Gods and Men- The Hank Boyd Omnibus, page 42
part #1 of Gods and Men Series
“Oh, and by the way,” Kane continues, looking at Nicole. “Next time Hank goes into one of his, Oh-my-God-I’m-dying phases, use less tongue. People are watching.” He points back-and-forth from him to Ben. “We don’t need to see that shit.”
Embarrassed, I climb in and shut the door, lowering the window, without a peep. The others follow, Kane giving me a knock to the chest and a smile.
“You’re a jerk. You know that, right?” I say with a smile.
“Yep,” he replies, a cocky grin on his face. “I know.”
Ben leans forward, in between the front seats, a worried look on his face. “What happens when people see us coming and don’t move—or worse if and when you start shooting?”
Kane just stays quiet and flicks a switch on the Jeep’s dashboard. Instantly, a mind-numbing display of lights ignite from the front dash and the rear window.
“We have government plates too,” Kane explains. “Only an idiot would test me and not concede the road.” His smile broadens, “Also, only a complete moron would stand in the way of two cars exchanging bullets while traveling at a high-rate of speed.”
If only to accentuate the last detail, Kane floors the SRT8’s pedal, cranking the steering wheel in the process. Kane forces the Jeep into a one-eighty, swerves and straightens out, shooting us down the eastbound lane and quickly accelerates to what I’m sure is way over the posted speed limit. Tires squeal in protest, as we continue our quest to stop Frost and the traitor Brooks.
37
Washington D.C., USA
We give chase, Kane driving like a madman to catch up to the other vehicle. He swerves right and goes around a silver Prius, it's angry and apparently uptight owner flipping us the bird. Light traffic has started to dot the roads as its regular commuters are leaving for work or whatever else they have planned for the day. We’re only a block or so behind Frost now as we continue down Independence Avenue.
On our left, we zip by the Air and Space Museum and then the American Indian Museum. Next are the U.S. Botanical Gardens and the U.S. Capitol Building, home to the United States Congressional meetings.
Kane hits the brakes and yanks left on the wheel, sliding us through the intersection at 1st Street and heads north behind the Capital Building. Bullets ping off the hood of our car as we gain ground on Frost, who is the one shooting at us. Kane lets loose two well-placed shots, shattering the rear window of the lead vehicle.
Frost dives back as glass explodes through the interior of the SUV. The driver swerves hard to the right, sideswiping half-a-dozen parked cars in the process.
Car alarms blare as we pursue the SUV, passing the Library of Congress and the Supreme Court buildings on our right. Suddenly, we squeal to a stop in front of the crossing at Constitution Avenue. “Son-of-a…” Kane says, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Sorry!” He yells out his window, waving his hand.
A woman with a walker is frozen in fear not ten feet in front of us. She has her hand on her chest and is breathing heavily, but calms a little and continues forward shaking her fist, yelling grumbled obscenities at us.
That would have been bad, I think, releasing my death grip from the ever poignant, oh shit handle.
Kane floors the pedal again, blowing through the red light, startling another angered outburst from the poor woman we nearly ran over. Safely clearing the intersection, we shoot between the Senate Office Buildings and continue north on 1st Street.
“There they are!” Nicole yells, pointing over my shoulder to the black SUV one light ahead of us.
“Where are they going?” Ben asks from the back seat. “The only thing down this street is Union Station.”
“Damn,” I say, thinking of the ramifications. This is one of the worst case scenarios I had feared.
Washington’s Union Station is one of the busiest train stations in North America, receiving over tens of thousands of people daily. Much like New York’s Grand Central Station, Union Station is a hub for entertainment, featuring retail stores, restaurants, and even a movie theater. It also has eighteen platforms and twenty tracks, perfect for getting lost in.
“It’s an easy place for them to disappear and an even easier place for them to set off the device if they so choose to,” I say, peering through the windshield.
