Chapter Fifteen: Crisis Point

“Do your duty as you see it, and damn the consequences.”

-Gen. George S. Patton

            “Remember,” Webb radioed the SWAT Team. “As soon as you see Mr. Hammer and Sickle, you blast him straight away, whatever the cost. Because as long as he’s alive, you boys won’t stand a chance in there.”

            The special equipment had arrived just a few minutes before, along with a qualified National Guardsman to fire it. The team had been briefed, prepped, and were loading up for their second assault. Webb prayed fervently that it would be more successful than the first. They were certainly gung-ho to try: SWAT guys were tough, macho types who didn’t appreciate either being forced to retreat or seeing their comrades die in front of them. Webb felt confident that they could get the job done, now that they knew what they were up against.

The line into the building crackled and came to life.

“Calvan!”

            Strasser was yelling so loud that Webb could hardly understand him over the distortions. Webb snatched up the radio

            “This is Deputy Chief Webb…”

            “Put Calvan on now!” Strasser ordered. “Now, or I will start executing hostages!”

            Webb glared at Calvan.

            “What have you done?” he growled as he thrust the radio into his hands.

            Calvan didn’t answer, but spoke calmly into the radio.

            “This is Xander Calvan.”

            “Where is it?”

            “Where is what?”

            “Don’t play games with me!” Strasser roared. “Where are you keeping the Alphite?!”

            Calvan considered the matter for a moment.

            “Do I take this to mean you have gained access to my vault?”

            “It was a decoy, wasn’t it?” Strasser snarled. “You knew we’d come for it eventually, and you moved it!”

            Peter Joshua fixed Calvan with an expression that Webb guessed probably resembled Strasser’s.

            “I didn’t think you’d be quite so foolish,” said Calvan evenly, ignoring Joshua’s expression. “Was that what this was all about, then? I think your prisoner release plan would have been better.”  

            “The Alphite, Calvan! Tell me where you are keeping it, or I will start shooting your employees!”

            “Out of curiosity, how did you even know that we had it?”

            “Don’t be naïve,” said Strasser. “Do you think we don’t have people everywhere? Do you think you sick society is not as filled with our spies as a rotten log is with termites?”

            “If you have so many spies, why don’t you ask one of them where I am keeping it?”

            There was a brief silence on the other end, then:

            “Look at your office window,” Strasser ordered.

            Webb keyed his radio and ordered eyes on the west side of the building.

            “Oh, my God!” it was Laura Lotus. “Oh, my God! He’s holding a gun to his head!”

            “Slow down, Laura,” Webb ordered. “Tell me exactly what you see.”

            “He…Strasser: he’s got a man pressed against the window, and he’s holding a gun to his head!”

            “Do you see it?” Strasser demanded.

            “We see it,” Webb answered glumly.

            “Calvan, you have sixty seconds to tell me where the Alphite is, or I will kill him!” 

            Webb and Joshua fixed Calvan with looks of horror.

            “For God’s sake, Calvan,” Webb snapped. “Tell him something! Buy us some time; we’re almost ready to go in!”

            Calvan looked at him with an inscrutable expression, then keyed the radio.

            “Alright, Strasser,” he said. “You win. It’s at the Birkin Center.”

            There was a pause.

            “You’re lying,” Strasser snarled, followed at once by the crack of a gunshot.

              

            Ben Osborne had been faced with his own death three times tonight already, and each time he had escaped by the skin of his teeth. Well, no; he’d escaped the first and third times because Strasser had chosen not to kill him for some sick reason of his own, and the second time by shoving other people out of the way so he could get to safety. Now, with his face pressed painfully against the glass of Calvan’s office window and a gun pressed to his temple, he didn’t see how either of those strategies could save him this time. This time his only hope was that Calvan would just give the man what he wanted, but that wasn’t much of a hope. Calvan, the selfish son-of-a-bitch, wasn’t about to give up anything that might turn a profit in exchange for a little thing like the life of his employees.

