Shifter | Chapter 3 – Precognition
PLEASE NOTE: I'm publishing chapters 1-3 of my novel Shifter to crowdsource funding for the full novel. If you're interested in supporting my efforts, the link is at the end.
Away from the click of cameras and the incessant question of reporters, President Zhiying and President Hoffman sit across from each other in ornate chairs custom-designed for high-ranking officials for special events like these. Behind the men is a translator. It's late morning on day two of the trade deal, and everyone's hopeful the two presidents may be able to agree on something by this afternoon. I certainly wouldn't complain: the early flight back would ensure I can see Patrick earlier than expected.
President Hoffman leans back and shifts positions, again assuring President Zhiying that he'll work on tariffs to benefit China's growing economy. He pauses, the translator relays the Mandarin, and President Zhiying nods thoughtfully, his body gradually relaxing throughout the course of the conversation.
President Zhiying makes a joke, smiling slightly to cue the expressive American that his intention is humor. Once translated, the humor is lost, but President Harris courteously picks up on the cue and laughs like it's the funniest joke he's ever heard.
My team, the Uniformed Division, is lined up on the wall along the President's side—the wall with two sets of doors which open into the main hallway. The Chinese agents are lined up against the opposing wall beside large bay windows which overlook the Embassy courtyard.
For months we'd been collaborating them and working closely with them up until our arrival, everything has been phone calls and emails. It wasn't until we arrived in Beijing that we met each other during a debrief, where I was, like all the Americans were, shaking off jet lag.
Each team is composed of six agents. In my team the current Special Agent in Charge is Captain Jacobson. He's forty-five, but with his blond hair and West Coast charm he could easily pass for thirty-five. The first time I worked with him was last year when we accompanied President Hoffman to a baseball game. When we got word of a terrorist threat during the game I soon found his surfer vibe was only a facade: he acted quickly to get the President out of harm's way. Although the threat amounted to nothing more than a rumor, it demonstrated Captain Jacobson's capacity for leading a team in a moment of crisis.
Among the reserved culture of the Chinese agents, his relaxed vibes seem to be rubbing some of them the wrong way. Even so, both sides are treating each other with respect, working together to protect each others' leaders to ensure a successful trade deal.
Also seated in the room are transcribers, note-takers, and members of both governments, watching with eager interest as the two men talk about tariffs, interest rates, taxation, and diplomacy.
My com crackles. “We have movement at the south-east corner,” I hear in my earpiece. “The Chinese are checking it out. I'll keep you posted.”
I make a mental note, but keep my eyes peeled for threats within the meeting room.
Both presidents had been talking for over an hour and a half at this point, but it seems to be going well, a lot better than what the caricatured media would have you believe: these men are not shouting at each other from across the pond; on the contrary, both are making a genuine effort in benefiting the others' national interests.
It's close to lunch time. I can hear my stomach growling, and I'm hoping the two men are feeling the pangs of hunger as well. But I know on a job like this I need to ignore my own needs for the good of the team, and the good of the Commander in Chief. Grumble all you want, stomach. I'm here for the President.
“Disregard,” a team-member says in the earpiece, referring to the potential threat. “Movement was friendly.”
The two men stand, one of the translators mentions the word “break.”
Although no one says it, I can tell both teams welcome the lunch period.
We join President Hoffman to accompany him as we leave the conference room. Six of us surround him on either side. I take the lead on the right. Jacobson takes the lead on the left.
The Chinese also form their protective bubble around their leader, exiting out a different wing to their own break rooms, which—from our point of view—are secretive compartments that none of us are privy to.
Despite looking weary from his conversation with President Zhiying, President Hoffman is in an upbeat mood. “I have a good feeling about this,” he confides to Captain Jacobson.
Once out of the meeting room we head down the hall toward the elevator. Our current destination now is the restaurant, where the finest chefs are available to bring us the best Chinese delicacies.
We were given a whirlwind tour on our arrival. The President's safe room is below ground on the north side of the building, about a five minute walk away from the conference room. Even closer is the cafe, located in the same vicinity, but at ground level—a floor above the safe room.
