Nate Kenyon - Day One

The man watching Hawke was jumpy, his gun focused on Hawke’s chest as he took a step forward. Hawke wasn’t sure whether the man was going to cuff him or shoot him.

“Terror suspects in custody,” the man said into the receiver.

“I’m not a terrorist,” Hawke said. “I—”

The man whipped his gun across Hawke’s temple, the crack of impact stunning him and dropping him to his stomach. His ears ringing louder, he looked up as the other one kicked Vasco viciously in the midsection, doubling him over. Vasco slipped to his side on the ground, groaning, as the man took a couple of steps toward Hawke and leveled his weapon at him.

“Where is it?” the other man said, standing over Hawke, his voice muffled through the ringing like he was talking through water. “Tell me right now, goddamn it, or I’ll blow your brains out.”

Hawke tried to make his mouth work but found it difficult. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

The man tucked his gun into a holster under his jacket, leaned over, shoved Hawke’s face into the glittering glass fragments on the pavement. He grabbed Hawke’s shoulder and flipped him onto his back, patting him down, his hands going roughly through Hawke’s pockets and pulling out keys and his wallet, checking under his arms, cupping his groin, patting his ankles.

They were looking for something important. It’s the only reason you’re not dead yet.

Hawke heard banging from inside the black car. He craned his neck to look; it was difficult to see, but someone was in the backseat. He squinted, the car coming into focus.

Weller was at the window.

Oh my God. He’s alive. Hawke thought of the video Doe had shown them of Weller being gunned down. A complete fake. Weller was shouting at them and smashing his fists into metal mesh between the backseat and the front of the car. There was blood on Weller’s face and hands, a lot of it. His nose was crooked and his glasses were gone, his eyes swollen pockets of flesh. He looked like a madman.

Young saw him, too. She rolled and got to her knees, hands still cuffed behind her. “Don’t move!” the man near the car shouted. The barrel of the gun swung her way as Young got to her feet. Weller banged on the window, shouted something as she stumbled forward toward the black car and the man with the gun opened fire.

5:12 P.M.

THE FIRST BULLET hit Anne Young in the chest. She staggered and kept going, focused on Weller as the second shot hit her shoulder, spun her slightly away.

The third bullet hit Young in the face and exited just under her left ear. It took a portion of her brain with it, spattering red rain across the pavement as Young fell.

Weller screamed from the back of the car, a wordless cry of anguish. He slammed himself against the door, again and again. Young’s body was jerking against the ground, the reflexive muscle movements of something already dead. Weller battered at the car window, smashing it with both fists, cracking the glass and smearing it with blood.

The men with guns were distracted. The one who had shot Young swung the barrel Weller’s way. The man standing over Hawke had pulled his own piece from his jacket holster and looked away from him, watching the car. It gave Hawke a fraction of a second to act.

He rolled to a crouch and drove up from his haunches with all his strength, ramming his head into the man’s stomach and wrapping his arms around him like a linebacker. They went to the ground hard, the gun flying from the man’s grip. Hawke heard a grunt and felt the air hiss from the man’s lungs. He drove his forearm into the agent’s face, felt his nose crunch and the back of his head rebound off the pavement.

Hawke rolled off and to his left as Weller bashed at the glass again, screaming. He waited to get shot, wondered if he would hear the report before he felt the impact, but nothing happened; someone shouted as he grabbed the man’s gun from the ground and scrambled behind the truck.

When Hawke glanced around the front end, he saw the man he had tackled still lying motionless, blood bubbling from his broken nose.

Vasco was grappling with the other man at the car. The man had lost his weapon, but he had Vasco by the throat now, Vasco’s hands still cuffed behind him, with little leverage.

Hawke stood up and pointed his gun at the agent, trying to keep his hands from shaking. The gun was heavier than he had expected. He’d never fired one in his life, never even held one before.

“Let go of him,” he said. “Now.”

The man froze and looked up, shook his head. “Fuck you,” he said.

Vasco’s face was red and he was wheezing, the man’s hands still tight around his throat, lifting him onto his toes. Hawke pointed the gun a few inches to his right and pulled the trigger. The gun barked and the recoil made the weapon jump like it was alive in his hand. The bullet ticked off pavement next to the agent’s leg.

“Do it,” Hawke said. “Step away from the car. Slowly.”

“Motherfucker,” the man said, letting go of Vasco’s throat and putting his hands in the air. He took one step back. “You’re gonna pay for what you’ve done.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Hawke said. “You’ve got the wrong people.”

“We know all about you. Leaking CIA documents wasn’t enough, was it? Getting our men killed overseas wasn’t a big enough statement for you fucking anarchists. You want to take down the entire country. Now you’re mass murderers.”

“They’re lying to you,” Hawke said. “It’s all a big setup.”

The man stifled a short laugh. “Sure it is,” he said. “And your father wasn’t a fucking commie bastard, right? Hey, it wasn’t your fault, him putting those thoughts into your head at such a young age.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The man glanced at his partner on the ground. “We know everything about you, your upbringing, political views, your hacker friends. We’ve been fully briefed. You really think you’re gonna get away from here? The entire world is after you sick fucks, understand? Put the gun down, give up, end it now, and maybe you’ll make it to trial.”

Hawke’s head was spinning. He looked at Weller, who had his bloody face pressed against the glass, trying to get an angle to see where Young fell. Hawke saw the other gun lying next to Young’s body. Vasco must have knocked it away.

Hawke’s stomach churned; he kept his gaze away from Young’s body. In his mind, he saw the bullet hit her, the shower of blood. Don’t think about that, not now. He picked up the second gun, stuck it in the waistband of his pants, pointed his own gun again at the man near the car and thought of firing, emotions welling up inside him, an animalistic reaction to adrenaline and fear. What they did to her. Hawke’s body was burning, nearly consumed by rage; his finger clenched the trigger, a hairbreadth away from squeezing it. Could he really execute someone like this? What was happening to him?

“Uncuff him,” he said, motioning to Vasco, who had slumped against the car, still wheezing.

“This place is going to be swarming with cops in two minutes,” the man in the suit said. He went to his pocket slowly as Hawke jerked the gun up to point at his head. “Easy,” the man said. He pulled a set of keys out, dangled them in the air and went to unlock Vasco’s cuffs.

Vasco rubbed his wrists and looked at the man who had cuffed him. He nodded. Then he slammed his fist into the man’s face, putting all his weight into the blow. The man crumpled soundlessly.

“Thanks,” Vasco said. “I needed that.”

Hawke gave him the other gun. The rage subsided enough for Hawke to breathe. “Didn’t know if you’d be with me or not,” he said. “What they’re saying is bullshit, Jason. It’s not me; you know that. It’s her. It’s Doe.”