Shadow Memories: A Novel (The Singularity Conspiracy Book 1) (11 page)

40

Firefight

It’s hard to
jump from a crouching position when you haven’t done a squat since, well, never. But adrenaline is a powerful drug, and somehow it propelled my legs up into an awkward jump, as me and Mike sailed over the bar, knocking over just about every bottle and glass Austin had in the joint. He landed first, and I landed on his arm.

“Goddamnit,” he said, but I pretended like I didn’t hear him. It wasn’t a stretch. A symphony of gunshots had accompanied our off-time pirouetting through the air, although somehow none of them had caught us in the gut.

Caught me, at least. Greenville wasn’t crying, so I just assumed he was okay. The Singularity had to get new help. These guys had failed to kill me twice.

Behind the bar was a little bit of an improvement as far as foxholes went, if only because it was high, giving us more cover.

That notion was shattered when a shotgun shell tore through the wood like it was made of tissue paper, leaving a large peephole about three feet down from us. At least they were starting high; they’d have missed us, this far to the ground, even with the correct coordinates dialed in.

I wasn’t planning on giving them that chance.

I yanked Mike along, forgetting about forcing him to play point. Bullets buffeted the shelves and objects right above our heads, but the thugs still hadn’t gotten the memo that we were staying low.

On the other side of the bar, and not too far from it by the sound of his voice, Otto was beginning to lose his cool professor vibe. “They’re on the floor, you goddamn morons. Give me that.”

I gathered Mike’s loose fitting shirt in a balled fist, flinging ourselves forward, right in front of the employees only door, as a blast scorched the tile where we’d been half a second prior.

I headbutted the door open as the men paused to reload, dragging Mike along. He wasn’t making for much of a partner. No doubt how Cassie felt about me all the time. Karma’s a bitch. My eyes scanned the darkness, praying that we hadn’t locked ourselves in the janitor’s closet.

We had a few seconds, if that.

“Grab the other end,” I said, popping up and grasping a heavy metal dish rack, “come on.”

Mike seemed like he was stuck in a swamp. But then he sprung to action, and not a moment too soon. We jammed the rack underneath the door handle just as a shoulder came at it from the side.

The goon’s pained cry indicated that the door had proven victorious in that confrontation.

We tipped the remaining racks over, stacking them one on top of another in front of the door. It looked like we were hunkered in for the apocalypse.

At least Mike was now moving on his own—which was a goddamn gift from the gods, because I needed his help.

“Where’s the exit,” I said, “where’s the exit?”

“Hell if I know,” he said, eyes circling the kitchen, “I’ve never been back here.”

On the other side of the door, I could hear the second gunman trying a more cautious hand at breaking on through. This was a job, it seemed, that was beneath Otto; he was just the supervisor. Maybe his injuries were keeping him from hard labor. Wouldn’t want to bust a stitch down there.

A hasty examination of the kitchen indicated that the back exit was locked shut, chained from the outside. Austin must’ve done that to cover his escape, figuring that we’d either be dead or head out a different way.

“Damn,” I said, leaning against a wash sink, “that has to be against fire code.”

The noise from our pursuers had stopped. Maybe they’d given up. I found that proposition to be dubious at best.

“Vent.”

“What’d you say?” I was deep in thought, considering who would attend my funeral. I wondered if Bob would be upset.

“There’s a vent.”

“What, do I look like a dwarf?” I said, turning around to shake my head before seeing what he was talking about. “Oh. Yeah, that’ll work.”

In the corner was a large exhaust vent for some extra filtration power when the grill got smoky. It seemed to me that an open back door would have served the same purpose for a cheaper sum, but I wasn’t an engineer or restaurateur.

I raced over and gave the grate a kick. No go. That thing was sturdy, screwed in tight. With no toolbox handy, and limited time—the silence was worse than them pawing at the door—my brain scrambled for options.

“Back up,” Greenville said. “I got this.”

“What, you’re just going to pry it off?”

“No,” he said, leveling his pistol at it, “I’m going to do this.”

Three quick shots rang out, and the grate hung by the final remaining corner. Greenville twisted it from the wall, flinging the bent metal over his head. Still nothing from our pursuers. I was beginning to get nervous.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Go,” Greenville said, “I’ll cover you.” I stood there, listening to the beeps. Could it be? No. They weren’t—wait, yeah, they were all certifiable. “Get through the fucking vent, Desmond, before I shoot you myself.”

I snapped back to it and scrambled through the metal opening. Anything to get away from that clock of doom. It sloped upwards. My elbows burned as I dragged them along the cool surface.

