Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
ICYMI: Brainy presents an important piece of Arnold's past to him. Phoebe gains disturbing insight into her past indiscretion. Arnold and Phoebe have a second, more deliberate, consummation. Vasquez baits Arnold into his trap.
And onward we stagger with trepidation!
13. The Devil In Me; The Goddess In You
"Arnold, what you're contemplating is suicide! You're playing directly into their hands!"
Those were Phoebe's words, forty-something minutes ago, spelling out her disapproval of his decision. His decision to engage the enemy in the battle zone of their designation. The battle zone he was now approaching on foot.
"Phoebe, there's no choice but to play their game."
That was his answer. It had always been his answer. As a soldier, he never had his choice of battlefields. Someone else decided. Someone else always would decide, and his was never to reason why. But he always had the gift of survival; why would tonight be any different?
"Sure there is! Just wait it out! Show them you're above such cheap psychology!"
Vasquez had figured out his connection to Helga and was using the knowledge to get inside Arnold's head. That much was a certainty. Zero chance of the cop himself being at the cemetery tonight. He seemed smart enough to distance himself from the war zone.
"Dammit, Phoebe, you're not thinking! They'll just escalate if I no-show! They'll probably go after Arnie and his family next to get at me! Maybe even your parents! And don't even think they're above that!"
No doubt Vasquez was doing Scheck's bidding here. No doubt the men they'd send were not in-house. They'd send mercs: off the books, completely deniable, expendable, able to work at short notice.
"You're the one not thinking this through! Helga…is dead! Your family as well! Do you think going out there and doing…well, whatever you plan on doing…do you think it will miraculously bring them back?"
The gate was approaching: The northern entrance, where he and the boys had their Ghost Bride misadventure all those years back, He hadn't returned to the cemetery since then; he had no reason to do so. Still, he remembered it well enough. Thankfully it was situated on a flat area with almost no undulations. The surrounding buildings were all low enough so as to offer no real advantage in elevation for a sniper, and even if they did, night-time would make target acquisition too difficult for sniping to be viable. Thus any engagement would be strictly close-range, a battle of attrition.
"Of course not! But we need to send these assholes a message that we're willing to push back!"
He paused at the gate. He was fully aware that he was being surveilled. They were there. Somewhere. Waiting. Waiting for him to enter. Then they'd move in from wherever they were based.
"'We', Arnold? 'We'?"
Breathing, deep and slow. Charging his blood, steeling himself for what was to follow the moment he hopped that gate. OK, let's do it.
"You think I'm doing this alone? We're a team, remember?"
"So…when you say we're a team… No way, Arnold! I refuse to go anywhere near the cemetery!"
He'd be the last to admit it, but Arnold was always quite the statesman when it came to convincing others to do things which took them out of their comfort zones, or even ran contrary to their better judgments. Worst of all was that he always seemed unaware of this particular talent of his, and as a result, was never arrogant or forceful in making his peers buy into his ideas. It had worked on Phoebe several times back in PS 118 and she feared that it would work on her tonight.
"And you won't have to. Let me show you something…"
It did.
Phoebe did, however, have to admit a profound admiration of Arnold's level of preparedness. Included in Arnold's luggage had been a laptop of his own, as well as a sturdy case revealed to contain a compact but apparently very long-range drone featuring a 4K video recorder (with night vision, no less). Also in the case, a set of two-way radio earpieces.
"I still think you're taking an unnecessary risk. Did it ever occur to you that you aren't insuperable?"
It did.
And that was why Phoebe was at the house, operating the drone via Arnold's laptop. Arnold truthfully reassured her she'd easily pick up the rudimentary skills, citing that Arnie achieved mastery within minutes. Here was Phoebe, connected to Arnold via her earpiece. Phoebe Heyerdahl: literally the difference between life or death for Arnold.
