by Roger Weston
The prosecutor said, “I object. Once again, the defense is attempting to mislead the jury.”
“Objection sustained,” the judge said. “Stick to the facts, Bakker. My patience is getting thin with your tactics. Furthermore, let the record show that the deaths of thirty-seven million is more than just an overstep.”
The court reporter typed.
The prosecutor sat down.
Bakker said, “These are my closing remarks. I demand leniency. After all, I assume this court is honest. The tradition shown in the authorities is that lenience is shown to high-level conspirators in history’s most notorious crimes. Therefore, I urge the jury to do the right thing. In comparison to the cases we have reviewed, the missteps of my client are minor. Finally, gentlemen, remember that Hackworth is your peer. The treatment he receives now sets a precedent to the kind of treatment you yourselves might expect in the future.”
Hackworth shifted in his seat and wiped the back of his hand across his drooping cheek. He looked around with shrewd eyes.
The defense attorney pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Your honor, my client, the esteemed Percy Hackworth, is a leader of men. By definition, he is expected to interpret orders of the court and make decisions to carry out said orders. If his interpretation has strained the court’s patience, at least, in the long tradition of the elite, we request lenience and compassion. He has done nothing that has not been discussed in the committees too many times to count. He has simply taken action because the committees have procrastinated far too long.”
Maroz cut him off. “That is no excuse. Far from it. He has disrespected the vaunted traditions of our society and shown utter contempt for the authority of this court. Just because he got impatient does not give him the right to defy the court.”
Hackworth’s face darkened, but then he leaned back and shrugged. “Give me a break, Maroz. Whatever is done is done. Hurry up and announce my fine. My masseuse is waiting.”
The attorney looked toward his client.
Laugher broke out among the members.
“Order!” shouted Maroz. “There is no fine, Hackworth. I am revoking your charter for seven years. You are banned from this island and from all official meetings and gatherings of the Immortals.”
Hackworth scowled at Maroz, but didn’t even bother to sit up straight. He said, “You bastard. You really think you can get away with this? Do you really?”
The attorney put his hand to his forehead and squeezed his temples.
Maroz narrowed his eyes. “My decision is final. Remove Hackworth into the custody of the court. Keep him in custody until the airport reopens. Then see him off the island.”
The CERBERUS enforcer by the exit door did not move.
“Remove him!” Maroz shouted.
Hackworth said, “Sorry, Mort. They work for me now. If I can take control of Venezuela—” Now he sat up straight—“then I can certainly take control of this court!”
A dozen more guards entered.
Hackworth stood up and said, “Now it’s my turn to call for an emergency session of the shadow court. In fact, we are going to vote for a new judge given that Maroz is not well. He is unsound. He is irrational and going against the wishes of the members.”
“This is an outrage,” Maroz shouted. “Get him out of here! I want him taken outside and shot in the courtyard!”
Hackworth smiled. “All jurors in favor of removing Maroz from the bench and having me replace him, say aye.”
All of the attending members raised their hands and said “Aye.”
Hackworth pointed his finger at Judge Maroz, fashioning his fingers into the shape of a pistol. Then he pretended to pull the trigger.
Maroz slammed his gavel down on the wooden plaque. “You are in contempt!”
Hackworth frowned and gestured to the CERBERUS agents. “Go ahead. Take Maroz into custody! I will decide his fate later.”
Three CERBERUS secret police rushed up and hurried Maroz out of the courtroom. After a minute, one of the CERBERUS agents came back into the cafeteria and handed Maroz’s black robe to Hackworth.
The clerk said, “All rise.”
The members stood, and Hackworth left the cafeteria.
CERBERUS agents remained standing at the back. A few moved forward and took positions along the perimeter of the court. The gazes of some members followed the shotguns in the big hands of the CERBERUS heavies.
The clerk applied a fresh layer of gray lipstick then said, “All members will remain seated.”
The members obeyed. They sat down and whispered among themselves.
Ten minutes later, the clerk said, “All rise.”
