The Air is Cooler at Night

Sirens blared. Horns honked. Somewhere in the distance another boom sounded and a billowing cloud of smoke and fire rose. John held his hands behind him as he stared out the full length window. The night was blacker then usual. Perhaps that was due to half the city being plunged into a blackout.

“The air is cooler at night, don’t you find sir?” Malcolm spoke behind him.

John refrained from tightening his grip on his left hand. Small talk annoyed him at the best of times and these were not the best of times. He watched the latest plume of smoke, dark against the night sky, highlighted from within by the fiery heat of the bomb. Would they make it in time?

“What has Central said?” his voice was hard. Without considering it he’d adopted the strong military voice he once-upon-a-time used with recruits. That had been centuries ago. Or so it felt as he stared out the window of the hotel at the city burning. He heard the papers shifting behind him as Malcolm searched for any document with the requesting information.

“Only that the threat is one we need to deal with. They can’t send anyone else.” Malcolm was a thin framed man with thick black rimmed glasses that constantly slipped on his nose. John heard him shuffle the papers around again on the makeshift desk.

John let out an audible force of air to sound his disapproval. Central wouldn’t send anyone else? Had they sent anyone to begin with? Him? Malcolm? What were they supposed to do? Last he checked he didn’t have the requisite superpowers to stop bombs from going off. He didn’t have superpowers at all in fact. Just a beer belly that was starting to get out of control and a headache that, lately seemed perpetual. The city looked like it was dying. Lights to the east were flickering, while the west side was completely black. His quadrant still had power but even should it be attacked his room would remain operational. A generator was hooked up to the myriad systems behind him to keep them so.

“Has Intelligence said anything yet?” John looked at his watch. 11:29 PM it read in glowing red numbers. He’d given up on classic timepieces a long time ago. Too slow to read when you sometimes only had a millisecond to see it.

Again that frantic shuffle of papers behind him sounded in the silence. Malcolm’s reedy voice returned. “Last report was at 11PM sir. They say the bombers are a terrorist cell likely linked to White X.”

“And they haven’t confirmed that yet?” John could hear the impatience.

“No sir.”

Silence fell again. John almost wished for a clock so he could hear that imperceptible ticking.

White X was a spy or possibly two agents working together. It had never quite been pegged down. Whether it was a few or one, they were good. Too good. John’s agents had failed to capture or kill White X a number of times. A fire truck raced past his viewpoint far below. Please get to those people in time. This time he didn’t stop himself from clenching his hands.

What could be the point of bombing half the city and taking out the power grid? White X didn’t generally participate in basic warfare or terrorism. “Get me Brackston.” he barked the order rather then asking as he might have once done.

“Yes Sir.” Malcolm picked up the black telephone and began to dial. As John turned, Malcolm held the receiver up for him to take.

“Brackston?” John barked into the phone.

“Mr. Kelling.” came the return on the crackly connection.

“What in God’s name are you people doing over there. Get me some intelligence. The third bombs just gone, and the city is in near hysteria. I got my boys out there but they can’t make heads or tails if I don’t know where to send them.” his voice was rough, getting rougher by the moment.

“Yes...We....that....White X...” the phone connection was weakening.

“Brackston! Brackston!” John roared into the receiver. “Damn it!” he slammed the phone down and went back to the window. They were truly on their own.

What could he, a retired General do with an inexperienced field administrator and three agents? He stared at the burning city and wished it wasn’t night. Everything looked so much more violent at night. He rubbed his watery eyes and smoothed his black mustache, a habit he had when thinking and worrying.

“Malcolm, call Agent Blackfoot.” He turned and waited while Malcolm went through the steps to secure a connection to the agent. Once connected he took the phone.

“Sir.” came a light-hearted voice. Blackfoot never seemed to be worried or upset. His voice always remained in the same smooth debonair pitch.

“Where are you now?” John stared out the window from his perch over the table and all the papers.

“East quadrant. Followed a man in green but I lost him after that last blast.”

“Which way?”

“Heading North.”

John yanked a map of the city out. Papers flew everywhere and Malcolm flew after them. North was in the direction of the hotel he was in. Also the only section of the city with power. “Return to base. I have a feeling they are coming to the casino.” He pulled at his mustache again.

“could be those guys we were tailing earlier?” Blackfoot inquired into the phone in his devil-may-care voice.

John hung up. Blackfoot was right. They had been onto a lead earlier that week. They assumed it might be something that lead to White X and now days later the name was being associated with the attack. If that was the case the casino might have been their base of operations too.

He held the phone to Malcolm whose wiry arms were full with the papers he’d collected haphazardly.

“Get me Agent Red.” he stepped back, smoothing his black tux as Malcolm accommodated the phone in his full hands and went through the motions. He passed the receiver back and returned to stacking the papers.

“Agent Red?” John inquired after a moment of silence.

“Well hello Sir.” the breathy voice of his female agent filled his ear. Her voice was smooth as honey though out of breath.

“Have you been running?”

“North.”

“Why?”

“The south is taking some heavy fire. My trousers got ripped.” her voice sounded petulant but John knew it was a ruse. Agent Red was one of the most competent agents the agency had at its disposal.

“Well get back. We assume...”

“That White X is there?” she finished for him. Damn, if she didn't have her finger on the pulse this whole time. He smiled into the receiver.

“That’s right Red.” he heard the phone click. She would get back quickly. Probably first. Unlike Blackfoot she had sounded out of breath. She was making tracks.

“Agent Hammerfist, Sir?” Malcolm received the phone easily.

John nodded. He could feel his mood lightening. Maybe he could just do it. Three agents and a competent if mousy administrator.