            Strasser’s grip was impossibly strong, more like an ape’s than a human’s. Ben had had a close encounter with an angry chimpanzee once while hunting in Africa, and Strasser had the same terrifyingly unexpected power in his arm.

            Bulletproof and inhumanly strong; damn it, it wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair that he should die like this, humiliated and beaten by someone who wasn’t even a normal human. How could he have been expected to survive this? It wasn’t fair!

            He listened to the conversation over the radio, silently hoping, begging, praying, even though he wasn’t even sure he believed in God, that somehow he’d be spared, but the look in Strasser’s cold, hateful eyes told him that, whatever the outcome, he wasn’t going to live through this.

            Then Calvan seemed to relent: he gave up the location of the Alphite, whatever that was. Strasser glanced off to the side for a moment as though checking with his men, then said the words that seemed to kill Ben on the spot.

            “You’re lying.”

            A second later, there was the sharp crack of a gunshot, and Ben shut his eyes tight, but his head remained intact. Instead, Strasser’s head was slammed forward into the window so hard that it broke right through the glass. His grip on Ben loosened in shock, and he was able to twist out of his grip and stumble away as another shot cracked through the small office, and the other man, Hans, fell in a crumpled heap.

            In the doorway, George through the sniper rifle aside and switched to the Kalashnikov that hung from his shoulder. The three men who had been working on the vault groped for their own weapons, but George dropped two of them with bursts from the Kalashnikov before they could fire, then ducked as the third brought his pistol up, firing as he moved.

            Determined to do something useful, Ben tore after the man, who was so focused on shooting George that he didn’t notice the other threat coming from behind until it was too later. Ben tackled the man to the ground and all his frustration, humiliation, and rage burst forth as he pummeled him.

            “Is everyone alright?” George shouted as he stood up again, gun still at the ready, but seeing no more immediate threats.

            The survivors – who were pitifully few in number – were still screaming and cowering on the ground, hands covering their heads. For a moment, George didn’t see Martha and a sick sense of dread flooded his stomach. Then her blonde, beautiful head poked tremulously over the edge of Calvan’s desk.

            George saw that Ben was beating the last living Tanzanian mercilessly, and he started to call to him to stop, that it was over, when, with a crash of shattering glass, Strasser tore his head free from the window, snatched up his dropped pistol, and fired at him. George only just had time to duck and shelter behind a sofa.

            That was impossible. He had hit Strasser in the head with a .30-06 bullet. No human could survive that. Was Strasser a cyborg as well?

            Ben suddenly appeared at his side amid more gunfire.

            “He’s not normal,” Ben told him quickly. “He’s bulletproof and strong as hell.”

            George didn’t have time to answer, because Strasser was coming around the couch ready to shoot them both. George fired a quick burst, which shattered against the German’s skin, causing him to flinch, but not go down. Strasser fired, but the gun clicked dry.

            Swearing in German, Strasser seized George by the throat and threw him across the room as if he were a doll. He hit the coffee table in the middle of the office hard enough to crack it, and pain shot through his arm and shoulder. The other hostages screamed and scattered.

For a second George lay stunned. Then, regaining his senses just in time, he rolled off the table just as Strasser tried to finish him off with a kick that split the already-damaged table in half and ripped through the floor beneath, which threw Strasser off balance long enough for George to get to his feet and fire another burst point-blank into the German’s face. Strasser flinched back, grimacing in pain, but not a drop of blood appeared. He swept the gun out of George’s hands and struck him in the stomach hard enough to lift him off his feet and send him crumpling to the ground.

            Winded, racked with pain, George didn’t have the strength to move as Strasser raised a foot to stomp his face into jelly.

            Ben came out of nowhere and sprang onto Strasser’s back, wrapping his arms around the German’s neck in a headlock. Strasser staggered with the sudden impact, but didn’t fall. Snarling, he grabbed Ben’s arm and pulled him off of his back as if he were a child. Ben tried to hold on, but he didn’t have anywhere near the strength. Strasser didn’t just toss him aside, however. He dragged Ben around so that they stood face to face, then, still holding his arm with on hand, he smacked Ben hard across the face with the other. Ben went limp and fell to the floor.

