“How many mules have worn one of these?”
“You’re the first. The first of many. You’ll breeze through this, okay?” Doc smiled, attempting to reassure him. Mitch didn’t need reassurance. He knew this was insanely risky, but it was the only option he had left to save his five-year-old nephew.
“Straight after you land you’ll be driven to one of our locations. I’ll remove the merchandise, then we’ll give you the Rituxan and get you on your way.”
“Yeah, I get it. Put my scalp back on now, will you?”
“Of course. Right away.”
Doc placed the plate on the top of Mitch’s skull, maneuvering it this way and that. But he wasn’t satisfied. He took the scalp off and, with the tool, began to cut out some of the flesh and deposit it on the tray.
“What are you doing?”
“Need some more room. Don’t worry, it’ll grow back,” Doc said.
When he’d finished, the scalp was thinner, little more than a layer of skin with stubble on the top. Doc put it back on Mitch’s head, a much better fit now, and started stitching it back on.
Chapter 3
Sheryl was behind the wheel of the truck listening to the radio as she did her rounds. She was a happy soul with a natural warmth about her, despite her broken nose and a missing tooth, reminders of her former job as a security guard at a bank. During an armed hold-up she had been knocked unconscious, despite following bank protocol and offering no resistance when confronted with superior numbers and firepower. The four masked bandits hadn’t needed to knock her senseless, they had just done it to send a message to the bank staff and customers.
She had changed jobs to find something less dangerous, and delivering pharmaceuticals to drug stores was a perfect fit. She didn’t mind the traffic. As long as she could sing along to the radio, she was happy. It was her background in security that got her the job, though she didn’t quite understand why. She was not required to carry cash or hard drugs. Who would want to rob a pharmaceutical truck?
She drove the truck around the corner of the inner city street, only to find the road blocked by a broken down sedan, the hood propped open. She indicated and began to steer around the vehicle when a white van pulled out from behind and stopped beside her, blocking her in. An acute feeling of nausea immediately overcame her along with the realization that this was a hit. When the masked gunmen emerged from the vehicle her nausea vanished, replaced by red-hot adrenalin as her instincts kicked in.
Sheryl put her foot down and ploughed into the sedan, barging it forward and onto the curb as she barreled past it. Two of the gunmen leapt onto the side of the truck, grabbing the hand-holds as she accelerated, the van still in pursuit.
In her side mirror she saw the clinging men advancing towards the cabin. She turned the wheel, cutting off the van and taking the truck close to the sidewalk, using the lamppost to brush one of the bandits off the vehicle and send him rolling into a dumpster.
The other bandit hid behind the cab. He used the butt of his sawn-off shotgun to smash the rear window, filling the cab with shattered glass. Sheryl swerved all over the road, almost flinging him off. But he managed to stay put and shoved the weapon inside, pulling the trigger and blowing her left hand clean off at the wrist.
The truck careened into an oncoming car, catapulting the bandit into the cabin, head first onto the floor, passenger side. Sheryl was in survival mode and was not fazed by the blood pumping from her handless wrist. The pain didn’t even register. She pulled a can of mace from a cup holder and as the bandit squirmed on the floor, she gunned it into his eyes. He screamed and fired another shot, hitting her in the shoulder.
But Sheryl was a powerful woman and, like a cornered bull, she went berserk, kicking the weapon from his hands and stomping his head into the side of the door repeatedly, battering it. But she didn’t see the other bandit coming from behind and felt nothing when he put a bullet into the back of her head.
The beaten man crawled out of the cabin, staggering to his feet. A few bystanders stopped, some of them going to his aid, but the sight of his weapon caused them to flee in all directions. One of his accomplices already had the keys and opened the back of the truck. It took them less than a minute to empty the expensive load of pharmaceuticals and load them into the van.
Chapter 4
Mitch sat in the back of the airport shuttle bus wearing a skullcap to conceal the bandages. He held his carry bag in one hand, a water bottle in the other. They hustled through the bustling Jakarta traffic and with every sudden turn the feeling in his scalp began to return, along with increasing pain. He took the headache pills from his pocket and swallowed two.
This is nothing compared to the pain your five-year-old nephew is going through.
The boy had been in and out of hospital for the past six months. During that time his mother, Mitch’s sister Lauren, had been hospitalized after a drunk driver collected her, so Mitch took care of the boy for a month. Having recently been retrenched, he had received a redundancy payout and was able to spend almost every day with Peter. He was glad to be able to help, and would otherwise have spent his days catching up with his retrenched work buddies at their regular bar. Helping Peter had given him purpose.
He had done everything for Peter, including bathing him and taking him to the toilet when he was too sick to do so on his own. What most impressed Mitch was that his nephew had never complained, whether he was taking foul-tasting medicine, vomiting repeatedly, or sobbing quietly in pain. They’d spent hours together, watching cartoons, playing video games. Mitch would read to him every night until he fell asleep. He was sad to see him go when Lauren was well enough to resume caring for the boy.
