One Rule - No Surrender, page 28
part #2 of One Rule Series
Lights illuminated part of a huge pool and concrete and grass terraces in the backyard of her adopted roost. Pleasant classical music murmured in the air as people – some formally dressed, others wearing swimsuits – circulated in small groups. Thalma pried out two more LSD-35 pills and swallowed them into the pit of fire her starving stomach had become. Her body was once again recovering from injuries – probably still healing from the bullet wounds – and smoke from the nearby house smelled of cooking or cooked meat. A barbecue/party in the middle of the night? Apparently, the rich didn't sleep. She tried to banish thoughts of food from her mind.
A helicopter rose from Boehner's "compound," flying out over the development. It looked like an Apache. It probably had FLIR – Forward Looking Infrared Radiometer – which meant that if the pilot or gunner looked in her direction her large heat signature in the tree would stand out like a glowing red bull's-eye. She slithered quickly to the ground and did the only thing that made sense: headed toward the party and other warm bodies.
She circled the backyard under the cover of trees, dumped her pack, and settled down in a dark corner of the courtyard away from the twenty or thirty people clustering around the swimming pool. A few seconds after she settled down, the helicopter did pass over, drawing puzzled upward looks from the partygoers. Maybe the pilot had noticed Thalma moving from the tree – more probably not, she thought – but she didn't see them storming the house or dropping men in the yard even if they were certain it was her, which they couldn't be. She just had to bide her time until the LSD took effect and fly to her rendezvous point. Not much Boehner's men could do about that now. She could probably make her way clear of here without too much trouble unaided by super powers.
But the mission left a sour taste in her mouth and an unsettled feeling in her stomach – apart from the near-crippling hunger pangs. She couldn't erase Charles Boehner's smug smile from her brain. She could've handed him his ass, but instead leaped from his fourth story bedroom and planted her face in his lawn. And now was hiding like a frightened mouse. Not a lot of intimidation factor there. If anything, she might've given him more motivation to kill her. How hard could it be? Hire a sniper and have him place crosshairs on her head. Problem solved.
The more she thought about it the more she approached the sad conclusion that she needed to go back and finish this job – to play the role of predator instead of a scared rabbit. But for that, she needed to eat. Even with the LSD she felt she was running on empty.
Thalma skirted the pool, staying near the house, angling toward the gas range, catching a glimpse of herself in the windows: ripped jeans, and blouse, hair that appeared tortured rather than teased. Nouveau Dévastation , as her dad might say. Maybe it was all the fashion rage among the rich and famous?
But judging from the looks she was getting – an initial random glance or two soon snowballing into puzzled and open gawking – her fashion sense was a bit too radical for this party.
She paused at the gas grill. Trying to appear nonchalant, she opened the lid, revealing three hamburger patties and a row of sausage links. Yes! Saliva gathered at her parted lips like a storm-filled lake ready to overflow its banks. The partygoers stared at her, but she was past caring. Using a large steel spatula hanging on the grill, Thalma scraped off the burgers and sausages – still warm and juicy – inhaling them one by one with minimal chewing. She swore she could feel the protein dissolving in her stomach and spreading out through her veins like liquid manna. Downing the last sausage link, she closed her eyes and reveled in the sensation.
"I would've brought you buns."
Thalma's eyes popped open. A handsome, dark-haired young man in a blue terrycloth robe stood in the opened sliding glass door a few feet away grinning at her.
"I hope you don't mind," she said. "I'm kind of hungry."
"Kind of?" He laughed. "Not problem. And there's plenty more where that came from. Got a fridge full of potato salad, coleslaw, hors d'oeuvres. You want some something to drink?"
"Some water would be great."
He stepped out and opened a giant cooler under the folding table and dug out a liter of Perrier. The dude was almost too good to be true. She accepted the bottle and gulped it down in three swallows. The man's mellow smile developed a puzzled kink as he watched her.
"You must've missed our earlier feast," he said, handing her a napkin.
