Omega(4)

                He let out a sigh, this time of annoyance. “Sienna Nealon.”

                “James Fries,” she said with a smile, returning her hand to the forward grip of the gun. “It would be my very great pleasure if you would try and resist again.” There was a gleam in her eyes that he saw as she reached over and unlocked the door. It cracked open to admit the others from the hallway—Davis, Hannegan, Forrest and Byerly. “Extraction on the roof in five,” she said, and smiled down at him again, taking a pair of glistening handcuffs off her belt. “You can either put these on and walk or refuse and be carried.” Her smile turned sweetly devastating. “Personally, I’m rooting for the refuse—and—be—carried option, because I get to be the one that beats you into submission.”





                The Black Hawk helicopter took off from the top of the building, unnoticed by nearly everyone downtown. A few heads swiveled as the sound of the chopper blades drew their attention, but they quickly went back to walking their paths, filing along the sidewalks. All but one.

                A gray—haired man with a long face watched, his eyes tracing the flight path of the Black Hawk as it cut across the sky and out of sight behind the Wells Fargo tower. His face was wrinkled, his height merely average, and he wore a dark trench coat that looked only slightly out of place on a Minneapolis street in fall. His brown eyes were sunken into sockets that gave him a somewhat emaciated look, but there was intelligence in them, hiding behind the decrepit facade. When the helicopter disappeared from sight, his withered hand reached into the pocket of his trench coat and reappeared after a moment’s search with a smart phone.



                             He stared at the brightly lit display that took up the whole front, so different from the first models he still remembered with fondness, the wall—mounted black behemoths that you cranked. He missed the operator, the voice on the other end that you could reach without even pressing a button. With a sigh, he touched the power button, causing the screen to flare to life. He pressed it twice more, and felt the wind pick up around him. “Call home,” he said.

                “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that,” the phone replied, the soft, feminine computer voice almost lost in the roar of the wind.

                “Call...HOME,” he said again, his voice cracking, thickly accented.

                “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

                “Oh, to the dark world with you,” the man replied, and thumbed the contacts button. Scrolling through the names on the list, he searched for the one he was looking for, then pushed it with his bony index finger and held it up to his ear. The digital ringing sound was loud. Technology, he thought, equal parts triumph and terror—miracle when it works correctly, horror when it doesn’t.

                A woman answered at the other end of the line, with an unmistakable British accent. “Federated Exchange.”

                “Ah, yes, this is—” He froze, dredging his memory for the code name given him before he had left headquarters. “Uh...just a moment, I’m trying to remember my—”

                “Yes, may I help you?” the accented voice lilted.

                “Yes, I need to speak with, uh...I forget his code name. Put me through to—”

                “I’m sorry, sir,” the voice came back over the line. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”



                             “Oh, hell, this is—wait.” He closed his eyes and tried to recall, then stomped his feet to try to stay warm as the chill wind funneled its way down the street between the buildings like a thousand icy needles hitting him in the face. “Oh, yes—this is Portal, calling for...uh...Alastor.” He waited, listening for any sound on the other end of the phone, wondering if his hearing was failing him.