Alex Bobl - Memoria

“You’ve remembered!” Frank didn’t care about the pain. Blood from his bitten tongue filled his mouth. Barney took another swing.

“Remember Maggie!”

Barney froze. He struck.

Dickens scrambled down the stairs into the utility room and hurled the girl in the far corner, out of the way. His right hand and fingers were broken so he had to use the left one. He shoved the gun in his belt and stepped up to the steel equipment cabinet with Memoria’s phosphorescent logo glimmering on its side.

Dickens brought the bracelet up to the lock, opened the cabinet doors and reached for the master switch.

He cried out from a blow to the small of his back. After a moment’s bewilderment, his reflexes kicked in. He ducked, turning, and thrust his left fist toward the opponent. The attacking girl ducked to one side, screamed in pain and attempted another blow.

Against his will, he appreciated her stance. She’d apparently picked up a couple of simple moves from either Max or her father. He blocked her hand with his forearm, then missed her slight motion in the dark and suppressed a scream when her nails dug into his cheek.

No more Mr. Nice Guy. Dickens kicked the girl back into the corner, then felt his burning cheek and winced. He licked his bloodied fingers and bared his teeth peering into the dark for her unmoving body. His hand reached for the gun and stopped. No good killing the hostage. He might still need her.

He turned back to the cabinet and was just reaching for the switch when he heard the drone of an approaching helicopter.

At the last moment, the axe turned in Barney’s hands, hitting Frank with the flat of the blade. He saw stars: one apparently bigger than the others, reached out its blinding beam to the tower, droning.

He had to be still alive, otherwise he wouldn’t feel the pain. Barney must have restrained himself, or even the flat blow should have smashed his skull.

Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him away from the platform. A broad bloodied face blocked out the light. Barney’s lips shook as he raised his fist, his eye twitching toward the hatch.

“Maggie’s there,” Frank croaked. “Your girl’s there. Save her.”

The boxer opened his mouth. Then he shut his eye, shaking his head.

“Do you remember her? Your teddy bear? She needs our help!”

His face writhing, Barney unclenched his fist.

“Go,” he gasped and pushed Frank’s shoulder. “Now!”

Barney’s voice hardened. “Take the axe!” He bent down to grab it, lost his footing and collapsed onto the platform, snorting. Frank picked up the axe and ran to the hatch.

The opening was wide enough for him to jump down. Not thinking about the depth, Frank landed on the floor almost opposite Dickens. His hand on the master switch, the man turned his head.

Space and time didn’t allow for a good swing. Frank just stood up and lunged, the axe in his grasp.

Timing was crucial. If Dickens stepped back, he would miss the blade. If he flipped the switch, he would lose his hand but turn on the transmitter.

Self-preservation forced Dickens to snatch his hand back. The wide blade tore through the switchboard and smashed the circuit breaker. It crackled and hissed, sending blue and white sparks flying across the room. It turned as bright as day. The room filled with the helicopter’s whirring descent. On the switchboard, lights started flashing. The stench of burned plastic filled nostrils.

Frank pulled the axe out of the switchboard, but Dickens impeded his swing in mid-air. His fist dug into Frank’s ribs, knocking the air out of him. Frank’s fingers loosened, letting go of the axe.

Dickens pulled out a gun. Frank sniffed, bending his head and shoulders, and rammed his opponent in the stomach until he pinned Dickens to the wall.

Dickens pistol-whipped him on his back and head. Stars exploded in Frank’s eyes. He collapsed into a dark void.

The cold air and whirring of the rotors filled the helicopter’s cabin through the open door. The headphones didn’t block the noise out, and Jessup had to shout commands to the pilot. The sniper moved closer to the opening and raised his rifle. Two special-force men on the other side lowered their lines, hooked themselves up and stood motionless on the chopper’s wide chassis bar. Their squad leader stayed inside waiting for Jessup’s command.

The beam found the wide platform on the dark roof. On it, two men were fighting.

Jessup craned his neck to look over the pilot’s shoulder, ordering him to descend and hover over the platform. He had no idea who they were and why they fought, but he picked up the mike, about to issue a warning through the speakers when one of the fighters collapsed. The other picked up a large firefighters’ axe, lunged for an open hatch in the middle of the platform and jumped inside.

Jessup raised his hand. The squad leader touched the sniper’s shoulder. Jessup didn’t want to give the order to shoot until he had the whole picture. He didn’t yet know which side they were on.

“Closer!” he shouted to the pilot.

The helicopter swayed, descending a few feet. The burly man on the platform turned his face, torn and bloodied, toward the beam. He knelt and raised his hands, shouting; Jessup couldn’t discern the words above the roar. The man wavered and fell onto the platform.

The next moment, a blond man scrambled out of the hatch and pulled out a girl. Grabbing her neck, he took cover under her, turned to the chopper and raised a gun.

The squad leader removed his hand from the sniper’s shoulder. The two men readied to descend onto the roof. The helicopter shook and swayed, preventing the sniper from taking aim for fear of hitting the girl.

“Abort!” Jessup shouted.

The strong hand returned to the sniper’s shoulder.

The blond man scurried to the edge of the platform when the other man emerged from the hatch. Now Jessup could see who he was. He’d seen him two days ago, in the interrogation room just before the attack on the police station. Yesterday afternoon he’d had a chance to intercept him by the camp perimeter. Finally, he’d caught up with Frank Shelby.

Jessup could see he could barely walk, clutching at the firefighters’ axe and trying to catch up with the blond man who couldn’t hear his steps above the helicopter’s roar.

“Action stations!” Jessup waved to the fighters ready at their lines.

The squad leader raised a clenched fist.

The blond must have sensed the approaching threat. He started to turn, relaxing his grasp. The girl bit his arm. He cried out; she fought herself free and pushed him away.

Frank Shelby took a swing-

“Go, go, go!” Jessup shouted.

The squad leader unclenched his fist. The soldiers slid down the lines.

Frank lowered the axe. The man fell on his back. A barely audible gunshot resounded.

The sniper’s rifle snapped. Frank Shelby fell, too.

“Hold your fire!” Jessup yelled. “Hold your fire!”

The squad leader squeezed the sniper’s shoulder.

“Land,” Jessup ordered the pilot and grabbed the radio calling Lieutenant Salem who was in charge of taking over the building.

By the time the helicopter landed, one of the fighters stood over the burly man who lay face down on the concrete. The other was helping the girl. The squad leader had his rifle trained on Frank who sat squeezing his bleeding shoulder.

His service revolver in his hand, Jessup ran to them, followed by the sniper. The blond man lay still. His hair bristled on the temples.

Jessup remembered the masked attackers on 161st by the subway entrance. Judging by his height and build, the blond could have easily been in charge of the men who’d hunted Shelby. Once again his recognition skills had served Jessup well.