by David Carter
He exited the elevator and left the MCHU for the final time. He unlocked his car and sat behind the wheel, gazing back at the building he’d dedicated a lifetime to, pondering over the memories of his distinguished career. That moment turned into thirty minutes. Those thirty minutes turned into almost an hour. Then as he decided it was time to leave his reserved parking space for the final time, he saw Commissioner Marshall leaving the MCHU’s foyer in an awful hurry. Which was when something came over him. One last dash of determination. I’m not bloody done yet, he thought.
Commissioner Marshall pulled out of the parking lot at a hell of a rate of knots. He must be running late for a lunch date with the Mrs, Hampton smirked to himself.
Hampton pulled out and followed him. I’ll make one last plea in a more comfortable setting, he thought. Perhaps he will be more sympathetic away from the office.
Hampton tailed the commissioner’s late-model Mercedes all the way out of Milton City and into the countryside. Before he knew it they were well off the beaten track. “Where are you going, Commissioner?” he muttered.
An hour later the commissioner turned off the country road towards a bush reserve. He stopped at the track entrance, and made his way into the bush carrying a black briefcase. Hampton quietly pulled up behind him and followed him along the track. He stepped on a dry twig. In the silence it made a loud SNAP! Hampton ducked behind a large tree trunk.
*
The commissioner spun around, taking a good, long look behind him after hearing the disturbance. I’m being paranoid, he convinced himself, then continued.
With only a few minutes to spare he reached a small, single-room hunter’s shack made mostly from corrugated iron. It was mostly still in good condition. He nervously approached the door and stepped inside. He dropped the briefcase on the rickety wooden bunk as instructed, just as he’d done on the previous three visits he’d made. He turned around to leave, but stopped in his tracks as he saw Hampton standing in the doorway with a handgun pointed right between his eyes. “Well, well, well. What have we here,” Hampton said with a subtle grin.
Commissioner Marshall froze and put his hands up in surrender.
Chapter 29
“Lower your weapon, Steve, this isn’t what it looks like,” Commissioner Marshall said nervously.
“Hands where I can see them!” Hampton replied. “And no tricks!”
“Just stay calm. Don’t do anything rash you might regret.”
Hampton’s ageing hand trembled slightly. “What’s in the briefcase?” he asked curtly, waving his firearm at the rickety bunk against the wall.
Commissioner Marshall slowly lowered his hands as he said, “I’m going to open it and show you what’s inside, all right?”
Hampton answered with a sharp nod.
Commissioner Marshall dialled the correct numbers into the combination lock and popped the latches open. Hampton’s eyes almost fell out of his head as he saw the countless bundles of crisp twenty-dollar bills neatly arranged inside.
“You’ve got two minutes to explain yourself,” Hampton said.
“I’m afraid it going to take longer than that, old friend.”
“You can cut the friend act, Jerry,” Hampton growled. “You just put me out to pasture, remember?”
The commissioner instantly regretted his decision. Then the arrogant, confident side of his character came to the fore. He felt Hampton didn’t have the gall to shoot him. “You will do well to remember who you are talking to,” he replied with a measure of confidence. “As I said, things aren’t as they appear. So stop trying to be a hero and put the goddamn gun away.”
Hampton’s face tensed. He gripped the trigger and squeezed.
BANG!
The bullet whizzed past the commissioner’s ear and ploughed through the wall of the cabin; Commissioner Marshall cowered to the rear corner of the room.
“Do you really want to test an old geezer with nothing to lose?” Hampton snarled.
“All right, all right,” you’ve made your point,” the commissioner relented.
“Start explaining or the next one won’t miss.”
He slowly backed up to the bunk and took a seat next to the briefcase, then began his tale. “It all started when I was appointed as the new commissioner. I received an anonymous phone call informing me that there would be a bombing at a random school or kindergarten if I didn’t step down from my new role.”
Hampton immediately changed his demeanour towards the commissioner. “Go on,” he said.
“Well, I informed the caller that I would do no such thing, and to take his empty threats elsewhere.”
“You mean the attack on Sheffield Primary was a direct result of you not giving in to terrorism?”
“That’s precisely what I’m saying. And luckily it was only a warning shot. The school was closed on the day of the attack. But now, whoever it is that threatened me has raised the stakes.”
“How much are they asking for?”
“There’s twenty-five-thousand dollars in that briefcase.”
“That’s it? Only twenty-five grand?”
“This is the fourth instalment.”
Hampton paused, then said, “That doesn’t seem like a huge amount of money. I’d have thought they’d be asking for something a bit more substantial.”
“At first I thought the same. Now I think the bomber prefers to keep things small and attainable.”
“Yes, maybe.” Hampton paused. “How on earth did you come up with the hundred-grand, if you haven’t told anyone?”
“Let’s just say my retirement funds are taking a substantial hit. I was assured that if I continued to deliver the payments then no further attacks would be made.”
“And you seriously believe that will be the case?”
“They’ve stuck to their word thus far.”