            Stumbling to his feet, George drew the knife that hung at his belt and bull-rushed Strasser, wrapping his arms around the German’s waist and stabbing him in the torso again and again. Strasser’s flesh compressed with the impact, but the knife only skidded along against his skin, unable to penetrate. It was like stabbing thick leather with a butter knife. 

            Strasser threw George off him, and he hit the ground, rolling into a corner. The German took a moment to catch his breath, which gave George a chance to clamber to his feet, breathing hard. Strasser moved toward him, and George backed away, in front of the half-shattered window.

            “You little bastard,” Strasser growled. He looked deranged with his suit all in tatters and his black hair in disarray, but still not a mark was on him. “Do you know how long it took me to plan this operation? And, thanks to you, it was all for nothing!”

            He swung at George, who ducked, and Strasser’s fist shattered a great chunk of the remaining window. Strasser swung again, this time clipping George hard enough to knock him off his feet. Strasser loomed over him, hair blowing in the wind from the shattered window.

            Then, with a scream, Martha charged him, swinging the empty hunting rifle like a baseball bat. Strasser’s eyes went wide, and he seemed more surprised than anything as she hit him across the face hard enough to crack the stock. Strasser rocked back with the impact, stumbled, almost righted himself, but Martha came back and drove the butt of the rifle into his stomach, pushing him with all her might. Already off-balance from her first blow, Strasser fell backwards, through the remains of the window and out of sight.

            It had been so sudden and so surprising that he was almost ten stories down before he thought to scream.

           

            With the sound of the gunshot over the radio, Deputy Chief Webb’s patience finally ran out.

            “What the Hell is the matter with you?” he snarled at Calvan.

            Calvan frowned at the radio, as though puzzled.

            “Look at me, damn it!” Webb shouted, grabbing the richest man in the world by his shirt and shaking him. “A man just died because of you!”

            “Take your hands off me right now and I will consider not suing you for police brutality,” Calvan answered in a voice of deadly calm.

            Reluctantly, Webb released him.

            “It was a reasonable lie that I expected him to believe,” he went on. “You told me to stall him, and I did the best I could.”

            Peter Joshua’s face, which had been angry before, now appeared to be made of stone.       

            “Where is it?” he demanded.

            “Under the circumstances,” Calvan replied sharply. “You will forgive me for not answering that question.”

            “No, I will not forgive you,” Joshua answered. “If it is neither here nor in the Birkin Center, then that means one of two things. Either it is already missing, or you have sole access to one of the most dangerous objects in the world, both of which are unacceptable, so you will tell me where you are hiding it right now.”

            “May I remind you, Peter Joshua, that you work for me?”

            Joshua’s face grew stonier.

            “And may I remind you,” he answered. “That you hired me to ensure the Alphite’s safety, and that I cannot do that if I don’t know where it is!”

             “You heard Strasser,” said Calvan. “He knew I was lying about the Birkin Center, therefore he has someone on the inside. Until I know who it is, I will not disclose the location of the Alphite to anyone for any reason. Not even to you.”

            “That is not your call to make,” Joshua insisted.

            “If you call my contacts in Washington, I think you will find that it is,” said Calvan.

            “ENOUGH!” Webb roared. The two men dropped the argument. “Now you both listen to me; I don’t give a damn what you do with this Alphite thing. I’m trying to mitigate a crises here that has already cost the lives of over seventy people, and until that situation is resolved, I don’t want to hear another word from either of you that isn’t directly helpful, is that clear?”

            Calvan turned away without answering. Joshua, still stone faced, gave an ironic bow.

            Webb turned away in disgust to check in with the SWAT team when Morgan came rushing up, looking flushed and excited in a way that Webb had only rarely seen.

            “Joe,” he said. “You’re gonna want to come look at this.”

            “What happened?”

            “Well, it looks like Mr. Strasser just fell out of the fiftieth-floor window.”

            “He what?”

            “But that’s not the strange part,” said Bill. “Really, Joe; you need to come see this.”
            Joe looked skyward. The helicopters were coming.
            "In a minute, Bill," he said. "This is the crisis point."