"Maybe I wasn't clear enough, but you'll be staying here because you'll be my support. My spotter. I go this alone; I might as well shoot myself now. With you, I've got a chance of survival. We've…got a chance of survival."
The drone was performing adequately as it hovered visually undetectable in the dark above Hillwood Cemetery. Phoebe was viewing its visuals via the lounge's flatscreen TV, to which she had connected the laptop. She could see Arnold, at the North gate through which he said he'd enter. He'd made the three-mile trek in forty minutes using the alleys, backroads and other shortcuts that he hoped would bypass whatever surveillance the city of Hillwood had in place.
"God, Arnold! Do you know how many times Helga whined and moaned to me about your overwhelming optimism? She'd complain of how you always naïvely held out for a solution no matter how long the odds."
She saw him pause at the gate. Was he having second thoughts? No, not Arnold! Nobody was more stubborn than him in sticking with a plan. He was probably preparing himself mentally for what was to follow. Most likely he was double-checking his gear. She recalled his attire when he left the house: Thick, relaxed-fitting jeans; heavy black leather combat boots; black long-sleeved combat shirt. And covering everything, a dark grey overcoat.
"It's going to be tough. I know that. But we'll pull through. At the very least we can set back their plans. Buy us some more time. Maybe learn more about their operation."
She felt a lump form in her throat as she watched him hop the fence into the cemetery. This was uncharted territory, and it frightened her. All she could do now was assist to the best of her diligence and also to trust in his – admittedly – formidable abilities. She offered a prayer to any deity listening that he'd make it back safely.
"OK Arnold, OK! You've made a compelling enough argument. One more thing: please, please come back."
Arnold sprinted to get clear of the fence as quickly as possible; he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the enemies as he could. He jinked among the tombstones, using whatever subterfuge they would provide.
Until he heard from Phoebe, he was operating blind. He did, however, have the framework of a strategy in place: reach a central area, wait for any confirmation from Phoebe, take it from there.
"Arnold, I have several hostiles entering through the northern entrances," came Phoebe's urgent voice through the earpiece.
"How many?"
"Let me see. Six…eight…twelve…fifteen! And they've arranged themselves into a single-file column. They're advancing slowly in your direction."
"Thanks, Phoebe."
So they knew he was here, but not his exact location. They'd be advancing cautiously, itchy trigger fingers at the ready. Best to take advantage of their nervousness. To that end, he produced a device – a simulator, as he explained earlier to Phoebe – which he placed in some shrubbery near a seemingly abandoned gravestone. For no particular reason, he looked at the engraving:
'Here lies Cynthia Snell. She lived her life and went straight to...'
Déjà vu all over again! And they still hadn't straightened the stone…
"Arnold!" Phoebe's voice was panicked, impatient; quiet nonetheless, as per his rushed coaching. "They're closing in on you!"
"Range?" Arnold remained calm. Professional.
Silence.
"Range!"
"Close! Sixty yards, maybe." Her nerves had not abated.
"Keep it together, Phoebe. You're doing great!" he reassured her in a hushed tone. Then, more instructions: "Phoebe, mark my present location. Let me know the moment they cross this point. You got that?"
"Marking!"
Arnold then bolted, away from Cynthia Snell and the advancing party. Twenty-five yards later, he found a monolithic granite headstone behind which he took refuge. Strange that the dead must protect me tonight, he reflected as he crouched down.
Waiting…
Waiting, as a flurry of light beams – no doubt from barrel-mounted flashlights – came into view, scouring all directions for life and movement.
Waiting as he produced his phone to open a remote control app.
Waiting for Phoebe's word.
Waiting…
Waiting…
"Arnold! They're at your previous location!"
A long, silent countdown for himself.
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One…
He tapped Enter on the phone.
The simulator went to work. It sounded off a steady series of firecracker explosions, mimicking the report of an automatic weapon. It had the desired effect: it distracted his adversaries.
