Jason watched the minutes tick by and in his desperation to find Spinelli, splits off from the group to widen their search radius. He doesn’t have the signal detector, but if he shouts loud enough and hoes hard enough, maybe he can find Spinelli without the thus-far-useless gizmo.
“Spinelli!” He yells, moving through aisles of containers they haven’t gotten to yet – and fuck it all, there are a lot of containers they haven’t checked yet. “Spinelli! Answer me!”
He stops for ten seconds, listens for any sounds that aren’t coming from Lucky and the other officers leading the search from a technological standpoint, and then yells again moving as he goes.
11:42 and still no answer.
“Fuck, Spinelli, if you can hear me, make noise! Spinelli!” Stops moving, listens. Nothing.
And then there’s banging. The thick, metal cargo containers are meant to be on huge ships. They’re meant to withstand wind and rain and rough seas. It is a wonder that he hears the sound at all. But, it’s there.
Jason closes his eyes and listens and tries to figure out where the hell those sounds are coming from. He narrows it down to three potential containers as the clock ticks to 11:46 and trial and error leads him to his second option.
“Over here! Lucky!” He’s shouting so much he can feel his voice cracking, but flashlights and police offers armed with bolt cutters are moving towards him and it’s 11:52.
“Just hold on, Spinelli. You’ll be out in a minute.” He says, though he’s pretty sure Spinelli can’t hear him all that well. 11:53.
11:54, and the police aren’t sure whether the container is rigged to explode if it’s opened. Jason doesn’t fucking care. He grabs the bolt cutters out of some low level officer’s hands and cuts the damn thing himself. He’s in before anyone can stop him or yell at him about clearing the thing first. 11:55, 11:56.
At 11:57, he’s got Spinelli in his arms and there’s a bullet wound haphazardly patched up on his shoulder, a gash on his forehead that looks like it’s from a gun hitting him over the head, and some pretty painful looking bruises. And then they’re out of there.
11:58 and 11:59 pass as all of those involved in the search and rescue – fuck them all, stupid machine was useless, Jason should have just gone on his own – are quickly evacuating the area.
12:00 on January 1, 2011 arrives and the container explodes with an impressive amount of force. Jason can’t bring himself to care because the paramedics are trying to get Spinelli out of his arms and as much as he wants Spinelli fixed up and good as new, he’s just not quite ready to let go of him yet.
pt 3
11:16.
11:29.
11:38.
Jason watched the minutes tick by and in his desperation to find Spinelli, splits off from the group to widen their search radius. He doesn’t have the signal detector, but if he shouts loud enough and hoes hard enough, maybe he can find Spinelli without the thus-far-useless gizmo.
“Spinelli!” He yells, moving through aisles of containers they haven’t gotten to yet – and fuck it all, there are a lot of containers they haven’t checked yet. “Spinelli! Answer me!”
He stops for ten seconds, listens for any sounds that aren’t coming from Lucky and the other officers leading the search from a technological standpoint, and then yells again moving as he goes.
11:42 and still no answer.
“Fuck, Spinelli, if you can hear me, make noise! Spinelli!” Stops moving, listens. Nothing.
And then there’s banging. The thick, metal cargo containers are meant to be on huge ships. They’re meant to withstand wind and rain and rough seas. It is a wonder that he hears the sound at all. But, it’s there.
Jason closes his eyes and listens and tries to figure out where the hell those sounds are coming from. He narrows it down to three potential containers as the clock ticks to 11:46 and trial and error leads him to his second option.
“Over here! Lucky!” He’s shouting so much he can feel his voice cracking, but flashlights and police offers armed with bolt cutters are moving towards him and it’s 11:52.
“Just hold on, Spinelli. You’ll be out in a minute.” He says, though he’s pretty sure Spinelli can’t hear him all that well. 11:53.
11:54, and the police aren’t sure whether the container is rigged to explode if it’s opened. Jason doesn’t fucking care. He grabs the bolt cutters out of some low level officer’s hands and cuts the damn thing himself. He’s in before anyone can stop him or yell at him about clearing the thing first. 11:55, 11:56.
At 11:57, he’s got Spinelli in his arms and there’s a bullet wound haphazardly patched up on his shoulder, a gash on his forehead that looks like it’s from a gun hitting him over the head, and some pretty painful looking bruises. And then they’re out of there.
11:58 and 11:59 pass as all of those involved in the search and rescue – fuck them all, stupid machine was useless, Jason should have just gone on his own – are quickly evacuating the area.
12:00 on January 1, 2011 arrives and the container explodes with an impressive amount of force. Jason can’t bring himself to care because the paramedics are trying to get Spinelli out of his arms and as much as he wants Spinelli fixed up and good as new, he’s just not quite ready to let go of him yet.