The Sins of the Father
by Amanda Rohrssen
Chapter Three
The time for graduation was nearing, but Sergeant Pondrains was even less lenient with his recruits than he had been previously.
“Let’s pick up the pace, ladies! I want five more laps out of all of you and then we’re going to go over weapons assembly until you peabrains get it right!”
As usual, Jacob was the first one finished with the conditioning, and rather than stop and rest while the others completed their laps, he ran alongside J. Gander. Pondrains had never said a word about his doing this, but today the moment Jacob passed with J. Gander on his first extra lap, the pig barked, “Mallard! Sidelines! Quit holding Hooter’s hand and let him finish his own laps!”
Glaring, Jacob complied with Pondrains’ order. “Is there a problem, Sergeant?” he asked through clenched teeth. He kept having to remind himself that he only had a couple more weeks with the drill sergeant before he was an agent.
“Your paperwork,” he snarled, his large nostrils flaring as he held up a few sheets of Jacob’s work. “Who did it for you?”
Jacob could feel his insides tighten with defensiveness. He had worked steadfastly for hours on that paperwork, and, for once, he had done it alone.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” replied the outraged recruit, mustering everything he had to keep his voice steady.
“Did you pay someone to do this? It’s much too good for the kind of work you put out, Mallard.”
Had Jacob not been seething, he would have found amusement in that remark. As it was, the comment only added fuel to the fire.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time. Who did you have do it for you?”
If he told the truth, Jacob knew Pondrains would never believe him. The sergeant had already come to a conclusion and there was no way out of it. Knowing this, Jacob’s face twisted into a sardonic sneer of contempt.
“The Easter Bunny. He and I are real good pals.”
“That’s it, Mallard!” Pondrains exploded, his curly tail going straight with anger. He threw the papers he held on the floor and pointed toward the door. “Solitary! The rest of the training!”
Instantly Jacob’s demeanor changed. “But sir-" he started.
“Go!”
The trainee’s face drained of color. The rest of the men had stopped dead in their tracks, staring in their direction.
“But sir!” Nelson protested. “Solitary-"
“Did I ask for your opinion, recruit?” spat the sergeant.
The bulldog shook his head slowly and backed away, but his face held an apprehension that echoed the rest of the troop. “No, sir.”
“He’ll go mad in there!” another man piped in. “I heard that the last guy confined to solitary for more than a week cut off his own ear!”
“You’ve been reading too much art history, Needler,” Pondrains snapped. “I said solitary and that order stands, is that understood!” His face reddening, he then turned his attention back on Jacob. “Move!”
For what seemed like hours, the recruit and the drill sergeant stared each other down before Jacob grudgingly went in the direction of Pondrains’ engorged finger.
The rest of the troop watched in helpless silence as Jacob strode out of sight, every single face solemn and filled with commiseration. Solitary was considered the worst punishment any officer could get. It was a tiny black box that stood directly in the sunlight. There was a small slat in one of the sides that served as a window, but for all intents and purposes, it was devoid of fresh air, light, and – most of all – outside contact. To be in there was to be faced with yourself and only yourself 24/7. Most men who came out of solitary after long periods of time were not the same when they emerged. It was rumored that many went insane.
“You ladies have those laps finished by the time I get back,” Pondrains growled threateningly, “or I’ll have you on latrine duty so fast you’ll think you’re horseflies. Is that clear?”
Outside, it didn’t take long for the already sweltering heat to bathe Jacob in a layer of hot, sticky sweat. He looked into the sky hopefully, but sulked when he discovered that it was cloudless.
“Figures,” he muttered just as Pondrains appeared at his side.
“Inside.”
“What? No parting gifts?”
“I said inside!” Pondrains wrapped his thick fingers around Jacob’s shirt collar and shoved the recruit toward one of the tiny enclosures that littered the rooftop of the SHUSH building.
Jacob stumbled slightly, then heaved the top off of the box before hunching over it, fingers gripping the sides so tightly the blood flow was cut off. It was obvious that even Jacob Mallard was reluctant to face solitary.
“What’s the matter, Mallard? Not so cocky now, are you? Tell you what. You make a public apology to me for the attitude you’ve given me throughout the training period, and I’ll overlook the falsified paperwork.”
But Jacob said nothing. He remained as immobile as a stone gargoyle, staring down into the empty, shallow square.
Pondrains narrowed his eyes, enraged by Jacob’s defiant silence.
“Get in there!” he bellowed, spittle flying from his snout.