"CONTACT! CONTACT!" shouted one of them as they all turned away from Arnold to return full-auto fire. Their backs turned, their silhouettes illuminated by their muzzle flashes: perfect targets for Arnold, who had placed his phone back in his coat pocket and drawn his Glock. He broke cover and aimed at the closest targets.
BAM-BAM! BAM-BAM! BAM-BAM! BAM-BAM! All in rapid succession.
Four targets. Eight shots. Eight center-mass hits. Eight cases of terminal tissue damage. Four bodies.
A fifth one, having heard the gunfire from behind and seen his fallen associates. "SHIT, HE'S OVER HERE! HE'S… "
His second sentence went uncompleted; Arnold placed two shots in him as well, heart and lung. Down he went as well, to bleed out.
By this time the rest of the team had ceased firing to see what the commotion behind them was. They saw Arnold. Arnold saw them. As they turned their weapons towards him, he fired his last three rounds at them, causing them to duck momentarily and allow him to reclaim his cover behind the monolith.
Mere moments later the gunfire resumed, while Arnold's protection afforded him time enough to reload his pistol. As the headstone weathered the metal-jacketed barrage, he assessed the situation: ten bad guys; twenty-six bullets remaining. Full-auto toys for them with ammo to spare.
Great…
"ADVANCE!" the man giving the orders barked out and the reports started advancing towards Arnold. He was pinned down until he heard the firing stop, followed by frenzied movements as the gunmen scrambled to eject and replace their magazines.
This was the break he needed.
From his coat, he pulled a flashbang grenade – always a part of his arsenal. Time wasn't on his side – he could hear one or two weapons being cocked already – so he quickly pulled the pin and blindly threw the grenade in the gunmen's general direction. Arnold couldn't track its path, nor could his attackers as they were preoccupied with either reloading their weapons or reacquiring his location, but the attackers were relatively tightly grouped, and the grenade came in unseen at a low, shallow arc to land in the midst of them. By that time its shortened fuse had run its course and the grenade exploded with a brief but agonizing combination of noise and brightness which incapacitated the entire group.
Or so he hoped.
He emerged, pistol at the ready, from his cover again and advanced towards the groans and the disorientation, starting with the closest hostiles.
BAM! Headshot. Down.
BAM-BAM! Two in the thorax. Down.
BAM! Another headshot. Down
BAM! Trachea. Slick gargling sounds; drowning in his own blood.
All of this in three-and-a-bit seconds. He was fast; his thoughts, faster. Assessment: Eight rounds in the mag, six hostiles left. Need one of those rifles, he silently concluded to himself. So he moved to acquire the one closest to him. Faster, he goaded himself; the others were starting to recover their presence of mind. One had started blind-firing – spraying and praying – as Arnold picked up the weapon.
Arnold heard as bullets zinged past him, coming perilously close to nicking, grazing or penetrating him. Time to move. His advantage with the flashbang was over now that they were coming to while he was coming under suppressing fire.
He bolted. Slipping in and amongst even more headstones, coming under increased fire. Need more distance.
Then his luck stalled.
Need to get…His thought was halted by a lucky bullet which ripped through his left coat sleeve while deeply grazing the upper arm. Suddenly, his arm felt as though someone was holding an oxyacetylene torch to it.
They were there, the pain and the wound. He knew they were. He didn't acknowledge either; he couldn't afford it. Phoebe did, however, for the earpiece came to shrill life with her voice: "ARNOLD!"
One of the hostiles acknowledged as much as well: "He's winged! I got him! I GOT HIM!"
His comrades shared his optimism, as Arnold heard the gunfire intensify in his direction. Then, another ceasefire. Oh shit! They were whispering among each other; were they going to try outflanking him? They knew he was hit and now they were going to take their sweet time.
He sprinted for more distance while doing some of his own whispering: "Phoebe!"
"Oh god Arnold are you okay are you hurt please don't die please don't die…!"
"Focus, Phoebe! I still need you." Not her assistance, but her.
