Robert Crane: Omega

He brought up the key and lunged the last few feet to his door, fumbling, sliding it down the side of the lock, as he missed on his first attempt. He looked again, and Byerly was coming at him now, leading Davis, with Forrest coming fast from his left, walking, but faster than any human had any business doing. He felt the panic rising now, as the key plunged into the lock and he turned it as he worked the handle.

He threw himself through the door and slammed it behind him, throwing down the deadbolt and hitting the hand lock. He let his head fall against the door and his hand dipped into his pocket, retrieving the phone within. His fingers dialed the number by memory, and he thrust it against his ear, feeling it rub against the stubble on his cheek that he had thought was so sexy when he cultivated it. A deep breath, then another, and he heard it ring.

He felt a presence, and he felt the first THUMP! outside his door as footsteps stopped in front of it. He turned his head to the right and saw the figure in black, shorter than he, a mask covering all but the eyes. He saw the flash of blue in them as the figure started to move.

“What the—” The butt of a submachine gun came up and clipped him across the jaw, hard. He felt the phone slip from his fingers as he hit the ground. The phone skittered across the wood floor of his apartment, and he could hear a small, tinny voice from the speaker as it did so. He felt his palms pressed against the cool of the wood, felt his cheek land on it, tasted the blood in his mouth as he bit his tongue and spat it, the deep crimson getting lost in the dark cherrywood tones.

He rolled to his back and saw the figure standing over him, clad all in black, mask covering everything save for the eyes. “Overly dramatic, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. “All black, in the middle of the day, in downtown Minneapolis?”

The black—clad figure’s head cocked and he took his opening, hitting the figure with a fast kick that it had to dodge. A woman, he realized as he clambered to his feet, noticing the curve of the hips under the black clothing, the shape of breasts hidden under the tactical vest— she’s good, though, he thought. She wheeled back, away from his kick, and he saw the submachine gun fall from her grasp, caught by the strap hung diagonally across her shoulder. He pressed forward as she fell back and he threw a punch that she dodged, as his fist carried through the drywall, making a hole that swallowed him up to the elbow. “I don’t like to hit girls,” he said in a low tone, pulling his hand free of the wall, “but you’re not leaving me much choice.”

“No, you don’t hit them.” Her hands came up in a defensive posture. She let loose a kick that hit him on the jaw and sent him to the ground. “You just kill them.”

His face slammed into the floor, bouncing off the boards. A spinning sensation caused his inner ear to waver, and he let his hand remain under him, as it snaked its way back into his coat. He heard her move over him, and just as she got to him, he turned over and the pistol came with him, pointed into the face hidden by the black mask. Her submachine gun was pointed at him, his pistol at her. Her eyes got wide, and he started to squeeze the trigger.

A gust of tornado—force wind blew through the apartment and caught him, lifting him off the ground and hurling him against the wall. He landed on a table and heard the wood crack and splinter as he broke through it, then felt the shock of his nose colliding with the floor. He shook his head, feeling the blood run down his upper lip. Through cloudy vision, he saw another figure by the sliding glass door to the patio, this one a man. An expansive view of downtown Minneapolis was stretched behind the man, this one without a mask. He had a camera rig headset on and was silhouetted against the light shining behind him. Reed Treston , he thought, head swimming. Alpha. Son of a—

The woman reappeared over him, the submachine gun barrel pointed right into his eyes. At this range, there was no dodging, only pain, and if the shot were true, certain death. “Looks like you got me,” he conceded, “so what are you gonna do? Shoot me here?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” came the voice, softer than he would have predicted. He blinked as her hand tugged at the mask and it came up to reveal soft, pale features, complexion slightly freckled, then came off the top of her head to allow long brown hair to flow down.

He let out a sigh, this time of annoyance. “Sienna Nealon.”

“James Fries,” she said with a smile, returning her hand to the forward grip of the gun. “It would be my very great pleasure if you would try and resist again.” There was a gleam in her eyes that he saw as she reached over and unlocked the door. It cracked open to admit the others from the hallway—Davis, Hannegan, Forrest and Byerly. “Extraction on the roof in five,” she said, and smiled down at him again, taking a pair of glistening handcuffs off her belt. “You can either put these on and walk or refuse and be carried.” Her smile turned sweetly devastating. “Personally, I’m rooting for the refuse—and—be—carried option, because I get to be the one that beats you into submission.”

The Black Hawk helicopter took off from the top of the building, unnoticed by nearly everyone downtown. A few heads swiveled as the sound of the chopper blades drew their attention, but they quickly went back to walking their paths, filing along the sidewalks. All but one.

A gray—haired man with a long face watched, his eyes tracing the flight path of the Black Hawk as it cut across the sky and out of sight behind the Wells Fargo tower. His face was wrinkled, his height merely average, and he wore a dark trench coat that looked only slightly out of place on a Minneapolis street in fall. His brown eyes were sunken into sockets that gave him a somewhat emaciated look, but there was intelligence in them, hiding behind the decrepit facade. When the helicopter disappeared from sight, his withered hand reached into the pocket of his trench coat and reappeared after a moment’s search with a smart phone.

He stared at the brightly lit display that took up the whole front, so different from the first models he still remembered with fondness, the wall—mounted black behemoths that you cranked. He missed the operator, the voice on the other end that you could reach without even pressing a button. With a sigh, he touched the power button, causing the screen to flare to life. He pressed it twice more, and felt the wind pick up around him. “Call home,” he said.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that,” the phone replied, the soft, feminine computer voice almost lost in the roar of the wind.

“Call…HOME,” he said again, his voice cracking, thickly accented.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Oh, to the dark world with you,” the man replied, and thumbed the contacts button. Scrolling through the names on the list, he searched for the one he was looking for, then pushed it with his bony index finger and held it up to his ear. The digital ringing sound was loud. Technology , he thought, equal parts triumph and terror—miracle when it works correctly, horror when it doesn’t .

A woman answered at the other end of the line, with an unmistakable British accent. “Federated Exchange.”

“Ah, yes, this is—” He froze, dredging his memory for the code name given him before he had left headquarters. “Uh…just a moment, I’m trying to remember my—”

“Yes, may I help you?” the accented voice lilted.

“Yes, I need to speak with, uh…I forget his code name. Put me through to—”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the voice came back over the line. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”