We burn around another unsuspecting driver and go to push through the last of our obstructions, the intersection directly in front of us. Except, cars are everywhere, littering the road like a pissed off toddler’s Hot Wheels set.
Kane slows the Jeep, trying to find another way around…and does. The car veers sharply left as he takes an alternate route around the pile-up in front of us… The sidewalk.
The vehicle’s horn blares, as Kane slams his massive hand down on the center of the steering column. Then, he quickly flicks the switch to the auditory nightmare that is the siren and mounts the concrete sidewalk’s curb.
We’re jostled around as Kane expertly carves his way through people, bicycles, and trashcans, the latter of which he obliterates with the Jeep’s front fender. Thankfully, the pedestrians get the idea and dive out of the way.
As we clear the throng of people making their way to the station for their commute, Frost’s SUV blows through the intersection, causing another wreck. They then cross the neatly manicured lawn in front of the station and continue through the hedges lining the road.
Kane accelerates after them, having a clear shot thanks to their reckless incursion just a few seconds earlier.
We follow, as our target takes the short drop off another curb beyond the bushes at full speed and swerves into Union Station’s front courtyard. They enter just right of the Columbus Fountain and bodies fly. The driver, one of Frost’s high-paid lackeys I’m assuming, plows through the collected mass of people in route to the building’s front entrance.
Slowing, as to not hit anyone, unlike the other vehicle, Kane steers around the prone figures, some alive, some not. Frost’s SUV screeches to a halt as all four doors pop open. The two men we are after, Frost and Brooks, join the other two men accompanying them and open fire on us.
Dozens and dozens of bullets impale themselves into our bulletproof carriage. Seeing this, one of the men adjusts his aim and sends a burst into our front right tire, blowing it out.
Kane tries desperately to keep us in line with the shooters, intent on ramming them, but the speed and angle across the lawn are too much. The Cherokee bucks, sending us into a dizzying barrel roll.
Our Jeep, being a military upgrade, is sturdy and takes the brunt of the damage, rolling three times. Finally, and personally ready to puke, we land hard, upside down in a heap of crunched metal and bruised bones.
Union Station
Washington D.C., USA
The sound of glass violently breaking wakes me up. I look around, not remembering where I am. My pulsating headache isn’t exactly letting me focus either. Shaking my head like a wet dog, I clear my thoughts long enough to realize two things. The first thing I comprehend is that I’m bleeding. A Lot. I wipe some of it away from my face and see the second thing wrong with the situation. I’m upside down.
The realization snaps me fully awake as I take in my surroundings and understand the pickle I’m in. I reach for the seatbelt release and depress the button. Nothing happens. It’s jammed. I can’t get out!
Peering through the now open frame of the Jeep, the windshield having been busted out, I see two sets of military-style boots marching themselves towards me… Boots I don’t recognize.
I look left, expecting to find Kane in the same situation as me, but find his seat empty. His window is also broken, shattered to bits. His seatbelt must have worked correctly, and he crawled out, I think, my head still swirling a bit.
I then try and look behind me and find Nicole and Ben are gone as well, but can’t see their exit from where I’m suspended. My point of view is blocked by my headrest, but the tailgate’s window is shattered, so I assume they crawled out that way.
“Okay,” I say to myself. “One thing at a time. How bad are you hurt?” I touch my head and instantly reel back from the pain. The gash on my forehead is apparently quite sensitive.
Ow! Dammit! Alright, don’t do that again.
The feet stop in front of me and take up what looks like a defensive position. It’s then I hear the gunshots being traded between this force and an unseen one behind me. Kane, Nicole, and Ben must be behind the Jeep pinned down.
But, I think, smiling the best I can. I doubt they know I’m still in here. I look around for my AA-12, the blood rushing to my head and fingertips, and see it almost out of reach above the driver’s side seat. I lean left and touch the barrel with my fingertips, just barely grazing its flat-black surface.
More gunshots erupt from the men in front of me. They are quickly returned by Kane and company an instant later. Shouts arise from my team, as I think one of them is hit. I can’t be sure, but it sure as hell sounded like someone was crying out in pain.
