by Chase Austin
In Manhattan, Richard survived, but the one person he wanted to live his life with finally succumbed to her injuries in the hospital. Richard kept holding Lily’s hand long after she was gone.
In Philadelphia, Mary woke up to the news of her only son’s martyrdom. The officer who gave her the news asked her if she had anyone whom he could call to be with her at this time. All she could was to stare at him blankly. She didn’t even cry. She just sat there on that hospital bed; her mind blank. What would she do without her son? With whom would she go to the market?
Chapter 56
Hancock’s first feeling was of relief. The immediate next thought was of the political fallout he was about to face. During his walk from the Situation Room to the Oval office, he met many people, and all of them congratulated him on the successful mission. But as soon as he closed the Oval office door, his fears roared back with vengeance. ‘What would be tomorrow’s headline? Would he be a hero for America?’ he wondered.
Hancock’s train of thought was interrupted only when his phone rang. It was Peter Jackson – his ex-Special Advisor who had quit his job moments before the attacks.
‘Finally, someone has realized his mistake to abandon the ship at the worst moment and is now eager to board it again,’ Hancock thought, while picking up the phone. An involuntary smile caressed his lips. If anyone could help him milk this opportunity to the fullest, it was Peter Jackson.
“Hello Pete,” he said.
“Hello Mr. President.” Jackson sounded earnest.
“Calling to congratulate me?”
“You deserve it, sir.”
“I know,” Hancock gloated. He pictured Jackson running his hand through his signature bleach-blond hair and smiled.
“You must be first President who not only thought of this impossible task but also executed it ruthlessly. And then, of course, saved the day for everyone.” Jackson sniggered.
Hancock’s voice shook. “What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it crystal clear? I mean, you wanted me to do this but then you went ahead, got this done and that too on the same day.”
“You are accusing me of…” Hancock suddenly stopped short of saying the exact words. His phone could be tapped by the Secret Service as protocol. He didn’t know, because he had never cared until now.
“Am I? Do I sound like I’m accusing you of anything you are not capable of? You… the President of the United States? I only called to congratulate you on your glorious victory.”
Hancock said nothing in return. He wanted to, but he didn’t.
“And tomorrow when the whole world will revel in America’s victory on terror, when you will be cherished and celebrated as the strong leader that this nation deserves, I will be the proudest of all because I made you the President. Not the people of this country, not the media, not your senators but I did. You know that, right?”
“Yes, Peter it’s you. It will always be you.” Hancock swerved around, changing his tactic.
“But Hancock, tell me, what did I get in return? A shitty designation, Special Advisor to the POTUS! What is that, a slap for good work?”
“Peter, why don’t you come and meet me? We can talk…sort this thing out.”
“I’d love to, but you see I don’t have time for a President who is going to be impeached soon. Your time is over, buddy.”
“You are threatening the President of this country!”
“I’m just saying that one should cover one’s tracks more closely. In this age of trending hashtags, you can never tell when it’s going to be your face on one of those viral videos.”
“What do you mean?”
“Okay if you want it in simpler words, then let it be so. Hancock, you should have never said those things to me that you did in our last meeting.” Jackson took a long sigh. “But you did. Don’t worry, I will keep your golden words very safe with me.” And with that, Jackson disconnected the call.
Hancock remained standing at his place, alone in the Oval office, looking into the darkness. His own words from that conversation, ringing louder in his ears.
“Think about it, an attack on this country and people will forget about everything. This is what I need.”
Chapter 57
“The message is delivered.” Jackson spoke on the phone.
“Good.”
“Anything else for me?”
“Not now, but soon,” the man said, speaking slowly.
“Thank you, Professor!”
And the phone was disconnected from the other end.
THE END
Wicked Storm
A Sam Wick Explosive Short
ABOUT WICKED STORM
A girl’s life at stake. A cage match. Only one chance. Will Sam Wick succeed?
Task Force-77 (TF-77) is a black ops team of NSA and the US Military. This is the team, the U.S. government calls when it needs to get people out of the most dangerous places on earth.
Sam Wick.Task Force 77's best. Master Extractor. Perfect Assassin. Where the government cannot and will not go, he will.
WICKED STORM
Some place in Albania
“And now we present to you, the most spectacular offering from our treasures of beauty,” the emcee announced, his right hand clutching the mic and his left slicing through the air like he was conducting an orchestra. His voice squeaked into the mic and came out booming. This was his show, and the audience clung to his every word. The camera crew was focused on him and he was ready to deliver his life’s best performance. The murmuring in the hall had stopped. All eyes were on the stage. The arena was wrapped in darkness and only the podium at the front left corner of the stage stood in an oasis of light.