Thalma wiped her face. With semi-satiety came increased self-consciousness. "Thank you. I really appreciate this."
"Can I ask what happened to you? You look like you fell into a briar patch or something."
"That's pretty much what happened."
"Are you with Jordan? I recall him saying his new girlfriend would be showing up but I wasn't sure if she ever did before he crashed upstairs."
Thalma stared at him. With the protein infusion, the LSD was kicking in big-time. The young man's skin glowed with warm golden colors and his words appeared as fine sparkly mist floating past her into the night.
"I'm Brad, by the way." He extended his hand. "Brad Boehner."
Thalma stared at his hand as if it were the head of a striking snake.
"Boehner," she said.
"Yes." He cocked his head. "You don't know whose party you're attending?"
"The son of Charles Boehner?"
"That's me. Son of the famous Charles Boehner." Bitterness had crept into his voice. Something buzzed in his robe pocket. He pulled out a cell phone.
"Hey," he said, holding up a hand to Thalma as he turned away. "I'm surprised you're up this late..." He didn't speak for a few moments. "Oh. Really." He glanced at Thalma, his smile unsteady. "Okay. Thanks for the heads-up."
He turned back to her, dropping the phone back into his robe pocket. His smile had sprouted sharp, dark edges, and the benevolent blue glow of his body was shading into a bright vermillion.
"Say, are you still hungry?" he asked in a forcibly bright voice. "I've got some prime rib that just needs heating up."
"Um..." Thalma's stomach rumbled. Prime rib. The image smothered the warnings jangling in her mind. She was hallucinating and probably paranoid; prime rib was an undeniable reality. She needed to be at full strength for what she had planned.
"I'll be right back," he said, as if hearing her thoughts.
She heard him rustling around in the kitchen, and was about ready to bolt when he stepped back through the door – sadly, no prime rib in sight. Instead he was pointing a pump shotgun at her.
"That was your father on the phone, wasn't it?"
"Good guess. He just wanted to mention there was a dangerous person in the neighborhood who might have an interest in me. Not that he thought you would, but he wanted to be sure. Turns out his combat intuition is as sharp as ever. His men are on their way right now."
The people at poolside retreated into the pool house on a tide of frightened murmurs.
"You don't need to get involved in this," said Thalma. "Just lower your gun and I'll leave."
"Funny – that's what he said to me – that under no circumstances was I to try to forcibly detain you." He smiled. "Not a lot of faith in his 'soft' internet company executive son. Man, is he going to be surprised."
She edged toward him. Boehner Jr. backed off, maintaining his distance. A rank amateur but no dummy, she thought.
"The famous Thalma Engstrom." Brad was grinning and shaking his head at the glorious wonder of it all. "No one's going to fucking believe I was the one who finally captured you."
Thalma was sure she could launch into the air before he could get a shot off, but revealing her super power was only a last resort. On the other hand, nothing prevented her from using her flight powers to propel her toward him faster than he could react.
The helicopter returned, moving in low over the far end of the property, more slowly than before. Naturally, total out-of-depth amateur that he was, Brad Boehner turned and squinted at the approaching helicopter.
When he returned his attention to Thalma she was relieving him of the shotgun and shoving him on his surprised ass. She whipped the shotgun around and pointed it at his head, holding up one hand to the helicopter. She had no intention of shooting her formerly cordial host, but the threat might gain her a moment or two with the helicopter – which had responded to her signal by halting its approach near the far end of the property. Besides, it just felt good to instill some fear in the arrogant young man.
"You going to kill me?" Brad Boehner's terrified eyes belied the determined bravado in his expression. He tilted his head toward the helicopter. "They're probably putting crosshairs on your head right now."
An Apache's "crosshairs" were anything but precise. If they were stupid or insane enough to fire the M230 chain gun – assuming they hadn't replaced it with something more civilian - they'd likely rip both of them into pieces along with a good chunk of the courtyard.
