ATitle: How Did This Happen, the Sequel
Chapter 9: The Oreo Effect
She stood before the two brothers. Her son was beside her, and her two employees waited slightly to the rear, awaiting further instructions. When the four had first re-entered the shell of a hangar, one of the men had yanked Don off Charlie's lap by his hair, ignoring Charlie's pleas, and banging Don back against the wall. The result was that Don was woozily brought back to consciousness, and slurred protests escaped him until the man threatened to backhand him again with the gun. The threat did not make Don shut up. Rather, Charlie's frantic movements and abject begging had helped Don find the discipline he needed.
Now the Eppes both sat and looked up at Sophia. "You will find that I am a reasonable person," she said. "Simply tell me where I can locate the other agent, Dr. Eppes, and I will show you mercy."
"You'll...you'll let us go?", Charlie whispered, both hopeful and unbelieving.
She smiled, and shook her head slightly. "No. No, I am afraid I am not that reasonable. When my son is finished with you, you will both die. The only question is how much you will force yourselves to take from him, first." She glanced almost imperceptibly at Manny and nodded her head, once. "All things must die, once they outlive their usefulness."
Manny smiled slightly in response, drew a hunting knife from his waistband and paused until he saw Charlie's widening eyes glued to the flashing silver of the blade. Then he pivoted quickly on one foot, taking aim as he spun, and let the blade fly. Six inches of stainless steel buried itself in the eye and brain of the man with the gun. The weapon clattered to the floor as the man wordlessly followed with a thud. Before his partner could react, Manny had taken one step toward him, reached out his hands, and twisted his neck to the right until it audibly cracked.
Even Don, having seen all he had seen in his long career, was sickened and shocked by the suddenness and viciousness of Manny's attack on his own people. He tried to press closer to Charlie to calm his gasping brother, and almost tipped over again when Charlie drew away at the same time, leaning over to the other side.
This time, it was Charlie who was throwing up.
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Alan finally gave up on achieving an upright position, and flopped himself back onto his stomach. Once again, nausea rose in the back of his throat, and once again, he fought it off. He slowly and painfully arced his body around, so that he was no longer facing the dryer, but the hallway that led to the kitchen. He had traversed that hallway almost every day of the last 30-odd years, and he knew that it was 10 steps down the corridor, another four -- past the water heater -- back to the washer and dryer. Figuring two feet per step, he had about 28 feet to inch along on his stomach, before he reached the kitchen. Maybe he could somehow get ahold of a knife, or something.
As he began the journey, Alan thought something for the first time, and it pained him. Twenty-eight feet to the kitchen: 10 times 2, plus 4 times two...maybe Charlie had inherited some of his number obsession, after all. All these years, Alan had failed to see that -- even though as a city planner, and now an engineering consultant, he himself was not unfamiliar or uncomfortable with numbers. Charlie was just so much more advanced than he was, at such a young age, it had never occurred to Alan that they actually had numbers in common.
Continuing with agonizing slowness over the floor, he wondered if he had missed obvious connections with Don, as well. He was reminded, suddenly, of the case Don had worked when his own 1960s political activities had come to light. They had both been defensive about their respective positions. Don had referred to him as a "Commie", and Alan had shot back "G-Man". They had smiled, to make the discriminatory labels jokes, but he had wondered just how funny either of them found their newly discovered distance. Now, he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it all along. As a younger man, he had indulged in strong beliefs that led to strong actions. He had not submitted to the pressures of society to conform to the accepted ways of thinking and their subsequent viewpoints. He had been his own man. Now, Don was just as committed to what he believed was right, and even more willing to do what he had to, in order to promote that.
Without realizing it, Alan smiled grimly at the floor. He and his sons had a lot in common. Numbers, justice...and most importantly…love.
If they were in this house, he would find them.
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Three teams of FBI agents, in addition to DEA agents Carter and Martinez, deployed around the small, one-story house. LAPD had already quietly evacuated the rest of the block, and their officers concentrated on securing the area and maintaining order.
When everyone was in position, Bob Derrick approached the front door and rang his own doorbell. Presently, the door opened. Derrick swallowed nervously and tried to peer inside. "I did what you asked," he pleaded. "Let me see my family. I didn't tell the cops anything! Richie!! Linda!!"
He was drawn through the doorway and the door was slammed shut. Because of the wire he was wearing, the agents could still hear everything. The first thing they heard was a low, unfriendly laugh. "Not so fast, Bobby boy. Boss says we hold you all until he calls with the all clear."
Derrick protested. "Look, I did more than you asked. I didn't just refuse to talk, I pointed them in another direction entirely! Mason will call. At least let us wait together." His voice became plaintive. "Richie is frightened, he's just a little boy." The sound of childish crying underscored his point. "Let me take them both to the back bedroom. There are no windows or exits there, you can post a guard in the hallway…please, Mike! Please!"
The crying grew louder. "Damn kid's giving me a headache, and he pissed his pants – it's starting to stink, in here.…. Angel! Angel, check out that back bedroom. Closet, everything. If it's really secure, go ahead and take them back. Mason will call soon, anyway. Let 'em have some last time, together." From his concluding words, it was apparent to the agents – if not to Derrick – that the men had no intention of leaving any of them alive.
Colby slipped up behind Megan and whispered into her ear. "Mason's down." She nodded and listened to the activity in the house.
It was four agonizing minutes before she heard what she wanted: Derrick was whispering to his wife. "Baby, get Richie in the closet. We've got to get out of the line of fire." There was a frightened response from Linda, some rustling, and then Bob Derrick whispered again, directly into the hidden microphone. "Three in front, one back in the hallway."
Megan lifted her head, and gave the signal.
Agents advanced on the house in waves of three, the first wave behind riot shields. Megan and Colleen were in the second wave. They crashed into the house, immediately confronted with rounds of semi-automatic fire. Mason's men were nothing if not quick to react.
While Megan crouched behind her cover and returned fire, Colleen rolled off to the side. Derrick had provided them with a diagram of his house, and her goal was to subdue the gunman in the hallway before he had a chance to use the Derricks as a shield. As she rose to a crouch to pursue her target, a wild round hit the door frame beside her, splitting off a chunk of wood into flying splinters. Several flew at high velocity into Colleen's forearm, and she gasped involuntarily and dropped back to the ground.
At the same time, she saw her target taking aim for her, and she fired first. She was in the wrong position, and she knew her aim was off. At best, she would wing him. She waited to feel his bullet rip into her body.
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A/N: Yes, this is the chapter I am writing after my laser eye surgery; hence, the knife through the eye bit. Also, as for the title: it refers to the chapter both beginning and ending with gunplay, with poor Alan sandwiched in the middle.
