Unwritten: The Brooklyn Pieper Story (continued)

Disclaimer: all characters in this short story are fictional/creations of my own imagination. Sights and locations are based on real cities/towns/National Parks located in the Western United States.

Back to reality

Brooklyn brushed fresh tears from damp cheeks and checked the time on her watch. A reluctant sigh escaped her chest when she read the digital numbers. 12:05 P.M., well past the time she planned to leave the cabin.

Making it back to the condo seemed impossible. Emotionally, Brooklyn was empty. Her mother’s letter, her novel, drained her of all energy, including her anger. For weeks, maybe longer, anger subconsciously fueled Brooklyn’s life. It provided motivation, it spurred her muscles onward when her body was weak. It fed her desire, her hunger for justice, and every step of her hike through the desert. But Brooklyn could barely lift her head from her chest. Every part of her body, her limbs, her brain, her heart, felt heavy. 

What would propel her forward now? The question pinged around in Brooklyn’s exhausted head. She fought for so long, but it was fruitless. McGinty won long before Brooklyn Pieper became an FBI agent. He took her parents. Her fiancee. Her best friend. They were all victims of Nathaniel McGinty whether or not he was the one who took their life. Because death didn’t care who wandered to its doorsteps. Death welcomed all. Saints and sinners. Rich and poor. Mothers and fathers. Orphans and widows. Young and old. FBI agents and criminals. 

There was no reason to get up from the floor. Brooklyn ran through her provisions in her head. A day's worth of food and water wouldn’t last long in the cabin. Brooklyn could sink into the floor, simply become another of the library’s forgotten stories and relics. Cold and numb, she wouldn’t truly feel the slow, painful death of dehydration and starvation. Besides, she always had her gun.

A feeling fluttered through Brooklyn’s body, something new and foreign. Not hope, that was far too dashed, but something else. A desperate desire, glowing amidst the abysmal darkness, and a realization. Brooklyn’s inner FBI agent admonished her as her mother’s fictional voice filled her head. It wasn’t over yet. McGinty hadn’t won, not yet, not so long as she stayed alive. 

Brooklyn took one shaky breath then another. She repeated the process, and slowly, her breaths steadied. Strength returned to her limbs, allowing Brooklyn to lift her head and open her eyes. Her hands pushed off the ground, lifted her butt and ignited her leg muscles. Her ankles cracked, her knees popped, but she was upright, standing.

One foot moved in front of the other as Brooklyn stumbled over to her pack. She didn’t think about the future. It hurt too much, so she focused on the steps. One after the other, her squirrel friend at her side the whole time, until her makeshift campsite lay at her feet. One by one, she returned the items to her pack until there was no trace of her visit, save the two books lying on the floor. Her own and her mother’s. 

And her phone. A blank, black screen greeted her as Brooklyn lifted it from the ground. Every fiber in her being wanted to keep it off and escape. Brooklyn wasn’t ready to face the real world. She didn’t even know where the hell she was going in life. It was too overwhelming to consider, yet Brooklyn knew where she was physically trying to go. She needed to get back to her condo, and while the squirrel was a fantastic guide in the library, she doubted its talents extended outside the property line. Brooklyn needed the phone’s compass and map apps, especially while she had strong service in the library. 

Reluctantly, Brooklyn hit the power button. A backlight lit the black screen, and Brooklyn listened as notifications buzzed against the wood floor. The noise was continuous, never allowing itself a breath or a break. Brooklyn counted sixteen missed calls and over thirty texts, and she bet the majority were from Jackson. 

She wasn’t wrong. Of the missed calls, ten were from her best friend, but the other six were concerning. Three of the missed calls were from Randy Jones, head of the Boston Marshal, and the other three were from Edward Mattheson, who basically ran the FBI’s Boston Field Office. Both of them left messages, long ones from what Brooklyn could tell. As she went to check, Jackson's mug filled the screen.

“Jackson!”

“Brooklyn,” Jackson’s voice sounded huffy through the speaker, “Where are you?”

“Still in Nevada.” Brooklyn immediately regretted the aloofness in her voice, but it was the only way to hide her growing panic.

“Where in Nevada,” Jackson pressed before Brooklyn could repeat her question. “Are you at the cabin?”

“No, I’m at this library,” Brooklyn admitted. An ominous feeling crept up her spine, climbing each vertebrae like a spider.