As if reading her thoughts, a man leaned out of the cockpit and started to aim a rifle at her. Thalma spun away, tossing the shotgun as she zigzagged through the brush into the trees. Three or four rifle rounds – not .223, maybe .308 or .338 – snapped in the air to her right. The helicopter dipped and accelerated hard after her.
Time for liftoff.
Thalma leaped into the air, extending her arms and her will – and made it about forty feet before falling back to earth. Not good. Not fucking good at all.
The helicopter came on fast, the man still leaning out of the gunner side popping away at her. The Apache had her. She could neither outrun nor evade it. But as dread erected tombstones in her head, another option offered a possible escape.
She spun around and sprinted toward the helicopter. The gunner shifted his rifle in surprise, but not fast enough to track her. She leaped for the underside of the helicopter, willing herself upward – rising just high enough to snag the chain gun and swing around to the gunner side where she grabbed the barrel of the rifle and yanked it downward. The rifle came free – and so did the man holding it, clawing at the side of the cockpit before plummeting into the brush below.
Another burst of Thalma's untrusty flight-power combined with her own arm muscles propelled up through the open door into the cockpit. The pilot reached for his sidearm. Thalma drew hers first, jerking the door closed behind her.
"Change of flight plans," she said.
The man rested his hands with slow emphasis on the collective and cyclic controls. Keeping her pistol on him, Thalma slipped on the gunner's helmet and adjusted the microphone with her free hand.
"Return to Boehner's house," she said.
"What are your plans?" the pilot asked.
"Tell me about your weapons systems."
"I'm not going to do that."
Thalma's knowledge of the combat helicopter's operation was theoretical at best. With the gunner helmet and monocle in place the crosshairs before her right eye swam through a sea of infrared light wherever she looked. A toggle on her left changed the armament codes. She settled on the M230. As they rose above Boehner Junior's property she had a clear view of his father's mansion next door. She guessed they enjoyed a close relationship.
"Jensen," a voice popped over the radio. "What's your status?"
"I'm currently flying due east from your son's property, sir."
"I've just spoken with him. He told me that Engstrom had the opportunity to kill him but didn't pull the trigger. Did you observe any of this?"
He glanced at Thalma, who nodded for him to reply.
"Yes, sir. That is correct. She disarmed him but tossed his weapon aside."
"Return to base, Jensen. We will be ceasing all efforts to capture Ms. Engstrom."
"Sir, Ms Engstrom has taken possession of my air craft."
The radio was silent for several seconds. Then a harsh chuckle rattled through Thalma's headpiece.
"Jesus, why am I not surprised. Ms. Engrstrom, are you on the com?"
"Yes," said Thalma.
"You spared my son's life. If you choose to walk away from this now – and agree to stay clear of my affairs - you and your family will have nothing further to fear from me or my organization. I will have Jensen drop you off wherever you wish. Do you agree, Ms. Engstrom?"
Thalma gazed through her monocle, the 30mm cannon's crosshairs on the still-glaring floodlights. She tapped the firing switch selector to ten and depressed the trigger.
The floodlights blew apart an instant later. The property plunged into darkness.
"Yes," she said with a small smile. "I agree."
Chapter 18
THE NEWS WAS ON as Elena jostled about in the kitchen preparing dinner. Three days after Thalma's upload, the internet – particularly alternate news sites - seethed with discussions and revelations about the CDC vaccine files and what had become known as the "Seattle Infection Plot," but the mainstream news was all abuzz over anti-transgender posters that were appearing on public restroom walls. One newscaster declared the posters, which portrayed a hirsute man pointing a camera over a bathroom cubicle wall at a young girl in the women's restroom, constituted "child pornography" and even "domestic terrorism." Violence in picket lines protesting "co-ed bathrooms" outside Target and a new strike by ISIS against the U.S. embassy in Turkey shared top billing on the national news.
