by Brian Ewing
One of the team members, Wanda Fuller, broke formation and moved to the front of the doorway. She took out a miniaturized hand-drill and bore a hole with her diamond-tipped bit, no bigger than a child’s fingernail, in the cylinder blocked wall to the left of the door frame. Wanda Fuller was the last to join the team before Sisto, always putting in one-hundred ten percent in anything she did. Putting away the useful power-tool, she grabbed within the cargo pocket of her right leg, what looked like a Gameboy from the early nineties with a flimsy antenna attached. In actuality, it was a sophisticated fiber-optic tool. The flimsy antenna had been wire-encased, state-of-the-art video camera capable of transmitting high definition results. Said results would show up on the small monitor of the device that resembled his nostalgic childhood toy. The dials gave the micro-gears the ability to rotate a full three-hundred-sixty degrees, giving the team the much-needed advantage of seeing through walls.
“Shit.” Wanda Fuller whispered.
“Fuller?” Norton asked.
“There is a multi-directional motion sensor with invisible laser communication. If we move any of the precision points, including the one mounted at the base of the door, it will go off and notify the transmitter, more than likely being held by one of the hostage-takers.”
“Fuck me in the ass.” Norton solemnly stated in response.
Sisto’s eyebrow raised as he felt Norton’s verbal invitation for sexual abuse was a bit extreme. Surely the man had gone up against more difficult situations.
“Sisto, where are they located?” Norton followed the colorful depiction up with a question.
More confused than he had been by the comment of anal rape, Sisto whispered a reply, “What do you mean?”
“We all know the stories. You got the second sight. Where are they located on the floor?”
“That’s not how this works, Norton. I can’t see through walls. That’s Fuller’s specialty.”
“So, your psychic powers aren’t useful until after the bloodshed. Noted. Thanks.”
Asshole, Sisto thought.
Norton wasn’t completely wrong but hadn’t been completely right either. The Reels played by its own rules, presenting important information as needed. If there had been a rhyme or reason to it, Sisto had still yet to figure it out. The majority of his extrasensory visions stemmed from close proximity to someone or someplace, allowing visions to filter in. The power of his gift was presented similarly to a projector screen on the back of his eyelids. There had been a few times where he could see the future as well, but those events had been much scarcer.
The last time he had seen a vision of the future, he hadn’t even realized it was the future until it was over. He had been in a life and death situation with a mentally unstable ex-convict that wanted nothing more than to throw his head in a jar and put it on his mantle at the end of the day. The Reels, having a sense of self-preservation Sisto assumed, let him play out a confrontation as if it had been his reality. It was a good thing Sisto had been given the pre-emptive forecast, as the result would have had Sisto bleeding out while mounted to an industrial turbine engine. He still had nightmares about feeling the teeth of the engine slide through is body as if it were a knife to butter.
“Schematics showed there is a shaft that leads from the roof down to the tenth floor,” Duncan Powers said from behind Sisto. “We could go up to the roof, only two more flights, and then take the utility shaft towards the main air duct access point?”
The wolf grin resurfaced on Norton’s face, “Plan B is a go. Let’s move!”
Sisto felt like Duncan Powers may have well walked up to him personally and slapped him in the face with the injustice he had inflicted upon his quads after that suggestion. Two more flights of stairs, then to shimmy down an air shaft like James fucking Bond.
Unbelievable, Sisto thought, giving Powers an unwarranted scowl, as the unit proceeded onward.
Reviewing the access door there had been no visible devices attached to signal any funny business atop the building. The team cleared the rooftop swiftly, then convened at the massive industrial air unit. Powers pushed his way to the front, removing the panel and adjusting a manual timer on the board. All of a sudden, the huge fan blades started to slow down and eventually stopped altogether.
Powers, pleased with himself, looked back at everyone, “We got three minutes before these kick on again. I looked at the schematics and we need to get down about twenty yards and hook a left.”
“Lead the way Powers, we are on restricted time.” Norton acknowledged.
