(2049.03): They Have Eyes, Part III

[woods]

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Jenn Sosinski was walking briskly across the bridge on her way to the drop. The city skyline was dark, silhouetted against the night sky. It was eerily quiet. South Boise didn’t offer a lot in terms of nightlife, and on a Sunday night like tonight, it was practically a ghost town.

She liked it that way. It made it easier to do her job.

She had spent the weekend gathering intelligence and putting together her report on the questionable practices of the Boise Spuds. She had some juicy information — all about how the Spuds had subjected their young pitcher, Manuel Barrera, to experimental neurosurgery this winter to make him forget two-thirds of his pitch repertoire, in an attempt to increase his velocity and the effectiveness of his fastball and curveball.

This was more than a simple “relief assignment,” as Boise General Manager Woody Donahue called it. This was re-wiring parts of a kid’s brain to make him pitch better. And all for what — so they can try to squeeze a couple more WAR out of him before dumping him in arbitration next year? Legally, ethically, morally, it was all wrong.

But there was more, and it worried her if it was true. Woody had told her that the Spuds weren’t the only team doing this. “Take Phoenix for example,” he said. “They pick a different pitcher every year to put under the knife. Make it a depraved sort of award.”

“And you ever see what’s underneath center field in Sacramento? They have a whole lab down there.”

Her mission was to put an end to this kind of experimental surgery. It didn’t matter how many teams were doing it. As soon as one domino fell, all of them would. Someone just needed to make it public.

The problem was, it was always difficult to prove these treatments were taking place. Teams would reassign pitchers to the bullpen and develop them through normal coaching all the time. No one could point to Barrera and say definitively that he had been artificially enhanced. But when this came out — she felt for the thumb drive in her jacket pocket — it would have potential to shake the baseball world to its core.

As she neared the southern end of the bridge, she heard a car approaching from behind her. About fifty feet from her, it slowed down to match her pace. Fuck.

Be cool, she said to herself, as she did her best to act it. They’re onto the plan for the drop tonight, that was all… That, or they thought she was a prostitute. She looked down and considered her choice of outfit, a short black skirt with stockings and heeled boots. Guess she could’ve toned it down a little.

As she crossed over to 9th Street, the car kept following. She would need to make her move soon. Turning down 9th, she realized she had an opportunity while she was out of the car’s line of sight, so she took off running.

She still had about fifty feet on the car, so she figured she could make it about half a block before they realized the chase was on. She flew down the street, heels clacking hard on the sidewalk, her eyes scanning the rows of houses for something — anything — she could use.

VROOOM. She didn’t need to turn around to know what that sound was. They were coming for her.

She saw a fire escape ladder a few buildings away. It was in the “up” position, the bottom rung about twelve feet from the ground. Most people couldn’t reach it. But she wasn’t most people. She was a trained cheerleader.

With no time to lose, she planted her hands down on the sidewalk, executed two perfect flips and vaulted off of a recycling bin. She tumbled through the air, and at her highest point reached out and felt cold metal. She grabbed the rung and pulled herself up the ladder. As the car screeched to a stop in front of the house, she climbed.

“Get your gun!” she thought she heard someone yell. She didn’t look back. She kept climbing.

She lifted herself up on the roof and scanned the area. There was a pub on this block with a back patio, she remembered. She hopped along rooftops until she saw the familiar flood lights and Spuds’ logo in the window. There was a staff member bringing chairs inside. It looked like they were closing up for the night.

A pair of boots landed on the ground, catching the attention of the employee. A second later, Jenn followed, sticking a perfect landing. As she started putting her boots back on, she asked, “Bar still open?”

“Slow night tonight, so I’m closing.” He sized her up. “One person ain’t enough to keep the lights on, either. So unless you got some friends, I’m afraid we’re closed.”

She took out her phone. It would be safer, she reckoned, to have some company tonight. She scanned through her contacts and stopped at Woody Donahue’s name. Sure, she was in the thick of a plan to bring down his organization, but he was nice, genuine, and well… it wasn’t his fault Barrera couldn’t make it as a starter. Plus, she was sure he would be here in ten minutes.

“My friend’s on the way, and we’ll have a bottle of your top shelf whiskey.”

“In that case, I can make an exception,” said the barkeeper. “Come on inside.”


Part IV >>

[Drew_V]

Love the intrigue!

[Dington]

Tater Thot moves coming in handy!