What was almost entirely missing from CNN and other national news outlets was any mention of Dr. Frederick MacDougal's videorecorded private confession and his encounters with Synthatalle employees, the Washington State Department of Health workers, and Washington State Senator Harold Griming. In fact, MacDougal appeared to be missing himself; not only missing, but one news report suggested he was an actor playing a doctor, since thus far no records of his education and employment had been found. Several websites such as SkepticalReason.com and RealScience.com declared that the tapes were "likely an anti-vaxxer hoax." The FBI and DOJ had issued terse statements that an "investigation is underway" - offering no additional details - but you had to read the newspapers and watch the news with unblinking attention or you'd miss them.
Finally, CNN took a break from covering bathroom posters and calls for more military expenditures to fight ISIS and did mention the "viral internet conspiracy on alleged CDC mishandling of data and other nefarious plots," playing a brief interview where a famous epidemiologist who accused "rightwing ideologues" of criminal malfeasance in casting doubt on vaccine effectiveness and declared that "the whole silly affair is in essence a tempest in a teapot." Then the news shifted to Justin Bieber's latest run-in with the law.
"That's some toxic teapot," Louis murmured, shaking his head, glancing at Thalma and Maggie on the couch beside him. "I don't believe this. You guys put your lives on the line – heck, all of our lives! – and break the whole thing wide open, and this is what we get?"
"Hey," Maggie protested, "we did stop them in Seattle, didn't we?"
"And they leveled our house!"
Thalma lowered her head, guilt a twenty-three inch samurai sword sliding seppuku-like into her gut.
"Baby," said Louis hastily, seeing her face, "I'm not blaming you! You were just trying to do what was right."
"But I blame myself. It wasn't right to put you or anyone else at risk."
"But if everyone thinks that way," said Laura, "who will ever stand up against injustice?"
Plato rose from snoozing in front of the television as was his wont and nudged Laura's leg as if to second her opinion. Socrates watched on from Thalma's side with bored, politically incorrect eyes.
"Single people," Elena Engstrom answered her daughter's question, setting out plates on the dining table behind them. "People without families. Let them be the crusaders, for whatever good they'll do."
"Gee, thanks a lot," Maggie snorted. "Way to discriminate against single people."
"Yeah, well, someone does have to stand up against this kind of shit, I guess." Louis sighed. "And almost everyone has family or friends they care about. Even Charles Boehner, luckily. I just selfishly don't want it to be us."
"I don't, either," said Thalma. "That's why next time someone needs rescuing I'm going to call 9-11. And I have no interest in working with Murphy again."
Louis smiled and nodded. Thalma could see he wanted to say something like "Right on!", but didn't want to risk jinxing her sentiment.
Dinner was served. Her mother had put together a shrimp casserole with a spinach salad and a "side of protein" – a slab of steak – for Thalma. It felt good, though alien, to sit down with a family. This is my family. That thought filled Thalma with both warmth and foreboding. So many people that her actions could place in jeopardy. So much better odds that someone she cared about could be harmed.
A weird, probably warped, way of looking at it, but then perhaps she'd absorbed her mother's protective upbringing too well.
"I'M SO going to miss you!" Maggie cried, pulling Thalma into a bear hug at the airport terminal while Laura and Elena stood nearby – Elena's gaze fixed pointedly on the flight departures and arrivals board. "I can't believe the way this turned out. Do you trust Boehner to keep his word?"
"Yes," said Thalma, smiling over at Louis. "I think I do."
"Funny how an act of compassion did more to convince him than a gun at his head," said Louis. "Almost makes you wonder if there's a moral in there somewhere."
Maggie released a skeptical snort. "I still kind of wish Thalma had kicked his fascist ass."
"Yeah," said Thalma with a quiet laugh. "I would've loved to smash his smug smile down his throat. But if I had – if I'd killed him – I'm guessing another monster would've just sprung up in his place. At least this way the monster doesn't want to kill me. Hopefully."
Maggie leaned back suddenly and kissed Thalma hard on the lips.
