2186 Hatcher Ave.
The Conn's Factory
Fifth floor
Midnight sharp
Rogers did not wait to discuss the printout. She threw the strip of paper in Markman's lap and squealed the tires out onto the road before he had even a chance to speak. Her reckless weaving through headlight-blinding traffic quickly inspired him to fasten his seat belt. The GPS display on the dash flashed an insistent red arrow, coercing her on.
"Then I can take this as your way of saying you're a believer now, right?"
"It's ten-thirty. It'll take us almost an hour to get to the place. It's a closed-down garment factory. It's a big place. We may not make it in time."
"Or alive!" Markman gripped the dash as she used the oncoming lane to pass several cars.
"The traffic will be a bitch all the way. It'll be worse just before we get there. It's late. We're liable to offend one of the colors that think they own that section."
"Colors? You mean street gangs?"
Rogers cast an annoyed look. "Really Scott, where did you grow up?"
Markman raised his eyebrows. "Tibet?"
The cross-town traffic turned out to be particularly uncooperative. Rogers's hair-raising detours onto sidewalks and unlit parking ramps were only partly successful. Her radical driving brought them near the general vicinity of the factory, but not close enough. Finally, halfway down a one-way street, an orange, tank-shaped pest control truck had broken down, blocking the way completely. The long line of car headlights behind meant there would be no retreat, and the narrowness of the walled-in road prevented any possible detours.
Rogers jammed the car into park, stared straight ahead, and swore under her breath. "Well, that's it. We're screwed."
"How far is the place?"
"About five blocks or so."
Markman shoved open the passenger door and climbed out. He turned to face her and stood bent over in the wash of the interior light.
"How can I find it?"
She hesitated. "See that radio tower light behind you?"
He peered over his shoulder. "Yeah?"
"It should be right near there."
"Got it." He began to shut the door but was delayed by an uncommonly passionate plea from his partner.
"Scott...."
"Yeah?"
"Watch yourself, okay?"
He smiled and pushed the door closed. He turned and sprinted away, disappearing into a nearby dark alley. Rogers bit her bottom lip nervously and looked at the green glow from the dashboard clock. Thirty minutes were left.
This was a partially-abandoned section of the Great City. Industry had not done well here. Warehouses and factories, most closed, others adapted to different applications, were scattered everywhere. Occasional yellow light from dirty shop windows was the only sign of life. In the dim light of the wasted back streets, Markman paced himself in his running search for the Conn building. The darkness and desolation left him feeling cold and alone as the blue light on the high tower grew ever larger against the cloudy, half-moon sky. The abandonment of the industrialized surroundings became even more pronounced as he finally reached what he thought was the correct city block.
He crossed a paper-littered, deserted street in the shadows of the empty buildings and raced down an alley spotted with bent and rusted garbage cans. Using one, he scaled a short, broken wooden fence, and dropped to the broken pavement on the other side. In the dim light from a barred window, an even more complicated obstacle awaited him.
In the eerie gloom, a dirty, heavily tattooed man with yellow teeth and a skinhead haircut stood between him and a darkened sign that read "CONN'S.” The man's clothing looked oily black, and in his right hand, he was flipping a butterfly knife open and shut. A moment of shared apprehension took place as the two men appraised each other.
"You got money, man?"
"Yeah, some...."
"How much money you got?"
"A hundred and something. I'm kind of in a hurry. How about if I give it to you and be on my way? Deal?"
"Just hand it over, mother. I make the deals."
Markman drew his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, removed all the cash from it, and carefully placed the money on the ground between them. The thug responded by stooping forward and picking it up without taking his eyes off his victim.
"You got credit cards, man?"
"Listen buddy, you're starting to piss me off. I'm in a hurry. I keep the rest of the stuff in my wallet. Take off while you're ahead, okay?”
"Ha, ha. That’s funny, asshole. I'll cut you up good, man. I'll show you your insides. How 'bout that, mother?"
Markman raised his voice and began to pace back and forth in small steps. "Okay that's it. I am pissed now. You're going to do something? Well shut up and do it now. Just hurry the hell up, will you."
"I'm gonna make your throat bleed like you won't believe, mister. I'll tie you up in your own guts. Come on, try me. I'll stuff your mouth, asshole."