All the members stood. The CERBERUS agents were already standing along the perimeter.
Hackworth now returned wearing the black robe. He took over the table that Maroz had been using for his bench.
He said, “I thank you all for your loyalty. I will remember it, you can be sure. As long as your loyalty is true, my appreciation will be sincere.
“Now, my first order of business is that Chuck Brandt must be eliminated. I hereby direct Kielce to eliminate Brandt. Join us, Kielce.”
Kielce, a heavy man with a fleshy face and wire glasses, entered the court and stood at the back of the cafeteria. He ran his hand over his slicked-back hair. He patted the buttons of his sports jacket and adjusted the knot of his red tie.
Hackworth said, “I hereby bestow upon CERBERUS full authority to terminate Brandt with extreme prejudice—immediately. I direct you to leave the courtroom now and fulfill your mission.”
“Yes, sir.” Kielce left.
CHAPTER 9
Kevlar came through the doorway into the staff lounge and stood by the door. An intense expression clung to his beefy, scarred face. A horseshoe mustache blocked the nostrils of his big broad mashed nose. Thick bags underscored his fatalistic eyes. Nobody said a word. Judge Hackworth entered next. Eight men were sitting at a break table, but they all stood up when Hackworth entered.
Kevlar said, “Sit down, gentlemen. You’re about to kick some ass and I’m here to give you the details.”
The CERBERUS death team obeyed without hesitation.
Hackworth stood by the door in his black robe, which contrasted with his white, doughy face and predatory eyes.
Kevlar paced back and forth a couple of times, never taking his eye off of his men. Then he stopped and gazed right at his hit team. His face was a statement in brutal survival. He had a wicked knife scar under his eye and another scar stretched across his cheek and led to his ear, half of which was missing. But the most impressive mark was the scar where a bullet had once nicked his cheek. That’s why they called him Kevlar—because a bullet had ricocheted off his face. Ever since then, he’d also worn a Kevlar vest. The bags under his eyes were legendary. His hair was a thick yellow mesh of hair that ironically resembled a handful of yellow para-aramid synthetic fiber, a super-strong material also known as Kevlar. His hair was like a bad yellow wig, but it was real hair. He wore three pistols in sight. He had a side holster, a leg holster, and an ankle holster. His tactical vest was loaded with shotgun shells, and the shotgun’s leather carrying strap was slung over his shoulder and under his arm. The double barrels rose up behind his right shoulder.
He said, “As you know, Judge Percy Hackworth was just sworn in as the new chief justice of the Lancastria Court. Therefore, as of today, he is not only one of the richest men in the world; he is also arguably the most powerful man alive. Most presidents will obey his decrees even above the authority of the United Nations. More importantly, he is the man who pays your wages. And I might add, he holds your futures in his hands. Five of you have been part of Maroz’s elite security team; however, there is a bigger fish in the pond now. Maroz will be making other arrangements. You are now all officially assigned as executive protection for Hackworth.”
The men shifted in their chairs. They looked at each other. None looked angry or rebellious. A couple shrugged indifferentl
y. Others nodded at Kevlar.
One looked defiant. He said, “I’m not turning my back on Maroz for this usurper.”
Kevlar frowned, shook his head, and raised his shotgun. He fired at close range. The blast was deafening. The rebel crashed against the wall and crumpled to the floor.
The surviving security men looked tense. One had his hands over their ears and was wincing in pain. Another couldn’t take his eyes off the victim.
“Any more of you wavering?” Kevlar said.
They shook their heads and gave a chorus of “No’s.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Maybe then we can get down to business.” Kevlar leaned his shotgun against the wall.
He said, “Let’s get to the point. We’re here to kick ass, plain and simple. Chuck Brandt is on the loose. You know that. What you don’t know is that the most powerful man in the world just gave us the authority to pump so much lead into Brandt that battery manufacturers will fight over his body. I don’t have to tell you who Brandt is. If you’ve seen any news stories in the last week, you know he’s the most wanted man in the world. An international manhunt is underway. There is a million dollar bounty offered for the man that kills him. He’s on the island gentlemen, but it gets better. He’s probably in the building or in the immediate area. In just a minute, you’re going to get off your butts and bag the biggest big game that ever strode the planet. You’re going to compete for the privilege of killing Brandt before the son-of-a-bitch next to you does.”
