“Do whatever you want, it’ll just take a lot longer if I’m the only one carrying her. If the other agents get back and see you with a gun they might kill you. But that’s up to you I guess.”
“Um…”
Grosskopf made the decision to help and shoved the pistol into his waistband. I secretly hoped that the weapon would go off. It turns out I didn’t get the Force with my other brain powers and the doctor’s nether regions remained un-shot. He took Anka’s other arm and put it over his shoulders.
As soon as her arm was in place around Grosskopf, she moved to put him into a headlock. I stepped out of her way and plucked the gun from the doctor’s belt. I quickly engaged the safety as Anka shoved the doctor backward into the fMRI area. I saw what she was thinking and grabbed a chair from one of the work stations. As soon as the door closed, I slid the chair under the handle and wedged the feet in place.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Right. Service entrance?” I asked.
“It’s our only chance.”
We took off for the stairs and got into the stairwell in just a few seconds. It was nice to have my body back under my own control as we ran up the stairs, but I found myself getting tired quickly. With willpower I forced myself to keep going until we got to the top. Agent Mustache was still there, holding the door open for us. We pushed through and Anka took the gun from the agent as we went by.
She looked much more competent than I felt as she scanned all the corners of the room to clear it before we proceeded. I wished that I’d had time to watch a training video for using firearms in a team situation. I just ran along with my pistol pointed at the ground trying to look like the people in the movies. We crossed the loading dock and got to the service entrance. Anka pushed it open and poked her head out briefly. She looked back at me and nodded. I guessed that was part of the team communication that I didn’t know. I nodded back.
She kicked open the door and spun around to cover the area with her gun. I followed her and did the same thing. I hoped it was right. No one was around so we took off running. It turned out we were at the back door to the bathroom building at the park. On the outside it looked like a storage closet. We ran across the park to the Escalade and jumped in. Anka fired up the Cadillac and squealed the tires on the way out of the parking lot.
“Did we just get away?”
“Not yet. We still need to pick up Gutierrez. Maybe he can get us out of the country. We won’t be safe in the US now.”
“Because of Stephenson?”
“Yeah.”
“What if I can take care of that?”
“How?”
“Well, remember that he confessed his plan to me and I can mimic his voice. I can just call in a confession to his boss. That should put the kibosh on his plans to kill us.”
“You know his boss is the President, right?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Could we call a Senator?”
“That might work, but first we need to get to safety. It won’t do us any good to make the call if we’re dead.”
Anka drove through the streets of Seattle at fifty miles per hour or more. I held on to the prayer-handle and squeezed my eyes shut. She took five minutes to make the ten-minute drive back to Queen Anne Hill where Gutierrez was hacking drones. He must have been watching for us because he came trotting out when we pulled up.
“It was good, yes? Where is the doctor?”
“The doctor betrayed us. Stephenson is trying to kill us. We need to get out of the country,” Anka said.
El Tigre’s
eyes narrowed.
“Stephenson is still alive?”
“Yeah, he almost killed us, but then the evacuation was over and he had to leave,” I added.
“Yes, they reestablished control over the drones. I was locked out of the system.”
“Come on, let’s go.” Anka sounded worried.
“No, I must kill Stephenson.”
“You can’t get through all of the NSA. You’ll die first. Besides, we have the evidence to take him down. He’ll go to jail and be disgraced.”
“You have evidence?”
“Yes,” I said, “I heard his confession. I’ll share it with his boss and get him fired.”
“Why would they believe you?”
“Because I’ll sound like Stephenson.”
“Ah, yes. Good. I’m driving.”
Anka started to protest, but decided against it and moved to the back seat. Gutierrez climbed in and handed me his black box.
“We can get a plane back to Cuba if we get up to Canada.” Gutierrez pulled out into traffic and pointed the SUV north.
“I guess that’s our best bet for now. We’ll get away and then call in Stephenson’s confession.” Anka sounded resigned.
As we came down the hill we could see the park to our right and a bridge ahead of us. I gripped the handle again as Gutierrez sped down the hill. I saw the drone just before the bridge exploded in front of us.
Drone and Quartered
Antonio slammed on the brakes so hard the tires smoked and the heavy Escalade slid sideways. He stepped out of the car, smoothly pulled his nickel-plated semi-automatic pistol and started firing before I could fully comprehend what was happening. He popped off two shots, frowned and put his left hand on the grip of the pistol to steady his aim.
The third shot hit the rapidly approaching drone. It sagged on one side like a gangsta’s pants, but eventually the algorithm figured out how to correct for the loss of a rotor and it leveled off. It was slowed, but still approached us with missiles bristling from its undercarriage.
El Tigre
slowly aimed and hit it again; it flinched and continued. A fifth and sixth shot struck and did negligible damage. I unbuckled my seatbelt and prepared to run when the missiles fired at the Cadillac.
The seventh round struck the quad-drone so that it spun to the ground like a discarded American cheese wrapper at the family barbecue. I secretly hoped for a Hollywood-style explosion when it hit the ground. Instead it just bounced once and crumpled to the pavement about a hundred yards in front of us.
“That was my last bullet,” Gutierrez said as he walked toward the back of the vehicle.
I turned to look at Anka whose eyes were wide. She still seemed to be processing her betrayal and the explosion of a bridge. I was about to ask what I could do to help when I saw Gutierrez walk back around the Escalade with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. He seemed to be muttering under his breath. The only word I understood was also uttered by the Hispanic coworkers who shared my exile in the kitchen of a Denny’s when they were upset with the night manager, Tiffany.
“Um…Anka, I think we might need to leave soon.” I pointed with my forehead.