Already I can smell pork, garlic, onion, and soy sauce wafting from the kitchen below. While I realize the cuisines are vastly different, at least compared to Washington-area cuisines Chinese food brings back memories of growing up in Hawaii: meat, rice, and copious amounts of spices.
Just as I'm thinking this, there's a change in the energy of the room.
It comes on suddenly, out of the blue.
My perception is heightened and I experience overwhelming fear.
But not a fear like anything I've ever felt. Not a gut feeling, but an assurance someone was watching, an assurance a threat was looming. An assurance the threat was imminent. What was the threat? I frantically look around, trying to locate the threat. My pace slows. I know have to pinpoint and neutralize this threat, but I can't find anything. Yet I know something is here. Or is it about to come? I don't know what it is, but I know it's violent, it's visceral, and it's something I'm not equipped to handle.
Not even a second has passed but I have to consider how to handle it. My colleagues are beginning to take notice. I can't identify the threat because I can't sense it—I can only feel it. I have to make the call. Do I act on my intuition?
I have to. The President is my responsibility.
I speak into my com. “Agent Carter. Imminent threat to the President. Evacuate now! Evacuate now!”
The President ducks and covers his head. Everyone assumes defense position. Instead of heading toward the elevator, we break for the stairs, turning down a side hall.
Captain Jacobson has questions. “What is it?” he demands.
I have no answer and I can tell my hesitation annoys him. “I don't know, I just got a feeling that—”
Mid-stride I'm suddenly grabbed and tackled to the side by a sudden force; I knock into the SAC and we both bumble to the ground. I'm about to defend against whatever knocked us over, but it's gone. It's just me, the Uniformed Division, and the President. Where did it go?
“What was that!” someone exclaims. Jacobson and I are uninjured. We get up and retrieve our weapons. I notice everyone has their weapons aimed toward us, but they're looking at empty space. The President is crouched against a wall, covering his head.
Both the SAC and I look around frantically. All of us saw someone, but now the hallway is completely empty. Did the attacker just...disappear? I'm in front, so I have a clear view of my team. But I see nothing. They see nothing.
I stand ready, searching every shadow every hint of movement. The prey sensation is still strong. I can't pinpoint it. I feel like I'm searching for something that isn't there until—
“Behind!” I cry, and I raise my gun toward a man in a black jumpsuit behind the two rear agents. He grabs one agent's chin and yanks downward, throwing him to the ground with such force I hear his neck snap. I pull the trigger, but the assailant vanishes. The bullet misses.
“What the—!”
And as we're looking for the new threat, he appears between me, the SAC, and another agent. His powerful arm latches onto the agent's arm to control movement. As I'm about to take action he raises his leg and kicks me in the shoulder. I stumble back. He uses a bit of the recoil to deliver a fatal kick to Jacobson's head. Jacobson stumbles, then falls against the wall; I raise my gun and fire, but I only hit the wall behind where man used to be.
Jacobson is down, his body motionless.
How is he doing that? What is going on?
No time for answers. By now it's obvious all spots are blind spots.
“Cover!” I command.
We reorganize as a unit, taking up positions to cover the most area. We're vigilant, scanning our surroundings, reacting to any hint of movement.
But a thought still nags me—this man can obviously kill the President if he wants to. So why isn't he?
Those nagging questions have to be dealt with later. I'm now scanning the walls.
Another agent takes the opportunity to call for immediate backup. The agent on com asks how many.
“How many? Everyone! I need everyone!” the agent shouts back.
The assassin's gone, but I still feel him, crouching, waiting. I hear everyone's heavy breathing, and sense everyone's tense muscles, ready to strike.
I see him appear three feet from me. “There!” I shout, but now sooner have I seen him than he disappears. I fire, but my bullet strikes the wall. I hear a scuffle behind me. Turning, I see two men have appeared. One man snaps an agent's neck. The other man fetches a dead agent's knife and reaches up, driving it into the agent's spinal column before he can react. And before the last surviving agent or I can react effectively, both of the attackers disappear again.
I shake my head and blink. Then I realize...no, there weren't two attackers. It was the same man...in two locations!