“Yes!” Franz said, a bald thug with a bushy beard. He slammed his fist down on the table. “He’s mine.”
Kevlar grabbed his shotgun and aimed it at Franz’s face. “Keep your mouth shut while I’m talking, or I’ll give you a buckshot sandwich.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry!”
Kevlar nodded.
“We’re not playing here, gentleman. I want to see professionals at work. I want you to hunt him down and bring me the body. Justice Hackworth is in danger.”
Hackworth nodded and said, “We have Erica Rivera in custody. We found her in the building. She says Brandt was with her but went back to collect his backpack, which was stashed before he talked Camilo Cortez.”
“Sounds like bullshit,” Kevlar said. “Let me talk to her. If you don’t mind screaming, I’ll get truth out of her in five minutes.”
Hackworth gave him an icy glare. “Maroz has fallen from power, but if you ever again talk about violence against one of our members or their close associates, I will have you shot.”
Kevlar gasped. “Maroz put a hit on her.”
“Things have changed. Neither you, nor any one of you can do violence against a member—any member—or your own blood will spill like spit and drool. You boys follow orders. You do not think. You obey. Am I clear?”
“Yes,” Kevlar said.
“Good, then you may proceed.”
Kevlar nodded. He said, “We’re dealing with a dangerous man. I’m going to tell you the truth. Brandt did not kill the Venezuelan president. I did. I shut down their talking heads and put them in the ground. Brandt got all the credit, but the truth is that he is more dangerous than you know. Until Marez framed him, Brandt was a CIA black ops independent contractor. They would bring him in when they didn’t dare deploy Navy SEALs or Delta Force because of political risks. He was sometimes used as a sacrifice, sent into hopeless situations and expected to fail. In Venezuela, he was set up and supposed to die, but take note gentleman, Brandt is still alive. He has taken out killers that were just as bad as you, so don’t take anything for granted. I don’t expect this to be pretty. I want him dead or alive, but don’t take chances. I don’t care if the face is recognizable.” He gestured with a sweep of his arm. “What I care about is that you get the job done. Are there any questions?”
The killers looked around at each other and shook their heads.
“Fine. We’ll break up into two hit teams. Hunt him down and show no mercy. Is there anything you’d like to add to that, Justice Hackworth?”
He nodded, sending ripples through his black robe. “By order of the shadow court, I give Brandt the death penalty. I give you hard-cases full authority of the court to carry out his lawful sentence. Kill him without hesitation. Kill him with extreme prejudice.”
Kevlar slung his shotgun over his shoulder. “Alright, you heard it straight from the top. Do your job. Franz, you take your men through the asylum. Clear every room, every nook, and every cranny.” Kevlar looked at the other table where five hoods sat at attention. “Roderigo, let’s go. You five come with me. We’re going outside. Hunting season just opened.”
CHAPTER 10
Kevlar led his men down the long sterile corridor and out the door into the courtyard where the howling wind flew overhead like water from a fire hose. The ten-foot stone walls around the asylum protected them from direct exposure, but not for long. Kevlar led them out through the barred gate and beyond the asylum walls.
As they stalked through the gardens, Arlen’s long hair whipped at his eyes so much that he had to duck behind a hedge and put his locks in a pony tail. As they moved from tree to tree, they hiked as if in slow motion one moment; then with a shift of the wind, they were practically thrown toward the next tree.
Despite the mayhem of the hurricane, a very distinct and evil spirit lay upon the island like the hands of a madman choking the life out of a cruel nurse behind the stone walls. As the men hunted, they constantly dodged flying debris even as they constantly wiped the water from their eyes just so they could see.
