The Rasner Effect (39 page)

“I know. But maybe, just for a while…”

“Let me tell you something, I never went to a prom. For that matter, I never even finished high school.” She waved her hand as if it never mattered—but it had. Yes, she loved working with, and even running the organization, loved and agreed with their philosophies, but there was a small part of her that wondered what it would have been like to grow up ‘normal.’ To try out for cheerleading. To get bad grades. Hell, even to be grounded. Then again, it probably sucked. “That’s the way life is, Clara. Some of us are just meant to be more than regular…” Jen stopped mid-sentence.

The back door leading to the basement stood open. That door was never left open, too much valuable stuff there. It could have been Rick stepping out for some air, but her instincts suggested to her otherwise. Out on the street, a black van eased up to the curb.

Something was wrong.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t move. Don’t act like anything’s wrong. There’s someone in the house with Rick.” Jen reached over Clara and popped open the glove compartment. She fisted the .38 and pulled it into her lap. “They found us!”

“Who found us?”

“Who do you think? I’m talking about the damn authorities! Now shut it and let me think a minute.”

The passenger door swung open and Clara stepped out.

“Clara, what the hell are you doing? Get back in the car, now!”

With a nervous, but spiteful look at her, Clara pushed the passenger door shut. In one motion, she hurdled herself between the garage and shrubs.

“Clara!”

Clara peered over her shoulder, gave Jen a guilty look as if she just got caught doing something wrong. She ran again, disappearing behind the garage. A moment later, Jen caught sight of her leaping over the shrubs behind the building and running to the backyard of Derrick’s house-turned-headquarters. Jen smacked the steering wheel in irritation. What the hell was the kid doing?

What went on with Rick inside the house became second priority. In the rearview mirror, Jen saw the doors of the black van open and two men burst out with guns drawn. They darted across the street in her direction.

****

Jake approached the bookcases with small, deliberate steps intended to let Rasner know he was getting closer. He wanted the guy to squirm.

Jake held the gun, a .44 magnum, in his right hand. The red laser beam bounced off a multitude of glass jars on the bookshelf. He remembered his grandmother used to can vegetables and store them in the cool cellar, but these didn’t seem to have anything besides an amber liquid in them.

The resonance of two consecutive gunshots came from outside the house. Close by. What the hell was going on out there? Jake withstood the temptation to turn back through the doorway and check on the situation. He had his target trapped like a rat in a cage and he wasn’t about to give up the advantage.

His attention shifted. Someone had come through the open doorway into the basement. He was ready to squeeze the trigger, when the frightened face of a young teenage girl appeared. He recognized her from the general’s dossier as the girl kidnapped from the institute.

Seeing the gun pointed in her face, she stopped in her tracks. “Please don’t shoot me!” Clara raised her hands in the air in front of her chest.

Jake let out a deep breath and pointed the gun toward the ceiling. He kept most of his attention behind him, where his prey hid.

“You’re the kid from that Brookhill place. Interesting company you’re keeping.”

“They took me here.” Clara shoved her hands higher in the air “They made me off some lady. They want me to do it again. I don’t want to do it no more. I just want to go home.”

“Okay, kid, just calm down.”

He did intend to get the girl to safety. It was one of his mission parameters. It wasn’t, however, the immediate objective. Rick Rasner was.

“What’s going on out there?”

“There are people out there. They’re shooting.”

Jake took a step back, eyeing every area of the dark basement.
People shooting
was all she could give him? Was she dumb or something? Then he remembered she was from the city. Somebody shoots there, you get the hell out, and don’t ask questions.

“Just stay near me, kid. This will all be over soon. Then I’ll get you back where you belong.”

Clara dropped her arms to her sides. “What do you mean, back where I belong? Where’s that?”

Jake shushed her and cocked the hammer of his gun. He couldn’t hear Rick Rasner moving around. Big deal, remaining stationary only made it take longer to find him. But find him he would.

“Just don’t worry about nothing. You’ll be back in your bed before you know it, like you never even left.”

“You mean Brookhill?”

Jake did not respond. Instead, he focused on his task.

“I don’t want to go back to Brookhill.”

Jake waved his hand, motioning her to quiet down. “Not my call, kid.”