He heard her trying to control her breathing. She was trying to keep herself together; she was fully in his world now and in over her head.
He softened his voice. "Relax, Phoebe. You're doing great as my spotter."
"Th-Thank you." She was putting on a brave front, which he needed from her. "I-I just wasn't sure…"
"Not now!" The urgency was back in his voice. "I think they're gonna try outflanking me. Check the footage. Where are they?"
A brief hesitation.
"They've split up. Three pairs…advancing slowly on your location."
"Range?"
Her voice took on a newfound layer of calculating professionalism. "About thirty yards. Converging in a pincer movement."
As he suspected. "Thanks, Phoebe." He then sighed, back to work. Time enough to inspect the rifle first. G36. Vertical foregrip (Good news for the grazed arm.) Thirty-round mag, full. Selector switch on Full-Auto (Ammo to spare, his suspicion confirmed…). Click on Semi-Auto.
A voice, just as Arnold was done with his inspection. "You know you're gonna die tonight!" A shout, actually. "Three million for your dead body! Now there's fewer people left to split the reward!" This one from another direction, a different pair. Letting him know they didn't care that he knew their position, or that they were approaching, or that they were 'gonna fuck you up real good!' according to the third pair. Laughter, derisive laughter. Mocking him. Trying to mock him. "What's the matter? No more tricks left?"
"Phoebe," he whispered, "signal when left and right are in line with me. Got it?"
Her voice hinted that her composure was returning steadily, her trust in him increasing. "Understood!" He found this improvement in her voice somehow encouraging.
He crouched and waited. Staying out of sight. Waiting for Phoebe's signal. Not budging despite the approaching insults and takedowns.
"Aw, come on, Soldier Boy! Why so shy all of a sudden?" That first voice again, the one telling him he was going to die.
Keep talking, assholes, he thought. He was tracking the voices and the footfalls, getting an approximate bead on their relative locations. Keep talking.
Then…
Phoebe's voice: "Aligning." He noted the more sinister tone encroaching on her nervousness.
Instantly, Arnold sprang up and fired at the footfalls coming down the middle.
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!
Immediately afterward, he threw himself flat on the ground, just in time to avoid the full-auto return-fire. What he heard next confirmed that his gambit had paid off. In their haste, the groups on either side of him had created a crossfire. In their full-auto zeal, they had failed to realize that they had created a crossfire.
"Arnold!" Phoebe reported through the earpiece. "The men on the flanks have eliminated each other!" The pained – possibly mortal – cries on either side of him seemed to confirm as much.
Still, no time to lose. Two more to go, no more time for finesse! They'd gone quiet upon hearing the aftermath of the crossfire.
"Last two, twenty yards, right in front of you!" It was Phoebe, reporting as if she was anticipating his next action. From rookie spotter to pro in record time. What a woman! He began a charge towards the last two enemies. As soon as they came into sight, he peppered them with sustained semi-automatic fire.
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!
He watched as four rounds tore into the one man's chest, doing fatal damage to his internal organs. The second one – the one Arnold presumed owned the taunting voice – copped four in his thigh, hip, and stomach.
"That's it, Arnold!" Phoebe reported. "All threats neutralized!"
"'Neutralized'?" a bemused Arnold quipped. "Not long ago you wanted nothing to do with any of this! Now look at you; talking like a veteran!"
"Needs must, Arnold," she replied. "Anything to get you out alive."
"Fair point," he conceded. "Now bring the drone back in. Its work here is done."
"What about…?"
Arnold cut her off. "Phoebe, you've seen more than enough tonight."
Arnold stood over his erstwhile taunter.
"Who sent you?"
"Aw come on! You know I can't answer that one! I signed an NDA. Corporate policy…!" the man coughed, sputtered and laughed self-reproachfully.
