Thicker Than Blood (19 page)

He felt very tired. I can't give in. I have to keep going. He felt one of his legs start to cramp up. He saw a second red pickup coming from the other side of the stadium, speeding toward him as well. He slowed to a jog. The cramp in his right leg was getting worse now. I've got to keep running. I wonder if I was hurt in the motorcycle wreck. It had been years since I cramped up before I was winded. "Hey, you stop!" A tall black cop was running toward him from his side about one hundred yards away. His gun was drawn, but Joe was pretty sure he couldn't hit a billboard at that range. A loud noise pierced the night. Screeching tires ended in a hideous crash. Foregoing his display, he turned his head as he jogged. The trucks had crashed into each other. It seemed obvious what happened. They could both see him running, but their view of each other was blocked. "Yes!" he yelled. Inspired, his pain melted away. He pushed himself up to a run. He was nearing the tall fence and putting distance between himself and the cop. He jumped five feet up on the fence and climbed to the top in two seconds. At the top of the fence, he hesitated. A lifetime of his fragile nature overshadowing his ability, had conditioned him to think twice. He jumped from the top of the fence to the ground, landing on his hands and pulling into a roll on the concrete sidewalk. He sprang to his feet and ran to the ally where the bike was stashed. He saw the distant cop in the side of his now crooked clarks as he ran across the street and into the ally. Now he had fifty yards and a fifteen foot fence between them. He never had a chance, Joe thought. He smiled a crooked grin.

Joe was sitting alone in the poorly lit parking lot behind Kento's Dojo. There was almost no background noise, pretty strange in metropolitan New York. The motorcycle was parked on its kickstand next to him. The long shadows would be eerie if he didn't welcome the cover so much. The cops had to be looking for him now. He hoped they didn't spot Kento's license plate on his way here. If not there was no connection he could think of to look for him at the Dojo. He was leaning against the Dojo's steel back door. He had given the secret knock to no avail. Kento and Mark never arrived. Where was everyone? Amman wasn't at the stadium, and Joe was sure he intended to betray them in the biggest way he could. Somebody would die this week because of Amman, Joe was sure of it. He'd be there to stop it if he just knew where to look. Where was Kento and Mark? We were supposed to be skipping town tomorrow. They should have been here hours ago. He pulled his phone from his pocket. He called Mark's phone for the twentieth time since he arrived. It rang four times and went to voice mail. "Hello, this is Mark. You must be one of my many fans." He hung up. His cell phone beeped twice, indicating a message. The phone's LCD read 'Sergio Vallone called.' It was four in the morning, what could Dad want, Joe wondered. He called his voice mail. "Hello, Joe" Only Joe's fathers voice grumbled like that. "I need to talk with you. It's, well it's about your aunt and I. Please understand, I love you and I miss your mother."

His stomach dropped. His Dad sounded very drunk. "Joseph, your aunt and I love each other. Please come and see me. I need to talk to you. Please be my son. We need you." He pretended not to understand what the message meant, while the news sunk in. A cheerful voice taunted him. "Press seven to delete this message. Press four to save this message. Press five to." He stared into space as he pressed the button to hang up the phone. For a second he felt happy for them. Then he hated himself for it. I never want to talk to my dad again. Joe was breathing heavily. Why did he do this? Why is he doing this to me. Why would he wait all this time just to torture me with this? It dawned on him. What if they where waiting all this time, just to tell me now? How long did my Dad feel this way? Why didn't he tell me? He stood up and started pacing. Can't they find someone else? Why didn't Aunt Teressa and Dad date other people all along? He stopped dead. Did Dad just marry my mom to get to her sister? That dumb drunk! He punched the door. The metal door rattled loudly. "Fuck!" He reached for the helmet and gloves. That's it, I'm going over there. He shook with anger as he setup and started the bike. As Joe tore out of the parking lot, he saw Lucy driving the team van around the corner. He saw her eyes light up as he whizzed by her. His rage and the bike's throttle ebbed for just a moment. He almost hit the brakes, instead he shook his head and nailed the throttle.

