Complication
** * **
Michael’s escape pod fell uncontrollably, spinning through the sky. He clamored for the cord that would release the chute, found something and pulled. Nothing happened. He aimlessly reached about, pulling at anything he could get his hands on. The hatch door flew open and he could see the ground in quick flashes as he toppled over and over. He wished he had fastened his straps tighter.
He kept grasping for the parachute cord and finally felt something give, a jolt. But it was short lived. His pod was not finished spinning and the chute immediately tangled in itself. He froze for one frightening moment, realizing that he was about to crash to his death.
He unclipped his belt. Keeping his feet inside the pod, he lunged out of the flapping hatch door and grabbed onto the cables of the parachute. When he had a firm grip, he pulled himself out and beat away the wicker pod with the punch-rod. It didn’t take much to break it free and when he did, he wrapped the pole into the loose cabling and flailed and twisted about, trying to make the chute untangle. He made a little headway and could feel the rate of his descent start to slow. The cloth chute began to puff open, then with a final twist, it unfurled and Michael let out a gleeful yelp. The big blue sky above his fluffed out parachute looked serene and the sun glowing through the color of the cloth looked vibrant and warm. He looked down and yelped again.
The ground was close and even with his chute fully open, there was little time to slow enough for a gentle landing. As luck would have it, he was over a pool of standing water, a blessing this time. Remembering his last landing, Michael decided to release the cables a few yards above the water. He went in feet first, as straight as a pencil. The cold water bit in instantly. His feet struck the bottom firmly and buckled him over to all fours. He clawed at the sheer rock and scuttled his way along a slope to dry land, to air.
He found it and gasped and choked, then collapsed to his chest there on the sharp shore line. His heart raced out of fear, his breath heaved, not believing he would ever get enough. He held a tight death grip on the rod, and even though he tried, he could not release it. His eyes fluttered between locking closed with exhaustion and opening wide with adrenaline.
A pair of wide brown shoes scuffed into his small field of vision. Michael did his best to look up the legs to see who, but couldn’t manage to turn his head up so far. Beyond the shoes, in the background he saw a few men, large and intimidating. The brown shoe stepped on his wrist forcing his locked hand to open and the man slid the pole out. The man knelt down and Michael could see more of him.
“I just lost a lot of money, Mr. Bandolier,” Glen said. “I thought for sure you were going to die.” He stood back up and Michael lifted his eyes with him, tried to speak. As he did, the bar came around on a back handed swing, striking him across the side of the face.
When Michael finally came to, he felt the throb of pain in his jaw. He grabbed for the pain but stopped short of actually touching it in fear that he would only make it worse. His wrists were shackled together in front of him and his feet were bound as well. He would have expected to wake up in a dungeon, perhaps chained to a wall, or worse, a torture device, but instead he was reclined in a low cushioned seat at the center of a large, brightly lit tent. The walls and everything in it were the color of clean white. There wasn't much in the way of furniture. Other than his chair, there was a paper thin, oriental partition wall, a vase standing on the rock floor that must have been at least five feet tall. An exotic plant towered out of it. The walls bore an image of the Great City’s seal, the same as what was on the tower.
Something moved by the partition wall and Michael snapped his attention to it. A woman sat nearly motionless in front of the paper thin screen. She wore a white jumpsuit that clashed against her almond colored skin. Her long legs were tucked beneath her body in a manner that somehow made her look comfortable. Her wrists were resting on her knees in a yoga type pose. A long black braid hung heavily down her back. Her face was perfectly smooth, expressionless, almost fake.
Michael recognized her; the woman from the bridge. She packed a mean punch.
The woman slowly and deliberately opened her eyes, lifting her face more directly at Michael. He could see clearly a bruise on her left temple. It looked dark and deep next to her shallow, pale-gray eyes.
“You're the ninja?” he blurted out. The accusation echoed back at him. “You broke into my apartment.” She took a deep breath, raised her head, and then slowly opened her eyes. There was no mistaking it, they were the same eyes. She looked squarely at him and it was like being pierced with an icicle.
“I'm not a ninja,” she said in an indiscernible accent. “You are just a puny, weak man.” Michael sank into his seat.
The woman rose gracefully to her feet using nothing but her legs. Michael watched as she came straight up out of the floor, like a growing flower. She went back behind the small partition wall and judging by her shadow, sat facing away from him. With her back turned, he could easily check the flap over the door to see if it was fastened, he doubted it would be. It was possible that he could simply walk right out of there uncontested. He jiggled the chains of his cuffs and noted no response from the woman. He stood and waited a moment more. The next few steps he did the same, but she was locked into her meditation. Michael reached the door and raised his cuffed hands to the flap.
Before he pulled at the flap, it whipped in and Glen pushed him back quicker than his chains allowed him to walk. Michael fell short of the chair, landing painfully on the stone floor. Glen’s sidekicks were still with him, standing behind with their massive arms crossed in front of their even more massive chests. Glen threw down a small wad of something that fluttered like a leaf in front of Michael’s face.
“Where is the complicator?”
Michael focused his eyes and saw that it was a small circle of thin leather before him. He could smell it's freshness from having been vacuum sealed inside the mayor’s watch. He picked it up for a closer look.
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“You won’t tell me?” Glen asked in a threatening tone.
“No, I mean, I can’t tell you.” Michael had worked himself to his knees and looked up at Glen hoping he would believe him. His jaw ached as he spoke. “We had a copy of this map and it led us nowhere.”
“A copy? Where is that copy?”
“The bar.”
“What bar? The bar you had when you fell?”
Michael nodded his sore head.
Glen motioned to one of his men and he ducked out of the tent, likely to retrieve the bar. He came back in quick order, breathing rapidly from his run and placed the bar in Glen’s hand.
“One of the ends is a map,” Michael explained, “but it didn’t lead us anywhere.”
Glen held out the rod, touching one end to the bottom of Michael’s chin. He tapped it there a few times. “I’m sure you can think of some way to be more helpful than that.”
Michael’s mind raced, trying to think of anything that might satisfy Glen. The tip of the rod pressed against his chin, slowly increasing in pressure. Michael pulled back as best he could until his head was wedged firmly against the floor. The pressure continued. He could feel a pinch as the etched tip cut into the soft skin of his lower jaw. All he could think of was the scar it would undoubtedly leave behind.
“The map is inverted,” Michael blurted. Glen didn’t let up. Michael talked through a locked jaw. “Usually, the punch is inverted so the print would be correct but in this case the punch was already correct.” Glen pulled the rod from Michael’s face and studied the engraved tip.
“You followed the reverse map,” Michael said. He sat up and rubbed at his chin. “We assumingly reversed the punch and followed that. That's why we ended up in the same, wrong location.”
Glen looked down on Michael with disgust, even though he had just given him exactly what he was asking for. Michael scooted away, thinking for a moment that another strike across the face was coming. Instead, Glen swung the bar back to
one of the giant men behind him.
“Re-pack the mules,” he said, as the man took the rod. “Get him to a more secure location,” he said to the other.
Thirteen