“What the hell is going on?” I growl. “Where's our backup?” I yell into my com.
“Two minutes out,” comes the answer.
We both look at the President who looks back at us. Our faces say it all: We don't have two minutes.
Just as we're thinking that, I feel a force grab my arm—it's the killer, controlling my gun arm, forcing it away from him. I throw a kick, but he grabs my leg. I realize unless I act now he can knock me off balance. Thinking quickly, I jump with my free leg, drop my gun, and use both arms to wrap around his upper torso. This throws him off balance, and I feel him falling. The remaining agent's gun goes off. The assailant's form vanishes and I fall hard on the floor.
Quickly, I look up as I catch my breath and scramble for my weapon. As I do the assassin appears mid-air, falling toward the ground. But as he does he wraps his bicep around the agent's neck like a python. Both fall. The agent's neck bends unnaturally. His gun goes off, and I hear President Hoffman scream in pain.
After fumbling on the ground for the trigger to my gun I take aim and fire. But by then the man's already gone.
Scrambling to my feet, I take a defensive position over the President; the stray bullet is in his left shoulder and he's losing blood. I use one hand to apply pressure to the injury while I use the other to hold my firearm and sweep it across the hall. “Mr. President, stay with me, we can get—”
But the killer appears in front of me, and lifts me to my feet, slamming me against the wall with a thud. The force knocks the wind out of me. Any broken ribs? I don't know. I struggle with my pistol to get a good aim, but I can't—he's shoving me hard against the wall and I have no room to raise my weapon.
Then he stares deep into my eyes. I can't place his ethnicity—Caucasian? Mediterranean, maybe? His features are dark and his chiseled face is seething with hatred. He's breathing heavily, not from exhaustion, but from malice. Then, he says something to me. But I can't understand it—it's not English nor any language I recognize.
He looks away from me the President, who is drawing his own weapon. Sensing the threat the President poses to him, the man fumbles for my knife in its holster. This frees up my hand, and I try to move my gun to aim, but he simply switches arms—now his right is controlling my body. With his left he fumbles for my knife. I strain against his might, but it's no use. He's too quick. Before President Hoffman has a clear shot, the man jams the knife blade into his skull. President Hoffman's arms spasm for a second, then become still.
Just like that, the President, a leader of the world, is dead.
I open my mouth to yell all sorts of obscenities at him, but the man shoves me hard against the wall and yells at me again. I wince from the pain. He's searching my face, looking for an answer. I still can't understand what he's yelling at me, so I shake my head. “Wha—?” I manage.
Realizing I'm not going to give him what he wants the man grabs my throat and starts to strangle me. I begin to see stars. Frantically, I struggle harder, punching him in the ribs. He barely reacts. He's gripping tighter. I think of you. I think of Patrick. I keep punching, but I'm having no effect. My vision becomes narrow. I think, this is it. This is how I go out. The President dead, no eye witnesses, no evidence of this killer ever having been here. Realizing I'm not going to win I try to make peace with it. But I can't. I'm sorry, Sam, I just can't. I have to fight for you.
Then suddenly, the man is knocked aside. Freed from my assailant's stranglehold I collapse to the floor. I look to the left of me and see a dark-skinned man wearing a similar jumpsuit on top of the attacker. He's breathing heavily. He looks back at me.
“Rebecca! Run!”
I've never seen the man before in my life, nor do I know who he is. But I act on his advice.
I run.
I don't even stop to pick up my firearm since it's proven useless anyway. As I sprint down the hall, I speak into my com, saying the words I never thought I'd say. “The President is dead. I repeat. The President is dead!“
“Repeat?”
“Dammit! Didn't you hear me! President Hoffman is dead!” I cry. “He's dead! Where the hell are your men?”
I don't wait for an answer. Racing down the empty wing I weigh my options. I still feel the attacker's presence. His assault isn't over. I'm the only one who saw what happened, so I have to stay alive. And I can't do that if I'm alone. Not even a two minutes have passed since we left the meeting room. The US team is about a minute and a half behind.
My best chance of survival is to join the Chinese team.