And without a word of protest, the duck climbed into the diminutive prison, having to curl his knees up to his chest to be able to fit himself inside.
The sergeant slammed the lid over the box, drowning Jacob in darkness, then stormed out of earshot, his footsteps light and carefree as if a huge problem had just been taken care of. A few seconds later, the muffled sound of someone whistling carried over to Jacob’s clammy cell, and the only movement he could muster was to grit his teeth in fury.
Four days had passed. To Jacob, it seemed more like sixteen. The small slat that was the only other opening to the enclosure aside from the top had been locked from the outside. No one had come by to give him rations. In fact, he heard no one come by at all. For someone like Jacob, having absolutely no outside contact was enough to rattle him. Already the head and the loneliness had made him sick, and the lack of food had made him weak. He was growing increasingly dehydrated in the smoldering black box, and he longed to stretch his muscles from their cramped position. They were starting to spasm from the long disuse.
Just as he was beginning to rethink Pondrains’ offer, he heard nimble footsteps outside, as if someone was carefully sneaking around and pausing every so often to make sure the coast was clear.
Suddenly the latch on the slat squeaked and clicked as someone pulled back the lock. Jacob’s head shot up instantly only to slam against the hard wood of the lid. He cursed under his breath, tasting blood in his mouth. He had bitten his tongue.
The slat flipped up, allowing a thin, horizontal stream of sunlight to cascade into the cube. Even such a small amount was too much for Jacob, and he had to shut his eyes to dull the pain. When a head blotted out the sunlight, Jacob squinted through the thin opening, expecting to be met with Pondrains’ jeering. Instead a concerned voice said, “Here. I thought you could use some of this. Put your beak up as far as you can.”
It was Nelson. Jacob felt a flood of relief wash over him, and he lifted his bill as he was bidden. The end of a hose poked through the lifted slat, and a steady flow of water dripped past the feeble prisoner’s lips. He lapped it up greedily.
"I wish I could do more. I would have been out here sooner, but Pondrains is watching us like a hawk. He's even made sure you don't get the rations that normally come with being out here. If only Hannigan knew what was going on, but Pondrains has got him eating out of his hand."
Hannigan was the director of SHUSH, nearing his retirement. He was well-renowned as being flighty and easily fooled.
"I'll try to come back in a couple of days," continued Nelson as he stood up to reel the hose back in.
As the water nozzle retreated, Jacob made a word of protest.
“Hey now,” Nelson returned, “you didn’t think we’d leave you hanging, right? Don’t you worry none about us. You might not believe it, but we can handle Pondrains on our own. If I can’t get out here again, you can bet one of us will.”
Jacob opened his mouth again, but Nelson beat him to it.
“And don’t thank me. You’d do the same for me, if I was the one in there.”
For the remaining duration of Jacob’s solitary confinement it continued that at least every other day one of his fellow trainees would sneak away from Pondrains’ watchful eye and bring him water, bits of food, a small flashlight he could hold up with his teeth, and even some reading material he was able to wedge between his legs and chest.
After Nelson’s first visit, Jacob’s time in the tiny cell seemed to fly by until at last the lid was finally thrown back, reintroducing the prisoner to the outside world. The flashlight fell from between his lips, the issue of Playduck he had been looking at still positioned on his legs. His eyes shrank to slits in the overpowering sunlight, but even so he could make out the figure of the drill sergeant above him – a hulking mass of muscle, quivering with rage.
“Mallard!” he shrieked, snatching up the magazine. “What the hell is this!?”
Jacob scrambled to his feet, but his muscles weren’t yet used to the movement, and he crumpled to his knees, leaning against the hated black box for support.
“I subscribe for the articles, honest!” he quipped, though his voice was faint and weak. His body may have been broken, but his mind was as sharp as ever.
Pondrains tore the magazine to shreds, teeth bared. “My office. Now.”
“Shouldn’t we get him to the medical ward first, sir? After all, he hasn’t moved or had any suitable nourishment in two weeks,” Nelson ventured, looking Jacob over with a mixture of worry and admiration. Indeed, many of Jacob’s bones were visible beneath the shrunken, starved feathery flesh. He didn’t smell like a bed of roses, either.
His initial anger calming, Pondrains regained himself. “Yes, I suppose Mallard could do with a little patch-up before I can thoroughly reprimand him. Needler! McKain! Take Mallard to the infirmary. The rest of you maggots get to the laboratory for your final lesson before graduation exams! Move!”