Marco raised the wineglass and tilted it gently to his lips. The opaque purple liquid was a 1992 Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon from the Napa Valley; at five hundred grand, it was one of the world’s finest and costliest wines. His eyes closed in ecstasy as the wine warmed his taste buds. Without opening them, he flicked a finger, and the man standing behind him switched on a 50-inch TV screen showing a live feed of the auction taking place on the floor below. He rarely attended these auctions in person even though this was his property, and this was his game.
The auctions he conducted here were unlike any other. When a bidder agreed to the price set by Marco, he would then have to fight for the product on sale, either in person or through an appointed proxy. The product could only be sold when there were two or more interested parties because of what came after—a cage match, a fight to the death between the contenders, which was equally, if not more, popular than the bidding process itself. The one who emerged victorious had the final authority on the girl being sold. This unique proposition had made Marco and his little game what it was today. It not only gave him the option to price his products higher than the market rate but also made the whole event a massive success among rich clients. So much so that there was a long waiting list to participate. The logistics were all handled by an efficient team working behind the scenes round the clock. Everything operated on autopilot and Marco rarely needed to be in the hall for the game. But today was different. Today he was here to watch the last auction of the night. His four bodyguards stood silently behind him.
“Ripe for love, she has just touched seventeen. Your ultimate fantasy is about to appear on the stage.” The emcee was eager, his dark muscular frame almost about to break into a jig. An ellipsoidal reflector showed him to the audience in full glory. The last piece of the night was the very definition of flawless beauty. She was unlike anything anyone had ever seen on this stage. He knew that her beauty had just made his job a walk in the park—the bidders were excited and ready, glued to his every word. And he played the agony of their anticipation like a pro.
“Five hours ago, she could have been a prom queen. Certified pure. She is here looking for the one who can satisfy her thirst. Who will it be?” He paused dramatically, then gestured towards the darkness at the center of the stage. “Presenting to y
ou—Mia—from the great land of America. She can speak English and some Italian too.” The man behind the curtain took the cue and pressed a large green button on the dashboard. Five spotlights suddenly lit up, their narrow beams converging at the center of the stage. The silence in the room exploded into cheers.
A girl was sitting on a cushioned chair, wearing only a pair of high heels and a pair of transparent undergarments covering her assets. She squinted painfully in the blinding white light. Like every other girl who had been auctioned before her, she was severely drugged. Her head lolled to her right. Her eyes strained to examine the shadows beyond the glaring light, but she couldn’t focus. She had no memory of how she ended up here. Not long ago she had been with her friends, enjoying life, and now she couldn’t even lift a finger without help.
The makeup man had done a great job on her, readying her for display. Her eyebrows were perfectly trimmed, her lips had the right shade of color, and fake eyelashes magnified her beautiful amber eyes. Almost fairy-like, she looked the very picture of virgin beauty.
The emcee nodded at the two skimpily dressed teenage girls standing five steps behind the chair. They stepped forward in tandem and grabbed Mia’s limp arms, lifting her up to display the full length of her body. The audience erupted in loud cheers. The excitement had risen to an unparalleled pitch, but Mia could only hear shadows howling.
The teenage attendants moved two steps ahead with Mia, away from the chair. The spotlight moved with them.
“Raise a cheer if you would like to see more!” the emcee shouted on the mic. The crowd roared. “I hear you, my dear friends. I hear you.” On his signal, the two attendants turned anticlockwise and paused, exposing Mia’s back to the audience. “Now tell me which ass you’d like to take?”
“MIA!… MIA!… MIA!” the shadows hollered.
“If you still don’t like what you see, then you have no place here.” The emcee was inching towards the concluding leg of his sales pitch.
The two attendants circled again in the anticlockwise direction now facing the audience. Now was the time for the last hurrah. The young girl to Mia’s left raised her hand and put it inside Mia’s transparent bra, pulling her left breast out. The crowd went wild.
The emcee looked at the cue card. The number written on it was two hundred grand. Two hundred grand for Mia, but this was a once in a lifetime opportunity for him too. With the ten percent commission - he was promised he could go on to enjoy a very luxurious year. Girls like Mia were a rare find. This was an opportunity that could not be missed.
Go for the kill, he whispered to himself. “You want her, she can be yours.” He paused tantalizingly. “For only one million!”
The crowd went silent, leaving a hollow ringing in his ears.
Had he overestimated the demand? He felt a tingling sensation in his hands. Had he ruined it? Botching this sale—any sale—meant death. Marco didn’t like unsold inventories. And if he failed to sell a perfect product like Mia, the emcee knew Marco would use a blunt saw on his limbs before putting a bullet in him. It was either the heat of the spotlights or his fear, but suddenly he was perspiring. He knew Marco was in the attendance that night and must be watching him sweat. He could imagine his displeasure snowballing with every passing second. The emcee could hear his own heart pounding in his ears.
