanced down
at the black band that encircled almost her entire forearm. Inset into the
elastic fabric was a long piece of metal that sported numerous buttons and tiny
screens. “Control room,” she murmured. Clicking a button, Director Wayne’s
gruff southern voice filtered into the cafeteria.
“Private Richards, do you happen ta
know where in sam hill your Captain is?” She smiled. “Hoo-ah,
Director. I’m looking at him right now.”
“Can you kindly
make certain that tha Captain finds his own com link before Ah find it for him
and insert it inta his ass as ta make sure that he never takes it off again?”
Richards was laughing as quietly as
possible while Hobbs dropped his
head onto the table. “Hoo-ah, Sir.”
“Oh, and
Richards. Suit up. Tell Hobbs
ta suit up as well. We got your new coordinates. Ah want you ta be ready ta jump in an hour.”
“Copy that, Sir. We’ll be down in
fifteen minutes.” Richards looked at Hobbs,
a smile growing across her fair face. Freckles gathered around her nose. “You
heard the man. Jump time.”
“Damn straight.”
His excitement mirrored her own. His brown eyes
sparkled. The jump was everything to them. “So, how about we blow this popsicle
stand?”
Richards laughed
and put her can back on the conveyer belt. “Sure, right after
you tell me what a popsicle stand is.”
Shrugging, Hobbs stood. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes
later, Hobbs palmed through into the main control room of the
Time Squad Force. Richards, back in military garb, was leaning over a
technician’s shoulder looking at coordinates on the glowing screen. Her fiery
hair hung loose over one shoulder – which the technician didn’t seem to mind in
the least, even though it was in his face. That particular technician, Rory
Ford, was a recent addition to the team courtesy of the Elite’s first mission. Hobbs, Richards, and Stenor had returned to the compound
to find themselves face to face with a head technician they had never seen
before. Rory knew who they were though, complete with tales and pictures from
the last year, and apparently had a crush on Richards. It was a little
disconcerting having a past with someone that you know nothing about. Rory was
a result of the execution of the first mark; he was the only son of one of the
victims, who had originally been killed before she had gotten the chance to be
a mother.
Director Wayne was leaning against the nearest
table looking surly, as always. His bushy grey brows were creased together in
what was either worry or annoyance. “Hobbs! Well it’s about damn time, son. Your second has
been here for five minutes.”
Richards shot Hobbs a secret smile over her shoulder.
“I had to link
myself up.” Hobbs tapped at his arm piece. The circuitry in the wrist
link had several hardwires that were inserted directly into the skin which were
in tune to the wearer’s specific biological patterns. It took some time and not
too much pleasure to hook up, but this way when the two were parted the link
system failed. It was a failsafe in case an agent ever lost one in the line of
duty.
“Yah should have
been linked up in tha first place, Captain.” Wayne sighed. “We’ve wasted enough time here already.
Richards, pay attention, I’m going to begin tha briefin’.”
Besides them, the
room was empty of anyone that wasn’t in a white technician’s jacket. Hobbs glanced around. “Ah, sir?
Who’s going to be my third?”
The only response
he got was a point at a nearby chair. Richards had already seated herself the
one next to it, to the dismay of the Ford, who was now unoccupied. Hobbs obeyed, folding himself into the uncomfortable
plastic. “Tha boys gotta fix on Michaels. December 13th, 2012. Michaels used an ATM machine on Wickamore Street, Nashville. 1435 hours.”
“ATM,
sir?”
Hobbs looked at Richards. “Bank depot.”
She tapped her nose.
“May Ah continue?”
“Hoo-ah.”
“Y’all will be interceptin’
Michaels at tha aforementioned destination. Tha jump will be done precisely ten
minutes prior. Ah want a clean termination, do you copy? No fuckin’ around. Ah
want you two in, bam, and out.”
Hobbs squelched the impulse to raise his hand. “Us two, sir?”
“Did Ah stutter,
Captain?”