Markman could wait no longer. He took a lunging step toward the man and spoke with cold anger. "Okay let's do it. I can't wait on you. Come on."
The knife-wielding man suddenly appeared off guard. He backed away from Markman's advance, and his voice rose an octave. "Don't push me, man, don't push me. I'll kill ya right here and now."
Markman broke into a fast walk toward him. The man countered by backing away still further. Markman began to run. Astonished, the thug turned and disappeared through a broken alley door.
The main doors to the Conn building were chained and locked. Fifteen minutes were left. Without taking the time to search out an open entrance, Markman kicked in a large side window, sending shattered wood and glass into the darkened building. He climbed through the hole into the dead factory and moved in near total darkness toward an open doorway eerily lit by a flickering exit light. The door led to a large, musty, work area, poorly lighted by a few overhead emergency lights mounted among dingy white ceiling tiles. Long dusty tables stretched the breadth of the huge room. There was no sign of a stairwell.
A loud clanking and grinding sound suddenly intruded into the silence. In the far corner of the work area, fat, swaying cables within a caged car-sized elevator shaft, caught his attention.
He dashed among the long tables and hit the worn, discolored call button. The rusty top of the oversized elevator came into view. He braced himself in front of the wide metal doors as the slow-moving car came to a grinding, screeching halt. With a loud, unpleasant ratchet sound, the heavy door panels split apart. As they parted and exposed the battered interior, his eyes met those of another man. Richard Baker's mouth dropped open as he recognized his former opponent. He was dressed in the same ragged jeans from the paintball contest, and a gray sweatshirt similar to the one given Markman by Fishkin's servant. The big doors clanked open wide. Markman stepped in uninvited. Immediately, the noisy doors began to close behind him.
"Why am I not glad to see you, Mr. Julian?"
The overworked elevator clanked into gear and began its slow crawl upward.
"Julian's not my real name. It's Markman. I work for the government."
Baker narrowed his stare. "I don't want to know why you're here, Mr. Markman, or whoever you really are."
Markman eyed Baker for weapons. He had none. "I need your suit."
Baker frowned. "No way. You got my thousand bucks. You're not getting my chance in a Sensesuit."
"I'll give you the thousand."
"Forget it. I can make a lot more in the Virtual."
"Don't count on it. It's a lie. People are disappearing and dying in there."
"Sure, but you want to use it, right? I don't believe you. If you were me, you'd give it a shot."
"I can't let you do that."
The atmosphere became hostile as the elevator rose up through the second floor. Baker turned sideways and took an aggressive stance. "I'm a black belt, Mr. Markman. I've been in a lot of fights.
Do you really know anything about fighting? Do you even hold a belt?"
"Where I come from, they don't give belts, Richard."
"Well then, I advise you to get off at the next floor. I'm late. The basement door was blocked off. It was supposed to be open. I don't have time to fool around with you, and I don't want to hurt you."
Markman shrugged a silent refusal. The standoff intensified. Baker's stance tightened. Slowly, he raised both fists in a guarding block and narrowed his stare. Markman bowed his chin slightly in a gesture of understanding and raised his open hands in defense. Baker bent at the knees and moved one small step to the right. Markman waited.
As the elevator crept upward into the third floor, Baker tested his opponent. He lurched across the smooth worn floor of the car, driving his right foot up and out at Markman's chest. Markman twisted slightly sideways and let the kick brush past his stomach. He stepped away laterally and resumed his ready stance. Baker fell forward with the missed kick. He spun around and collected himself. The face-off resumed. He stepped again one step to his right. Markman waited with his open hands raised.
The second attack was a jumping front kick intended for Markman's face. Again it found only empty space, and Baker's recovery was even more awkward than before. Once more he postured to find his intended target suddenly waiting behind him and had to pivot and turn to assume a proper stance.
"That's nice form, Richard, but you should never begin an attack with a single technique. You must use combinations. The first one sets your opponent up. The second or third scores." Markman's voice was neither intimidating nor insulting. It was something he had said hundreds of times. It carried the caring and patience of a teacher.
"Who asked you?" Baker came again with a flurry of punches and round kicks that drove Markman around the car. Markman swayed methodically, avoiding the punches and at the same time blocking each of the round kicks with his open hands. Baker backed away finally, red-faced and breathing hard.
