Dale Brown - Puppet Master

Or maybe it was reality.

People say, Hey, you’re doing fantastic. You’re really something! You’re an inspiration.

What they don’t know is what it feels like inside. They don’t know how much it sucks, truly sucks, not to have real legs. Not to be a full person, to be only half.

And yet, he was stronger, wasn’t he? His upper body had responded to the medicine as well — he could bench-press twice his body weight, something he’d never been able to do before. Sure, rehab helped, but the drugs were like supersteroids.

This is really a new life. What are you going to do with it? Wallow in your shit? Or be somebody?

Johnny began to run. It was a trot, slow at first, barely above a walk, but gradually he picked up speed. He passed the entrance to the T.

Closed. He’d dawdled too long.

Have to go home by foot.

He pushed himself, running, and hoping that by running he could escape the cloud and its despair.

He’d been running for only a few minutes when he heard sirens nearby. Instincts took over — he began running in their direction, heading with them near the harbor. He took a turn and found himself two blocks from the Smart Metal building. A police car, lights flashing, was blocking the street nearby.

Johnny ran up to one of the officers, who was waving away traffic.

“John Givens,” he said, pulling out his wallet clip for his FBI credentials. “What’s up?”

“Got a call of an intruder up the street.”

“Where?”

“Number ten.”

“Damn,” said Johnny. “Backup coming?”

“Yeah,” said the officer, but Johnny barely heard — he was already sprinting in the direction of the building.

Chelsea rolled over in her bed, drifting from consciousness as the cell phone rang.

Who’s calling me in the middle of the night?

Crawling to the edge of the bed, she grabbed the phone.

“Hello?”

“What are you doing?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Beefy. Can you go over and stay with Borya? I just left. One of my security guys is with her and the babysitter, but I can tell they’re nervous.”

“What’s going on?”

“We have an intruder alert at the building. I have to check it out. I just want someone the girl knows. Not a big deal. I didn’t wake you, right?”

“Shit.”

“Oh — I’m sorry.”

“I’m on my way.”

Stratowich reached the top floor just in time to see one of Medved’s goons charge at the glass wall. He fell, twisting on the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stratowich demanded.

“There’s someone inside,” said the man, whom Stratowich knew only as Tomas.

Stratowich examined the glass. It was cracked, but it hadn’t shattered.

“All right,” he said, kicking at the crack. He kicked a few times, and a large piece caved in. Two more kicks and he had an actual hole.

“I hear sirens,” said Paul, the other man.

Stratowich pressed his hand to his head, trying to think.

“We’ll take him prisoner,” he said finally. “He’ll know a way out, or we’ll use him as a hostage.”

A gush of wind hit Massina in the face as he climbed through the window onto the small ledge outside his office.

It was humiliating to be running from some low-level burglar in his own building, but preservation was more important than dignity.

There were sirens outside — at least the police would be here soon.

His left foot slipped as he moved along the ledge. The space was about two feet wide, with a two-foot double rail that ran around the outside. The railing was sturdy — during the reconstruction, it had anchored the workers’ scaffolds. But it was low, and Massina was worried about falling if he leaned against it and then lost his balance.

If he could get to the corner, he could climb up on the roof and wait.

Like a cat running from a dog.

And he hated cats.

The police had cordoned off the building and were waiting for the head of Smart Metal’s security unit before going in. They had to wait — the front door was locked.

Johnny walked around the side of the building. From the outside, at least, it looked as if nothing was wrong. The place looked like everything else downtown; quiet, buttoned up.

Then he saw someone walking along the top floor.

What the hell?

He stared at the top floor, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A torso popped out of the window a few yards from the figure.

He had a gun.

I have to do something.

“Are there sharpshooters?” he yelled to one of the policemen nearby.

“What?”

“People are climbing around the side of the building.”

One of the officers came over with a pair of binoculars and scanned the building.

“Can I see those?” Johnny asked. “FBI,” he added, taking out his wallet to show his creds.

The cop handed over the binos.

The second guy definitely had a gun. He was yelling something at the man who’d gone out first. He was still moving along the side of the building, albeit slowly.

Massina. That’s Mr. Massina!

Massina continued toward the corner as the man at the window yelled at him to come back or he’d shoot.

The one thing I’m not doing is going back, thought Massina. Though I’d rather not fall either.

The roof pitched at the end closest to the river. Massina calculated that he could climb up if he could get a few feet farther. The man behind him was threatening to shoot, but he was far more concerned about keeping his footing than getting shot.

Massina’s artificial arm had a very strong grip. He reached up, digging its fingers against the bricks.

Something flew past. He heard the dull echo of a gun.

Bastard is trying to kill me.

Don’t help him by slipping.

Stratowich tucked the gun back into the holster. The idiot who’d gone out the window was trying to climb up onto the roof.

“You’re going to kill yourself, you shithead,” he yelled.

He might also get away. Which would give Stratowich exactly zero leverage with the police.

A small part of him knew he should go back inside and give up. But his adrenaline was flowing, and the idea of someone actually getting away from him filled him with rage. So he hauled himself up on the ledge and began to follow.

When I see Medved, probably in ten years, I’m going to break every bone in his body. His, and the bastards he’s working with. They sent me here with crappy information. “Easy money” my ass.

Stratowich glanced to his left. He was up at least seventy-five feet, more. It wouldn’t be a pleasant fall. He pushed himself against the ledge and worked his way toward the side of the building.

The man he’d been chasing was just climbing up onto the roof. Damn it.

There wasn’t supposed to have been anyone inside. Medved had assured him of that — easy in with the purloined ID, grab the little robot thing, and leave.

Simple.

Stratowich reached up and put his hand on the roof, feeling around to make sure he had a good grip. It was tar or something similar; in any event, it didn’t feel like it was going to give way. He reached up with his other hand.

Something kicked his right hand, mashing his fingers. He pulled back, then remembered where he was.

“Damn you!” he yelled in Russian. He tucked back down, huddling against the wall. “I’ll get you, mother fucker!”