“No,
sir.”
Lighting a
cigarette, Wayne waved a hand dismissively. “It’s only you two this
jump. Stenor’s out and Ah can’t risk McCoy. Nobody else is ready.” The end of
the cigarette flared as the thick Director inhaled. “Ah strongly believe that
you two don’t need a third. That is, if straight shooter here has his bearin’s
back.”
“Tests came back
clear, sir.”
The Director
nodded. “Good. Take him out clean, son.” With one last inhale, he stubbed the
barely touched cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. He glanced at his watch.
“Well, ya’ll be takin’ off a little earlier than Ah expected. Which is fine,
since we shouldn’t hafta be goin’ back a second time in the first place.” He
paused to muddle over his last sentence. Deciding it was fine as it was he
continued, directing himself towards a clearly chagrined Hobbs. “No mistakes this time, Captain.” The table groaned
in protest as he lifted his bulk from its edge. “Richards, ya’re tha eyes in
back of his head. Keep sharp.” Richards nodded solemnly. Wayne crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his
throat. “Well? What in tha good God’s name are ya waitin’ for? Synch your links
and get ready ta jump.”
DECEMBER 13, 2012
Hobbs waited for the initial nausea to pass. Putting a
hand on each knee, he leaned over and drew in several deep gulps of the crisp Nashville night air. The red-head in black cargo stood next to
him, stock still. “Jesus I hate that sometimes,” she said when she finally drew
a breath.
“Yeah,
but what a rush.”
Richards laughed
softly; the sound was magnified through her mic and filtered directly into his
ear. It was the only discernable sound in the area – the evening was eerily
still. It seemed even the dogs had been moved to silence by something. Checking
his link, the numbers 12-13-12 glowed a soft yellow. Hobbs starting walking, leaving the tingle of electric
residue behind. Richards followed. He knew that what the Director said was no
lie; she was a good portion of his sight. The woman had eyes like a hawk. Her role
was infinitely more important now that it was just the two of them, and Hobbs had no doubts that she knew it. A lone paper
skittered across their path, caressed into dancing by the shifting wind. “Visual on Wickamore Street.” Her voice was quiet although they still had several
minutes before Michaels was destined to arrive. The mainframe back at the
agency wasn’t omnipotent; they knew, from records, where a certain person would
be at a certain time, but that was only a coordinate. Unless there was an police appenditure, everything else was uncertain. Where
would Michaels approach from? Was he carrying a weapon? What kind of mood is he
in? Is he alone? These kind of questions could be
mind-deafening. The Elite were trained to examine all the possibilities without
being overwhelmed.
Hobbs motioned to a dumpster that sat on the corner of
Wickamore with a stilted wave. Richards nodded and followed obediently as he
slipped behind the green bulk. From here, conveniently, they could see the ATM
machine that glowed garishly in the otherwise dark night. Now there was nothing
to do but wait. Making sure that his gun was clear in its holster, Hobbs consciously relaxed his body muscle by muscle. He
evened his breathing. Control was everything. With a backward glance at his
partner, he saw that she was doing the same. Eyes open, ever vigilant, the rest
of her body was tensing and loosening in slow motions. First her shoulders,
then chest, followed by stomach, he was sure, and so on down. She flashed a
reassuring smile when he saw him looking. Using the first two fingers of her
left hand she pointed at her eyes, and then to the ATM machine. Hobbs replied to the joke with a mock salute and turned
around.
A moment later,
Richards tapped his shoulder and pointed. He followed her finger’s path to a
lone figure that was just emerging around a corner directly a block up from
their position. The male’s blonde hair was spiked and the roman
nose that stuck out from his face gathered an air of haughtiness around him.
They hunkered down further into the shadow of the dumpster. Hobbs stuck his thumb into the air. Richards mirrored his
action. Target was confirmed; Michaels was approaching.
