12 Deadly Meet & Greet

When it gets down to having to use violence,
then you are playing [their] game.
... Because once they’ve got you violent,
then they know how to handle you.
The only thing they don’t know how to handle
is non-violence and humor.

John Lennon

“Allo?”

“I’m ready to meet.”

“Mr. Müller? You have nerve calling, I’ll give you that. When I find out who gave you—”

“I won’t waste time chatting, but I’m trading myself for everyone else. No one else knows about Lynn Daniels or the Allied Intelligence Division. Once we work out a deal, you’ll leave the others alone.”

“We don’t make deals.”

“You want me to keep talking?”

Armando sighed. “Yes!”

“Then forget them and come negotiate.”

“Fine. We’ll see what you have to say, but...”

Theo had already hung up, glancing at his watch. This would take a while, and he had nowhere else to go and didn’t dare stray far.

To escape detection, he’d left in the wee morning hours, driving without lights. It was difficult making headway under those conditions, but it offered the best chance of reaching their rendezvous, rather than being captured midway.

Leslie assured him it was safe, but he preferred not risking it. While passing traffic cameras would likely alert them immediately, satellite or drone photography often takes weeks to process. While it worked for them before, it wasn’t overly reassuring, akin to an ‘almost-fatal shot,’ a distinction of little difference.

Luckily, the drive—initially through residential streets—led to sparse industrial spaces where the visibility was better. He could detect oncoming cars in time to move aside, still, it was nerve-wracking.

Entering the enormous abandoned warehouse was unnerving. While there were a multitude of places to hide, the cavernous interior provided little room to shelter. Nor was he eager to carry a heavy flashlight and further expose himself, in case this was an elaborate trap. Instead of meeting, Leslie left a metal chair about three-quarters of the way to the rear of the complex.

Still fearing betrayal, it was a terrifying walk, his eyes darting everywhere. Stopping midway, he practiced controlled breathing as he talked himself down, vowing to conceal his fears, whatever happened. He wouldn’t grovel, but wasn’t sure he’d withstand torture either.

Despite not providing specific instructions, indicating where she was or what her plans involved, she’d relayed one basic detail. The deep trench behind the chair was his sole safety net. When he heard gunfire, he was to simply push himself backwards, crashing into the recessed car pit. Any scrapes or broken bones were better than an immediate death, as these people rarely missed.

Leaving his seat for any reason would compromise his only safety. It was a long run from the chair to the nearest door or support column—reinforcing his fears.

Checking the pit in the gloomy morning light, he identified a pistol. Without saying anything, he assumed she left a single bullet; unsuited for defense, just for ensuring he wasn’t captured and tortured.

Before turning in, he explained to Natalie he was taking her sole means of escape. Arguing her only escape lay in Leslie’s plan succeeding or his being killed outright. Thus, while disturbing, her final gift was a relief. Pulling a trigger was simpler than taking on multiple trained assassins. Still, there was no evidence of Leslie being there.

Wanting to be fleet-of-foot, he hadn’t brought water or anything to slow him—say something to while away the time. Despite the early hour, he was already parched, his tongue clinging to his mouth in the rapidly heating enclosure. Still, better living to drink later than weighed down now by extraneous bottles.

Finally, after a prolonged, indefinite wait, he heard a noise by the front door. Rolling the bay door partly open, three dark-clad figures scrambling inside, assuming defensive firing positions. Though able to make them out, given the diffuse and obscured light, he couldn’t distinguish any distinct action or detail.

Determining no surprise attack awaited, they proceeded at a wary pace. Fredrick and Amancio surveyed the distant doors and windows for lurking figures, yielding military-grade assault weapons, while Armando raised his pistol, targeting Theo’s head.

Despite realizing the difficulty of a precise shot at that distance, he cringed. Understanding he needed to draw them out—assuming Leslie remained—he remained stationary, taking measured breaths.

“So, you hoped to negotiate? Seems you haven’t much to offer. I can easily kill you where you sit, so there’s nothing to barter.”

“No,” Theo countered. “You need to learn what I know, and trust me, though not experienced with this, I won’t talk, whatever you do.”

“We’ll see about that,” Amando said, continuing, each focusing on him.

“You’ve done this long enough,” Theo argued. “You’re aware there are certain types who won’t capitulate. Since you have only two tactics: torture and terror, you have no other options.”

“It’s easy acting brave when the stakes are low. I can guarantee, you’ll sing a different tune once we begin.”