“I’m not going back,” she mumbled.

Jake had acknowledged to himself from the start that he would need to be very careful since he had not been in the field for a long time. Any thoughts suggesting that his instincts weren’t rusty or dulled over the years were proven wrong by his battle with Sanaga. The cuts on his body still stung, serving as reminders. It was those instincts he’d trusted in the past that betrayed him at the worst possible moment. Jake knew that was the case the moment he heard the sound of a switchblade opening behind him.

Clara lunged at him. Jake spun around and grabbed her knife hand. Too slow. The blade jabbed into his left abdomen.

He swung and smacked her in the face. The impact knocked her against the wall. She slumped to the floor, clutching her cheek.

“You little shit,” Jake muttered as he stared down at the gold colored handle of the switchblade sticking out of his stomach. He dropped to one knee and grabbed the knife. Just as he was about to yank it out, the adolescent bitch jumped at him again. She wrapped fingers around the gun and at the same time, kicked him square in the jaw. He had no choice, only one way out of this. He didn’t want to shoot her, but there was no time to consider other options. He’d deal with the consequences for injuring or losing the “hostage” later.

Suddenly, one of the large bookshelves came crashing down on top of him. The damned thing grazed his shoulder, but he managed to roll away. Tools falling, glass breaking. Veritable pandemonium in the enclosed space.

That’s when he smelled it. Damned if those jars didn’t contain gasoline! He clutched his stomach with both hands. He’d lost the freaking gun. The kid was gone too. Probably took his gun. Sticky, warm blood gushed between his fingers, making them unable to get a grip and pull out the freaking knife.

He braced one hand on the wall to pull himself up. It took a while, his strength poured out on either side of the knife jabbed in his gut. It didn’t hurt—yet. But it would, and when it did, he’d be down, maybe for good. Okay, if he could straighten the knees he’d be good to go. Right one, good. Left one, great. He turned, knowing he’d have to locate Rasner and take him out with his fists.

One step and he hit the hard wall of an enraged Rick Rasner.

The man’s breathing was erratic, his teeth bared like a rabid dog just before it attacked. Jake made fists and held them in the air. He hated fist fights. “I’m ready for you,” Jake said, realizing his voice was hoarse. His vision blurred.

Rick held up something. It wasn’t a gun. Wasn’t a knife. It was small and square. He squinted to bring it into focus. Shit! It was a matchbook!

“Are you sure about that…Jake?” Rick tilted his head at him.

Rick brought his hands together and rubbed the matchbook. A small spark appeared. Even in his debilitated state, Jake could see the flame as Rick lit the entire book on fire. Then he dropped it on the gasoline soaked floor.

There was a whoosh as match and gasoline met. In less than a second, with a roar like a rushing locomotive, the flame rolled across the floor. In two seconds, the locomotive picked up speed, engulfing the entire basement. Flames kissed the walls, testing the availability of Jake’s clothing. He bounded on top of the fallen bookcase. Six feet to the door. One step along the shelf and two feet closer to the door. He dove toward it, missed the opening and landed on all fours. One foot from the door. Twelve inches.

Something shot over him, used his spine as a stepping stone. Finding an energy source he thought was gone, Jake hopped to his feet. The cellar door slammed in his face. The force knocked him backward into the scorch of the flames. They licked the back of his neck, a rabid lover. He jumped onto the bookcase and came face to face with his nemesis. Rick had not escaped the building, the madman had shut them both inside!

Rick, balancing on the far end of the bookcase, threw a roundhouse left. Jake deflected it mid-swing and fired back with a right hand to the cheek that knocked Rick’s head to the side. Rick teetered off balance. Take advantage, screamed his brain, overloaded on gasoline fumes. He punched a right hand into Rick’s stomach. His nemesis’s arms waved wildly, scrabbling to keep his footing. Jake flung out both hands and took hold of Rick’s shirt. He cocked the right hand into a fist. “This one’s for my brother, you asshole.” He pulled the fist back, prepared to beat him to oblivion.

Rick’s right knee shot up; it caught the end of the knife handle, a blade that was once gold but now crimson red. The pain was nearly unbearable. Jake’s grip released. He doubled over, one foot slipping off the shelf edge and dropping him to one knee. The shelf dug into his thigh, his ankle. Jake struggled to right himself, but could not stand upright. Pain pounded his limbs, scorching him from the inside.