Hampton shook his head. “You idiot!” he shouted. “As soon as they get what they want they will do it again, and again, and again until they bleed you dry. You should’ve known better. Rule number one: never give in to terrorists!” Hampton took a moment to calm himself, then asked, “Why didn’t you tell someone?”
“Did you not see the destruction the bomb caused at the school? They levelled a classroom with a single high-powered explosive. Imagine if there was children in there!”
“That’s all the more reason you should have gone to the authorities.”
“I am the authorities, dammit!” the commissioner shouted.
Hampton shook his head, disappointed. “You still haven’t learned have you? You’ve always let your ego get in the way, Jerry. You think you can solve everything on your own esteem. But you’re barking mad if you think that paying-off some nutcase-terrorist is the solution to the problem.”
“You don’t know that for certain.”
“Actually, I do. It’s how terrorists operate: through fear. As soon as they have your money tucked away safely they’ll only threaten you again. How much do they want from you?”
The commissioner gulped. “Two-hundred thousand.”
Hampton shook his head. “This is madness.”
“Don’t worry, Steve. I can handle it.”
“If you think that, you’re a fool.”
The commissioner knew Hampton was right. He just couldn’t admit it. “What should I do?” he asked, glumly. “I’m in too deep now. I made a statement to the press saying no organisation has taken credit for the bombing and that we are doing everything in our power to find the culprits.”
“Which is all ducks and drakes, right?”
“Yes,” the commissioner replied meekly.
Hampton frowned as he mulled over his predicament. “Whatever you do, you’re not to spend another dime. Give me the case. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“But you’re officially retired.”
“How about one last hurrah to make an old man feel useful?”
“What about your heart? Can you honestly tell me you can handle this alone?”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. And what about wages? I’d pay you out of my own pocket, but I’ll be living off rice and water when I leave the force at the rate I’m going.”
“I couldn’t care less about the money! I do it for the love of justice. My granddaughter goes to school in Brighton. If anything so barbaric was to happen to her, I’d...” He choked up with emotion. “Just give me the goddamn case, Jerry. You owe me this.”
“All right, old friend, it’s yours. But we need to be discreet. And we need to leave this cabin, now.”
They made their way back to their cars in silence, with a pair of unseen eyes watching them from a distance. “You’ve made a big mistake, commissioner,” the Jackal muttered to himself.
Chapter 30
Spider rescued Ace and Trigger, who were six or more drinks deep into their evening, and getting rowdy with some of the locals in a bar after Ace started hitting on one of their wives, asking if she’d like to be double-teamed by his giant rattlesnake and Trigger’s spitting cobra. It wasn’t completely his fault, though. She certainly didn’t seem to mind the attention from the charming stud with wavy long hair, trim torso, and chiselled face. Spider landed a few winning blows to end the tussle and dragged them out to the Hummer. Both Ace and Trigger were stunned as Ryan explained the events of their day in detail since they’d gone their separate ways.
Ryan entered their destination into the GPS on the dash and started navigating his way through the busy New York streets towards the brotherhood’s headquarters. As the out-of-place silver Hummer trundled through the industrial blocks, Ryan suggested they hide it and walk the remaining distance.
Everyone agreed.
It was approaching dusk. “Let’s wait till it’s completely dark before we scope the place out,” said Spider. “Any decent gang affiliation in the U.S. will have security gates, guards, cameras, and automatic fucking rifles within arm’s reach. We can’t be too careful. This ain’t some eight-man MC we’re talking about here. This is the real fucking deal.”
Thirty minutes later they crept along an alleyway between two large multi-storey buildings on the opposite side of the road to the clubhouse. What Spider saw made his heart sink. “There’s no fucking way we’re getting in there.” He pointed out the wire-mesh fence with razor wire and cameras mounted along the top, complete with an electronic security gate, manned by two armed men in a hut.
“We’ll have to find a way,” said Ryan. “I ain’t leaving New York without Blaze.”
Trigger looked up at the one of the high-rise buildings beside them. He made sure the guards across the street weren’t watching, and scampered to the front doors, trying the handles. The building had been abandoned years ago. The old wooden doors were unlocked and almost rotted through. Trigger walked into what was a large reception area. It was dusty. The air smelled stale. The old elevator shaft had a large DANGER, DO NOT USE sign fastened to the doors. He made his way over to the stairwell, which was when he noticed the faint outline of footprints in the dusty steps. He instinctively went on high alert, softly climbing each step until he came out onto the second-floor. He slowed his breathing. His firearms training always kept him calm. He was a pro-shooter, second to none. He waited a moment, listening for signs of life within the room. Everything seemed quiet. Must have been some homeless bum sleeping in here, he thought.
He walked across the bare wood floor and across to the window facing the street. It was a perfect birds-eye view of brotherhood’s compound. “I could pick them off like flies from up here,” he said to himself.
That was when he felt the cold steel barrel of a gun on the back of his skull. “Don’t move,” an unfamiliar voice murmured from behind.
Trigger held up his hands. He felt the gun barrel retract from the back of his head. “Turn around, slowly,” the voice commanded.