   

            George hugged Martha tightly, feeling her body tremble like a leaf against his as he softly stroked her long gold hair. She was sobbing softly, and George felt like he was probably going to be joining her pretty soon. The stupendous relief of knowing that the whole long, terrible ordeal was over at last was slowly and painfully working through him, relaxing the tension within him and, with it, releasing the emotions that he had had to keep locked up the whole time. At the same time, every injury he had sustained seemed to swell with pain. His arm particularly hurt, but didn’t seem to be broken.

            Ben stood by him, pale and shaken, livid bruises standing out on his face as if he were spotted like a Dalmatian. Still holding onto Martha, George held out his hand and Ben gripped it tightly.

            For a moment, the three friends stood together, savoring their survival. Then George gently disengaged himself Martha and addressed the room at large.

            “Is everyone alright?”

            Slowly, the remaining hostages stirred, lifting their heads like refugees emerging from a bombed out cellar. George breathed a sigh of relief: every single one of the hostages who had escaped the collapsing Sky Patio had survived the night. That was something to be grateful for.

            Taking his flashlight, he walked to the shattered window and signaled across the street.

            “Hostages secure. Strasser dead.”

            A pause. Then:

            “Thank God. Police on their way.”

            “Alright, everyone,” George said, turning from the window. “Just sit tight; the police are on their…”

            There was a crash of shattering glass and the room was rent with screams. Seething, his face coated in angry blisters, his hammer and sickle extended, Gidan landed in the room with a roar.

            For a split second, George was frozen with shock.

            “Everybody run!”

             He hadn’t needed to say anything. The moment they set eyes on the cyborg, everyone in the room had begun a desperate scramble to put as much distance between themselves and him as possible. But Gidan didn’t pay any attention to them. His dark, blazing eyes were fixed on George as he charged across the room.

            With seconds to react, George shoved Martha out of the cyborg’s path and ducked as Gidan swung his hammer. The blow passed inches over George’s head, striking the heavy oak desk, which split open beneath the attack, sending papers and bits of wood flying. George scrambled away, out of the cyborg’s reach as Gidan swung back at him, missed, and followed with his sickle. George felt a thin line of fire lash his back as it made contact and, gasping, fell forward. Gidan moved up, swinging his hammer. George rolled out of the way and the hammer embedded itself in the floor.

            A burst of fire broke against the cyborg’s skin. Martha had stayed behind, picked up Hans’s Kalashnikov, and was now blasting Gidan with it. Retracting his hammer, Gidan rushed her, knocked the gun from her hand, picked her up and threw her across the room. Martha hit the floor hard, rolled, and slid right toward the open window that Strasser had fallen from moments before. Screaming, she grabbed at the carpet and managed to catch herself just as she reached the ledge, leaving her dangling over fifty floors of empty space.  

            “Martha!” George shouted, but couldn’t come to her aid, for Gidan had turned his attention back to him. He had retracted both weapons, apparently determined to beat George to death with his fists, or maybe he intended to hurl him out the window as well. George ducked his first blow, but the second glanced off his skull with enough force to send him to the floor, stars winking before his eyes.

            As he landed, he saw the knife he had dropped earlier lying right in front of him. Above him, raised a foot to crush him. Without pausing to think, George grabbed the knife, rolled over, and thrust upwards. It’s unlikely that he would have been able to injure Gidan with his own strength, but with Gidan himself bringing his foot down upon it the blade pierced his flesh, bone, muscle, and whatever mechanical enhancements had been added as well. It was torn from George’s grip as it entered and slammed through the floor at his side.

            Gidan howled with pain and fell, clutching at his injured foot. Seizing his chance, George grabbed a heavy planted that stood by the sofa, raised it over his head and slammed it down on Gidan’s unarmored face, smashing his nose flat. The cyborg yelled, but was too disorientated by the attack to adequately defend himself when George hit him again. Now Gidan was so dazed he could barely move as George raised the planter again.

            “George!” Martha screamed from the window. “Help me!”