Jacob had just turned seventeen when he graduated from St. Canard High, and was in the middle of his twentieth year when he received his college diploma. He had double majored in biochemistry and criminal justice, and had graduated with distinction. Some of his professors proclaimed he was a genius. Others protested, saying he was lazy, unmotivated, careless, and didn’t respond well to authority. The truth was they were all right.
At SHUSH Jacob was following in his father’s footsteps, but in title only. SHUSH was a family tradition dating all the way back to its establishment in the early twentieth century. But unlike his father or his father before him, Jacob would be a man unlike any SHUSH had ever acquired before. Great and terrible things lay ahead, things even all of Jacob’s self-confidence and intelligence couldn’t prepare him for. He had barely been able to graduate, and had pulled through by the skin of his teeth on the final exams. He had more demerits than any SHUSH cadet in the history of the organization.
But for the time being, all that mattered to this young and impetuous mallard was that he had finally graduated from a lowly cadet to a full-fledged agent, and in his hands he held the world. The golden badge of SHUSH now clutched tightly in his fingertips represented to him all of the hopes and dreams and freedoms he had longed to realize since he’d been a child. It was the key to adventure and intrigue and danger, and it filled him with the kind of thrill that only such esoteric relics could. He was a SHUSH agent.
“Jacob Mallard, look at you!” a boisterous voice blared above the busy hum of voices that filled the area. “Managed to get your badge, demerits and all, eh?” A rather large duck lumbered toward him and threw an arm around his neck jovially.
Jacob smirked good-naturedly. “Hey, demerits and all, I’m still the best they’ve got,” he returned. “How ya been, you old coot?”
“Reclusive and obsessive, what else?” the older mallard shrugged helplessly. He had tufts of graying hair that protruded wildly from his round head, and his ample middle gave him the appearance of a large teddy bear. “But come, I have something to show you!”
“What, now?” Jacob replied in disbelief, indicating the crowd around him. The ceremony had only just finished.
“What better time than the present?”
“…Is it about the you-know-what?”
The scientist had been promising to show Jacob something for weeks now.
The eccentric-but-overly-friendly looking duck nodded energetically.
“Well then, what are we waiting for? Let’s blow this pop-stand.”
Since his induction as a recruit into SHUSH, Jacob had developed a particular preference for spending his free time in or around the top-secret SHUSH laboratory, and that was where he had met Professor Waddlemeyer. They had formed a bond almost instantly – the scientist showing Jacob all of his latest inventions and Jacob providing his input, which the doctor was very grateful for. There weren’t many people who could operate on the same intellectual level as him, and it was through the doctor’s insistence that Jacob was even allowed into the lab at all.
Over the course of his training, Jacob had become very fond of Prof. Waddlemeyer, and he admired him in many, many ways.
"Ah, here it is," the professor chirped merrily as he led Jacob into the laboratory and he plucked the topmost roll of paper from the mess on his desk.
While Jacob unraveled it, the professor continued in as serious a voice as he could manage, "This is my life's work, Jacob. I've finally perfected the design! No one else has ever laid eyes on it but me. Tell me what you think of those specifications...Will it work?"
Studying the blueprint intently, Jacob nodded his head appreciatively as his eyes moved over the careful calculations and chemical processes needed to make the device outlined operate. When it came to written English and artistic creativity, Jacob was not exactly an expert, but when it came to math and chemical science, he was your mallard.
"This is amazing, Prof. Waddlemeyer - using the helium and phosphate compound to generate a tractor beam...this will be a breakthrough in military science! What do you call it?"
The professor's chest swelled with pride. "I call it The Ramrod." Like an eager young schoolboy, Prof. Waddlemeyer leaned over Jacob's shoulder to point out everything as he spoke, finally able to share his excitement with someone who could appreciate it. "And not only is it a tractor beam, but it can levitate objects more than a hundred times its weight and it can rip apart stone walls! The use of cranes and pulleys and wrecking balls will be a thing of the past! My Ramrod will be able to do in hours what demolition crews take days - even weeks - to accomplish!"
"Yeah, it'll be great use in destroying and infiltrating enemy bases, too!" Jacob added fervently.
"Now, now, my boy," Prof. Waddlemeyer interjected reproachfully. "It is not my intention that The Ramrod will be used by SHUSH at all, for any purpose like that. My machine will be used for the good of mankind, not to help destroy the values we're supposed to be upholding. It's designed to be something used by construction workers, not SHUSH agents or military personnel."