I lunge for the shotgun, intent on ending this before someone else gets killed, and snag the barrel in between my index and middle fingers. Slowly and carefully, I drag it close enough to grip and examine it.
The AA-12 looks good enough to fire and thank God it is, because at that moment one of the guys from the goon squad ducks into the Jeep’s wrecked interior, intent on catching my team off guard from underneath.
Just as he looks up and sees me hanging in mid-air, my 12-gauge inches from his face, I pull the trigger and erase his look of surprise forever in a splatter of red.
His comrade must take notice of his buddy’s demise, because he jumps back, only for me to blow off his right foot in the process, sending him sprawling to the ground. Then, I pump three more slugs into his reeling form, and the automatic fire ceases.
Scraping and crunching noises fill my ears as a familiar face appears next to me. “Hank?” Nicole is kneeling next to me, a look of both confusion and relief on her battered face. She has a cut on her chin and a knot on her forehead.
Probably hit her head on the window next to her.
“You okay?” She asks.
I smile. “Nicole?” I ask in a hushed tone.
She leans in closer. “Yeah, Hank?”
“Cut me down, please,” I say, feeling the blood running from my body and into my head as I hang upside-down. “I can’t feel my face.”
She tries to hide the smile but is unsuccessful, snorting out a short laugh. She then unsheathes a knife, sliding it across my seatbelt’s straps. Without a way to break my fall, I crumple to the roof of the mangled Jeep with a crunch and a curse but manage not to break my neck. I slither my way free with the help of Nicole and Kane, who grabs my other hand just as Nicole did the other. They yank me from the metal coffin, and the three of us collapse on top of each other.
“Just like old times, huh?” I say with a moan, referring to the time the two of them helped save me from falling down the secret entrance to the Atlantean underworld. We landed in a heap just like this.
“Yep,” A muffled voice says. Kane then wriggles out from beneath Nicole and me. “Hurt then too.”
He stands and heads back towards the rear of the ruined Jeep. I offer my hands to Nicole, and she gladly takes them. I haul her up with a whimper of protest from her as she releases my grip and grabs her shoulder.
I’m about to ask, but she cuts me off. “It’s fine, maybe a sprain at worst. I got tossed around the back seat pretty good.”
“No seatbelt?” I ask.
“Didn’t really think about it, to be honest,” she replies with a shrug, gritting her teeth and rolling her shoulder trying to loosen it up.
“And Ben?”
She looks up and glances back to where Kane just went. I follow her as she leads me around the back of the overturned SUV and I find Ben. He’s beaten, his once shining bald head bleeding and his shirt red from blood. He’s been shot!
“Ben!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, there killer, he’s fine,” Kane says, holding a hand up for me to calm down. “Took a round in the shoulder—in the meat. It was a clean shot too, didn’t hit anything vital or overly important.”
I kneel next to Ben with a sigh of relief. Shot is better than dead, after all. I know this all too well over these last three-plus months. His left shoulder is a mess, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Like the guy whose foot I just blew off. Ben could be missing an arm with a larger caliber round.
“Hank?” Ben asks, reaching out to me.
I take his bloodied hand in my own crimson stained hand and squeeze. “I’m here my friend.”
“I think…” He says, breathing heavily. “I think I’m going to sit the rest of this thing out. Is that okay with you?”
I burst out laughing. I can’t help myself. I haven’t slept very much at all, especially over the last few days. My mind and body are spent. And man it feels good to laugh too. Except for the expanding and contracting of my ribs. That…hurts like hell.
Patting Ben on his unharmed shoulder, I stand. “Take a breather, Ben, we’ve got this.”
“Where’s Frost and Brooks?” I ask, looking over the underside of the Jeep. The last time I saw them was when they stepped out of their ride. After that, the world went upside down, sideways, and then black.