"That's another thing, Richard. You're holding your breath every time you attack. You can't do that. Your breathing must be regular and relaxed. It's why you're running out of air already."
Strobing light from the fourth floor leaked through cracks in the worn elevator doors, causing Baker to notice the handle of Markman's handgun protruding from behind his open jacket.
"You have a gun. Why don't you use it?"
"Because I don't want to hurt you either."
"So what will you do, try to hit me in the head with it?"
"Of course not. That could cause serious injury. The right place is the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, and it must be done with a carefully placed knife hand to be safe."
"And you think I'm going to give you a chance to do that?"
"You already have several times."
Baker's face grew even redder. He charged Markman with such mindless fury that he was almost unstoppable, and though his attack came like lightning, Markman's responses seemed frustratingly casual. Baker's mistakes increased. Markman captured and held his forearm after a failed punch. Blocking an incoming hook with his right hand, he sliced down to Baker's vulnerable left shoulder.
Richard Baker went to sleep.
Markman gently caught the limp body before it could fall. He lowered it carefully as the elevator jerked to a stop and the doors screeched open. He positioned Baker on his stomach and unlaced his black, high-top sneakers. The small silver key to the Sensesuit case fell from the left one as he did. He collected Baker's hands and feet and used the laces to tie them behind his back. As he was finishing, Baker became semiconscious, twisting his head to look around the open elevator in an attempt to regain his bearings.
Markman checked the time, seven minutes before midnight. He felt a rush of fear at how late it had become and raced to tie the final knot. As he turned to leave in search of the Sensesuit case, Baker's dull, broken voice stopped him.
"Wait..., wait don't go. In my back pocket, take it."
Something in the way Baker spoke stopped Markman. Quickly he stooped over, hesitated, and then checked Baker's worn-out jeans. From the left back pocket, he drew a small strip of paper that looked as though it had come from a Chinese fortune cookie. There were eight numbers on it. 00101001
Markman stared in confusion at Baker.
"You'll need it to get in. Like I said, I wouldn't want you getting hurt." Baker craned his neck and the two men exchanged a deep, discerning stare, and in that moment Markman knew he would have burned had Baker not regained consciousness in time to warn him.
Markman broke away and went for the suit. He had five minutes.
The fifth floor of the Conn's building was a hollow, empty shell. Someone had turned on overhead lighting. There were no windows or furniture of any kind. A worn, dark tile floor covered an expanse almost as large as a baseball diamond. There were holes in the water-stained walls, and though most of the dropped ceiling was intact, it had yellowed with age. In a far corner of the room a silver, hard shell case had been conspicuously left on the floor. There was no time to worry that assassins were watching the wrong player accessing one of their coveted Sensesuits. To break into the secret world of the Dragon Masters was a gamble at best.
Time had slipped to three minutes before midnight. Markman raced to the utility case and knelt by it. He fumbled with the key in the first lock and had to reinsert it. As precious seconds ticked away, the uncooperative latch finally popped open, and a moment later the second one snapped upward also.
He opened the cover cautiously. Inside, a gleaming black protruding helmet was neatly packed beside a vein-riddled black suit. There was no time to wonder what the correct procedure was. Markman awkwardly tore off everything he had on, leaving a tangled pile of clothes in the corner--just like the one he had seen in the macabre film of the last agent who had been incinerated wearing a Sensesuit.
There was a split from the left shoulder to the waist. As carefully as possible, he sat on the floor and worked his legs into the stretch material. The inside of the suit felt slippery--almost like a second skin. As he pulled his feet into the expandable boots, the suit seemed to vacuum-pack around his legs. He wrestled to his feet and convulsed his arms and body into it.
There was a Velcro-type latch on the contact riddled high collar. On the floor among his clothes, Markman could see the second digits of his watch counting down toward midnight. He grabbed for the shiny black helmet and forced it over his head. There was a brief glimpse of two frosty opaque, matchbook-sized video screens, as it swished down in place. The lights went out.
A snapping and popping sound came from around and below the helmet's collar. Contact had been made with the suit. One second later a soft, momentary tone in both ears indicated something extraordinary was about to happen.