Arnold was not impressed. "Listen up," he impassively pointed out, "you've got two .223 rounds in your gut, which means your bloodstream is being poisoned by the crap in your intestines. Plus it looks like I got you in your liver, so that gives you twenty minutes, tops. Either way's a slow, painful death. Who sent you?"
The man's expression portrayed resignation to his impending fate, and he answered: "Hell if I know! You know how this business works! No names asked, no names given. Payment upon completion."
"Where were you going to be paid?"
"Back at the rendezvous." He proceeded to give the location, which as it turned out was very close to the cemetery.
"Someone offered you a three-million pot – in cash, probably – for a job at short notice. Surely you must have noticed something unusual."
The man's speech had started becoming more febrile. "Hey, a job's…a job. Guy must have some…serious juice. We were told…no police until…after…job was done. Plus…flights out of the country…before they even…arrive. You must have pissed this man off…big time."
"What about a handler? A guy named Vasquez, by any chance?"
"Never heard of him…" was the wounded man's reply. "Our man…called himself Rawlins."
The mention of which ramrodded Arnold into full attention. "Rawlins? Charles Rawlins?"
"No first name. Fucker always…insisted…we all call him 'Colonel'." His exertion elicited another pained groan. "Yeah right," he continued. "Didn't look like he…knew…one end of a gun…from…the other."
Rawlins? Is he in bed with Scheck?
Arnold's mind raced back to Asmara. Rawlins' actions, were they deliberate back then? Did he betray the unit and knowingly send them into an ambush. And was he doing Scheck's bidding in the process? Arnold felt compelled to know.
"Last question. Is Rawlins at the rendezvous right now?"
"Yes." The answer was simple. Then: "Can I ask a…favour?" He was now sweating profusely.
"What?"
"Don't want…to wait…twenty minutes. Too…much…pain."
"Understood," Arnold acknowledged as he pointed the rifle at the man's brow and pulled the trigger.
"Arnold?" Phoebe's voice over the earpiece conveyed sombreness more than it did anger or disgust. "Was killing that man really necessary? I mean, fair point if he was still trying to kill you. But downed and wounded? And unarmed?"
In her voice too was a sense that she'd been looking for the courage to ask him that precise question.
"That was mercy, not murder," Arnold replied, expressionless. "He was dead anyway and he knew it. Say he survived and made it back, then whoever hired him would have killed him to avoid a hospital visit for GSW treatment. He'd have been a major loose end."
"But you did it so casually and without even flinching."
"It's how I was trained, is all."
Arnold was making his way to Rawlins' location. True to the dead man's word, there was no police presence anywhere along the cemetery's perimeter. None whatsoever. Had anyone other than Scheck been attached to this operation, the police would have already reacted to any number of 911 calls citing automatic gunfire. SWAT teams would have already been deployed to address the situation.
But no, the streets and sidewalks were clear, as was his path to the rendezvous point. No-one around to question a man walking the streets while open-carrying an assault weapon.
"Arnold, I accept that your conditioned responses to threats to your life are as a result of your military training. I'll even accept it if you were somehow hardwired to act this way. But the way you…executed…that man without hesitation. The way you're casually talking about it now. There's no other way to describe it: it frightens me…significantly."
"Listen, Phoebe. Who I am…what I've become…it doesn't change how I feel about you."
"Oh? And what exactly do you mean by that?" Confusion had now started displacing her solemnity.
"Remember our trip back to Hillwood? When we shared some of our deepest secrets with each other?"
"Yes?"
"OK well…uh…I've come to trust you enough…that is, I care about you enough…to let you see me for who I really am…and what I've truly become."
The rendezvous point was an abandoned flophouse, located among a row of similarly somewhat derelict and abandoned flophouses and brownstones, situated two blocks from the cemetery. Arnold's destination was a three-story structure, and if his informant was to be believed then their base was set up on the top floor.
"Now I'm really uncertain! Am I to be flattered by your gesture, or afraid?"
"You are to be informed. You should see the true nature of the man you've twice had sex with, almost immediately after not seeing him in seventeen years."
