The chopper pilot saw him, reached up and started flipping switches overhead. The ignition went on. The motor pulsated. Slowly, the rotor blades started turning.
The reporter sat in the back. He hunched up in his seat, too scared to move, afraid of whoever might be watching. Jessup shared his anxiety. He didn’t want to let the reporter out of his sight. It was unlikely Memoria would go so far as to kill them both together, but still. Gizbo might not be the only mole in his department. That would explain Memoria’s quick reactions to their HQ surveillance as well as their switching to scrambled messages. Jessup didn’t want to lose his only trump card, albeit insignificant. He knew they would do whatever was necessary to seize the reporter.
“Captain, sir?” he thought he heard to his left.
A sentry on the guardhouse balcony waved and shouted, his words drowned out by the chopper drone. Another couple of seconds, and he wouldn’t have heard him.
“Would you come over here, sir?”
Jessup stopped. He glanced at the helicopter and crossed his arms in front of him, signaling to the pilot to kill the motor. Then he hurried to the guard house. Could they have received a message from the camp? The leaders could have complained about Memoria’s invasion on the radio. They could have sent a messenger to the guard house. Also not unlikely, some of the migrants could express their desire to leave the perimeter in order to participate in Memoria’s “skill sale”. He could tell Jessup what was going on in the camp.
“What’s up?” the rotor noise had almost stopped by the time Jessup reached the turnstiles.
“Come quick, sir! He’s wounded!”
“Who now?” Jessup flung the staff room door open. On the bench by the wall lay Nicholas Floyd. Jessup’s long-time camp informer.
The duty officer leaned over him, the opened first-aid kit by his feet on the floor. Floyd’s neck and chest were dressed with bloodied bandages. The duty officer pulled the syringe out of Floyd’s shoulder and turned his wide weather-worn face to Jessup.
“Not good. Got two bullets to the neck and heart area, sir. He could barely speak.”
“What did he say?”
Floyd lay with his eyes closed.
“He brought you this, sir,” The duty officer handed Jessup an opaque plastic container one-tenth of an inch thick. “He wanted you to have it.”
“What for? What is it?” Jessup opened the container. Inside was a memory chip. “Call the meds!” he looked at the door. “Get him into the chopper!”
He lifted the transmitter and contacted the police clinic for an emergency surgery.
Floyd opened his eyes and gave him a weak smile. Then he started gasping.
“His heart might stop!” the duty officer shouted. “Get the defibrillator!”
One of the cops was already running to the bench with a plastic box in his hands. He pushed the lid open and brought out the electrodes.
The duty officer grabbed a knife and cut through the bandages. But Floyd had already stopped breathing. His eyes glazed over.
“Charge?” the cop placed the electrodes onto Floyd’s chest.
“Full charge,” the duty officer said.
“Clear!”
The defibrillator clicked. Floyd’s body jerked with the electric pulse.
“CPR and heart massage.”
Well-trained, they acted in unison, trying to bring the man back from the other side. But Floyd’s eyes remained dead.
“Again,” the cop placed the electrodes onto his chest. “Clear!”
Another click. The body jumped.
“CPR!”
Jessup stepped to the wall and leaned his heavy body against it watching Floyd. He didn’t look as if he could make it.
“Pointless,” he finally said.
The duty officer looked up at him,
“Blood loss too serious, sir.”
“I can see that.” Jessup sighed. “Did he say anything at all? What’s going on in the camp?”
“He just gave us your name, sir, and this container.”
A car braked by the guard house. A door slammed. Several voices spoke at once. The radio in Jessup’s hand sprung to life, giving him a bad feeling. He put the sound up to hear Salem’s voice through the gremlins.
“No!” he exclaimed, disbelieving. “When?”
“This afternoon,” Agent Archer said entering the room. “Anna Gautier and two more leaders have been killed in the Council building. I need all the men you can spare in the Bronx before the migrants cut the electricity and water from the city. We can’t afford that to happen.”
“Salem? I’ll call you back later.” Jessup lowered the radio. At the same time, he slipped the container into his raincoat pocket. “Why haven’t they reported it earlier? Who made the statement?”
“Memoria’s Press Secretary.” Archer’s long face grew even longer as he stared at Floyd’s body on the bench. He kept speaking on automatic pilot, looking confused. “They’ve made a full scan of the killer’s memory. The mnemotechs’ report has already been posted online.”
“Who killed him?”
Archer blinked, staring at Floyd’s body.
“Who was it?” Jessup repeated louder.
“Shelby… Frank Shelby.”
“Frank Shelby!” the tall tech shouted. A shove to his back sent him sprawling through the doorway into his co-worker arms.
Both tumbled onto the surgery floor. Inside, Maggie Douggan lay in her underwear strapped to the tomography bed. Frank lunged inside and slammed the door shut praying that the security guard who watched the hallway through the security cameras had turned away from his screens for a second.
The tall tech had told him the truth. The team numbered three people. The third tech stood by the equipment stand to Frank’s right. Frank stepped closer and took a swing to punch him on the chin when one of the two on the floor grabbed his leg. Instead of a punch, Frank’s fingers brushed the tech’s nose; he dropped the syringe and came down.
The team’s resistance surprised him. These were supposed to be laboratory wooses, but they reacted with pitbull-like fortitude. Leaning on his elbows, Frank pulled his leg out, turned around and kicked the stranger’s face red with excitement. His head jerked, blood pouring out of a smashed nose.
“Finish him off, Sam!” the tall one shouted as he tried to scramble back onto his feet.
Sam — apparently the one who’d just escaped the punch on the chin — didn’t move. His hesitation gave Frank the chance to get up and an advantage. Jumping up, he punched Sam in the chest and stomach. The tech doubled up, and Frank rabbit-punched him to the neck. One down. Frank turned around. The tall tech had by then forced himself up on one knee. A broken jaw later, the man was back on the floor. His co-worker, though, proved to be difficult: he crawled under the table, kicking and screaming his head off.
At first, Frank tried to grab him by the foot to drag him out. No luck. Snarling with anger, he tried to lift the heavy steel table and pushed it over the tech. Boxfuls of surgical tools, laid out on the table for an operation, clattered all over the floor. The tech screamed out — then fell silent.
Agitated by the fight and shouting, Frank stepped back to the door. He breathed fast. His heart beat wildly, unable to slow down. Two men lay unconscious in the middle of the room. The third one, pinned to the floor by the table, wheezed and jerked, his legs twitching.
Frank didn’t check on him. The man’s chest could be smashed. A syringe needle could have gone into his eye. Whatever it was, the man was never going to get up. Frank picked up the syringe filled with the opaque greenish liquid and went over to the girl. His fingers shaking with exertion, he started undoing the straps.
“Mag, you okay? What have they done to you?”