“Yet you know those with resolute wills, who’ll never back down, often hide in innocuous roles: medics, nurses, little old ladies and the occasional intellectual. Bravery is not the exclusive domain of experienced soldiers.”

Nearing the halfway point, Theo’s anxiety increased significantly. While having a ready refuge, he could hardly leap up with a pistol aimed at him. With few options, his sole choice was complete complacency—which aided his false bravado, potentially keeping his opponents on edge.

“So, what do you propose?”

“First, let me tell you precisely what I know: I’m aware of who’s in charge of the ALLID agency, how they’re organized and I’ve spoken with Drew Lynen, who gave me several interesting insights into your organization.”

“That means little other than you remain an unnecessary risk. If he had any incriminating evidence, he’d have acted decades ago.”

“I’ve also talked to Admiral Taylor Tolkin, who’s familiar with their entire upper echelon.”

“Again, what are you prop—” A shot rang out, and despite his rhetoric, Theo squeezed his eyes tight, awaiting the inevitable. When it didn’t come, he reopened them, observing Amando waving his gun, searching for the shooter. Fredrick stood over the prone figure of Amancio, swinging his weapon in all directions, unsure where the fatal shot originated.

Amando swiveled, firing at multiple targets without assuring his aim. Taking the opportunity, Theo shoved himself hard, toppling backwards, distracting the two men as multiple shots echoed in the cavernous space. Crashing to the floor with a thud, he heard bullets whistling over the recessed car pit. Scrambling for the hidden pistol, surprised he wasn’t injured, he noted the gray padded-exercise mats spread under him which cushioned his impact.

Another shot echoed through the cavernous enclosure, which Theo recognized as a high-velocity sniper’s rifle, then another from a different direction. Those pursuing him fired at random, hoping to hit anyone they could.

Rolling on his back, Theo first aimed the weapon where he fell from. Then remembering his objective, he scooted to the far side, placing the muzzle under his chin, awaiting the inevitable.

Silence descended. He waited, detecting nothing. Finally, he stood. Unable to see, he cautiously backed to the concrete steps. Hearing approaching footsteps, he froze, holding his breath. Still far off, he withdrew the pistol from his head, as he rose high enough to see the warehouse before him.

An emergency technician ran towards him, cradling a gurney under her arm, hunched over while avoiding the three bodies lying amid a pool of blood. It wasn’t Leslie.

“Who are you?” Theo demanded, climbing the remaining steps, his gun held in a two-handed grip, not that he could hit anything with it.

“I’m your route out of here,” she announced, as another individual ran in from the side.

Lowering his weapon and stepping past the pit he exited, he focused on the newest person, who searched the bodies for identification. Removing their wallets, she slipped something inside before replacing them and clipping something to their belts. By then, the EMS tech blocked his view.

She slowed, expanding the collapsible bed. “Climb on, we don’t have much time. The cops will be here soon. Even this far out, they’ll scramble after getting reports of multiple gunfire.”

“Again, who the hell are you?” Theo shoved the pistol intohis waistband—belatedly remembering to reset the safety—and sat on the gurney.

“You need to lie back.” She threw a white sheet over him and slipped an oxygen mask over his face. Tearing his shirt, pouring what looked like fresh blood over his chest.

Without explaining she broke into a run, pushing the hollow plastic and metal contraption before her. “I’m a friend. Keep your head down, remember you’re near death.”

Theo tried to identify the other figure, but couldn’t observe much in the shaky gurney without sitting up. They removed their blood-stained latex gloves, stashing them into a small bag they shoved into their breast pocket, though.

“Whatever you do, don’t glance at the cops. You don’t want them recalling what you look like. Just groan and look away. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Despite the noise, Theo heard the high-pitched roar of approaching sirens and someone running behind them.

Pausing by the partially-open vehicle bay, Theo’s unknown rescuer stopped, pulling him through the neighboring open door, the wheels jostling over the metal threshold.

He could see the squad cars as they squealed to a stop, one at a time. Laying back, he closed his eyes, groaning to get into character and wondering who these people were. They lifted his gurney, the legs folding under as they carried him into the waiting ambulance as cops rushed by.

“We responded to a call about multiple bodies,” the woman said. “We called you in transit, as the caller never left a name. There are three dead, inside. This one is critically injured, so we’re taking him to St. Mary’s, though his survival is uncertain.”

“Go ahead. Strap him in and we’ll follow up once we determine what happened.”