Capital City Chronicles: The Island (9 page)

“The Revival is something this city desperately needs. Look at the crime rate of the rest of the country, it’s virtually zero,” He watched me. Realizing I was unmoved by his argument, he changed direction,

“Whatever your sins may be, I can promise you, they will be forgiven for your service. You and Miss Demour have nothing to worry about…”

He paused, trying to read my face, to gauge my reaction. Reasoning hadn’t worked. Bargaining hadn’t worked. Whitten tried a hard line next,

“Now you listen,” his smile disappeared and he shook a finger at me, “I am a Senator. You have no idea the pain you are in for if you don’t put down that weapon,” his face remained strict, angry, but I could see behind his eyes, that he knew this tactic had been a mistake.

He was afraid.

His face softened, his eyes widened.

I thought again of that nameless child in the video, the glee and contempt with which he’d strangled her, and all at once my trembling and shaking stopped. Whitten saw this, and panic washed over his face.

“Look, even if you pull that trigger, the Revival has already been approved. GCI will just get someone else to lead it,” he pleaded.

I spoke again, this time far above a whisper,

“But it will not be
you
.”

“Sophia-”

The sound of my name somehow startled me, and I jerked the trigger. The gunshot reverberated through the penthouse like a loud slap; not at all the short wispy pop I had expected. I took an involuntary step back and lowered the smoking pistol. Somewhere far away the shell casing clinked across a table.

Whitten still stared up at me, his eyes now wide with shock.

His mouth hung open in disbelief. 

After a moment, thick red-black fluid began to pour at once from his nose, his mouth and the bubbling mess of his throat. The left side of his jaw jutted outward from his face, bobbing as he tried to breath through the blood. His hands tightened into claws as he reached for his face. His eyes pleaded with me, begged me to undo the fatal act. A part of my mind noted that next to him, the cigar still burned, lit sometime before I had come into his life and ended it. At the bottom of the glass of scotch, amid a swirling red cloud, lay a tooth. It had a gold filling.

I stepped back and watched, wide eyed, as Whitten choked and bubbled. His hands abandoned his throat, and dropped down into his lap. Finally, still staring at me with shocked confusion, he slumped back into the chair. A sharp stench filled the room and I looked down to see a light brown sludge running between his bare legs, down the front of the chair and piling onto the carpet. I tasted the salt on the sides of my tongue for the second time tonight, and had to clap my hand over my mouth to keep from retching.

And still Whitten stared at me. His body had shut down, the last of the twitches and convulsions faded, but still his eyes seemed awake.

I squeezed my own eyes shut, and turned away.

The clutch still lay on the bar, and after I had removed the silencer, I shoved the pistol back into it. On numb legs, I walked to the door. I leaned my head against it with my hand on the door knob, and concentrated on my breath. For a brief moment, I was sure I would faint. In every part of my body I could feel my pulse, pounding through my neck, my armpits, my wrists, even the arches of my feet.

I heard one of the men outside the door blow his nose. Clearly they hadn’t heard anything, but could they smell the awful stink through the door? What about when I opened it?

I had already known that they would catch me sooner or later, but now it was here. I had followed through with my plan, perhaps not quite comprehending the reality of it all until now. Even if I made it past the men outside, I was now an assassin, a rebel, and I would be hunted by GCI to the ends of the earth. I would be tortured, interrogated and questioned about rebels I had no knowledge of. Unless I put up a fight. When they came for me, I could fight, and they would kill me quickly. The smell of the dead man behind me reminded me that most deaths weren’t quick or painless or clean.

I began to cry, silently, and with my face pressed against the door.

I just wanted it all to be over. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, no doubt smearing makeup across my face, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The talkative agent, now on my left, raised his eyebrows and looked at me. I forced myself not to slam the door. The other, serious man didn’t move, didn’t bother to even look at me. I started past them when a hand clamped onto my left wrist.

“That was quick,” he said. I looked from him to the Serious One and back. Finally, after I didn’t speak up, the Serious One turned and looked at me with his granite cold expression. I stammered over my words,

“I- I’m too old. He was very angry and went to bed. Told me to go back to my harum and bring back a girl myself, l-later, after the speech...” I was on the edge of panic now, hoping I would say just enough to seem believable, and to keep them out of the room. I looked again at Serious One. Something had changed in his expression, something so subtle, I couldn’t place it. His eyes had… lightened somehow. The formerly blank, hard expression seemed softer, but just under the surface as if the stone that built his face had been replaced with actual flesh. His large, scarred hand crept to his face. Two fingers extended and knocked away an itch under his eye.

Then he nodded, once.

It was a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, but I saw it and instantly felt brave. I knew then that I may just make it to the elevator.

“Well, I’ll be looking forward to seeing
you
again,” the talkative agent leered. After a few seconds, he released my wrist.

* * *

              Outside, under the giant, flashing awning, a line of limousines waited, the drivers all standing by the back doors. I had ducked into a restroom on the gaming floor, removed the collar and cleaned my face, and now as I approached the first driver he smiled and swung the door open for me.

              “Where to, Madame?” he said.

              “304 Heart, please,” I answered as I climbed in.

              As the car pulled away, I melted into the warm, cushioned leather seat and pressed a small button on the door. The divider window at the front faded to black and I was alone. The limo pulled away and I watched the city flow by, wondering how this would all end.