“Holy…”
“Yeah,
El Tigre
is seriously crazy.”
“No, not that.” It was her turn to point.
My eyes followed her finger back toward Gasworks Park. The cloud of quad-drones streaming towards us was, shall we say, disconcerting.
Apparently, our Cuban friend felt the same. He stumbled backward and, with wide eyes, asked me to drive while he walked toward the back of the SUV. I slid over into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror while he stepped into the back with Anka. I glanced backward to see him hand her an AK-47 and a handful of clips. On the seat next to him was a stack of RPG reloads. They both rolled down their windows.
“Hey, guys. Um. Where should I go? I’m not from Seattle.”
“Go toward the, um, what was the bridge and make a right on Westlake. Follow that around until you get to Mercer and take a left. From there you can get on I-5 South.” Anka checked the weapon and chambered a round while giving me the directions. Action seemed to be a cure for her quandary.
“Yes,” Antonio added, “and don’t get shot by a drone.”
“Right. I’ll make it a priority.”
I dropped my foot and drove toward the smoking ruins of the Fremont Bridge. I made the corner onto Westlake with only a little bit of tire squealing and did my best to ignore the dozens of drones bearing down on us from directly ahead. I wasn’t doing a very good job.
“Don’t slow down. You have to get us out of here!”
“Sorry, sorry,” I apologized to Anka, “it’s hard to drive toward that.”
I sped up and only flinched a little bit when the first RPG fired off from behind me. It streaked out and detonated in the middle of the drone squadron. At least one of the mass was obliterated and several were damaged. I tried to be happy about it, but for some reason going from a dozen death-dealing flying robots trying to kill you to eight death-dealing flying robots trying to kill you just doesn’t induce much joy.
We sped by docked boats on the left and, luckily, most cars were just getting out of the way. It probably had something to do with the rocket-wielding Cuban and the machine-gun toting woman hanging out the back windows of a speeding Escalade.
Anka popped off a few shots, but by now I couldn’t see the drones without turning around and, despite the politeness of the other drivers, navigating Westlake at high speeds while being pursued by quad-drones took most of my attention.
“Steady now,” Anka shouted.
“I’m doing my best.” My knuckles ached from gripping the wheel.
Another RPG ripped through the sky and detonated. The nearness of the sound unnerved me. I sped up. More shots from Anka helped give me the courage to weave through slow-moving cars ahead. When we got to the intersection with Mercer I realized I was going too fast about a second after I started the turn.
Anka and Gutierrez swore bilingually and the Cadillac’s tires skittered across the pavement. For a moment only two wheels were on the ground. That moment was also the one in which I threw up in my mouth a little bit, in case you were curious.
As the SUV slammed back to earth, I saw the I-5 signs, “Canada or Portland?” I screamed with a hint of terrified little girl in my voice.
“Cana-”
“-land!”
That was far less than helpful. Anka wanted us to go to Portland and Gutierrez wanted to head for the great white north. Unfortunately, the cars in front of us didn’t want us to go anywhere. Traffic was backed up and no threat of RPG or AK-47 could cause them to move out of our way. All the while the drones were coming up behind us. The only available space was on the sidewalk, so I drove there. You might think I’d grown numb to the surrealism of such moments, but it was still awe inspiring to realize that I was driving on the sidewalk like a stunt driver in a cheesy movie. I daresay I reveled in the moment.
Too bad that reveling distracted me long enough to miss any shot of getting to the northbound lanes for I-5. Sidewalk driving meant we were bound back south—into the teeth of traffic. I wish that I could say we flew down the freeway and escaped the clutches of NSA Director Stephenson, but what actually happened is we were stopped by a wall of brake lights all trying to get through Seattle. There are no sidewalks on the freeway. There was no room.
About the only thing that saved us is that we stopped underneath another layer of roadway. The double-decker road prevented the drones from firing off missiles at a distance and kept us protected for the moment.
“Can you hack them again?” Anka asked.
“One at a time only. I count still three following us.”
“We’ve got to distract Stephenson,” I said.
“What good will that do us right now?” Anka asked.
“Would any of your NSA coworkers shoot missiles at innocent people?”
“Good point. So, how do we distract him?”
“We need to call his boss. Can you do that?”
“Yes, I have a code to get into the Pentagon.”
“Here,” Gutierrez tossed his phone to Anka.
“Tell them you have a recording of Stephenson you need to share, then put me on.”
“Got it.”
“And hurry.” She glared at her phone as she dialed.
“This is Agent Anka Fedora, operator code Alpha-Bravo-Nine-Seven-Delta-Five requesting emergency debrief. Under fire.”
She bobbed her head from side to side as they transferred her call to whomever gets that call.
“Yes sir. Yes sir. Yes. Yes. No. Currently under cover fleeing attack. Yes. Recording. Here.”
She handed me the phone and I froze for a moment before I remembered Stephenson’s rant about the Iranians. I included my words as well to provide context and make it sound more like a recording:
“How could I not help you? I’m proof of the work. Won’t Congress want to see evidence of your success?”
“Pshh! Congress? What makes you think I’m working for Congress? No, this is far more profitable than anything Congress could offer me.”
“Did I miss the memo where they announced that the NSA was no longer under the oversight of Congress?”
“Are you really this dumb? Anka put it together easily. No, little man, I have a deal with the Iranians. They need a way to spy that can’t be tracked by any mechanical or electronic method. This is the perfect solution. And I get lots of money for it.”
Then I handed the phone back to Anka.
“Yes sir. Stephenson sir. I can confirm it. I will testify. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Correct, fire is coming from Stephenson. I-5 southbound. Yes sir. Thank you sir.”