Marlon Tomb, the last of the group and usually quietest of the bunch, already had a set of bolt cutters in hand. He walked to the shell door of the shaft access and snipped the lock off like he was pruning the branch of a palm tree. Tomb stood back as Powers removed the debris of the lock, giving him the ability to turn the handle. Hearing the mechanisms on the opposite side release a horrific squeal, the handle locked up and Powers pulled the top open. He hopped both feet in at once and slowly descended the welded metal ladder. One by one, the team went down with expedience, knowing the clock was against them. Kendrell was the last to descend, closing the shell-top behind him in hopes of avoiding any surprises.
The team descended one by one, boots hitting the ground with finesse. Sisto waited as Fuller used her gadget to check for any covert tools that may alert the hostage-takers. After a thorough review, there had been nothing monitoring the duct, nor any armed assailant posted in that stretch of the hall as they got to the fourteenth floor. Norton signed the international signal for keeping one’s eyes open, directing Kendrell, Tomb, and Sisto to go down the West hallway, while the other half of the team proceeded North. The play was to have them on each end and converge on the center of the floor where the gunmen had presumably been keeping everyone still. Sisto had followed the lit hallway in between Kendrell and Tomb, leading up to the doorway leading to the main floor of desks.
“Go on my order,” Kendrell grunted in a whisper as he looked back at Sisto and Tomb.
“Where do you want us to spread out to?” Sisto asked.
“The other side of this doorway is a bathroom and small hallway to the utility closet. On the right is the hall towards the main cubicles. Norton is on the opposite side of the floor. They will be out in one-minute-forty-five seconds.” Kendrell confirmed, looking at his sport utility watch.
Sisto shrugged, relaying that Kendrell had not answered his initial question.
“Sisto, you take the bathroom. Tomb, clear the utility hallway and closet. After all is cleared, back me up at the end of the main hall so we can end this shit.”
Sisto and Tomb nodded in unison.
“Go, go, go!” Kendrell whispered as he opened the door and initiated the attack.
Sisto saw the entrances to both the men and women’s bathrooms, divided by an automatic reverse osmosis water dispensing unit that was embedded in the wall. Sisto, distracted by the drumming from his heart bouncing around his eardrums, jetted to the center of the opposing wall. The bathroom entrances were flush with the hallway, creating a small nook one could step into and not be in the way of hallway traffic when approaching and exiting the restrooms. Sisto closed his eyes, hoping for a little guidance from The Reels. To his disappointment, he opened his eyes with no visions presented to him. Sighing his acceptance that some things had to be done on his own, he struck the bolt release on his MP5 submachine gun and positioned himself the way he had been trained. He swiftly and quietly pressed open the door to the men’s room, entering in a crouched position. Every ounce of sweat he had poured into his training had prepared him for the task at hand. He scaled forward, still crouched, as he turned to view the desolate troth of handwashing stations.
He swung the MP5 around his back with help of the attached sling, while simultaneously removing his sidearm from the left leg holster and aimed towards the row of urinals and toilet stalls. He saw all but the last two stalls had the doors swayed opened. He leaned down but saw no legs dangling
off any of the bowls. He walked the row and stopped at the second to last open stall before approaching the two closed stalls. He was refraining from vomiting at that moment.
Sisto made his way into the last open stall and lightly stepped on the seat. Heckler & Koch P2000 in his left hand and an extendable inspection mirror in the right, Sisto pushed his body upwards very slowly, not to alert a potential target he was pulling a creeper move in the stalls. He breathed in deep, wiped the sweat off his brow onto his forearm, then minutely moved his mirror to see any indication of a person. Nothing to be seen, Sisto popped up ready to take out an assailant if needed.
Gun pointing at a vacant stall, he exhaled quietly as he only saw the poorly neglected tiles on the back of the wall. He stepped down and tiptoed backward until he could see to two closed stalls to his left again. No time to spare, the last stall was subject to his tactical issued steel-toed boot. The door flung open with nothing but some racist doodles, a flaccid dick with massive balls, and a phone number offering a good time, decorating the stall wall. The men’s room was clear.