Peter had a rare form of leukemia and was emaciated the last time Mitch saw him. Lauren was told the boy would not live much longer with the current course of treatment. But he didn’t have to die. There was a new drug on the market that had an incredible success rate for patients just like Peter. But it cost over one hundred and forty grand for a course of treatment. There was talk that the Government would subsidize the drug, but the red tape meant that wouldn’t be for at least another twelve months. Peter didn’t have that long. Lauren and Mitch had pooled their savings and sold what they could, but they came up about sixty thousand short. It didn’t deter Mitch. He was not prepared to let his nephew die for lack of money.
The shuttle bus pulled up by the terminal of Jakarta Soekarno Hatta International Airport. Mitch climbed out and, with only hand luggage, entered the airport, turning away from the sign that read:
Death Penalty For Drug Traffickers
By the time Mitch was halfway through the check-in line, his senses were heightened, his heart was racing and his face was dripping with sweat. He was grateful for the tropical heat, which he hoped would be taken as the reason why his clothes were wet through.
Mitch noticed the lady who had had the golden brown implants checking her luggage in before him. She was also flying to Los Angeles and seemed as relaxed as anybody else. She took her boarding pass and disappeared into the crowd as she headed for the security clearance section.
If I can look half as casual as Golden Boobs, Mitch thought, I shouldn’t have a problem.
Ten minutes later he was lining up at security, placing his bag on a tray and sliding it over the conveyer belt. There were at least a dozen customs officers waiting on the other side of the metal detector. His nerves began to get the better of him and so he thought about Golden Boobs – GB, he decided to call her – and how calm she had been. But that only reminded him of how nervous he looked in contrast. Then he thought about his nephew again.
These people are trying to stop me from saving Peter’s life!
The thought enabled him to replace nervousness with quiet determination. He pulled out his medical certificate then sent the tray into the x-ray machine. He walked through the metal detectors, setting off the alarm and immediately showed the guard his medical certificate. The guard barely read it before handi
ng it back and waving Mitch on. He picked up his bag and was on his way.
This might not be so bad.
His mouth curled into a smile but it soon disappeared when he was stopped by another officer, with a sniffer dog on a leash. The dog immediately went to work on Mitch, sniffing over him and his luggage, but then retreating. The officer then escorted Mitch into a room, more security guards, and guided him behind a full body X-Ray machine.
His phone rang and he took it out of his pocket. It was his sister, Lauren.
“Phone off!” said the officer, and Mitch turned it off. “Stand still, please.”
He did as he was told and listened as the machine clicked over.
“Now turn to your side please.”
Mitch complied.
“Okay, step out please.”
Mitch stepped from behind the screen and was lead to a viewing station, where he saw the x rays of the plate in his head.
“Why you got that in your head?”
“I had an accident, crashed my bike. A motorcycle accident, actually I was knocked off my bike by some jerk who--”
“Where about?”
“Somewhere in the city, I don’t know. I can’t remember anything about it. I was told that’s what happened to me, but I’m not sure of the details.”
“You lucky man, ay?”
“Yeah. Very lucky.”
The officer’s eyes were penetrating, and he knew how to use them, holding his gaze, searching Mitch for any sign of fear.
Peter! Think about Peter!
The officer smiled. “Good for you. Off you go.”
Mitch was among the last passengers to board the A380, taking his aisle seat in economy. He noticed GB storing her luggage in the overhead lockers a dozen rows ahead, looking as calm as before. The engines fired up and he kept his eyes closed as the stewards went through their routine safety instructions.
Come on! Get this thing in the air!
His eyes were shut tight as he grimaced.
“Are you okay?” Mitch heard the steward say, and kept his eyes closed. “Hello, can you hear me? Madam!?”
Mitch looked up to see the steward was talking to GB, who was slumped over, leaning towards the aisle and not responding. Another steward was called and soon there was concealed panic among the staff.
“She’s dead,” said the guy sitting next to Mitch.
“How do you know?”
“I’ll bet she’s a drug mule,” he said, chewing his gum, “swallowed a bag of coke and it burst inside of her. And if she ain’t dead now, if the coke hasn’t kill her, the firing squad will. That’s what they do here. Death by firing squad. So she’s dead, either way you slice it.”
Mitch squirmed in his chair.
Moments later the engines were shut down and paramedics arrived. They checked her vital signs then put her on the floor and tried to revive her with CPR. The air stewards stood on either side in an attempt to prevent passengers from seeing, but Mitch could see well enough. Soon the paramedics abandoned their efforts and picked GB up, rushing her through the exit.
“Your attention, please,” came the voice over the PA. “Due to a medical emergency, our departure has been delayed. Please remain seated as we will be departing as soon as possible.”
No sooner had the paramedics left than customs officers arrived with a sniffer dog, investigating the area around GB’s seat.
Maybe they’ll re-examine me, remove the plate from my head!
Mitch closed his eyes and thought about Peter again. He thought of some of the happier times they had had, but that gave him the feeling those moments would never return and his eyes started to water. Then he thought of Peter’s emaciated face, bald head, the pain in his eyes.
They want to stop me from saving Peter!
All sentiment disappeared and his feeling of resolution returned. He would need to maintain that focus and determination all the way from here and through customs at Los Angeles International Airport.