            Forgetting Gidan for a moment, George turned and saw, to his horror, that Martha’s grip on the carpet was visibly weakening. She was literally holding on by her fingertips, and from the wide-eyed, anguished expression on her face, she couldn’t hold on any longer.

            George had a split second to decide. He couldn’t expect another chance to kill Gidan, and if he lost this one, it would be more than likely Gidan would be able to recover and finish him off. Or he might escape and who knew what acts of violence he’d be capable of in his desperation and rage. But if he took the time to kill Gidan, even if only one more second, Martha would certainly fall to her death.  

            It really wasn’t much of a choice.

            Dropping the planter, George sprinted across the office and made a dive for her just as Martha’s grip gave way. Screaming, she fell…and George caught her arms just as they were leaving the window.

            Pain shot through his injured arm like an electric current, but he held on like grim death. Martha was sobbing what sounded like gibberish in her terror, her eyes like saucers as she looked down between her dangling legs at the terrible fall beneath her.

            “It’s okay!” George shouted. “I’ve got you!”

            Bracing himself, George hauled her up gritting his teeth with the effort. Martha had stopped jabbering and was now only breathing very fast and shallow. She tried to throw her leg over the ledge, missed with a shriek, tried again and made it.

            They fell back onto the wonderfully solid floor, holding each other tight, breathing hard. For the moment, George had forgotten about the injured Gidan. His mind was filled with nothing but thankfulness that she had been saved.

            But even that couldn’t distract him for long. After only a few moments, George released Martha and scrambled to his feet, but his strength was almost gone. He swayed and had to catch himself with Calvan’s ruined desk. He could barely move his injured arm, and the cut on his back burned horribly. Martha rose with him and put her arm around him, steadying them both.

            In the middle of the room, Gidan was rising. Slowly, but the chance to finish him had gone.

            Hoping to escape before he recovered enough to pursue them, George and Martha limped around the edge of the office, giving the cyborg a wide berth. Gidan shook his head, apparently disoriented, the suddenly fixed them with a stare that was all-too clear.

            “Stop!” he ordered.

            George and Martha halted about halfway around the room.

            “You,” Gidan snarled. “You American bastards! You think you can walk away from this?”

            He took a tentative step, limping slightly.

            “Who do you think you are to treat me in such a manner?”

            He took another step. George was frantically trying to think of a way to at least save Martha, if not himself.

            “For this insult,” Gidan continued. “I am going to kill you slowly and intimately…”

            His threat was suddenly cut off by a heavy thrumming in the air. It took George a moment to think what it could be. Then he and Martha both turned to see a helicopter hovering level with the broken window at their backs. It was about a hundred yards away, but even so they could see the open side door, the men inside, and the tubular object that one of them was aiming at the office.

            And George realized what that meant in a flash.

            Seizing Martha and calling on all his remaining strength, he sprinted for the office door, dragging her along with him. Gidan didn’t try to stop them. He was staring in wide-eyed realization at the rocket-propelled grenade-launcher that was aimed right at him.

            George and Martha reached the door just as the RPG fired, and they dove into the vault room almost the instant it impacted. A tremendous roar of sound, heat, and pressure expanded outward from the impact point, ripping the damaged office to pieces and tearing down the hall past them. Any glass that remained on the top floor, and the floor below, was shattered, and for a moment the top of the Huston Gold was lit up like an enormous lighthouse.

            Gidan, however, had survived.

            After a moment of shocked realization as the two Americans fled the room, he had turned and sprinted for the window, crashing through as the rocket hit. The explosion washed over him, driving him outwards, but it couldn’t do him any serious damage now.

            He landed rolling on the helipad, rose, and sprinted across the roof. Reaching the edge, he activated his air cannons and launched himself across the gap into the next building, crashing through a window into a deserted office. He kept going. He’d need to put a great deal of distance between himself and the police before he could rest, attend to his injuries, and decide what he was to do about the mission.

            Whatever else, the American mbwa and his malaya would die. And soon.

Next week;

Chapter Sixteen: After Action