Like Mind (24 page)
“Corey?”
“Yeah…”
She fell into my arms and started crying. We held each other and I must have had an allergic reaction to the smoke or something because my eyes started watering pretty severely. I started hearing something different from the city around us, but it didn’t register at first what it meant.
“Um…Anka…”
“Yes?”
“What’s going to happen to us when the police get here?”
The sirens were nearly on top of us.
“I really don’t know. If Stephenson is controlling them we might die. If they’re legit, they might protect us until the NSA can get Stephenson out of power.”
“So…what should we do?”
“Put down our guns and give up.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m done, Corey, I’m done. I can’t fight anymore. No matter what happens I just can’t fight anymore. I’m too tired.”
The cop cars pulled up and they jumped out with their guns drawn. I ignored them and looked into Anka’s eyes. I don’t know if I gained psychic powers in that moment or not, but I read her mind and she read mine. I told her that I would be with her no matter what she decided; she told me she would and that I made her feel safe even though she’s a better fighter than I am. Slowly the shouting of the cops resolved into words.
“Get down! Get down on the ground!”
I leaned in and kissed her. Our tears mixed on our lips.
The police pulled us apart and threw us to the ground. The pain in my face as it hit the ground and the wrenching of my arms as handcuffs were applied to my back felt like they were happening to someone else. I looked over at Anka to see her smiling at me. I smiled back just before the billy club crashed down on the base of my skull and took the world away.
When I woke up we were in the back of a police cruiser driving through Seattle. Anka was still slumped over unconscious. I started to ask the driver what was going to happen to us, but he glared at me when I cleared my throat to speak. The euphoria I’d felt was truly gone now and all the pain felt like it was more than mine. My arms, face, and head throbbed with the bouncing of the car. A small part of me hated Anka every time her limp form jostled me and added to the excruciating feeling.
I couldn’t help but think that we’d saved the day and we were supposed to be rewarded for it instead of being taken to jail by the cops who were rooting against Rodney King. My guess was that Stephenson had already gotten to the Seattle PD and was having us taken directly to him at the NSA headquarters. We were about to die after all the work we’d done to not die. It seemed like cruel irony to know that Anka could have just let my brain melt into a puddle of goo instead of risking herself to save me. Plus we’d probably die without ever actually hooking up. I figured God just hated me and wanted to screw me over. It was the only logical explanation.
We pulled into the police station and the officers pulled us out of the back of the car. Anka woke up enough to be half-dragged inside while they shoved me forward. They booked us and put us into holding cells without a mention of our recent gun battle with top-secret drones in the streets of Seattle. I was trying to decide if I would be better representing myself or with a court-appointed lawyer when Anka came to.
“What? Where are we?”
“We’re in jail. They didn’t say anything, but I think they’re working for Stephenson.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, because they didn’t say anything. Don’t they have to read us our rights or something like that?”
“You watch too much TV. They can hold us for up to forty-eight hours if they think we’re a danger to the public. Hell, since we were picked up with weapons and in the presence of a foreign agent they could consider us ‘foreign combatants’ and ship us off to Guantanamo Bay for military interrogation. We might never get a trial.”
“Seriously? I hope they don’t send us to Gitmo; I look terrible with a beard.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they’re working for Stephenson. Actually if they were, I figure we’d be either at the NSA headquarters or dead by now. I’m pretty happy to be bruised and in prison, all things considered.”
“Always look on the bright side of life, right?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Well, that’s another movie to add to the list.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re obviously in the remedial class for American Culture. I’ll get you caught up.”
“Oh goody.”
“No need to be snippy; it’s not my fault that you don’t know anything.”
“I—”
The door of Anka’s cell banged open and an officer stepped in with handcuffs.
“It’s time for your statement.”
She dutifully offered her hands and was led from the room. I tried to decide if I could trust her conviction that Stephenson wasn’t ready to kill us both, I might not see her again. I might not get to show Monty Python movies to her.
I waited in my cell and counted the tiles on the floor about twelve times before she came back. She looked tired, and the bruises on her face were starting to darken, but there didn’t appear to be any more damage to her.
“So, are we okay?” I asked.
“I think so, I’m not sure yet.”
The officer locked Anka up and then came to my cell.
“Your turn, sport.”
I put out my hands like Anka had and he cuffed them tightly before leading me down the hall to an interrogation room. Inside it was remarkably similar to what I expected with a metal table and chairs in the middle of a room with one mirror embedded into the wall. The only thing missing was a bright desk lamp that the “bad cop” could shine in my eyes to intimidate me. I sat down and waited.
It took several minutes for the interrogation officer to come in. She was supposed to be a forty-five year old man with a beer gut and a problem with authority. Instead she was a mid-thirties librarian with black-rimmed glasses and her hair done up into a tight bun. She dropped a yellow legal pad on the table and sat down.