"Actually, it's four times. You're counting the nights; I'm counting the individual sessions."
"Point being," Arnold hastily added, "that if you're anywhere near as eager for a deeper relationship as I am, then we should start by accepting each other, faults and all."
"Hey!" Phoebe indignantly shot back. "You're being awfully assumptious, aren't you?"
"Enough talk!" His voice was now abrupt. "I'm approaching their HQ. Radio silence, please?"
Phoebe clearly did not like the conversation being cut short and made her annoyance known with a distinctive hmph.
Arnold was ascending the last flight of stairs to the third story. He had been surprised to find no guards left behind, nor any surveillance devices or booby traps. These guys, he surmised, must have been banking on getting paid and out of the country before the authorities were any the wiser to their base. Their mistake, he reckoned.
Eventually, he was on the top floor, which was an open-plan design perhaps originally intended as a storage area. On one side of the room, he saw an impressive array of tech equipment. A number of laptops each connected to an additional monitor. He noted how each laptop/display combination was connected to a different camera in Hillwood's surveillance network. They had all the angles around the cemetery covered, so they were onto him the moment he reached the gate already. Clever, Arnold sighed in begrudging admiration to the hostiles' preparedness. He had been fortunate that there were no surveillance cameras inside the cemetery itself.
On the other side of the area was an orderly row of sleeping bags and rucksacks, sixteen in total by Arnold's count. They were all situated near a fire escape, no doubt for easy entry and egress. Also, resting against the nearby wall, a sledgehammer. The same sledgehammer shown in the pictures in front of the shattered headstones.
Before he could dwell further on the tool, he focussed back on the sleeping bags. Wait, who owns the sixteenth one?
The answer came when he heard footfalls approaching his location from the stairwell, accompanied by very audible muttering over the rudimentary bathroom facilities.
Charles Rawlins walked in and immediately froze at the sight of Arnold's rifle trained on him.
"Shortman?" he shouted incredulously. "You're supposed to be dead!"
"Rawlins," Arnold replied laconically. "You mean like I was supposed to be dead back in Asmara?"
"Fuck you, Shortman. That was just bad intel!"
Arnold's response to that statement was a shot to Rawlins's outer right thigh, which was enough to have the pasty, balding, overweight blowhard writhing in pain on the floor.
"You son of a bitch! You shot me!" The senior man was about to begin a long list of pejoratives when Arnold cut him short.
"Shut up. I only got the muscle. I didn't get any arteries. Now talk! Asmara: why?"
At this point, Rawlins fully realized Lieutenant Shortman's seriousness, as well as the futility in lying to him.
"Fine. Yes, Asmara was a hit on you. We wanted to disguise it by wiping out your whole unit."
"We? We who?"
"Oh, take a fucking guess!" Defiant to the end. If Rawlins was destined to spill his guts, he was going to make it difficult as hell for his aggressor.
"Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck."
"Bravo, good guess."
"And how'd he make you turn traitor."
"By offering me a shitload of money and a position in his firm! He wanted you dead and I hated your guts. You were always the boy scout who got every fucking commendation under the sun." Rawlins remained unrepentant, despite the pain from the gunshot wound which Arnold saw was starting to manifest in his facial expressions. "Any more questions?"
"And how's Vasquez fit into this?"
"Vasquez? Never heard of him!"
Another gunshot placed a bullet on the floor, inches from Rawlins's cheek, and suddenly he looked like he was reconsidering his hard-ass front because Arnold wasn't buying it.
"OK, OK! He's Scheck's new golden boy! Sort of like a consultant for this operation. He's the one who suggested how to draw you out."
Hence the taunting phone call! The cracks about my family and Helga!
"Did he suggest destroying the headstones?"
"Oh yes, he did! Worked like a charm, don't you think?" The mockery had returned to his voice as if to suggest that for all his capabilities, Arnold was easy to manipulate. "Too bad you never were a team player. Never dying when you were supposed to!"
