Power Trip by Dom Testa

Author:Dom Testa [Testa, Dom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Profound Impact Group
Published: 2020-01-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

As that guy kept saying in the Monty Python movie: “I’m not dead yet.” But I was damned close.

I regained consciousness in the ambulance and asked if they could turn off the annoying siren. It’s so freaking loud when you’re riding in the back. They ignored me, of course.

I got a whiff of something metallic, coppery, the smell of your change jar, and recognized it as blood. Mine. Well, the convict’s, but still. I was bathed in it. No matter how many times it happens I never quite get used to that look or smell. I glanced up and saw a bag of universal-donor coursing through a tube into my arm next to a bag of something else. Maybe some sort of antibiotic?

The next thing that worked its way into my semi-conscious state was pain that defied explanation. The man and woman riding along with me were working on that at the moment, too, injecting something into the IV.

A few moments later the pain retreated to the bearable stage. After my bitchy request about the siren I decided to just keep my trap shut until we got to the hospital. I closed my eyes and replayed the last scene, hoping I survived long enough to upload it.

The baseball cap dude with the obnoxious gum habit was certainly still lying in the debris that used to be my cheap motel room. He was riddled with bullets, none of which were mine, despite my threat of shooting out his eye, kid. His partner may have hit that target for me; I never got to see the guy’s face after the hurricane of lead began. I wondered again if he was Parnell.

And what of the diabolical Mr. Richter? I’d hit him at least once, of that I was sure. But he’d not only scrambled out of the room, he’d managed to race away in his car. Now, true, he might’ve passed out himself, or just crashed due to the pain and injuries. For the moment, however, I’d assume he escaped to wherever vermin like him escape to. Something told me we’d be face to face — and barrel to barrel — again.

So the most pressing matter now was getting me stable enough to upload, and getting someone from Q2 down here to provide the equipment and the help. Oh, and to provide a cover-up. The local authorities were gazing upon what looked like a 1920s Chicago mob-land shootout with a sprinkle of guerrilla warfare mixed in. And they had (so far) one survivor who’d damned well better explain just what was a-goin’ on here.

Well, we’ve got a department for that, of course. This wasn’t the first time a Q2 agent had been embroiled in a messy, bloody exchange. Just as I’m a killing specialist, we’ve got people who concentrate on one thing: Clean up and hush up incidents. Our internal nickname for them is Sanitation. My guess was they’d be on the scene within three hours, much sooner if one was already lounging around Atlanta.

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