As the Sheep to His Cellular Shepherd - Part II

^{Read Part I here.}

A week after David's boss was arrested, his life was returning to normal. Reporters were still swarming the office to scavenge for interviews, but The Scripts were guiding him and mercifully hadn’t asked him to mention his shortfall at stopping the killer.

Whatever The Scripts directed, David was quick to respond. He wouldn’t risk losing them again.

When he finished breakfast one morning and the texts instructed him to go to the bank, he threw on some clothes and jumped in the car. Birds were chirping, the smell of dew was rising through the slanted a.m. light, and while David had no clue what his purpose at the bank would be, he was perfectly content to follow directions. It was a cocoon of security protecting him from the horrors of choice and responsibility.

As he approached the bank his phone lit up.

“Park on the street and wait.”

No sooner had he I found a spot when he heard the unmistakable pop of gunfire. The hair on his arms stood on end as a surge of adrenaline pumped through his veins; his senses went into overdrive, lighting up with every flutter of motion.

At the end of the block, three armed men in ski masks burst out from the bank doors and crammed into their getaway car.

“Follow the robbers. Don’t call the police.”

It was madness, David thought as he put the car into drive. He had no training and no weapons of any sort. He stepped on the gas.

About the closest he’d ever come to fighting bad guys was watching Die Hard in his Christmas jammies. But he trusted that the texts could turn him into a hero. He had failed when they called on him to stop a murderer — he was determined not to fail at something so simple as catching some robbers.

The wind whipped through David's hair and storefronts passed in a blur. The bank robbers turned down the city’s main avenue and he followed a few hundred yards back.

He could hear sirens in the distance, but they sounded like they were going the wrong way, back toward the bank. He didn’t understand why The Scripts had said not to call the police — he could give the dispatcher his location and they would be there in no time. But he trusted The Scripts had a reason, and he knew this could be a test.

Crossroads and alleys flew past at a syncopated beat. The streets were almost empty, and David had little difficulty maneuvering around the few cabs that were out hunting for fare.

Soon the route had taken him to the outskirts of town, and he no longer knew where he was. The road had turned into a highway that he guessed looped around the Upper North Shore.

“Take the next exit. Ignore the barrels.”

Ahead he could see an off-ramp that was blocked with construction barrels and a big do not enter sign.

He plowed through and sent barrels flying, exhilarated by both breaking the rules and knowing it must be a shortcut. He was confident the texts would give him the upper hand, and he could only imagine the robbers surprise when he would burst out from nowhere and cut them off.

Vibrations from the unfinished pavement shook the car violently but David hardly noticed. The scent of fresh laid tar mixed with the spring air and was pulled deep within his lungs.

“Go exactly eighty-three miles per hour and stay on the center line.”

It was becoming increasingly clear to David that the texts meant to time his interception of the robbers to the exact second. He accelerated a hair and corrected his course. Although he was unable to see their get-away-car on any of the adjacent roads, he could see the highway was rising to an overpass straight ahead.

Just as he reached the crest of the overpass his heart skipped a beat.

There was no more road. Nothing but open air.

There was no time to think. No time to react. Only time to trust the texts.

As the car sailed through the empty sky, David suddenly realized there was a large crowd beneath him. He saw waving signs and posters as visible panic swept through the crowd. He noticed a podium and a speaker coming up towards his windshield as screams of terror reached his ears.

Flags and banners and a swirl of red, white, and blue. Then a thud.

---

Thousands of miles away in a plain grey office building, mundane like the hundreds around it, three men huddled around a small TV. The news was on with another breaking report.

“…Jonathan Warner, governor of Pennsylvania and presidential candidate, was killed today when a car crashed into him and his security detail. The vehicle came at high speed off an uncompleted highway bypass.” The reporter had a level of incredulity in her voice. “Warner was holding a rally for construction workers, and ironically was speaking about construction site safety. The driver was killed instantly, and authorities have not yet said if they suspect foul play…”

The man on the far right was hunched over and wore a vacant expression, almost that of deep loss.

In an effort to console him, the man in the center put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, it'll pass. We all feel a little depressed after expending an asset. How long were you grooming David?”

“Over a decade.”

“Well that is longer than normal, but trust me, it's best to start right away on someone new.” He slid over a binder full of dossiers. “Here, pick a new mark, our assassins won't groom themselves.”

If you missed the link at the top, here's Part I.

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Thanks for exploring my writing! If you’d like to read some of my other short stories, check out:

• The BitFriar Files: Theft of the Stolen Prototype - Part I, Part II.
• A Sinking Feeling - Full Story

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