"Phoebe, did you get that?" Arnold gave attention to his earpiece.
"Every word in crystal clear quality," came the reply. "Saved for posterity."
Arnold allowed himself the briefest moment of frivolity: "Have I ever told you how awesome you are?"
"Careful, Lieutenant!" Rawlins interjected. "Sounds like you've got it bad for this…Phoebe, is it? Phoebe Heyerdahl, the ace journalist?" He was now addressing the voice coming from Arnold's earpiece. "Hey, Missy! I think we all know what happens to any woman he starts getting the hots for. What's to say you won't be next to meet an untimely fate?"
That utterance angered Arnold. "Yeah well, you'll never get to find out," he said in a calm tone that elevated his internal wrath. He walked over to the sledgehammer, place the rifle beside it before appropriating the wrecking tool while disregarding the still-searing pain in his left arm.
"Shortman, what the fuck are you doing?" Rawlins asked with impotent anger which quickly turned to mortal dread as Arnold approached him, hammer in hand. "Lieutenant, wait! I answered all your fucking questions! I fucking co-operated!"
"You sold out your country just to get at me and my comrades. You threatened someone I've come to care about very deeply. You attacked my family. You attacked the girl I once loved." Arnold now stood over Rawlins, poised to strike.
"Those were all Scheck and Vasquez! All them! They came up with that idea!"
"Which you executed." Arnold remained expressionless as he raised the hammer and brought the head down hard on Rawlins's skull.
From the earpiece, he heard: "Oh my god, Arnold! What have you done?"
"I sent a message." His calm voice would have unnerved any witnesses to this, his most recent action. He stood over the now lifeless Charles Rawlins, appraising his handiwork with cold detachment.
Phoebe's voice now bordered on hysteria: "Arnold! You've sunk to their level! We were supposed to battle these people within the confines of the law! Did you understand that, Arnold? Did you? Within the law!"
"No, you didn't understand!" A note of irritability now colored Arnold's detached demeanor. "What did I tell you during our trip? Truth and justice aren't enough for these guys. Sometimes you have to sink to their level."
"That's bullshit! Grade-A bullshit, Arnold! You killed tonight, not because you had to, but because you wanted to! Right now I don't think you're any better than them! To hell with your military training and conditioning!"
Arnold felt his irritation regress to abject ire. "What do you know?" he raged back. "You try being sent to a warzone because limp-dick pencil pushers like Rawlins over here think – think – that there might be a threat somewhere there worth sacrificing your life to take down. You try being pinned down by enemy fire – guns, tanks, heavy fucking artillery – and then expected to fight your way out, whatever it takes!"
There was now a definite tremble in her voice: "Arnold, you're frightening me again."
"Sorry you feel that way," Arnold's tone was unchanged. "But for those I love and care about – those I think make my life worth living – I'm willing to go to any extreme, law or no law!"
"L-Love..?" she asked in a voice now beset by bafflement.
"You heard me! I was just now reminded how life as I know it is far too short not to say what must be said. I love you, Phoebe! I know it's been only two and a bit days since we met. But Rawlins was right: I got it bad for you." His voice had calmed down at this point and he waited for Phoebe's response.
"Arnold, I don't know…"
"Phoebe, wait a minute!" He cut her off curtly. Her reply had been interrupted by a ringing phone, Rawlins's phone which Arnold retrieved from the dead man's pocket. The caller ID read: 'Scheck'.
"It's Scheck calling. Phoebe, get ready to record again."
A pause, a heavy sigh, then an acknowledgment dripping with displeasure: "Ready."
He accepted the call. Before he could get a word out: "Rawlins, what's the progress report?" It was Scheck: brief and to the point as always.
"Rawlins can't come to the phone right now. He's indisposed for the rest of his life."
"And who, may I ask, is this?"
"Take one fucking guess, Alphonse!"