The flames grew higher as they captured more and more of Derrick’s prized treasures. The room filled with black, acrid smoke that burned the eyes and throat even though he held his breath.

Rick moved like lightning. His thumbs jabbed into Jake’s eyes, thrusting his head back, wrenching his neck. Jake stumbled backward, losing his footing.

“Just like on that bridge, isn’t it?” Rick shouted to be heard over the roar of the now-inferno. “It’s you and me going at it while the world around us
burns
!”

Jake crashed onto his back, the shelf cutting into his spine. He rolled and landed on his stomach. Pain rammed into him from all sides. Rick stepped closer. Jake thought how stupid the man looked straddling bookcase shelves. Rick took two handfuls of Jake’s hair, pulled him to his knees and then fired a straight kick to his ribcage. Then Rick let him go. He dropped into the fire.

Sometimes motion is by instinct rather than design. Jake realized he had gained his feet and braced against Rick’s next attack. Rick stood two feet away, hands in an offensive stance.

“It’s kind of funny, don’t you think?” Rick yelled. “We’re really not all that different, you and I.”

Rick leaned back and then stepped forward with another solid kick to Jake’s ribs. Somehow, Jake remained on his feet, another of those instinctive reactions.

“We both have the same job. We both get hired to kill people. It could have easily been us hired by the government to bring
you
in, Jake. You do realize that, right?”

“Wrong Rasner…” Jake gasped for air. Between the smoke and possible broken ribs… “You’re a deranged lunatic…who killed…innocent people.”

Jake turned his upper body and swung his right fist. But he’d been unable to muster any force behind it. Rick caught Jake’s fist, took hold of his wrist, and twisted the arm behind his back. Rick’s other hand palmed the back of Jake’s head and forced his face down. Toward the fire.

“None of you are innocent!”

Inches from the flame, Jake thrashed and struggled. Heat bulldozed his cheek. Skin cells melted. Seared. Sent messages of desperation to his brain. You can’t fight him. Your strength is gone. You’re going to die.

His eyelashes made a hissing sound as the flame shaved them away. The heat scorched his retinas.

“You can’t struggle forever, Jake. You’re going to fall and you’re going to burn!”

Rick was right. He was growing weaker with every passing second. Warm liquid flowed down his throat. Saliva or blood he couldn’t tell. He was sweating profusely and he had no feeling in his right arm that was pinned beneath him. The good news was it cushioned his ribs from the sharp edges of the shelf.

Rick put pressure on Jake’s head, shoving it ever closer to the fire. “Actually, there is a difference between us. If I die here in this room, people will be upset! Jen will be upset! If I hadn’t killed Derrick, he’d be upset. And even though I haven’t had her long, I know my kid would probably be upset, too.”

A kid? What kid was he babbling about? Unless…did he mean that juvenile punk he abducted from the mental institution?

“Tell me, Jake, who would be upset if you died here? Is there anyone who would even realize you were gone?”

Probably no one, he wanted to shout, but what good would it do? The madman wasn’t really listening. He was just gloating before moving in for the kill. And a kill it would be if Jake didn’t figure a way out of this. A weapon was what he needed. The problem was he didn’t have a weapon…

…and then he realized that he did.

Jake bit his tongue and wedged his left hand beneath him. Hard, so hard to do with all Rick’s weight on his back. He wrapped his left hand around the hilt of the knife still protruding from his abdomen. Relying on years of professional training in blocking out pain, and knowing whatever blood had been plugged inside by the sharp blade would be instantly released, he slowly yanked out the knife. The knife probably made a popping sound when it broke from his stomach, but he couldn’t hear it above the roaring of the fire and the buzzing in his ears. Buzzing, he realized, caused by fire cooking his flesh.

Rick was still shouting at him. Jake saw his mouth moving, but didn’t bother trying to make out the words. What was the use?

Had the pressure on his neck eased a bit? Maybe it was wishful thinking. Or, maybe Rick was tiring. The unremitting smoke must be burning his lungs also. Must be sapping his strength. Then again,
he
didn’t have a severe knife wound to the gut.