“Hello Mister, um, Tosh. I’m Special Agent Brantly. I’ll be conducting your interview today.”
“Hi.”
“What can you tell us about the incident on the I-5 on-ramp?”
“Well, we were running away from killer drones sent after us by the NSA and that’s where we had to make our last stand because traffic stopped us. We thought we’d gotten all of the drones, but there was one left, it got Tony—”
“You mean, uh, Antonio Gutierrez, alias
El Tigre
?”
“Yeah, Tony. He got shot in the chest. Then me and Anka…no wait, Anka and I were able to hack into the last drone and disrupt it enough to kill it before it killed us.”
“So, why were you running with a Cuban national who’s known to associate with the Chinese and fleeing an American agency?”
“Because they were trying to kill us? Is that not enough?”
“Were they trying to kill you or Mr. Gutierrez?”
“They were trying to kill all of us, but specifically me. I had secret tests done to my brain that give me super powers and they wanted to kill me for it.”
“Super powers?”
“Well, kind of. I can perfectly repeat anything I see or hear.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said back using her soft, feminine voice. “Plus I can do the same with actions. I learned kung fu by watching YouTube.”
“So the NSA wanted to kill you for this?”
“Yeah, it was their technology so they wanted me to die so I couldn’t share their secrets.”
“So because of that you joined forced with the Cubans?”
“No, not
the
Cubans,
a
Cuban: Tony. He’s cool.”
“And, according to this, you think that it was all due to a Mister Stephenson at the NSA, not the entire organization?”
“Yup, he was planning on selling the tech to the Iranians and making a huge profit. I and Anka—no, that should be Anka and I—figured it out. That made him mad, so he tried to kill us. Several times actually.”
“So you called the Pentagon and reported all this to them?”
“Yeah, but they couldn’t stop Stephenson from sending the drones after us so we did our best to fight them off.”
“I see, Mister Tosh. Do you have anything else to add?”
“Uh, not really, I guess. It’s not our fault is all.”
“Thank you for your time. The FBI will be continuing the investigation, but you are free to go. I assume that your contact information in Portland is still accurate. Agent Fedora has informed us that she will be residing with you until further notice. Once you arrive in Portland, please do not travel across state lines without first contacting the local FBI office. Here is my contact information if you remember anything further.” She passed a card across the table to me.
I sat numbly as she rose, knocked on the door, and told the officer to release me. As I was escorted down the hallway my feet had trouble remembering how to walk and the officer had to catch me from stumbling a few times. Anka sat waiting for me in the lobby with a smile on her scraped, bruised face.
“I told you Stephenson wasn’t in control anymore.”
“You’re going to be ‘residing with’ me?” My brain was still trying to cope with the meaning of those words so casually tossed aside by Agent Brantley.
“Oh yeah,” she blushed and looked down, “I hope that’s okay with you.”
“Um, I suppose it is. But you know I just have the one bed, right?”
The look she gave me sent all the blood rushing away from my brain.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to offer my undying gratitude to those who’ve helped to make this novel happen. Thanks to Andrea Wood for being the first to hear this story emerge from my addled brain. Thanks to Kathy McCurdy for spotting so many typos. Thanks to Jason Gurley for crafting a professional looking cover as opposed to my crayon drawings on construction paper. Thanks to Erik Wecks for convincing me that a story only has to be as long as it is.
Thanks especially to all those who took the time to read this novel before it was fully done. You crazy, adventurous, supportive people help me keep writing. Thank you Leah Tucker, Kristina Yeouze, Kathy McCurdy, Ryan Peters, Rebecca Marie, Jane Zilk, Kristi Cash White, Leah Lubke, Tim Lewis, Rebecca Lewis, Mike Lewis, and Tina Coleman.
About the Author
James learned how to write from Socks the donkey. Socks didn't say much, but his soulful eyes spoke volumes. That Irish ass stared at James while he tapped away on his laptop in a trailer on a farm in County Cork. Since his asinine education, James has written extensively, publishing thousands of articles and some books.
James and his wife Andrea currently live in the awesome-capital of the world. When they aren’t fighting crime or growing heirloom tomatoes, they sing in a choir (it’s not a community choir, it’s better than that), walk to brunch, deride skinny jeans, and make things out of garbage.
James is a self-published author with a marketing budget of whatever he finds in the couch cushions. So, if you enjoyed this book it would really help him out for you to review it online, tell your friends about it, and buy several more copies in case the one you just read spontaneously combusts (they aren’t supposed to do that).
Other Works
The Marriage Challenge: 52 Conversations for a Better Marriage
People of Purpose: Studies in Ephesians
Contact Me
Website
- jamestwood.com
Amazon.com
- /James-T-Wood/e/B006RBPJZC
Twitter
- @jtw78
Facebook
- /jamestwood