The kid glanced
around nervously. He might have been cocky the other night, but the shakedown
seemed to have taken its toll none the less. Michaels continued towards them
slowly, keeping his back almost against the brick wall behind him and
constantly scanning a complete one-eighty. Catching him by surprise wasn’t
going to be easy, especially from half a block in which there was little to no
cover and even less distraction. Hobbs turned to the red-head behind him. He tapped his
head, asking if she had any ideas. She looked his way only in short bursts,
always keeping Michaels in the corner of her eye. She pointed to herself and
then swung her arm around, ending with a finger pointing to the other side of
the ATM. She was suggesting that she circle so that they could come at Michaels
from either side. In their situation it was the best idea. When there was no
cover, putting Michaels between the both of them would give them more options,
and at the same time, take options away from him. Hobbs fleetingly wished that he had a third man, but he
knew well enough not to dwell on things that couldn’t be.
The lamp on the
corner cast an orange god light over Michaels. Shadows crept over his eyes and
shoulders and for the first time Hobbs could picture the man underneath the boy, the man
that would some day murder four people in cold blood. There was no more time.
Without looking at her, Hobbs
gave Richards the go ahead. He felt her slip away by nothing more than slight
embrace of air. Michaels left the harsh glow of the street lamp for darker
paths, now trying to stroll nonchalantly towards the ATM. Hobbs’ legs crawled
with anticipation as he crouched behind the cover of the dumpster.
“In
on.” Richards’ voice was soft in
his ear. With the silence of the night, every move and sound had to be
nessacary. Richards’ words told him that she was in position and on the mark.
The ATM beeped into the night as Michaels’ slipped his card into the machine.
Hobbs took a deep breath. It was now or never. “Go.” Even
though it was a whisper, his own voice sounded harsh and strung in his own
ears.
And then he was
moving, gun in his hand and at his side. His shoes barely whispered across the
pavement as he made his way towards the mark. With a quick glance, it was
confirmed that Richards was stalking parallel to him.
It was in that
second that Michaels chose to make a sweep of the area. As Hobbs looked back Michaels was already pelting towards
him, his head turned back towards the other agent. Taking the only chance he
might be given, Hobbs broke into a run straight at the pre-destined
murderer. Michaels finally turned his gaze forward and cut to the right so
sharply when he saw his pursuer from two nights ago that he stumbled and went
down in a tangle of gangly limbs. He was scrambling to his feet when Hobbs reached him.
A sharp boot to the
ribs shot the air out of his chest and sent him back down. Michaels tried again
to rise only to receive another kick that rolled him over onto his back. Hobbs’ heart was hammering in his ears. Richards stood to
the other side in a lazy stance that hid years of hand to hand combat training
and reflexes that were sickeningly fast. A flash of her green eyes told Hobbs of the edge he was walking. Do
it clean, Wayne had said. Don’t play games, Richards was saying. Hobbs brought up his gun, his finger tense around the
trigger.
“What the fuck!”
Michaels brought his hands to his face as if that would stop the bullet. “Man,
what are you doing? You two are fucking crazy! I don’t know you! You got the
wrong fucking guy!”
“Keith Michaels, by
the law of the United States Government, you are ordered not to resist. By a
pre-crime panel of judges, you have been found guilty of four accounts of first
degree murder and have been sentenced,”
“You’re fucking
kidding me! I didn’t kill nobody, man!”
Hobbs shifted his gun and Michaels stopped talking. “You
have been sentenced to execution.” Without another word, the muzzle pointed for
a head shot, he squeezed the trigger of his gun twice.
Richards gasp.
Michaels lowered
his hands from his pale face. They were shaking, but bloodless. He blinked.
Hobbs stared at the boy in front of him. The still-breathing, non-marked, boy in front of him.
Holstering his gun he dropped to the ground, one knee to the grimy street and
one to Michaels’ chest. Michaels grunted. Slipping one hand around his mark’s
neck, Hobbs wrenched his head to the side. There were two
identical indents in the ground underneath, both ending with the crumpled
silver sheen of a bullet.