Jacob frowned, obviously disappointed.
"But Professor...what if it falls into the wrong hands? What if F.O.W.L. were to get a hold of it? Wouldn't it make more sense to hit them with it first and utilize its abilities before they have the chance to use it against us?"
Prof. Waddlemeyer shook his head with a chuckle. "Jacob, my boy, you're missing the point! I'm not going to build The Ramrod here at SHUSH. I'm going to build it at my own lab. Then I'm going to sell the blueprints to various demolition firms. F.O.W.L. won't touch it."
Jacob looked dubious. It seemed the doctor had a lot of faith in society and in men. Jacob, however, did not. Prof. Waddlemeyer smiled reassuringly.
"Besides, I'm going to build in an arming code. No one can even use it without knowing that code."
The sad thing was that all of Prof. Waddlemeyer's plans for his machine would fall by the wayside in a few decades. He would spend the rest of his life working on and perfecting The Ramrod only to be killed before his dream was fully realized. The device would be sent to storage in a federal holding facility without it ever being unveiled for public use. The arming code would remain a mystery.
Still not satisfied, but not wanting to push the professor's patience, Jacob sighed and looked over the blueprints again.
"Did you know your concentration of hypochloric acid that you've drawn in here would be much too acidic to be contained in that chamber there? You'd have to make sure to line it with very thick glass so it won't eat through that tube. Also, it looks like the numbers you have for the dimensions on the barrel are going to shift the weight and make the whole thing fall forward, so what I'd do is increase the thickness of the base here and maybe add a small platform in case someone of normal stature wants to use it, since you've set the measurements so that only giants can use it." He smirked. He often bantered with the professor about height issues. Jacob was a fairly tall mallard, but Prof. Waddlemeyer towered over even him.
"Good, good," Prof. Waddlemeyer nodded approvingly. "You've caught all of the minor errors I purposely put in there to keep you on your toes." He took the blueprints back from Jacob and went over to a nearby drafting table to fix what Jacob had suggested.
Jacob shook his head. Even though the professor played it off as intentional, Jacob knew him well enough to know that when he got excited about his work he tended to rush things and make a few mistakes along the way. But the professor had too much pride to admit it, and Jacob had too much respect for him to point it out.
"There, now that should be satisfactory for you midgets to be able to reach the controls," Prof. Waddlemeyer teased as he rolled up the blueprints and replaced them on his dishevelled desk.
"Fee-fie-foe-fum," Jacob countered maliciously.
Professor Waddlemeyer smirked at him.
"How's the family?" Jacob asked, looking around the lab in a kind of wistful way, knowing he wouldn't be spending as much time in his beloved part of SHUSH as he was used to.
"They're good. My wife just gave birth to our second son, Peter. Quite a head of red hair he’s got."
Jacob nodded curtly, having no real interest in family life.
"And you? What are you going to do now that you're an agent? Have you received your first assignment yet?"
"Not yet, but the director said he'd hand out assignments within the next couple of days," Jacob replied calmly, though it was clear that inside he was a bundle of anxiety and excitement.
"Are you still hanging around that little guy with the stubby legs?"
"What, you mean John?" he laughed. "John and I are going to be partners. We've planned that since college!"
Just then the laboratory door opened, turning both their heads.
"Speak of the devil," Jacob grinned. "How does it feel to be a SHUSH agent, John? And at the top of our troop, no less?"
"I knew you'd be in here," said J. Gander as he shut the door behind him, disregarding Jacob's questions. "Especially when I didn't find you by the women's table out there."
"Eh, I've slept with 'em all," Jacob replied impishly, then darted his eyes toward Professor Waddlemeyer nervously.
The professor feigned innocence and busied himself with "organizing" his desk. "I heard nothing."
Jacob grinned again, relieved.
"So, do you want to eat dinner later? You know, to celebrate getting out from under Sergeant Pondrains' thumb?" John asked hopefully. He hadn't had the chance to spend much time with Jacob since before Jacob had been in solitary.
“I can’t, John, I already have plans for dinner…with Charlotte, Gail, and Angela.”
“Together?”
“Of course not.”
"Oh...well, okay then. See ya tomorrow."
"Later."
While Jacob turned swiftly around to pore over some other invention of Professor Waddlemeyer's, John exited the laboratory with his head hung, feeling put out, lonely, and rejected.