Joe pulled up to the boarded up house where he had given the beggar fifty dollars just a couple weeks ago. He wondered if the man was sleeping in the house tonight. He shut the bike off and pushed it through a broken fence into the backyard. He pushed it behind an overgrown bush, and tossed the scrapped up helmet behind it. He heard a siren and peered through the bush at the road. A state trooper raced by. What is a state trooper doing around here, he wondered. County cops handle the local stuff. He decided to play it safe and traveled though backyards rather than walk on the open sidewalk. He hopped the fence into the next yard. He slipped on his clarks as he trotted thought the yard. His HUD read one hundred percent, and ninety six percent. He suspected that meant four percent of the nanites were used up in his bizarre high tech scabs but he couldn't be sure. He glanced at his ripped bloody jeans as he walked thought the dark backyard. What would his Dad think of his obvious injuries? Could he calm him without fully explaining? Who cares. He won't even notice when I'm done with him. He was furious with himself for feeling any concern. He snuck from yard to yard as he made his way to his fathers house. He only had to double back once when an attentive dog started barking through the back door at him. Surprisingly, no one woke up despite setting a half dozen motion lights off. He thought to himself, The motion lights don't help if you don't wake up. He smiled a little. His ten minute journey reminded him of sneaking home after all night drinking binges in high school. Nothing ever really changes, he thought comforting himself. His smile grew a little broader. Joe noticed the flashing lights a couple of blocks away. The red and blue light reflecting off the trees were still visible against the near dawn sky. He sped up as he darted across the street to his block. He craned his neck and stood on his toes, but couldn't see over the tall fences in the neighboring back yard. I have to find out what is happening. I have to get closer. He hopped the neighboring fence into the corner houses back yard. He followed a winding path along the back of the house and ducked behind a shrub on its side. Across the street were ten cop cars and a swat van in front of his Dad's house. Fifteen different cops were crouched behind patrol cars pointing guns at the front door. Glowing spotlights highlighted every crack in the houses aging paint. He counted four visible swat team members crouched on the side of the house. A man with a megaphone stood up enough to clear the police cars hood. "Joseph Vallone, this is the police, come out slowly with your hands up." Nobody called Joe, Joseph, and it happened twice in one day. Weird. He was relieved to hear his name. At least Dad didn't do anything stupid when he was drunk. A minute passed as Sergio came to. His progress though the house was obvious, as the trail of lit windows slowly wandered down to the front door. Twenty guns adjusted their aim as the wooden front door opened. Sergio looked totally disheveled. His hair was practically standing on end. His shirt was buttoned cock-eyed. He blinked twice in the blinding light. He was stumbling a bit. He was still drunk. "Sir we need to see your hands right now." Sergio pushed the screen door open with his right hand. He lifted his left hand to shield his eyes from the spotlights. It was holding a bottle. It seemed like all twenty guns shot him three times each. He stood up screaming, "NO, DAD!" Joe's voice thundered up and down the street like the voice of god. Blood sprayed everywhere from Sergio's wounds. He could swear he looked toward his voice before his head fell. He was frozen in place while his brain rewired itself, trying to cope with the bizarre horror. The police stared at him with strange recognition. One distant officer yelled out, "That's him." His tear stained eyes blinked to life with purpose, just as the guns all turned toward him.

"Halt!" "Don't move!" "Police" The voices overlapped each other. He didn't care what they said. They were just pawns, of no consequence. Just like his Dad. He turned around with a start, and began to run. Guns started to fire from the crowded roadblock. Joe heard bullets hitting trees and cars. Blood sprayed from his left shoulder. A bullet had passed right though it. It didn't matter. He was really good at one thing in battle, running. I'll just run until they kill me. That's how I'll die with honor. His wound was pouring blood down his chest. He picked up his pace. His clarks, still configured with the wide angle rear cameras, showed he had run out of their sight. The gunshots promptly stopped. He pounded the pavement, he heard parked cars whoosh by as he ran. He heard squealing tires. A patrol car came flying around the corner. Joe darted into a backyard on the next block. The car screeched to a stop in front of the house. The doors opened as two cops got out and ran after him. "Freeeezeee!" Any second the shock will hit me, and I'll fall over dead, he thought. He hurdled the chain link fence separating the yards guiding his jump with his hurt arm. He noticed it was very stiff. I shouldn't have used that arm. That was dumb. He returned his focus to running. The cops were falling behind. He bolted down a strange driveway and flew up the street. Cover is important, but speed is my advantage. I need to use it, he thought. He was surprised that he didn't see any cops for that entire block. He looked at his wound as he ran. The blood from his shoulder soaked the top of his jeans, but seemed to have stopped there. His clarks read ninety one percent, and sixty seven percent. That can't be good. He heard sirens in the distance. I have more distance than they could imagine. I need more cover. Joe ran up another driveway. He kicked a rickety wooden fence open, splintering it. He sprinted across the yard. As he raced past the house a pit bull chased him. This was the house with the dog, he remembered. The dog lagged behind by ten feet. He leaned on his right arm as he hopped the fence. He had trouble moving his left arm for balance. The bike was only two blocks away. He was in a haze as he ran. He felt numb. Joe heard a man cursing and a gunshot followed by a yelp. The police had found the dog and probably killed it in self defense. He looked down at the pavement behind him for droplets of blood as he ran. There were none. My clothes seem to have soaked it all up. If I'm lucky, the cops won't even know which way I ran, he thought. He stumbled over the final fence. He felt cold from the lost blood and stumbled a little as he bent over to pick up the helmet. He backed the bike up a little and decided to start it in the backyard. He was too weak to push it any further. He sluggishly climbed on the motorcycle. He went to reach for the clutch and found he couldn't lift his arm. He felt his muscles straining but it would only move an inch from his side. The bullet wound had scabbed, immobilizing his shoulder. He leaned forward so he could start the bike with his forearm bent up to the clutch. He started the bike and clicked it into first gear with his foot. He revved the engine and simply let go of the clutch. The bike spun its back wheel kicking dirt and four foot grass up. It slowly inched up forcing him into the seat. Finally the rear wheel caught and he almost fell off the bike as he backed off the throttle. He pulled out of the backyard and the adjoining parking lot, and clicked the bike into second without even touching the clutch. The whining motor had its rotation speed cut in half. It was not a subtle clunk. He hunched over as far forward as he could. He could work the clutch so long as he was moving. His head was pounding as he headed for the parkway. His clarks read eighty four and, and fifty six. He tasted blood. Joe hoped it wasn't from his lungs. He zoned in and out of consciousness as he rode the speed bike to the dojo in the early dawn. He fought hard against the urge to sleep, enhanced by the wretched shivering coldness that pierced him to the bone. When he felt especially weak, he replayed the image of his father being gunned down, triggering his diminishing adrenal gland like a switch. When he arrived at the dojo a couple of Kento's students were standing outside the front entrance in their sparring gi. He knew he would be safe if he could just fall on the small patch of grass in front of the karate studio. The students would run in and tell Kento, and he would find him. He rolled the bike up on the sidewalk and hit the kill switch with his good hand. The silent bike tipped over on the grass as it lost momentum. He didn't even remember hitting the ground.