I race down an adjacent hall. I see them at the opposite end, covering President Zhiying. I cry out without stopping. “Help! Help!”
They turn, draw their weapons. I skid to a stop. To my relief, once the agents notice I'm friendly they immediately lower their guard.
“Mz. Carter?” on of them asks. “What happ-?”
I'm knocked up against the wall. The attacker—he's pushing me up, again repeating words I don't understand. The security team fires, the man vanishes, they miss, I'm left to collapse to the ground.
Everyone looks bewildered. I'm sure I look bewildered, too. Finally, one of them says, “Follow us! Stay low, cover President Zhiying.”
Rising from the ground, I follow them, but not before the man appears again, this time in front of the security team. I can only cry out. Before the front agent can fire, he's down.
They reassemble. I'm given a gun.
Two more are taken out. I take aim and fire. The man's gone.
Three agents remain, including me. I hear a groan. The agent behind me is straining against the attacker's forced body contortions. But that agent is dropped.
Another has his throat slit. I empty more rounds.
And I never see the last one fall. I only hear his body hit the floor. The rapid fire of my gun does nothing.
That leaves only me.
I look at President Zhiying, his face ashen with fear. I stick close to him, body-to-body, weapon at the ready.
He's breathing heavily, backing away toward an inlet with potted plants and furniture. I stand in front of him, my weapon drawn, watching for any sign of movement. But I feel his weight disappear and hear his body thud against the wall. I turn around. The killer is already on top of him with a dagger fetched from one of the fallen officers. He slits President Zhiying's throat. Blood pours out. I pull the trigger. I'm empty.
“No!”
The man stands up, keeping his gaze upon me, taunting me. I drop my gun. The man advances toward me, slowly. I back away, slowly.
He again demands something in a foreign language.
He's not going to back down. I take a defensive position, hands raised, feet apart. He continues advancing slowly, his confidence displayed in his unwillingness to engage. So I move first, throwing a punch. He grabs my arm and twists it to contort my whole body. I cry in pain. The man disappears, only reappearing in front of me, too close for me to react. He strikes his palm hard against my chest. I stagger back, coughing.
In my adrenaline-fueled clarity my brain concocts a strategy: in most cases, I realize, he appears at a blind spot. So I have to trick him into thinking a spot is blind. Easier said than done when fighting someone who can be anywhere, but it's something. I plan out where my fake blind spot will be, then go in for the attack.
He vanishes, then reappears, but foils my feign, disappearing and reappearing again at my true blind spot, shoving me hard against the ground. He gets on his knees. He has me pinned and I'm unable to move.
Now having a captive audience again, he repeats what he's always said.
The man turns briefly at the sound of footsteps heard down at the other end of the hall, yards away.
They're here. If only they could see—
But then he's gone. All evidence. Gone.
Damn it!
Security starts rounding the corner. As they do I stand to my feet and rush to President Zhiying's side. With everyone dead, I have to keep him alive. I speak into my com. “I immediate medical assistance. President Zhiying is down.” Then, I turn to him. “Hold on, we'll get you help.” I say. As blood pours from his lacerated neck, his wide eyes beg me for help as he keeps trying to swallow. The poor man is fading. Not knowing what else to do, I apply pressure, trying to close the wound without closing what semblance of an airway he has. Warm blood coats my hands.
I'm within visual of the Chinese team. Their weapons are drawn on me. “Wait! Don't shoot!” I cry. But even before I hear the crack of the gun I curl into a fetal position. I feel the sting as a bullet hits my vest. I spot a potted plant beside me. It's not much cover, but I dart behind it, then raise my hands again as some more bullets rain. “Don't shoot! I'm friendly! American Secret Service! I'm not armed! Don't shoot!”
Just then I hear more footsteps. “Cease fire!” American agents. “Cease fire!”
The Chinese agents shout back, arguing with the Americans, until one American agent calls, “Agent Carter?”
I slowly peek my head out.
The American agents rush in. Seeing this, the Chinese agents to do the same.
Standing up, I feel so relieved. That is, until one of the Chinese agents approaches me, pulls my wrists behind my back, and cuffs me.