“On the line Sir.” The phone transferred once more to John.

“I heard that White X is here Sir.” The voice of Hammerfist was gruff, almost rude sounding. John could hear the sirens wailing in the background.

“Get back to the casino. Red and Blackfoot are on their way.”

A grunt and a click sounded Hammerfist’s response. John replaced the receiver on the hook and returned to the window. That one should have been named Caveman. Probably would have been had his physical strength not been quite so devastating.

The city didn’t appear to be quite so red anymore. People were still flocking outside and running away. General panic was lessened the further away from the blast sites the people became. White X. John clenched his fists. What did they want?

It seemed like hours passed. Reports from the local police and rescue teams filtered in via their spyware. Malcolm sorted and talked and tittered and spoke with their authorities. John waited and watched. One hundred dead, almost entire city on blackout. The power flickered then came back on. Two hundred dead. Rescue overwhelmed. Hospitals at capacity. It was a nightmare and it was growing.

His watch read 2AM by the time his next update came. It was Red.

John pressed his ear to the receiver. “What have you found?”

“Traces of White X. Hotel down the block. Man in green suit had a couple bobs on him.” John heard the clicking of a gun as Red played.

Bobs was code for guns, by the clicking sound it was an uzi. “Where are you?”

“Guys room. No taps. Already checked. Nice fedora though.”

John almost laughed out loud despite himself. He could see Red now, her red curls bouncing round her shoulders as she paired a dead mans pin-striped fedora to her grey suit. Uzi in hand.

“Good work. Have you seen the others?”

“Not yet. I suspect Blackfoot’s round here somewhere though.”

“Why?”

“I smelled marlboros a little while ago.”

John hung up but he had no time to walk away as the phone rang as soon as he placed the receiver on the hook. He picked it up.

“Found ‘prints for a heist.” Hammerfist said gruffly.

“Where are you?”

“Casino room 212. Seems to be a ladies spot. Heist outlines a robbery of that classy bank with the new vault rig.”

Before John could respond Hammerfist hung up. John replaced the receiver and smoothed his mustache. The vault was only a few streets over in part of the city that had been hit in the blackout. The bombs had gone off as far away from that street as possible. In the other ends of the city.

John began to scribble on the map, oblivious to Malcolm who was standing at his elbow watching. It was so obvious if that was the mark. They’d taken out half the city and blown up a few places far apart to get the cops and response teams to be spread thin. Only a bare skeleton crew would remain in the powered part of town and that would extend to the first rows of blackout houses.

“Malcolm, its so simple and easy. Why did we not see it earlier?” his voice was excited but tinged with grief. He looked up to find his administrator standing by the window and looking out. “Malcolm?”

The wiry administrator took off his big glasses. “Oh my. Dear dear Mr. Kelling.” He turned to face the old general. Without the oversized glasses Malcolm actually had quite a striking appearance. No longer did he appear to be quite so mousy and wimpy. He slicked his brown hair back over his head and smiled a sinister smile. “You are catching on far too soon for my liking.” he withdrew a pistol from his jacket coat and pointed it at John.

John froze. His mind was turning circles. Any moment the phone would ring and it would be the agents. If he didn’t answer they would know something was wrong and come to him. Could he survive that long? “White X.” he spoke. Nothing had ever felt so right in his whole life suddenly. White X wasn’t a group of agents, it was a director like him.

Malcolm did a small bow, his sardonic smile plastered in place. “Over to the window if you please.” he motioned with the gun as the two slowly began to circle the room. “Very good Director, very good.” his voice wasn’t whiny now either, John noted. It was smooth and poisonous. Women probably ate it up, he suspected.

John felt the outline of his own gun against his side. But he was old and slow. He would not be able to draw it and fire before Malcolm. There was another issue. Malcolm was now near the phone and the agents were used to his voice. If they called he could answer and dither away why John couldn't speak. Blackfoot was overdue for a check-in. The benefit was that the hotel door was now behind Malcolm and if it were to fly open he’d be at a disadvantage. But the agents would knock.

John felt his power slipping away. His essence, his life. He’d be dead soon and the city would be someone else’s problem. Maybe he could leave enough clues with his death as to the identity of White X. How to accomplish that though? He was still ruminating on it when Malcolm broke the reverie.

“If you please.” his words sounded polite but they were anything but. John figured what he meant by looking at the gun waving toward the floor. Slowly, he got to his knees as Malcolm walked forward toward him.

“Why?” John asked. He knew Malcolm would know he wasn’t asking about why he was being killed.

“The vault holds jewels beyond measure. We can fund our organization for a long time. Not to mention cracking the worlds best vault.” Malcolm took a pillow from the bed as he advanced toward John.

“What surprisingly shallow motivations.” John smirked.

Malcolm smiled down at him. “What use for more information would a dead man need?” the pillow went over John’s head.

He heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Seconds passed like years. But no shot was fired. Had he heard a knock? He snapped his head up to see Blackfoot kicking the door down as Red burst in Uzi blaring. He had just enough time to dodge for cover behind a chair.

The window shattered and Malcolm crumpled.

“You alright boss?” Blackfoot’s hands were in his black pant’s pockets. A marlboro at his lips. Hammerfist was in the hall looking outward.

Red was checking Malcolm’s body, uzi beside her lovingly, the fedora tipped up on her red hair just as John had imagined it would be.

John turned to face the gaping hole that was once covered by the panes of glass.

“Get to the Bank on Harding Street. Agents are attacking it’s vault.” He heard the agents running out. A gust of wind ruffled his black hair, the only thing about him that wasn’t old.

“You were right Malcolm.” He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He blew out the smoke lovingly. “The air is cooler at night.”