He heard the sniffing of the dog approaching and opened his eyes to see the animal leading the officer towards him. He sat still as it neared, the stern-faced customs officer looking straight at him. The dog raced towards Mitch and turned into his row, then continued two seats along to another passenger – a twenty something hipster whom Mitch hadn’t noticed before. The customs officer stood beside Mitch, blocking the row. Mitch snuck a look at the guy, struck by his ruthless, cold eyes. He averted his gaze to the back of the chair in front. Another officer stood at the other end of the row so the hipster had nowhere to go. The officer next to Mitch gestured for the passenger to get up.
“What is it? I didn’t do anything!” said the man, a few years younger than Mitch.
“You come now!”
“Come on, the plane’s about to leave! You can’t take me out now!”
The officer drew a taser from his belt.
“I’m not leaving, man! I’m on the plane! I’m an American citizen, I got rights!”
The officer barged past Mitch and the guy next to him and put the taser to the young man’s chest, giving him a blast that made him limp. He dragged the youth out over them and down the aisle, the other officers following.
Mitch closed his eyes, hoping like hell they wouldn’t return. The next twenty minutes seemed like an hour, but finally the engines fired up and, to everyone’s relief, the plane took off.
Chapter 5
Mitch kept his eye on the GPS flight path screen and it wasn’t until they were well into international waters that he collapsed back into his chair, exhausted from nervous tension. He knew getting through customs in LAX would not be half as harrowing as this. If he was caught, he’d be looking at a hefty prison sentence, but not a death sentence. All he had to do was get through customs and into the airport car park, where he would be picked up by Doc’s people. Once he had had the plate removed from his head, he would get the medicine, get it to his sister, then check into the nearest hospital to have a legitimate doctor fix his scalp. But the hardest part, the life and death side of things, was over. Now it was time to catch up on some sleep.
He reclined the seat and rested his head on a pillow. It was then, when he was truly relaxed, that he began to notice the stinging and itching on his scalp. He took the last painkiller and waited for it to kick in. Flicking over the inflight entertainment, he settled on a sitcom, but it failed to distract him.
The itching was accompanied by an intense, throbbing pain that felt like a swarm of bees had circled and stung his head. He wondered how the hell he was going to get through more than a dozen hours of this.
Mitch pressed his palms against various points along the wound, which offered slight relief from the itching but intensified the pain. Sitting as still as he possibly could, he was determined to keep his internal hell from the jerk sitting next to him, the surrounding passengers and the cabin crew. His eyes were blurry with tears and soon he couldn’t stop them flooding over onto his cheeks. He wasn’t weeping, or even sobbing, but the torturous sensations demanded a physical reaction from his body. Then he saw the cabin crew approaching with the food cart and his spirits suddenly lifted.
Booze! The best kind of painkiller!
Chapter 6
Pressing his head in alternating parts, Mitch waited for the cart. The steward was in no hurry, making small talk with the passengers, working overtime to compensate for the unsettling occurrence earlier. Meanwhile, Mitch quietly squirmed in his chair, barely able to restrain himself from yelling at the steward to hurry the fuck up!
Finally the cart came to rest by the passenger seated in front of him and as the steward got busy, Mitch swiped two 50 ml bottles of vodka from the cart. It wasn’t going to be enough. The passenger opposite the aisle, a motherly type in her forties, gave him a disapproving look, but he didn’t care. He took a bottle of whiskey, then a bottle of gin.
The steward pushed the cart forward. “Would you like salmon or beef, sir?” the steward asked.
“Beef,” he said. He
looked at the young man’s name tag: Robert. Robert pulled the tray from the cart and placed it in front of him.
“Anything to drink?” Robert said with a smile.
“Ah, yes, I think I will.”
“What would you like?”
“How about one of everything?”
“Very funny,” he laughed.
“No, seriously, is that possible, Rob?”
“Oh! Well, ah, how about if I give you a few samples to start with?”
The steward handed Mitch single bottles of Smirnoff, Johnnie Walker Red Label and Glenfiddich.
“Will that be okay, sir?”
“I always wanted to try Black Label.”
Robert sighed and handed Mitch the bottle. “There you go.”
“Oh, I’ve got to have some wine, too. For my food.”
“Red or white?”
Mitch smiled at Robert, who rolled his eyes and handed him one of each.
“Thank you so much, Rob,” Mitch said.
“Please behave yourself.”
“Will do.”
Robert moved on and Mitch poured some of the vodka into his orange juice. He knocked it back, then downed the Johnnie Walker Black Label. The strength of the alcohol in his mouth and throat immediately distracted him from the pain and itching. But not for long.
He downed the Glenfiddich, then the bottle of red, his throat burning now. He shoved some beef and gravy into his mouth, then washed it down with a bottle of gin. The jerk next to him began to shuffle in his seat with trepidation and the motherly woman shook her head. But Mitch was not concerned about appearances anymore, he had to numb the pain and he was well on his way. It was only when he felt a burning sensation in his stomach that he decided to stop and let the alcohol do its thing.
Brazen Violations Page 2