“What in God’s
name…” He heard Richards’ whisper in his ear.
“I don’t think God
has anything to do with this,” Hobbs answered. With a flick of his free hand, he held an
open switchblade to Michael’s throat.
“Joel…”
Micheals was
trembling. The bad-boy persona had completely failed him. Hobbs’ eyes never left his ghostly-white face when he
spoke. “Clean or messy, Richards, it has to be done. You know that as well as I do.” He pressed the honed blade harder
against the shaking flesh. “I am not going to fail.” With a savage downward
slash, Hobbs brought the knife across Michaels’ neck.
Both Richards and
Michaels gasps echoed through his ears. Hobbs had closed his eyes at the last moment, resigned to
what had to be done, but not wanting to see it. His eyes remained closed,
waiting for the hot blood to wash over his hand that still clenched at the
kid’s throat.
“Joel!”
Richards’ scream
ripped through his head and jerked his eyes open just in time to see the fist
coming that connected squarely with his nose. He fell backwards off Michaels in
pain and surprise and over the ringing in his ears heard footsteps scrambling
away from him. Richards pried his hand from his face.
“Jesus, what the,
he broke you nose.”
He pushed her away.
“Stop. Go after him.” His head was reeling in blinding
white pain.
“No. Joel, we’ll
jump. Forget him. Something’s gone horribly wrong. We need to get back.”
Hobbs grabbed her hand before it got to her wristband.
Crushing her fingers, he wrenched it away. He heard her grunt in pain but
ignored it. She wasn’t doing her job. She should have stopped Michaels. “Go
after him!” He screamed at her. “That’s a order!” He
had never seen Richards look disheveled before. Her green eyes darted after the
fleeing figure with uncertainty. Hobbs rolled himself to the side and pushed her with
enough force to send her toppling backwards. The clip came out of her hair and
went tumbling across the street. Long red waves fell over her face in snarls.
“Go! Now!” He slid his gun across the space between
them.
Richards regained
her feet, picking up the gun as she went. Brushing hair from her face, she
checked the safety and tucked it under her waistband. She spared only a glance
at her Captain before taking off.
He could hear her
breathing. “Richards, you take out the mark.”
“No. I can’t.”
At least she was
going after him. Hobbs pushed himself to his feet and staggered a step
before finding his balance. He had to make her take the shot. “That is not a
question, Private. You goddamn better do it. If you have a shot, take it!”
There was no response from his headset. “Richards! I am ordering you to kill
Michaels! Do you understand?”
There was nothing
but footsteps in his head. And then, a hard, “Hoo-ah.”
Hobbs pressed his back against cold brick and sucked in
deep breaths. His spinning head couldn’t grab a hold of what had just happened.
There was no way that Michaels could be alive. It was impossible.
His stomach
lurched. Buckling over, Hobbs
emptied his breakfast onto the ground. When his body was through heaving he
wiped his mouth, acid
still searing his tongue. He felt a little steadier now. Blood splattered onto
the ground at his feet. Running his hand under his nose, Hobbs was rewarded with a large smear of red.
Michaels was going
to die.
He wanted to do it.
He wanted to be the one to snap Michaels’ neck and sit there, contented, as the
little shit gave up his last breath. But that wasn’t going to happen. He
gathered the anger that was boiling just under the surface and used its steady
pulse to give him the balance to start off in a stumbling run in the last
direction of Richards and Michaels. “Richards, where are you? Do you have him?”
Her voice came back
immediately. It was cold. “Captain, I am in pursuit. Headed
straight up Main, crossing Wilstead.”
The wind had picked
up, buffeting Hobbs as he tried to even out his footsteps. All at once,
the dogs that had been silent up to now picked up in a howling chorus. Hobbs swung around, but saw nothing. The cacophony
continued as he turned around slowly and began to run again. His heart beat was
sickeningly erratic in his ears, but he pressed himself onward. Concentrating
on his boot falls Hobbs put one foot in front of the other, every now and
then touching base with Richards to make sure he was still in pursuit.