Trigger did so.
“What are you doing up here?” the middle-aged man in the black suit asked. He reminded Trigger of Detective Ryan.
“Looking for a place to sleep,” Trigger lied.
“Is that so?” the man asked coyly. “So I guess that explains why you were scoping out the brotherhood’s compound?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I just need a place to crash for the night.”
“I could pick them off like flies from up here?” the man said with a smirk. “Yes, I heard you muttering as I sneaked up behind you. You have a beef with someone in the brotherhood?”
“You could say that.”
The man in the black suit lowered his weapon. “Special Agent Morgan Doyle of the FBI.” He quickly flashed him his credentials. “I’m currently working a case in which the brotherhood are under heavy scrutiny. I was up here doing some recon when I heard you open the front door. Maybe I can be of some assistance?”
“Trust me, there’s nothing you can do to help us.”
“Us?” Doyle raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Got some friends with you?”
“Shit,” Trigger muttered.
“Where are they?”
Trigger didn’t know whether to answer.
“Look, you’re not in any trouble. If you have any information regarding the brotherhood or have any issues with them, we might be able to help each other.”
“Perhaps you’d better come downstairs,” Trigger said after a slight hesitation.
Doyle followed him down to the foyer.
Ryan, Ace, and Spider were on their way inside at the same moment Trigger stepped out of the stairwell.
“We wondered where you’d got to–” Ryan stopped himself short as he saw Doyle tailing Trigger. “Who the hell are you?” he asked tersely.
Doyle quickly explained why he was there, to which Ryan introduced himself properly. “Detective Cameron Ryan of the Milton City Homicide Unit, New Zealand.”
The two men shook hands. “You’re a long way from home, detective. What, exactly, brings you here? Your friend here gave me a rather vague explanation.”
“Well, the short version is I’ve been charged with finding and bringing a wanted criminal home to justice.”
“What? From here in U.S.?”
“That’s right. And thus far we’ve tracked his movements to this location. Apparently he’s joined the brotherhood.”
“Yes, well, the criminal type tend to do that...”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Ryan paused. “So what are you doing out here, all alone, Agent Doyle?”
“I recently inserted an asset into the brotherhood on behalf of the FBI. I’m keeping tabs on him until I’m satisfied the brotherhood don’t smell a rat and start putting him to work. So far I think he’s doing fine.”
“He must be crazy.”
“Honestly, I think he is.” He looked left and right as if to make sure no one was listening, then said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but from one man of the law to another, I picked him up from an underground fighting ring run by a notorious street gangsta. He takes bets on people fighting to the death. I literally watched my asset kill a man with his bare hands.”
Ryan froze. “You wouldn’t happen to be talking about a gangsta named Skinny-Jay, by any chance?”
This time it was Doyle who was astonished. “I see you’ve been busy, detective. I’m impressed. Yes, Skinny-Jay runs the underground fighting ring where I acquired my asset. As the story goes, he sold my asset to the brotherhood for some ridiculous price in an effort to keep the peace between their rival gangs. Luckily for me, I managed to convince him to do my bidding on the inside for a much smaller price.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Ryan said, perplexed.
“Why?”
“What’s the name of this asset you have on the inside?”
Embarrassed, he replied, “In all honesty, I’ve no idea, The FBI couldn’t even get a hit on his true identity, I just address him by his street name.”
“Which is...?”
“Bla
ze.”
Everyone’s heads turned and bore down on Doyle simultaneously.
“What?” Doyle asked, innocently.
“It appears we’re gonna need to come to some kind of arrangement, Agent Doyle,” said Ryan. “You just made an asset out of New Zealand’s most wanted man.”
Chapter 31
Doyle froze, gobsmacked at the revelation that he’d recruited a wanted man. “You’re here for Blaze?” he asked.
“Indeed I am,” said Ryan. “And there’s a lot riding on his capture, too.”
“Then you’re not going to like what I have to say.” He paused, then said, “Blaze’s going undercover inside Manhattan Detention Complex to gain crucial intel for my case.”
“He’s what?” Ryan exclaimed. “You mean he’s going to prison?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Then you have pull the pin, immediately! Are you aware how dangerous Blaze is? He’s a goddamn loose cannon when incarcerated.”
“Of course I am. Why do you think I chose him for this assignment? The brotherhood were actively seeking to recruit him; it’s the perfect plan.”
“That may be so. But he’s not thinking straight. And he’s been through a hell of a lot back home, hence why he’s on the run.”
“You can have him back in due time. But for now, the FBI needs him.”
“Oh, so the FBI makes a habit out of recruiting felons, does it? That’s right, your so-called government will do anything to protect the supposed Land of the Free.”
“Look,” Doyle exhaled heavily, “I was unaware of his identity at the time of his recruitment, and I’m almost embarrassed to say that even my best computer-whiz couldn’t find a trace of his existence on any current database, which tells me two things: he’s got some connections in high places, and he doesn’t want to be found, which is why he’s the perfect asset. No one will miss a ghost if things go south.”