“Here you go, boys, your first assignment,” Director Hannigan quavered, his old voice rattling like an old Ford engine. The piece of paper he held out toward them shook, and it became painfully obvious to both neophytes that the director was quite a few years past his retirement date.
Jacob took the note and scanned it eagerly. His face fell in barely-concealed disappointment.
“A bomb threat?” he said with disdain, as if he couldn’t be bothered with something so trivial. “Our first assignment is a bomb threat? What about traveling overseas thwarting evil plots and meeting exotic women?”
The doddering director smiled kindly. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later, when you’ve proven yourself capable.”
“With all due respect, sir, haven’t I proven myself capable by making it through training?”
He could see John stiffen in his peripheral vision as he questioned Director Hannigan. J. Gander had never been one to question authority. In fact, he avoided it at all costs. He didn’t want to make waves. Jacob, however, believed that a mallard never got anywhere in life without pushing the limits, and no one ever pushed anything without causing a few waves in his wake.
The old goat was quiet for some time, turning Jacob’s comment over in his mind. His enormous horns curled toward the two new agents as he lowered his head, and then the flicker of a smiled curled across his wrinkled jaw.
“Fair enough. How about a bomb threat with an important hostage?” Seeing Jacob’s face brighten considerably, he continued, “The mayor was abducted thirty-six hours ago. The bomb squad and the police have been negotiating with the bombers to no avail. They say they’ve made entrance into the building impossible. There are only a few hours remaining before the bombers say they will blow up the Mandarin Hotel, taking the mayor with it. I was going to send a few of my best men to infiltrate the hotel, but I believe you two will do nicely.”
“You can count on us, sir,” Jacob said confidently with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. He shook the director’s hand and turned to leave.
J. Gander followed, trying to swallow, only to find that his throat had gone dry.
“Good luck, Agent Mallard and Agent Hooter,” the director’s shaky voice called after them. “You’re going to need it…”
The Mandarin Hotel was a posh resort located on the north end of town amidst glamorous department stores and lush health spas and gyms that only the uppermost of the uppercrust could afford. Naturally, every single news van was on the scene and there were hundreds of bystanders. Jacob’s ego soared at the thought that he might be on the six o’clock news.
Weaving through the curious crowd, Jacob and his partner made their way to the front and ducked under the yellow police tape, flashing their new badges proudly.
“What’s the current situation?” Jacob inquired importantly to the nearest police officer, who happened to be the chief.
The man lowered his megaphone and stared at Jacob as if he’d asked the stupidest question on earth. “What, they never heard of ‘debriefing’ at SHUSH? There are five of them on the fourteenth floor holding the mayor and a few others hostage. There’s a bomb they’ve planted in the basement big enough to blow the hotel and a few of the surrounding blocks to kingdom come. Our boys can’t get in there to diffuse the bomb without one of the gunmen spotting them. We’ve tried every way inside, and each time they’ve spotted us and threatened detonation unless they receive three million dollars. Who’s ever heard of that much money?” The chief shook his head wearily and rubbed his forehead. “We’ve even tried negotiating for the release of some of the hostages, but they won’t budge. That’s why we called in SHUSH. So, what’s your plan?”
The chief didn’t leave much time for thought, but time wasn’t exactly something they had a lot of right now. Jacob turned the parameters of the situation over and over in his mind, trying to decipher a hole into which they could worm themselves and foil the bombers’ plans.
"An aerial ambush?"
"The helicopters took on too much damage when they got close. The bombers seem to have their hands on some machine guns. We didn't want to risk anything happening to the mayor if we tried anything more severe. They were already threatening to kill a couple of the hostages when we pulled the choppers out, and our men can't get near the building without them knowing. I'll bet they've got men posted at every entrance site on the lookout. They seem to be able to communicate well with each other, too, which I can only assume means they have walkie-talkies. I'll be damned if I know how they got their hands on all this equipment. Most of it is standard military issue only."
"An inside job?" Jacob inferred.
The police chief shrugged. "It's possible. But our main concern now isn't who they are or how they accomplished this. It's to get the mayor and the rest of those hostages out alive without blowing up the hotel in the process."
Jacob nodded, already mulling over what few options they had left. The police had tried infiltrating by air and had tried finding a way in through the windows and doors, but had only succeeded in making the gunmen more agitated. In all this tension it wouldn't be long before either the gunmen got what they wanted or the hotel was diminished to rubble along with the innocent hostages. There was only one thing left to try.
"Chief?"
"Yes?"
"Have you got any nose plugs?"