“Hey,” I said, the words ringing back in my ears, “come on, Greenville. Let’s go.”

I heard him scramble inside the vent, one arm then another hitting the echo-y interior. I geared up to continue my own journey when I was slammed to the side of the tube by an unceremonious explosion. The sound almost blew out my damn eardrums, magnified by the vent shaft.

Through the ringing pulses, I heard the gunshots resume. Smoke was beginning to storm my way.

“Greenville?” There was no response. I clawed at the slick vent, muscles straining as the slope evened out and I saw sweet, sweet daylight ahead.

“Take care of Jen and the kids,” I heard a voice say, drifting through the smoke.

“Greenville? Come on, man, let’s go.” Then a gunshot. “Greenville?”

Nothing.

I looked ahead, the exit covered by another grate.

Then it was gone, shrouded by the smoke rushing to escape along with me.

I choked and sucked in my breath, then, with a last push—and burning lungs—tore towards the grate. It wasn’t open to being pushed, so I pulled out the .38 and riddled it with holes. If I wasn’t deaf before, that ship had now sailed and left the port many times over.

Squinting through the wisps of smoke, I tried to assess if I could make it through.

Only one way to find out.

I popped through the grate, it sagging and groaning from the weight, tearing at my clothes and exposed skin. Unprepared for a drop, I crashed into some bushes about six feet down, gasping for air, all my senses ruined, but alive.

This was nice, I could stay here.

But a voice in my brain told me that this would be a regrettable decision, so I crawl hopped to my feet, making it to the truck with some unknown reserve of energy. I gave a final glance back towards the vent.

Greenville wasn’t coming.

41

Better Than This

I grimaced and
popped the clutch, racing back to the office.

They didn’t need to drag Mike into it all.

The Singularity knew where I lived. They could’ve gone after me there. But maybe that was the point—maybe somebody important from the Guardians was watching over our place after all the shenanigans that went down in the cave.

That was the only reason I could see for luring me out in the open.

I dialed Mike’s wife, Jen, from the office phone and told her to stay with an aunt or a cousin for a bit. Maybe forever. When she asked why, I just told her that it was about Mike, and she seemed to, on some level, understand.

After the call, I collapsed on the couch, desperate for sleep. Cassie wasn’t in, but then, that wasn’t unusual those days. In any event, these goons were getting bold. Even if I was safe here before, they seemed to be upping the ante.

Then it occurred to me that maybe—just maybe—they wanted Cassie, too. I dialed her number, but it went straight to voicemail.

Fuck, shit, fuck.

The computer lit up, and I sat down. A video screen popped on.

“Bob,” I said, “please tell me that’s you.”

“Our sources reported an explosion in the area.” Bob didn’t sound sympathetic, but then, maybe it was a Guardian tic. “Status update requested.”

“Alive.”

“You survived the shootout.”

“No shit, Bob,” I said, “is Cassie all right?”

“She will be okay. Complete the mission.”

“And Mike Greenville, did he…”

“I am sorry to inform you that it appears Officer Greenville was killed.”

“Damn.”

“Do you think they’ll come here next?”

“We have certain defenses set up for that scenario,” Bob said, “but it is almost certain, yes.”

“Then I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“That is not wise.”

“Whatever. I’ll retrieve your little spirit-voodoo Beacon charm, and then we’re through. With all of this,” I said waving my hand in a circle at the office, “crime was goddamn safer.”

“Mr. Desmond,” the voice said, but I got up. “Kurt, please.”

I didn’t have anything else to say. I grabbed the thick folder of mission schematics and details, then raced out the door. Screw this. I could take care of myself; I’d been doing it for years.

Albeit not all that well, but still.

Better than this.

42

On the Run

I fiddled with
the police scanner Cassie had mounted on the truck’s dash. Nothing but the usual—a lot of silence and the occasional unwitty banter—but then something caught my ear.

“All officers be on high alert. Suspect in Officer Greenville’s murder is a mid-thirties male, brown hair, shaggy appearance with a coarse beard. Suspect’s name is Kurt Desmond and is considered armed and dangerous. Desmond is travelling in a gray pickup truck, a late nineties model. Desmond is a resident of Seaside Heights. Cars should shadow his residence and known associates, which include…”

How the hell had I get blamed for Greenville’s death?