              The night was stretching into the early morning hours, yet still the parties raged. I imagined come daylight, Capital City would be quieter than it had been in years. As the noise and the lights blurred past the window, I tried to replay the night, from the moment I received the job, yet I could only seem to get as far as standing on the CCTA platform, before the image of Whitten’s destroyed face jumped into the foreground. I decided to try to focus on the city rushing by.

             
Someone else to lead it,
he’d said,
the Revival has already been approved…

             
...Sophia…

              His voice replayed over and over in my head, repeating those same last words. Perhaps it was just my own shock, my own psyche coming to the realization that I had just taken a human life. But, perhaps, it was something else. My subconscious attempt to remember a crucial detail, a fact that I had neglected in my shock.

             
...has already been approved…

              ...Revival…

              I thought again of his plan, GCI’s plan to clean the city, the images that had led to my sloppy plot to seek out and murder James Whitten, the beloved, hero cop turned firebrand senator.

I again saw resistance fighters mowed down in the streets by storms of bullets…

I saw NerveTown on fire…

...already been approved…

I saw burning satellites raining down over fields of bodies; the videos of The Praetorian Disaster I’d watched as a girl. But why? Why was I seeing this?

Just as the limo swept up onto the highway and away from downtown, the answer, all at once, came to me.

I dumped the contents of the clutch onto the seat next to me.

My PDA landed face first onto the pistol, cracking the screen. I swiped my finger across the glass, and the screen popped on. It still worked despite the spiderweb crack that spread across the face. Running my thumb along the bottom edge, I felt the flashdrive, still tucked into the tiny slot.

With another few swipes of my finger, I accessed the Underground, pulling up the bulletin board of postings for illegal goods and services. Scrolling past the ads for serial number free guns, low rank hitmen, hackers for hire, new designer narcotics and libraries of pornography, I reached the section of announcements. I posted an anonymous announcement, and after a brief moment of thought, titled it:

GLOBECORPS INTERNATIONAL’S

PLAN FOR CAPITAL CITY

Below this I wrote nothing, simply uploading the entirety of the flash drive. It would take nearly an hour, but I set it to automatically post as soon as it was finished.

I had now gone far beyond simple assassination; this could potentially spark an uprising, a civil war. Many people were going to die, but at least now they had a chance to defy GCI before they did. I would not be alive to see it, I understood that now, but I could die knowing I had done everything I could. After years of covering for GCI, in the course of one night I had undone all of it; in a few hours I would be the most hunted human being on the planet.

It wouldn’t last long for me, though. I had no intention of hiding, and I knew the first place they would come for me would be where I was now headed. I again leaned back into the seat and stared out at the city.

A fat drop of rain smacked against the window and stretched a tail toward the back of the limo like a comet. Another hit the skylight, and another and soon the lights of the city blurred behind a sudden downpour.

Somewhere out in that blurred chaos, Carter Cole was dying. I knew this as sure as I knew Whitten was dead. My vision had been correct, I knew that now.

Pandora.

Something I hadn’t considered, suddenly occurred to me and it seemed so obvious now, so clear that I hated myself for not thinking of it sooner. I imagined her now, standing over Cole as he choked on his last breath. The last thing he would hear would be her PDA chiming. She would look at it, and see my name with a price tag.

And, as much as I was sure she loved me, and as much as I loved her, Pandora Demour would tap the accept icon without a second thought.

It made perfect sense that it would be her. GCI had an untold number of mercenaries and assassins in their employ, but Pandora knew me. She could access my apartment with no effort, she knew my habits, knew my personality and could predict any move I would make. More importantly, GCI would revel in the poetry of knowing that I was killed by my own lover. It would serve as the perfect message to anyone standing against them. GCI owned us all.

I didn’t sob. I didn’t cry out, but the tears came. Soft and silent they rolled hot down my face.

The limo pulled onto Heart street. In a few moments, it would park in front of my building, and I would be home. I dropped the PDA onto the floor, and shoved the gun back into the clutch.

* * *

I stood, shivering and wet in front of the window, taking in one last look at Capital City. My mother had, so long ago, told me that I would die here if I came. She had been right, but it wasn’t in the way she predicted. I smiled. If she were still alive, she would hear my name and curse it along with the rest of the country. But there would be a few, a minority, who would remember me as a hero. It wouldn’t be anyone I knew, but they were out there, waiting for the spark. I looked away from the rain drenched city, at the clock next to my bed. In another 5 minutes the Underground would know, and that spark would catch, engulfing the city. I turned away from the window.

In the living room, I sat in Pan’s chair. I opened the clutch, and pulled out the pistol. Pandora had by now been offered the contract for me. I started to lean back, but saw something on the ottoman. Leaning forward I picked it up. Feeling the cool handle of Pan’s hairbrush against my palm, a profound sadness sank over me. I did not cry like before, but the despair of never again smelling her hair falling over my face was overwhelming. I ran my thumb again through the bristles and inhaled. I laid back in the chair, pressing the brush against my cheek.

With the pistol in my lap, Pan’s hairbrush against my damp face, I sat in her chair, in her dress and stared at the door. I didn’t stand a chance against her, and I doubted I would even pick up the gun when she came through the door.

I just hoped I lasted long enough to see her again, to catch one last glimpse of her hair and her lips. I wanted Pandora to be the last thing I saw. I inhaled the aroma of the brush again, and waited.

Pandora would be home soon...

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