Forty-five minutes later, Jacob, John, and about five armed policemen were sloshing through the sewer ways beneath the city wearing rubber boots, rubber pants, and miner helmets complete with lights on them. In front of Jacob was a map of the network of tunnels to decipher which manhole they needed to climb through to end up in the Mandarin Hotel’s basement. That was the idea, anyway.
“Jacob,” J. Gander complained, his voice sounding pinched due to the clothespin perched over his nostrils, “this isn’t one of your better ideas.”
“Come on, John, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I think I left it in my other pants,” John muttered. “Besides, where’s the adventure in trudging around in excrement? It smells like poo-gas down here.”
Smirking, Jacob took out his nose plugs and inhaled a big whiff of the rancid air. “Ahhh,” he sighed, smiling boyishly. “Remind me when we get back above ground to see if there’s any ‘Essence of Poo-gas’ cologne. We could corner the market, John.”
The policemen in the back snickered. J. Gander, however, rolled his eyes. When was Jacob going to grow up?
“Okay, this should be it,” said Jacob, stopping at the base of a set of horizontal rails that disappeared up into the darkness of the manhole above. It was a ladder, of sorts. He rolled up the map and stuck it in his back pocket before heading up the steps eagerly. John hesitated. The metal bars jutted straight out of the grimy stone and were thick with slime and who-knew-what-else.
“Agent Hooter?” one of the policemen goaded, making J. Gander aware that he was holding up everybody else.
Curling his bill slightly, the gander pulled out a handkerchief and used it as a barrier between each rail and his hand as he began to ascend after Jacob.
“All right, we’re in,” Jacob whispered as soon as they had all made it to the top. “I want you three to go up the side stairwell, you two search down here for the bomb – and notify me when you find it – John, you’re with me. We’re going to free those hostages. And men…shoot to kill. We don’t want any of their wounded to give away our position.”
While the officers carried out Jacob’s orders, he and John crept together through the murky basement light toward the elevators. As they ascended to the fourteenth floor, where they knew the hostages were being held, Jacob radioed the police chief below to send reinforcements through the sewer, then to hold position until his signal. He didn’t know how many of these lunatic gunmen there were. A brash ‘ding’ sounded, and the metal doors parted to reveal two men holding automatic rifles aimed right at them.
“Oh look,” Jacob said sarcastically, “the welcome wagon.” Then without another word, he bellowed, “Duck!” and lunged into action, grabbing the gun barrels and forcing them upward right as they went off.
Meanwhile J. Gander, who was not a duck and therefore had not misinterpreted Jacob’s order, darted around the two gunmen while Jacob kept them busy and began looking for the room in which the hostages were being held.
“Didn’t your mothers ever tell you not to play with guns?” Jacob quipped, trying to wrestle the gun away from one of the men while simultaneously defending himself from the other.
Finally the second one got smart and pulled back out of Jacob’s reach before taking aim. A split second later, Jacob yanked the other man between them like a shield. Gunfire echoed down the hallway, reverberating like a clap of thunder. The man before Jacob crumpled to his knees. Before the shooter could make a second attempt, Jacob un-holstered his own gun and fired.
With a triumphant sneer, Jacob looked down at the two men bleeding profusely at his feet.
“I never listened to my mother either.”
Stepping over the bodies, Jacob headed in the direction of his friend, hoping they’d find the hostages before reinforcements were sent. He knew that the gunfire had given away their presence, and it was possible that the hostages were now in even more danger.
Gun at the ready, the novice agent crept down the vacant hallway, ears attuned for any noise.
“Over here,” John’s voice hissed from inside one of the darkened hotel rooms.
Without a second thought, Jacob pushed open the slightly ajar doorway and stepped inside.
“Where are you?” he whispered.
“Over here,” came the reply from the far corner.
Jacob tried the light switch. Nothing happened.
“Why are you back here? We’ve got to find the mayor.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” a strange voice purred slyly out of the darkness directly to Jacob’s left, “you’ve found him.”
The lights suddenly came on, flooding the small room. All of the hotel furniture had been piled against one of the walls, and at least six or seven hulking figures towered over a group of cowering civilians. Jacob had found the hostages.
“Looking for your friend?” the same strange voice continued.
Jacob turned to see a mass of blubber valiantly being contained by a white suit that was at least three sizes too small, and gripped in one of the blob’s plump hands was John, hanging by his collar and looking for all the world like a frightened child.
Immediately, Jacob lowered his gun. He’d been had.