He breathed out a sigh of relief and exited the stall. He rushed towards the exit and crept past the water dispenser hidden in the wall of the encampment and proceeded towards the door of the women’s room. Re-holstering his sidearm and swinging around his submachine gun again, he quietly entered. Opposite layout, minus the urinals, Sisto had gotten more comfortable after clearing the first restroom and threw the direction of his MP5 towards the row of sinks. Void of any people pointing guns at him, he slowly swung his weapon once again behind his back and grabbed the P2000 pistol. He saw in the mirror above the sinks lined a wall of stalls. He pulled out his inspection mirror and started to approach, as there had been a few closed stalls mixed within the eight.
Just starting to get comfortable, he moved forward and saw something in the right corner of his blind spot. The nerves had hit a new level of intensity. His cross-wired senses flooded him with a brutal stench of steamed vegetables. A newer sensation he was getting used to registering was adrenaline. The Reels processed the input of adrenaline and the output was like someone pissed in front of Sisto’s face after eating a plate full of asparagus. It was one of the worst misinterpretations that The Reels brought upon him. Granted, it was only a glimpse off to his side but Sisto determined it had the correct height of a person. His instinct whipped him around to the figure and he saw the barrel of a gun pointing at him. Sisto exhaled as he instinctually unloaded two rounds into the direction of the assailant.
CHAPTER 2
The beads of sweat formed at the base of his brow and Andrick Wesley’s bicep muscles burned furiously as he finished his fourth set of curls. It was 4:30 PM and Andrick felt the urge to succumb to his next fix, tension coursing through every ounce of his being since he woke up that morning. His drug of choice was nothing like heroin or sex, but a much darker and intimate tango between two people. What started back when he was a child, experimenting with neighborhood animals, progressed very swiftly until his junior year in high school as he was sheepishly dragged by his best friend to a kegger in Logan Woods. That night laid the course for Andrick to embrace a darkness that very few allow themselves to indulge in.
It had been twenty-five years since that night but Andrick carried a restraint throughout the years, a restraint that saved him on many occasions. He loved to kill and loved, even more, to see and feel the life slip out of someone’s body. As strong-willed as he had been, resistance was truly just foreplay to him, making the moment when he would succumb to his vice, all the more satisfying. Sweating and full of anxiety, Andrick Wesley took the rag off his water bottle, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and started heading to the showers, when he noticed a few potential options heading his way.
Andrick had pretended to mind his own business when the couple walked over to the dumbbell racks. Headphones in, but unbeknownst to the couple, nothing was playing on Andrick’s Bluetooth device. He was listening in on the lovebird’s conversation. They literally had no regard for the fact he was in the same room as them, talking about how good one another looked and how they were going to get themselves in trouble later that night in bed. Andrick spent his whole adult life trying to mask his fury, rolling the energy into a suave charm. He heard the Olympian ask his fitness model girlfriend what was on the agenda that night, to which she replied she was unsure, and that they didn’t have any obligations. Andrick saw his opening and took it.
“Excuse me,” Andrick smiled at the two, pointing to the dumbbells behind them, as he pulled off his headphones. “You mind if I jump in there and grab a few of those?”
“Oh my gosh,” the model said, “I am so sorry.”
She and the Olympian moved aside, allowing Andrick to grab some dumbbells. Those conceited pieces of shit didn’t even realize he hadn’t put his headphones back on, and just started spewing ideas of the sad options life was going to present to them that night.
“I’m sorry,” Andrick politely interrupted once again, causing the Olympian to put a frown on as he turned fully towards him. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I am actually part of a huge event going on across town over in Findlay. A bunch of clubs, motorcycle groups, from all over the country started a few weeks back and we are making our way down to Miami Beach for a benefit. It goes on every year and it seems to get bigger and bigger each time I pass through. Hell, I think last year the event drove in almost fifteen-hundred riders.” “So you’re in a biker gang?” Olympian asked, sounding like he would rather do laps in the sewers below them than hang out with someone like that.
“Me? Nah. My friend’s daughter died years back and we do this event every year to bring awareness to violence.”
Very nice on the spot lie, Andrick complimented himself. It wasn’t a total lie as he vaguely remembered someone saying something along those lines the first year he had shown up at the event. Andrick was too busy window shopping for victims when he overheard it at that time.