When the substitute SAC sees this, he rushes toward the Chinese agents. “Hey hey hey!” he scolds. “She's innocent.”
“You don't know that!” the Chinese captain spits back. “President Zhiying is dead!”
“So is President Hoffman! And all the agents. She's a witness.”
“Maybe so, but we have to question her to be sure!”
“She's our agent!”
“She's on Chinese soil!”
Before things get too heated, another member of the American team intercepts the SAC and says something to calm him. The SAC backs off and begins consulting with his team. By now emergency medics have arrived. They are rushing from one person to another, checking vitals, but none of them are pausing long. The emergency stretcher lies dormant by the hallway corner.
“Ms. Carter, we need to ask you some questions,” the Chinese captain says. “Then we'll take you into custody.”
I kind of already am, I think. But I take a deep breath and nod.
The captain begins. The questions are far from formal—they are initial questions just to get a rough picture of what went down. I answer as best I can, giving as many details as I can. The more details I provide, the more skeptical the captain appears. He exchanges looks with his team. Nobody buys it, but nobody seems to know of an alternative explanation either.
Finally, the Captain sighs, shrugs, then nods to the security team. I'm led away.
I look back at the SAC, who's conversing with another member of the team. The SAC and I exchange glances. He breaks from his discussion as if he just remembered something, then approaches me. The Chinese agents are about to stop him, but he holds up a hand as if to say “It's alright,” so they back off. He puts a firm hand on my tender forearm. I wince in pain. “Hold on, Agent Carter,” he says, “We'll get you out.”
The SAC nods to the agents solemnly. I'm escorted away by the Chinese security team. They guide me toward the main corridor of the Embassy. As they do I realize the interim SAC is going to be the last American I'll see in a while.
Before I round the corner I glance back at the bodies of the dead lying still on the carpet. I feel sick. It's unfair. I should have been one of them. I'd take their place in a heartbeat if I could.
Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, I feel myself going into mild shock. Besides shivering from air that isn't cold, my legs feel weak. I stumble. The agents quickly and roughly right me until I continue on my own feet.
I'm still looking around for where the man might be that I might be vindicated. Yet he's nowhere. Over a dozen American and Chinese people were killed in a matter of minutes by an assailant. The assassin had no conventional weapon to speak of, yet he was able to best both teams simply by popping in and out of existence.
I go through the checklist, hoping that I remembered some other alibi that could vouch for what I saw. But I don't remember seeing anyone else. I'm the only one alive who's seen the attacker.
I'm the only one.
A chill runs up my spine. It just now dawns on me that if I'm the only one alive that means that I'm almost certainly the culprit. And in a nation that doesn't have the same legal protections as the US, my only hope is that Washington cares enough for a Secret Service agent that they can convince the Chinese government to give me leniency.
And the feeling that I had—the strange visceral feeling of being hunted? It's gone. Yes, mentally I'm expecting his return. But the unexplained fear I felt earlier is gone.
Why did I have that feeling anyway? That innate sense, that presence. It was at least a full thirty seconds before the man appeared. Did I know he'd appear?
And I'm trying to wrap my head around his disappearing act. Was he possibly just so fast that in the moment I couldn't track his movements?
No, unlikely. Even if he was the fastest man on the planet, the adrenaline coursing through my veins only slowed time down; I would have seen any rapid escape he could have made.
Then perhaps he had ways of looking like he was disappearing.
But then how could he appear twice at the same time?
What am I even asking myself? How does one lone man effortlessly overtake an elite group of six men and a woman—especially when we correctly evaluated the threat then re-positioned to engage with it effectively?
And that other man that appeared out of nowhere. I racked my brain again, trying to think of who it might be. Anyone related to your case. No, nobody. Yet he could call me out by name. Like he knew me. Who was he?
My paranoid mind briefly toys with the idea that someone might have drugged our food or drink with something that messed with our perception. But I dismissed it as a weak theory. Who would have planted it? And what would the intended outcome be?
Then again, I think as I'm guided into an armored SUV, maybe I'm just in a bad dream.
A bad dream in which my husband is taken from me.
A dream in which, now, I may not ever see my son again.
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