“A library?” Relief flooded Jackson’s voice, and Brooklyn immediately understood. A library was a public place, which automatically meant people. Buildings. Cars. “In Tahoe?”

“No,” Brooklyn was wracked by guilt. “It’s somewhere in the woods.”

“Do you have coordinates?” Desperation clung to Jackson’s voice through the phone, “Location? Latitude? Longitude? Anything?”

“I don’t know.” Brooklyn frantically spun around, looking for any sort of land marker. “Jackson, you’re freaking me out. What the hell is going on?”

“McGinty escaped during a prison transfer.” Jackson tried to state the facts of the case and keep his emotions in check, maybe to try and keep Brooklyn from panicking. They both knew the implication, though. “We weren’t informed until this morning.” “When did it happen?”

“Three days ago.” Brooklyn’s mind went numb. Three days was plenty of time to move across the country, especially for a man like McGinty.

“He’s coming after me, isn’t he?” Adrenaline coursed through Brooklyn’s veins, but she worked to keep her voice even. Calm. Her training took over, as she reached for her gun, now tucked away in a side pocket of her backpack. The metallic stretch of the zipper ripped through the empty silence that filled the cabin, heightening Brooklyn’s awareness of her surroundings. There was an eerie quiet to the cabin she never noticed before. 

“Brooklyn, does anyone else know where you are?”

A click filled the silent halls, and a creek shortly followed. Subtle and quiet. Normal sounds under any circumstance, but the combo caused the hair to stand on Brooklyn’s neck. Someone joined her in the cabin, someone quick and sneaky, and as a rule, Brooklyn didn’t like sneaky. 

“Brooklyn.” Jackson’s voice dimmed as Brooklyn set down the phone to survey the scene. McGinty would surely come after her himself. He had nearly six months of prison time to put a hit on Brooklyn’s head, but McGinty would want to do the job himself. Brooklyn was sure of this. What she didn’t know is where he was or how he got there. 

A clock ticked in Brooklyn’s mind. Fifteen seconds turned to thirty as Brooklyn weighed her options. If she was lucky, her intruder turned right to explore the other side of the library, giving her maybe five minutes tops to get out undetected. If she wasn’t lucky, she would be dead or worse in two minutes flat.

Pocketing the phone, but not hanging up, Brooklyn shifted her position, moving her back and shoulders flush against the cool wood at the side of a bookshelf. Her shadow, the only thing that could reveal her position, was swallowed by the wood, and Brooklyn saw the window maybe three feet away. Her only hope of escape. 

There were obvious risks involved. There was no cover by the window. Brooklyn would be fully exposed, her back to the intruder as she made her escape. She could get out, but she could also give away her position. The window could be sealed shut. McGinty could already be on her tale, and she could very well be dead in the next fifteen minutes if she wasn’t careful. 

But she could also escape. It was unlikely, but there was a chance, slim though it may be.

What Brooklyn needed was a signal. Some way to alert Jackson or anyone who might be out on the trail. A flair was too risky, and a gun shot would certainly give away her position, but there had to be something. A messenger. Someone or something that could get Jackson and bring him here.

Brooklyn turned her head. Something like a squirrel. 

It was certifiably crazy. Trusting a squirrel, an animal, to find and bring a hoard of FBI agents to a secret library in the middle of the forest. It went against every fiber in Brooklyn’s body, so much so, her logical instincts balked at the idea. It what, to put it plainly, completely illogical for the new Brooklyn. The Brooklyn who watched Sam’s murder on a grainy small screen. The Brooklyn who watched her fiancee’s brutal torture and murder. The Brooklyn who, bit by bit, lost her childlike wonder. Her innocence. Her pure love for the world and nature. 

But the old Brooklyn dared to dream. She dared to fly and believe in forces greater than herself. If there was ever a time to resort to that thought process, it was now.

The squirrel stared up at Brooklyn from a nearby bookshelf, as though waiting for her to make the move. If possible, there was a knowing look in its eyes, again reminding Brooklyn of her old dog. She inhaled, ignoring her screaming brain, and peaked around the corner. Nothing. Silence accompanied the barren hall, and Brooklyn took her chance. She hurried across the wood floor with careful steps, using soft, small steps to deaden her thunking boots. The squirrel followed on her heals, it’s head on a swivel, searching for the intruder while Brooklyn focused on the window. 