Somebody say something, Goddammit, he prayed.
“My master will have her.” Someone had thrown his hat in the ring. An ERS moved to the bidder. An Arab sheikh. His associate, who had announced the bid on his behalf, stood behind him with the mic.
“And... we have a connoisseur! A million is nothing for her beauty, gentlemen. Do we have another bid?”
“Interested.” Someone else had entered the ring. Another ERS threw a slender beam at the new bidder. The Caucasian man wore an exquisitely tailored Italian suit. An expensive Hublot glittered on his wrist. His subordinate was behind him, holding the mic.
“And we have two.” Suddenly the emcee could breathe. He would live and live large. He could visualize a smile on Marco’s face, though he had never seen him with one in real life.
“Do we have another?” The emcee was enthused to make it a three-way fight. A few more seconds passed. No new hands in the air.
“Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven… Six…” The emcee started the countdown. “Five… Four… Three… Two…”
“Interested.” A voice interrupted the countdown. Another ERS rotated and found a bespectacled elderly man in a loose worn-out half-sleeved shirt, a pair of baggy jeans and an old pair of custom leather shoes. His wrinkled face and white unkempt facial hair spoke of a hard life. His hands were in his pockets. At 5’11” he had an athletic build with thick veins running down his exposed arms. His silver beard touched the upper part of his chest and his mustache was slightly curved at the ends. His blue eyes looked straight at the emcee.
A wiry, bespectacled geek, probably in his late twenties stood beside him, looking flustered. He was just over five feet and wore a t-shirt with the Punisher logo that was one size too large for him, a pair of blue denim jeans and some sort of custom-made leather boots. His gaze was fixed on the floor like he was looking for a lost penny or something. He seemed like a man who was happiest standing in a corner, away from the spotlight.
In that hall he was simply out of his elements. The overconfidence of the elderly man was perfectly countered by the uneasiness of the younger one. In that gathering of riches they looked like two sore wounds in an otherwise perfect body. Even the emcee could not stop himself from chuckling. The crowd followed his lead.
How had they got in? It was an invitation-only auction, and every guest was vetted by two agencies before they were provided with the location. There was no possible explanation for this, but the house rules said once you were inside the arena, you could only leave when the night was done.
The emcee was in a bind and so was Marco, who was now sitting up straight in his seat, his eyes intent on the screen. It was his house and he could ask his men to throw these two jokers out, but he couldn’t do it in front of his other customers; it would be bad for business and even worse for his reputation.
“Go on,” he instructed the emcee on a private one-way channel.
The emcee wasn’t expecting this, but he decided to keep his head down and follow the orders. He had already risked his life once tonight by upping the price, he couldn’t do it again. “No disrespect Grandpa, but I think you didn’t hear me right. It’s one million dollars we’re talking about, not a one-dollar bill.”
The old man said nothing, did nothing, just stood there. His eyes shifted from the emcee to the girl. They spent a second longer on her. His weather-beaten face was hard to read.
“You have a million?” This time the emcee was serious. Maybe the man wasn’t in the wrong place. Maybe he had the money and the means.
“Check the escrow. The name is Samuel,” the man replied.
The emcee didn’t know how to respond. This was unfamiliar territory. He looked at his team behind the stage for confirmation. Every person attending the auction had to deposit five million dollars in an escrow account to prove he could afford to be there. The amount was refunded thirty minutes after the night ended.
“He’s good,” the account team’s supervisor spoke on the earpiece. Both the emcee and Marco heard it. One last piece of the puzzle was still missing though.
“Who will fight for you? The boy?” The emcee looked at the young man standing behind the elderly man, still gazing at the floor.
The money alone didn’t have much value; it was the fight that had people hooked on this unusual auction. In this arena, throwing the hat in the ring had a literal meaning to it.
“I will fight,” the old man responded without flinching.
This was getting ridiculous. “What did you have today Grandpa? Roofies?” The emcee wasn’t ready to let him off the hook so easily.
He got no response.
The emcee didn’t know what to say, he st
ill couldn’t ascertain if the man was serious or stoned. Was he really going to fight? The situation was a first, not to mention perplexing. He looked in the direction of the second floor, hoping his boss would intervene. Marco on the second floor got to his feet. The old man was turning the night into a farce. He couldn’t let it happen, but he still needed someone from the audience to voice what he himself was thinking. It would be his way out. No one could say he broke his own rules if his customers want the same thing.
The audience was also getting impatient. “Is this a joke? Get this bloody codger out of here,” someone shouted.
Marco smiled and took the cue at once. “I heard you, gentleman, and I agree with you. None of us wants this old shit here.” His voice thundered in the arena over a loudspeaker.
