John Locke - The Love You Crave

When George stops crying I look up at him and notice he’s pointing a gun at the center of my chest.

Good thing his gun’s a semi-automatic. Unless there’s a round already in the chamber, he can’t just pull the trigger and shoot me. He’s got to manually load the first round by racking the slide mechanism.

“Helluva gun you’ve got there,” I say.

“You think?”

“K11 Slovak. You didn’t buy that at Wal-Mart. Your arms dealer must’ve given it to you as a gift.”

“That’s right.”

“I would’ve held out for a K100 Whisper with a threaded barrel and silencer. Of course I’d never try to use either of these guns.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

“Arms dealers are notorious bastards. Your gun is probably rigged to blow up in your face.”

“You’re not going to trick me into giving up my gun.”

“Fine. Let me ask you this: what’s your arms dealer’s name?”

“Boris.”

I chuckle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Okay, so I’m guessing at some point Boris asked what else you have that might be for sale, right?”

“So?”

“And I’m guessing you said this is all you’ve got, right?”

George frowns again.

I say, “So we’ve got an arms dealer using a fake name who’s negotiating with a rookie on a one-shot deal. And he gives you a K11 Slovak?” I chuckle again. “Did he provide the ammunition, too?”

George says, “Whatever you’re up to, it won’t work.”

“I’m on your side here, Gumby.”

“ My side? You ripped the ears off my friend. You held us captive in this very room. You’re trying to force us to manufacture t-shirts with a stripper! We take our business very seriously, Mr. Creed.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know I talked Mrs. Peters into selling her shares back to the company.”

“For how much?”

“Eight hundred thousand.”

“Bullshit. They’re worth at least four times that much.”

“Quick sale. Certified check. She’ll make t-shirts, you guys do whatever you want.”

“You both know too much.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course. Knowing what you mean is a natural extension of knowing too much.”

“You’re half as funny as you think.”

“The eight hundred buys Gwen’s shares and her silence.”

“What about you?”

“I still want to meet Boris.”

“He’s threatening to kill my family.”

“I figured as much. That’s how they roll. Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”

“No.”

I angle the staple gun slightly upward and pull the trigger. The staple hits his hand and makes him lose his grip on the gun. I jump across the table and knock it to the floor. George tries to reach beneath him to pick it up, but before his hand can find it, I’ve struck him with enough force to knock him out.

Like tearing off an ear, delivering a one-punch knockout blow requires a great deal of technique. The human brain is suspended in liquid, so a blow must be hard enough to force the brain to move through the liquid and strike the interior of the skull. The harder the brain hits the skull, the longer the victim remains unconscious. Boxers aim for the chin for several reasons. One, the mandibular nerve is located behind the hinge of the jaw, and the biomechanical response to a sudden impact is overload. Two, the jaw is the most muscular part of the face, and provides the most cushion for your fist, which allows for greater impact. Three, the chin is the furthest facial point from the brain, and affords your blow the most leverage. It makes the top of the head move faster in the opposite direction of the blow, which in turn causes the brain to pass through the liquid and hit the skull.

When George wakes up he finds himself on his back, on the conference table, unable to move. I’ve stapled the sleeves and sides of his shirt, and his pants, to the table. There’s no pain involved, but he’s understandably nervous.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” he says.

“I’m going to stop the terrorists.”

“How?”

“I’ve got a plan, but it requires some answers. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s start with the chip they put in Connor Payne’s brain.”

“What about it?”

“The chip can be activated by punching a four-digit code into a wrist device that looks like a watch.”

“That’s old news.”

“Dr. Willis told the government only two wrist units were manufactured.”

“So?”

“Apparently there were five.”

“Lucky Peters told you that?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe him?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“When a corporation’s medical director shares a bed with its largest stockholder, over time, there’s a lot more than body fluids being exchanged.”

“That’s disgusting.”

I can already account for three of the devices. My homeland security boss, Darwin, has one. Doc Howard, who placed the chip in my brain, had the second device, but sold it to me for a hundred million bucks. Dr. Phyllis Willis had the third, but I confiscated it after killing her. Which leaves two wrist devices unaccounted for. I think I know where one of them is.

“You sold one of the wrist devices to the arms dealer, correct?”

“Of course. That’s the only way to detonate the chips.”

“And you’ve got one.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because I know how you guys operate.”

“Whether we do or don’t, what difference does it make? All the chips are gone.”

“How many chips did you sell? Hundreds?”

“Two hundred and twelve.”

“Any idea where they are now?”

“No.”

“That’s why I want to meet Boris.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“I assume he’s reprogrammed the chips so that each is linked to a specific code.”

“Of course. And whoever he sold them to has reprogrammed them again.”

“But my ceramic device can reset those codes, correct?”

He looks confused for a minute, then says, “Holy shit!”

I smile.

George says, “Why do you need to talk to Boris?”

“I want to know what he’s done with the chips.”

“I can tell you what he’s done with them. He’s sold them to terrorist cells all over the world!”

“You think?”

“I know it for a fact.”

“Do you suppose he’s like you guys?”

“What do you mean?”

“Two hundred and twelve’s an odd number of chips. You think he sold two hundred and kept a dozen for himself?”

George says, “Now that you mention it, I think it’s a certainty.”

“I think so too. How many chips do you think each terrorist cell has in their stash?”

“Probably twenty groups have ten each.”

“Or ten have twenty.”

“Or forty have five.”

I think about it a minute, and say, “It’s more likely fifty terrorist cells have four chips each.”

“Why?”

“There are only so many times you can sew bombs into people’s mouths in the same neighborhood without attracting attention.”

George says, “You don’t need to meet Boris! If you’ve got the ceramic device, we can reprogram everything right now! We can kill Boris and a bunch of terrorists at the same time!”

George is right. I don’t need Boris. And I probably could kill dozens of terrorists in one fell swoop, assuming they’ve stashed the chips in their homes, or their clothing. Of course, there will be instances where I’m simply blowing up chips in an empty building or storage locker, or hole in the ground where they’ve been buried. But there’s a high probability key people would be killed, and probably Boris, since twelve chips going off at the same time would kill him if he’s anywhere near his stash.