Brooklyn’s worst fear was confirmed. The window appeared painted shut, a waxy residue coating the space where plexiglass met wood. Even without the blockage, opening the window seemed virtually impossible. A thick layer of spiderwebs covered the spaces between the glass, indicating years of neglect and delay. 

A frustrated growl formed in the roof of Brooklyn’s throat. She wanted to slam her gun against the glass and scream in frustration. Just once, she wanted to loose her composure and cool. Fear desperately craved release, but Brooklyn kept it in check and distracted her mind. Her hands ran along the window barrier, searching for a scratch. A weakness. Something to exploit. Brooklyn found it. The smallest of fissures across the base. 

She tapped it with her gun once, then twice, and the fissure grew to a crack. The length stretched into a seam, weakening the indestructible seal into something Brooklyn could manipulate. She pulled the swiss army knife from her pocket and sliced, the blade making quick work of the remaining barrier. Then it was time to shove. 

The cool of the glass seeped through Brooklyn clothes as she leveled herself against the window, her feet rooted to their spot on the ground. She loaded her quads, ready for a power clean, and pushed upward. It was a move Brooklyn learned long before she joined the FBI. 

Beads of sweat fell down Brooklyn’s forehead as the glass strained against her shoulder. It wouldn’t budge, so Brooklyn repositioned her body higher, closer to the wood. She loaded her legs and tried again. Nothing. The window stayed still, trapped in its waxy prison. 

Books tumbled somewhere deep in the cabin. A quiet thunking of solid objects, one falling over the other and splatting on the floor. Brooklyn paused, the gun now steady in her hand. Silence filled the library once more, but time was running short. The intruder was getting closer, and Brooklyn only had one chance to get the window open. 

Brooklyn flipped her position and loaded. In one fluid motion, her quads loaded, her body exploded upward as her shoulder thundered against the glass. 

What followed was a pop and hiss. A spear of cold pierced Brooklyn’s hip, providing confirmation she desperately needed. The window was open. How much she didn’t know, but it was open. 

Turned out, the window opened just enough to fit a squirrel.

“Go.” Brooklyn glanced over her shoulder and risked a whisper as the squirrel stared at her from the ledge. Six inches. That’s as far as the window was willing to budge, but it was enough. “Find Jackson. Bring him here.”

Sensing the urgency, the squirrel nodded and scurried into the nearby woods. Brooklyn watched longingly, wishing she could follow, but window wouldn’t allow it. It was unyielding in her initial pursuit, Brooklyn doubted it was give more than this minimum. 

Another creak, this one closer than the tumbling books. Brooklyn blew an errant strand of blonde hair from her face and moved toward the sound. Her survival wasn’t in the hands of a squirrel. Brooklyn determined whether she lived or died, and if Nathaniel McGinty was there to take her life, he wasn’t getting away unscathed. Brooklyn was sure of that. 

Gun raised, Brooklyn creeped her way through the shelves, assuming a defensive stance. She wasn’t going to wait for the fight to come to her. That gave McGinty too much of an advantage since Brooklyn was nothing more than a sitting duck by the window. There was no where to go, no where to run, and that didn’t suit Brooklyn’s fighting style. She needed to catch McGinty by surprise and use her strengths, along with the nooks and crannies of the cabin, to her advantage. McGinty was old, pushing seventy, and wouldn’t be able to keep up with Brooklyn in hand-to-hand combat. Her agility was a strength, but McGinty had power on his side. 

It never got that far. Brooklyn rounded a corner, her nose guiding the way after it caught the faint scent of day old cigarette and smoke. The combo hung around McGinty like an aura and made Brooklyn’s stomach role. It greeted her when she returned to her apartment the day Declan died and lingered in her nose after hours of torture. She would never forget it, but as soon as Brooklyn rounded the corner, it wasn’t the smoke she smelled. Instead, the sweet smell of cotton candy overwhelmed her nostrils, a cold scratchy fabric clamped over her mouth and nose.

Fight tried to take over, but Brooklyn’s entire body was inhibited. A drunkness took over as her brain sent signals to her unresponsive body. The world grew hazy. Brooklyn’s body morphed to mush. Her eyes and limbs grew heavy.

Something clattered against the floor. That was the last thing Brooklyn comprehended, her descent into darkness complete.