Joe was laying on a simple cot pale and sweating. Kento tilted his unconscious head up and poured a small disposable cup of water into his mouth. He gently lowered Joe's head. Kento's mind raced as he stood up and looked around at the badly lit storage room. My students have pledged their lives to the government as a proxy for the people, Kento thought. Now that the government has failed, they need to understand that distinction. His brow furrowed with distress. Miscommunication will end our journey right here, but more importantly it will be fatal for more than just us three. MIRs ultimate goal is self promotion, in which they have the upper hand. He walked out of the Dojo's storage room past his office and toward the exercise room in the front. He walked past Mark. Mark was moving like a blind man, furiously hacking on his arm computer's HUD from behind his now opaque Clarks. He could smell Mark's sweat as he passed by. His Tuesday morning students milled about nervously bathed in eastern sunlight. Men and women of every race and age where there for an early morning workout. Kento walked to the front of the white padded exercise room. "Class take your places." He spoke with an unusual authority for someone his age. He waited for a minute while his unnerved students settled into their places. He watched their faces and hands for cues. At this point it can't hurt to try, he thought. He paced sequentially up and down the rows of students as he spoke. "People are eminently practical which is good, but they are easily swayed." "One of societies oldest roles is to stop attacks on life. When in doubt, people err on the side of caution, for actions they cannot take back. This is born of a practical limitation, that of worldly justice. People simply do not have all the facts and therefore cannot judge with certainty." He felt a breeze on his body hair, a young student behind him stirred. "Sometimes a group of people can put the cart before the horse. Sensing opportunity, the group convinces society that their value on life is born from ideology and not a practical limitation. When they succeed, life's value becomes subject to rhetoric. Lives are revalued like those of slaves or livestock, and blood is shed." He saw the shadow of a kneeling man dip. He worked his way back to the front of the room. "Be cautious. You are surrounded by people who do not understand injustice. You can identify them by their arrogant conviction and willingness to judge. Seek humility as you would seek shelter in a growing storm." He turned to the students as he talked. A half dozen students with blank faces changed their posture. The stationary students looked dismayed. "The man in the back room is a fugitive. In his quest for knowledge his talent has offended those who would turn loyalty to an ideology, into their own engine of destruction. I only ask that you forget what you have seen today. When you weigh the virtues of honoring my request you only have your knowledge of my honor and sense of purpose to sway you. If you do not trust my sincerity at that level, may I humbly suggest that rather than immediately acting, that you postpone judgment until he can again speak for himself. Then you may ask him." The dipping man crossed his arms as Kento spoke. Damn, Kento thought, so much for that. A middle aged white woman spoke. "Sensei, when will he be well again?" He paused reading her expression. "I am not certain, but you may stop each day at this time if you like." A teenage boy asked, "What is he accused of?" He bowed his head slightly. "He will be accused of treason. But he simply benefited from a crime his aunt committed." "What crime is that?" the boy asked. He seems sincerely concerned, he thought. "Patent and copyright infringement, through breach of contract." The crowd murmured. The dipping man laughed. "Did she download a song? They shot him for that?" "I had better let him tell you the details."