John O'Brien - Takedown

Horace and her team returns, each carrying a bundle of wood. I light a fire on the roadway in front, much like I did at the CDC. I strip off my vest and fatigues, down to my boxers. With a nice glow of coals finally forming, I toss in the first green branches with leaves. Plumes of white smoke drift upward. I step into the smoke and bathe myself in it. I then take out two unscented feminine napkins from one of my pockets to the disconcertment of everyone watching.

“What the fuck, sir?” Gonzalez asks in amazement.

I don’t answer but merely bathe each one in the smoke and place one under each of my armpits, taping them in place.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me… sir,” she adds.

“I like to stay spring fresh,” I state, generously bathing the rest of my clothing and vest in smoke before donning them.

The napkins are to soak up and retain any sweat that may develop without releasing the scent. I thought about using bandages but the smell would still leak out with those. I would say this is an old trick I used before but, to be perfectly honest, it’s something I came up with while sitting on the roof and pondering how to stay absolutely invisible to the night runners. I can’t afford to be found by sight, smell, or sound, meaning that I can’t afford to be found at all.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I say. “Robert, go get the Kiowa warmed up. I’ll be there shortly.”

I walk to the broken entrance door with Black and Red Team in tow. Leaving them outside for the moment, I step inside as I hear the rotors begin turning. It’s time to focus. I don’t know exactly where Lynn is, but I’m guessing she’s on the fourth floor so the roof will be a good entrance. However, I don’t want night runners to be up there waiting so I plan on drawing them to the ground floors. I open up, feeling their overwhelming numbers once again.

“I’m heeeere…and coming to get each and every one of you, you backwards-ass motherfuckers.” I send the visual equivalent out.

I then direct a message to the strong night runner I felt on the top floor — it seems like a female to me for some reason. “I’m coming for you. I’ll be along shortly so save a place.”

With that, I shut down.

“You’re up,” I tell Gonzalez as I pass by her on my way to Robert and the waiting helicopter.

Settling in, Robert lifts us off and we climb for the rooftop. Nearing the maintenance entrance, Robert finds a flat portion of the roof.

Settling closer, he shouts, “Dad, I love you!”

I turn to him. His face is hidden behind the dark shield of his helmet.

“I love you too, son,” I respond and leap out, dropping the few feet to the roof.

The Kiowa revs up and Robert maneuvers up and away. He’ll rendezvous with Drescoll, making it seem like the helicopter took off and departed. That’s my hope anyway. For now, I’m left alone on the roof. I make my way across a couple of ducts to the steel maintenance door. I try it quickly but, as I expected, it’s locked.

Taking a slim jim out, I lever it behind the latch and soon have the door open. I don’t hear any shrieks as sunlight pours into the stairs leading down so I’m reasonably sure this part is clear of night runners. I ease the door closed behind me, letting it shut with an almost silent click. Darkness fills the narrow concrete stairwell leading down into the building, but, with my ability to see in the dark, the stairs show in a uniform light gray. I bring my M-4 up and begin creeping down the stairs. The game is on.

“I’m in,” I whisper.

Two clicks in my ear signal an acknowledgement.

The stairs end with a metal door that opens to what I assume is another stairwell. A small glass window is inset in the door so I’ll be able to see more when I get to the door. Right now, it’s taking one stair at a time downward, careful of any noise. Even a squeak from my shoes will alert any night runners nearby. I can hear well with the transformation that came over me when I was scratched, but I have a feeling they can hear that much better.

Making my way to the fire door, no light shines through the window. Whatever lies on the other side is just as dark. Wherever there are places in shadow, there are chances of night runners. I bring my signal mirror up to the far corner of the small window.

Movement just on the other side of the door sends a jolt through my body and causes my heart to jump. I lower the mirror and take a quick backward step up the stairs, bringing my carbine to bear. Expecting the door to crash open and shrieks to fill the confined space, I wait…ready.

Nothing. There is only the faint smell of body odor and the very faint hiss of feet shuffling across the floor on the other side of the door. I run the quick image I had of the other side through my head — concrete walls with a railing. Yeah, it’s a stairwell landing. I saw at least two night runners; but there might be more. I ease my M-4 down and creep to the window once again. Peering through at a lower corner, I see three night runners milling on the landing. They don’t seem to be up to anything in particular and may just be guarding the door.

Well, Jack, it’s go through them or find another way in , I think, watching them for another few seconds.

One turns directly toward me, although not with the sharp movement that indicates that I’ve been found. Its eyes glow in my vision.

Oh shit! I didn’t think about having eye shine , I think, quickly ducking away from the window. That could be a problem .

The choice is still before me, though, through them or another way. If I fuck it up and they shriek, this way will be lost. I’m not so far into the building or so far away from the exit that I worry about getting out. It’s just that this is the best way to the fourth floor.

I ease my M-4 down and draw my suppressed M-9. The quickness with which I’ll have to take down the three night runners in close quarters mandates the use of a sidearm. I quietly set my hip upon the swing arm of the fire door and put the length of my lower arm on the door itself. I peek through the corner of the glass once again — keeping my eyes averted — and watch the night runners out of my peripheral. There is one that is just on the other side of the door. I want it to move away before I swing the door open. It wouldn’t do to have the door crash into it and for me not able to slide through. I might as well press down on an air horn and light a flare.

The night runner eventually shuffles to another position. I see them glance quickly downward as one. Gonzalez must be making her ruckus — it’s obvious there is some sort of communication between the night runners. Taking a deep breath to center, I push on the arm. The door swings open. The night runners turn their heads abruptly toward me, but it’s too late for them. I’m already through and the first round has left my suppressor.

Spray coats the other two night runners as my first round collides with the nearest night runner’s forehead and smashes its way through its skull. The enclosed area flashes with more subdued strobes of light as I fire more projectiles into the two remaining, startled night runners. My last bullet slams into the nose bridge of the third night runner before the first hits the floor with a soft thud. I turn and catch the door before it clicks back into place, hearing the last of my cartridges clink on the landing. Holding the door slightly ajar, I focus on the bodies lying on the cold concrete. Two of the downed night runners’ extremities twitch for a moment before the three of them lie completely still.

Splash patterns cover the walls and puddles form around the still bodies from the dark liquid of their life blood leaking out. I cover the door leading from the landing to the rooms beyond and the stairs leading downward. Nothing emerges into view. Holding the maintenance door open with my foot, I quietly tear off a small strip of duct tape and tape the latch open. Easing the door closed, I test it to ensure my path back to the roof is unimpeded.