As if this heist wasn’t challenging enough by itself. I threw the car away from Ocean Boulevard—going to grab a bite to eat was out of the question—and headed out on the sandy road out of the Heights. I ditched the truck in the woods about a mile out, flung my busted cell-phone into a ditch, and grabbed the shotgun and all the ammunition I could carry.

This was beginning to look like a one way trip. I glanced at the folder as I walked, hidden by the shroud of the trees. Not that anyone was along the road. No one ever visits Seaside Heights, and no one ever leaves.

I had at least twelve hours to burn before it’d be late enough to try this heist. And after I was done, there was no telling how I’d get to the delivery point. But one thing at a time—now, I just had to stay out of jail.

43

Summit

I figured it
wasn’t a Singularity conspiracy that had me pegged as the bad guy in all of this. After all, Austin saw me go in with Greenville. He could only assume that, Mike being the one dead in all this, and me in the wind, that the guys had been with me.

A more plausible explanation than they were a secret global organization searching for history-changing technology found in secret caves. Occam’s razor, in this case, however, didn’t apply.

Everyone was now gunning for me.

And maybe Cassie.

I reached into my pocket, but it came up empty. Not that I could call her now, perched on the roof. I scanned the extensive grounds with my night vision binoculars. Despite the chaos, the mission was a go. One guard, not a rent-a-cop, but not in the running for enforcer of the year, either, patrolled the grounds. His pattern was easy to memorize, and was just like the intel in the packet had said: around the fountain, pause. To the pool, pause, facing the gate. Inside the clubhouse. Five minutes, then back to the front door of the house, where he stood stationed like one of those Swiss guards at the Vatican. Then the whole sequence repeated itself.

Pebbles and gravel skittered down the roof as I shuffled up to its apex. The contrast between this house and the one three hundred yards away was stunning. The roof here was patchy, weather-beaten, on its last legs.

The house on the hillside, on the other hand, was like a seaside palace. Why anyone would build something like that here, I had no idea. But this massive mansion was there, replete with state of the art security. And me, rusty Kurt Desmond, had to break in.

I slid off the roof, making more noise than I wanted to, tumbling into the sand below. Inside the house, I heard voices and the front door slamming. I was at the back.

“You kids,” a grizzled, no-bullshit voice yelled into the night, “if you’re up there again seein’ if that girl is takin’ her clothes off, I’m gonna put a goddamn bullet in your horny asses.”

I didn’t feel the need to answer and, a minute later, the old man seemed satisfied that he’d scared off the peepers. Although I felt insulted that he thought I was looking for tits. You could find those online for free. I wouldn’t risk being out here if it wasn’t important.

I hoped Bob wasn’t yanking my chain about that.

I jumped from shadow to shadow, making my way to a rocky wall. Here was my entry point. Convenient? No. But building your palace on the hill, up on a bluff overlooking the sea, well, that made for a limited number of entry points.

The fencing system ended here, with this patch of rock serving as nature’s gate. It was only about a yard wide, which meant that if I fell—or a foot slipped a bit too far to the side—well, then I was going to be zapped by the electric fence. Like a big-ass, ultra-powered Taser. And my incognito entry would be ruined.

I threw the grappling hook over the rocky wall and tested it.

The hook came tumbling back, catching nothing. After a few tries, I was swearing to myself, pissed that I hadn’t practiced this part of the plan. They make it look so easy up on the screen, but it’s a bitch.

After a dozen attempts, I hurled it over and the thing caught with a solid
thunk
. I pulled on the rope, and it remained taut.

And then I made the slow, grueling climb over the rock wall, my feet slipping and searching for traction, support—anything—against the craggy wall. But there were no footholds here by design, and my sneakers could only catch short little tufts of the wall.

Sweating, I was about half way up when I slipped, swinging off the rope to the right. I watched in slow motion as I headed towards the fence, closing my eyes as I braced for impact.

But I swung back without being fried, and, once the rope had settled down, I continued my climb. I was tempted to sprawl out at the summit, but that would have left me well exposed, and the top of this little craggy wall wasn’t king sized.

I looked around. The guard was hidden by the fountain, but I could see the hint of his shadow, outlined by moonlight.

So, with more than a little reservation, I lowered myself down the other side, landing with a thud on the lush, green grass. Here, I caught my breath for a moment, looking up at the starry night through a copse of trees. These, they weren’t from around here. Nothing around Seaside Heights grew this green. I waited, tracking the guard’s movements, until down the paved driveway, I could see the gatehouse, the light inside indicating that the guard had returned to the front.

I brushed the grass from my pants, grabbed the hook and went the opposite direction, staying hidden by the trees.