"Arnold?" Then the recognition fully set in: "Hey Arnold! I can't exactly say I'm happy to hear your voice, but anyway…how are you?"
"A whole lot better than the men you sent after me."
"Son, I honestly don't know what you're talking about."
"Your man Rawlins did! He told me a lot. About Asmara. About the trap you set tonight. It failed by the way. I'm now at your men's base. Who knows what evidence I'll discover here?"
Arnold was surprised when Scheck sounded unperturbed at this revelation. Instead, the old man kept the conversation going as if what Arnold had just told him was a nonentity. "That's such a pity, Arnold. Did you know that tonight's task was worth a grand total of three million dollars? That's how much I value your life, Arnold. Three million dollars, American. Rawlins and the men were due to receive their reward upon completion, at your very location. Perhaps I can offer their reward to you instead?"
Arnold wanted to tell Scheck off, but his adversary ended the call. Arnold was left confused.
Why'd he end the call so suddenly? What did he mean by 'reward'? Then it suddenly made chilling sense. Oh shit!
Arnold turned towards and sprinted for the fire escape at world-record pace. He leaped through the open window and onto the steel structure. He was halfway down the first flight of steps when the top floor exploded.
What followed was a jumble of movement and mostly pain-related sensations.
Of the rickety fire escape being rocked by the explosion. Of the explosion's concussive force flinging him over the railing. Of him falling two stories to the unyielding ground below. Of the ground and the sky frequently changing positions. Of him no longer knowing where was up and where was down.
"Arnold, what's going on? What happened?"
Of hearing Phoebe's voice fraught with panic and despair. Of wanting so badly to reply but being rendered painfully incapable. Of being unaware of the passage of time.
"ARNOLD! ARNOLD!"
Of wanting to tell her he'd survived.
Of hearing approaching sirens in the distance. Of resigning himself that there was no longer an escape and that he had failed.
"There he is! Come on, let's get him out of here!"
An elderly voice coming from inside the alley. A strong figure picking him up and carrying him to god knows where. Being placed in the back seat of a car.
The elderly voice issuing an order: "Drive!"
If they wanted me dead, they'd have killed me in the alley. That was his rationale as he allowed the lights and the sound to be switched off.
There we go, ladies and gentlemen! That will do for this chapter. Thank you so very much for the faith and curiosity you've shown so far in my desire and ability to tell you a (hopefully) compelling story. If ever you feel so inclined, do let me know of your thoughts.
Author's Note: So this was my take on the mythical Dark Arnold. I've encountered different iterations of him and - with no disrespect intended to anyone whatsoever - I decided to go with a version that didn't sound like he belonged in an episode of SVU.
Author's Note #2: Not surprisingly, my biggest reference for the cemetery layout was the episode, 'Ghost Bride'. The only clue provided in the episode for the surrounding area was a brief reverse-angle shot of Curly which shows what looks like a boarding house in the far background. I latched on to that observation and then applied it to the entire surrounding neighborhood.
Author's Note #3: My one parameter for the action scenes is not to turn Arnold into a force of nature. He may be highly skilled, but he is still prone to mistakes, misjudgments, and underestimations. I believe it makes for a more vulnerable who isn't boringly - to quote Phoebe - 'insuperable'.
Author's Note #4: I don't particularly like action movies with rapid cuts and editing that actually detract from the action scenes. I like my takes long, continuous and flowing. Think Hard Boiled, Project A, or The Raid. I was hoping to convey a continuity similar to what those movies conveyed with their action scenes.
The songs from Spotify that helped shape this chapter
Last Night on Earth (Nigel Stanford Remix) - Celldweller
In the Air Tonight - Nonpoint
Streets on Fire - Lupe Fiasco
Wouldn't It Be Good - Nik Kershaw
I Have The Touch (Robbie Robertson Mix) - Peter Gabriel
End of Line - Daft Punk
That's it for now. See you next chapter!