A static-ridden
voice burst through his head unit. Hobbs strained to make out the words.
“Obbs… wha in hell…
files are go… apeshit back…”
“Director Wayne?”
“Hobbs!” The voice was clear for an instant before it
disintegrated into static once again.
Hobbs stopped running to fiddle with the knobs on his
wrist band. He changed the incoming channel and on a whim, set his date
controls back to March 13, 2055 without jumping. The static fell into a silent
running transmission. “Director?”
“Hobbs! Are you readin’ me?”
“Hoo-ah.”
“Listen up. You
need ta get tha hell out of there. All our files are going apeshit back here.
Whatever you two are doing, it’s screwin’ things up royally.”
“Director? Nothing has been done.” Hobbs couldn’t believe it. They hadn’t done anything! That
was the problem.
“Captain, Ah am
telling you it doesn’t matta. In our files Michaels now has ten first degree
murders ta his name, including numerous assault and batteries and a number of
rapes. And they are growin’ by the minute.”
“But Sir,”
“What in tha good
Lord’s name have you two been doin’? Makin’ tha kid feel invincible?”
The statement
rammed through Hobbs’ mind with the impact of a sledgehammer. Instead of
saving lives, he was killing them. That made him as bad as Michaels. It made
him a murderer.
“Richards!” He
screamed. The Director was on their channel now, but he didn’t care. All he
knew was that this needed to be ended, now. “Richards! Take Michaels out! Do
it!”
“No! Ah want you to
jump!”
“Hobbs?” Richards’ voice was strained. He could hear her
rapid breathing.
“Don’t listen to
him, Elaine.” Hobbs tried to calm himself, to make her understand.
“Listen to me. Michaels’ tally is going up. If you don’t take him out, we’re
costing numerous people their lives. Do you want that on your shoulders?”
There was nothing
from Richards but her continued rasping. Then, the sound of a
gun cocking. “I’ve got a shot.” Hobbs hoped that her aim was steadier than her voice.
“Richards! Ah am
ordering you to stand down!”
Hobbs clicked the Director to a private channel, static or
no. He knew what had to be done and he wasn’t going to let Wayne convince Richards otherwise. He didn’t care if it
got him court-martialed. “Elaine, he’s not here. He doesn’t know what’s
happened. Take the shot.”
“Joel,” her voice
cracked.
“I believe in you,
Elaine. I know you can do it. Do it for all the innocents he cut down in cold
blood. You said before that you wanted the chance to take the mark.” He knew
that was stretching the truth a bit, but continued on. “You have that chance to
finish this the right way.” He took a deep breath. “Take the shot.” She didn’t
respond, but Hobbs knew that she would do it. She was trained just as
he was, she felt the same obedience to civil duty and the people that he did.
“Bbs… ta me… you need
ta stand… one of tha rapes… you need ta… Obbs!… it’s…
ndmother… your gr…”
Your
grandmother.
“Elaine!”
A single gunshot rang out
in the night.
“Good shot, Captain.”
Elaine Richards didn’t
need her headset to hear the note of awe in Carl Stenor’s voice. She graced her
second with a smile and stood, stretched her legs, and brushed her short red
hair from her eyes. She had just
finished their ninth mission with another clean termination, and all she wanted
to do now was go home and spend a quiet evening with her husband.
Copyright 2003 by Meredith Boman
Editor’s Note: This is Meredith’s
first professional publication, and I am pleased to say that Nexxus was the first magazine to discover this rare
talent. Her story, though a bit rough
around the edges, demonstrates a considerable amount of talent and skill. I think you will be seeing much more of her
work in the years to come! --RMW
Send mail to richmondwilson@dcemail.com with
questions or comments about this web site.
Last modified: April 30, 2003