They circled the asylum, searching the grounds methodically. Then they moved outside the barbed-wire fence. The hurricane sounded like a freight train. Wind pushed them with every step.
Kevlar led them to the experimentation building where all the birds were kept. As they approached it, flying debris caused a couple of men to drop to the ground for cover. Arlen remained on his feet, but then a flying stick lodged in his stomach like a spear. He fell to the ground screaming like a pig. The screams were horrific.
Kevlar stood over him and shot him in the face, which ended the screaming.
“What are you doing?” Alfred yelled.
Kevlar turned the shotgun at Alfred. “We have a job to do. You got a problem with that?”
“No,” Alfred said, “no problem.”
“Good, then shut up and follow me.”
With his shotgun leading the way, Kevlar entered the building first, but something was wrong.
Most of the birds were gone.
He moved from section to section, ready to open fire if Brandt was here and fill him with a mouthful of buckshot.
But there was a problem. He turned to his men behind him, holding their pistols at chest level.
“He ain’t here,” Kevlar said. “He let the birds go.”
“Why would he do that?” Alfred said, water dripping down his bald head and face.
Kevlar was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “I think he’s already in the asylum. If he was this close, he didn’t come here for the birds. He came here to take out Hackworth and Maroz. We’re going back, gentlemen. We’re going to ice him inside the asylum.”
CHAPTER 11
Chuck was jogging down an underground tunnel beneath the asylum. The long tunnel stretched fifty yards ahead before it turned. He ran between cement walls that had been painted white. It was quiet down here. There were no storm sounds at all. As he passed a heating vent, he thought he heard something. It was an eerie moaning sound, but it wasn’t the air flow. Somehow the howl of the storm was coming through the vents. No air was coming through.
As he jogged down the long hallway, he stopped at a cross tunnel.
At a stairwell, he walked slowly and quietly up the steps. At the top, he arrived at ground level.
He resumed his search, but promptly stopped and looked down a side corridor. He had to find Erica, but he also had to find Maroz. That was the only person who could clear his name. Chuck had to get proof of his innocence. If all the
viral lies about him killing the Venezuelan president persisted, he would not live long. He paused for just a moment, yet it felt eerie, as if time was in slow motion. The hurricane howled. Below that noise loomed an endless train of rumbling and banging, probably caused by the storm blasting a direct hit at the second floor, the first floor being protected by the ten foot stone wall around the building. Chuck walked down a wide hall under pale ceiling lights. Even under the storm sounds, he heard the grating noise of some whining equipment in a closet. He passed by that and walked into a room. It was a rectangular-shaped lab with a long lab table in the center and counters along the long side walls. He started to open the door to leave, but hesitated and just peaked out the cracked open door.
Far down the corridor, he saw a couple of armed men walking his direction. They were carrying their firearms and checking rooms. They were opening every door and glancing inside, so Chuck had no chance to flee while they were inside of the rooms. It would just be a couple of minutes until they got to this lab.
He looked back over his shoulder. At the far end of the lab, two bookshelves sat against the wall. They were four-by-eight foot shelves, only half-full, so not real heavy. He let the door sink back into the door jamb then strolled across the lab. Using his shoulder strength, he slid each of the bookshelves a couple of feet from the wall—first one side than the other. He then laid down behind the bookshelves.
After a couple of minutes, the door to the lab swung open. When it did, the volume of the howling and rumbling of the storm got louder. After a few seconds, the door slammed shut. Chuck shook his head and put the book down. That hunter had done what he’d expected. This was a very large three-story asylum with hundreds of rooms. The rational man would have searched every cabinet and behind every piece of furniture, but people got tired and irritated. The hunters had probably been ordered by a boss they disdained to search the entire complex—inside and out. They knew they had hundreds of rooms to search, many of them occupied by disturbed and unpredictable patients. Forced to pick their way through this maze while already disoriented by a lethal storm, their natural response was to cut corners. They were searching with a bad attitude. Chuck had predicted as much because he understood the human heart.