“They hightailed it into the Union just after we took up position behind the Jeep,” Kane replies, gingerly reloading his Desert Eagle. It’s then I see his left hand.
“Kane, your hand.” He holds it up for me to see. It’s swollen and red, definitely broken.
“It’s shot,” he says, trying to flex it, wincing in pain. “Not literally. We rolled on it when we got turned over. I was about to shoot at them when the bastards took out our front wheels. My hand was outside the car when we flipped.”
Seeing the indestructible Jeremy Kane seriously hurt sends a new wave of chills through my body, but I hold it together and look off towards the station. What I see isn’t comforting at all. A swarm of people hurries through the front doors, no doubt seeing a heavily armed pair of men just enter.
“Call it in,” I say in a trance-like tone. “We need this place locked down immediately with that weapon inside. If the darkness were to spread and reach outside the station…” I let the last part hang in the air.
Kane nods. “D.C. has pretty good people for that.” He then holsters his remaining gun, the other one nowhere in sight. He lifts a phone to his ear and walks away, covering his ear with his injured hand the best he can.
I reach up and under the rear hatch’s busted out window, popping the floor compartment open, which is also upside down with the rest of the vehicle. Usually, on any other standard Cherokee, this spot would be utilized by a spare tire, but for our purposes, it houses something a little different.
Three large duffel bags spill out onto the ceiling of the overturned roof, followed by three motorcycle-like helmets. I grab the bags and drag them out, one by one, so Kane, Nicole and I have room to rummage through them.
I unzip the bag labeled ‘HB’ and pull out what looks like a padded, full-body wetsuit. In actuality, it’s not that far from the truth. The prototype BDU is thin and flexible like a wetsuit but has armor-like padding around every square inch, minus the joints.
“You think this will work?” Nicole asks, slipping out of her clothes. The only thing she has on as she pulls on the combat uniform is her bra and underwear. I follow her and tear off my clothing, stripping down to my boxers, yanking on my own Kevlar-graded getup. We don’t have time to be bashful and hide and change in private. We’re sort of in a rush.
“It should,” I say, hiking up the form-fitting one-piece. “Olivia said the biologic, or whatever it is, spreads from skin-to-skin contact. So as long as we are covered head-to-toe, we should be fine.” After the two of us are finished dressing, we pick up the helmets, inspecting them.
“So…” I say to Nicole, but looking towards the large building. “Out of the frying pan…”
She turns towards the train station, a look of both anger and worry on her face. “…and into the fire.”
38
Union Station
Washington D.C., USA
It was a typical day for Kyle Mohr. He was to go to work at the station, standing in front of the damned gate, making sure everyone who entered had their tickets. Then, he would clock out, meet his girlfriend, who worked at the information desk for a drink, and bring her back to his place and hopefully get really, really, lucky.
Elena is such a hottie, he thought, picturing her in nothing but his t-shirt.
Today was as busy as ever for the early hour. People went about their normal everyday lives without thought and definitely without courtesy for him. Some were going to work, others going home from work, having just finished the awful night shift.
“What the hell are you talking about?” He heard the old man scream in anger. Here we go… Kyle calmly walked up to the man, who was yelling at the poor woman behind the desk—Lyn was her name.
“Excuse me, sir?” Kyle asked in his practiced, jovial tone. “Can I help you with something?”
The man, who had to be near ninety, spun on a heel and got right up into his face. “No, you may not!” He spurted, through the gap between his K-9’s. “This here woman, wouldn’t give me my money back for this here ticket!”
“May I?” Kyle asked, reaching for the man’s ticket.
The old man shoved the ticket into Kyle’s hand and backed away, hands on his hips, infuriated.
Kyle glanced over to Lyn and rolled his eyes, getting a smile out of the flustered woman. He then winked and returned his attention to the man.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Kyle responded in his proficient tone. “Please refer to customer service for any questions about your ticket. There is nothing we can do for you here.” Mr. Comb-over sneered a venomous look at Kyle before turning and stomping away.