“Doesn’t sound like our thing, pal.”
“Well,” Model interjected, lowering her next comment into almost a whisper, “We don’t have anything going on. Maybe we can find some…”
“Weed?” Andrick completed the question for her.
The couple looked a bit uncomfortable. Andrick loved watching people that seemed to hold themselves to some higher status, then start to quiver and shit their pants when an awkwardness arises.
Play it cool, idiot. Don’t let this get away from us.
“There are walks of all life at these things.” Andrick chuckled, trying to relieve the tension. “As I said, it gets bigger every year. Teachers, bikers, mechanics, hell, I think we even had a group of lawyers show up back in Lincoln City. It’s up to you, again, didn’t mean to interrupt but it’s a huge party for a great cause and everyone is welcome. And yes, there is a good chance someone will have weed to sell you if you choose to show up.”
Andrick chuckled again, to solidify his approachable persona, “Sorry again to bother you guys.”
Andrick set down the dumbbells and started to go over to the rowing machine.
“Um,” Olympian spoke up, “Sorry if we came off rude. My name is Brady.”
Andrick turned around to see the Schwarzenegger wannabe extend his hand. Andrick reciprocated the gesture.
“That’s my fiancé, Joy.”
“Hi,” the perky model fiancé spoke and waived.
“My name is Andrick. Pleasure to meet you both. Listen, the party starts around nine but I know a bunch of us are starting early at that dive bar off the 83, Rucker’s. If you guys have a piece of paper or something, I can text you when I head that way? I left my phone at the motel.”
Joy raised her finger in the air as if a long-lost thought finally entered that empty skull and proceeded to a fanny pack on the ground next to a pair of matching water bottles. She reached in and pulled out a small notepad. She ripped a page out and ripped that solo page in half. She took one half and spit her gum into it while keepi
ng the other half in good condition. Again, grabbing within the fanny pack, she pulled out a gel pen and scribbled on the note, folded it, and gave it to him.
“Thanks for the invite,” she said, as Andrick put the number in his basketball short’s pocket.
“You guys seem like fun people. Mingling is what this whole thing is about. Great to meet you both. I gotta run, but I will text you later and hope to see you guys tonight.”
Turning and walking to the locker room, Andrick felt like he was sixteen years old again, giddy like a kid about to get away with murder.
Twenty minutes later he left the twenty-four-hour gym with his dark urge steadily in place, unthwarted from sets of weightlifting and cardio. He clipped his small leather bag which held his gym clothes and shoes, onto his 2003 Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide Sport. He sat and turned the key, clutch in hand, waiting for the purr of the engine. He had been tagging along with a motorcycle club across the country the last few weeks to some dumb event in Miami. He laughed to himself on numerous occasions at how easy it was to slip into the culture of the motorcycle club world undetected. The cool afternoon breeze again brought on the memory of that night back in his junior year.
Logan Woods had been the adopted safe-haven of all teens in the town of Hoskins, Alaska, for at least a generation before Andrick attended high school there. His best friend, Dale Benton, had always been what he had referred to himself as, a second-tier cool kid. He hung out with the elites as well as the stoners, nerds, and everyone in between, but never felt truly accepted by any of the cliques. Dale felt if he could make a good impression at the traditional Logan Woods Spring Sloshfest event, he may go into Spring Break with a few more invitations than had previously been on his schedule. Being his neighbor since they were toddlers, Dale begged Andrick to join him so he wouldn’t feel out of place.
Andrick went, not out of some primitive obligation he understood most people lived by, but as an excuse to be in the woods at night, and finally deploy his plan of swift human execution. He had to masturbate before Dale came to pick him up that evening, because the thought of finally watching the warm life and light leave somebody’s eyes first-hand, was more than Andrick could handle. Even after relieving himself, he started to get excited in the car again as he saw the line of cars ahead. They were about four miles into Elan Trail, on the Northern side of Logan Woods. He had to think really hard about his boring English exam from earlier that day, to allow the blood flow that had been convening in his crotch, to roam elsewhere.
