Quietly, he climbed the stairs leading from the basement of Greg’s home to the first floor. As far as he could determine from Greg’s steps earlier, the study would be at the back of the house, off to the left. He headed in that direction, gun in hand, alert for any possible danger, although he didn’t expect any. He had heard the shot a moment earlier.
Before actually reaching the room, he could see through the open door that Greg would present no immediate or eventual threat to himself or anyone else. The man had, wisely, literally blown his brains out.
Chris leaned over the dead accountant’s body and rebooted the PC. Only a few seconds were required to confirm that he had in fact erased the journal from the hard drive.
“Bye, Greg,” he said softly as he headed for the basement door by which he had entered. As he descended the stairs, he could hear the phone begin to ring upstairs.
* * * *
“Jesus Christ! Stupid motherfuckers,” Wayne screamed hysterically, throwing the cordless phone across the room. “Where the fuck are those assholes?”
“Calm down, Wayne, Jesus,” snapped Bryan, his tone exasperated. “Maybe they went to get something to eat. What the fuck is your problem?”
“I told that idiot, Matt, that I would call,” Wayne hissed impatiently. “And I asked that other goddamn moron to call me once he had checked in on Matt. That ain’t that complicated, Bryan. Why didn’t they call? Something’s wrong. I know it.”
“I’ll go check,” Bryan decided, lifting his bulky form from the couch. “I’m getting tired of sitting around here anyway, seeing as you don’t want me to party with our little friend upstairs.”
“We don’t touch her until we’ve figured out exactly what to do. Understand?” commanded Wayne. “Once we get our hands on Barry, you can do whatever you want with her. Not before.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Bryan rolled his eyes, having heard the speech several times already. “The more I wait, the sweeter she’ll be. In the meantime, I’m gonna go see what’s up with Greg and Matt. And don’t worry. I'll call.”
* * * *
Andy Kovac had never dreamed that working as a clerk for a customs broker would prove to be such a lucrative position. And to think, four years earlier, he had come so close to quitting this dead-end job.
That had been right before Wayne had showed up and offered to pay a handsome salary for very little work. Just a little merchandise coordination at the warehouse until the proper customs inspectors came along. That was it. And the nice thing was, his wife didn’t even know about it. That meant that he got to spend all the extra cash on his greatest passion; sex with the hottest call girls in town; sometimes a nooner, other times, the always reliable ‘night out with the boys’.
Last night had been particularly interesting, he thought as he stepped into the shower. With his wife gone to Vancouver to visit her sister, he had been able to hire not one or two, but three lovely and very nasty ladies to cater to his needs, right in the comfort of his own home. It had been expensive but, God, it had been worth it. He was surprised that he could even stand up this morning.
As he continued to think of the previous evening and the three women still sleeping in his bed, he found himself getting excited again. He looked down at his now semi-aroused penis and smiled.
“I’m so proud of you,” he chuckled, now convinced that he’d be in shape for another round of fun and games.
As if in response to his desires, he heard someone come into the bathroom.
“I don’t know who you are,” he called out over the shower curtain. “But I’ve got one stiff cock here that needs some attention.”
The shower curtain was pushed aside and he found himself staring at a very large gun, held by a very large man. Two uniformed officers stood in the background.
“Don’t look that stiff to me, Andy,” said Arty Hubbard of the RCMP. “Anyhow, you’re not really my type. I prefer long legs and breasts. Get your clothes on, Andy. We’re going downtown. You’re under arrest for conspiring to import illegal narcotics into the country. You have the right to retain and instruct counsel...”
* * * *
Richie ‘Butch’ Boulanger was only nineteen but he had already killed several times, even before the Aces of Death had asked him to do so to prove he was worthy of being a member. And he had proved it beyond the shadow of a doubt.
It was not simply that taking a life did not bother him. He actually enjoyed doing it. ‘The ultimate power trip’, he had bragged to others. Some of his associates thought that he was just a little too crazy. However, all treated him with respect and few dared to confront him when disagreements arose. It was thanks to Richie’s fearless qualities that Diamond Jimmy had selected him as one of the four guards to help out Wayne and Bryan.
* * * *
Jimmy had not been happy when Wayne had called but the quality of the dope these idiots were supplying him with warranted a little patience towards their inexperience in the field of illegal narcotics. He just hoped that they would improve with time.
Actually, what Jimmy was really banking on was that Wayne et al. stay in business just long enough for the Aces of Death to develop the direct contacts with the suppliers in Asia and Colombia. After that, Wayne and his little friends would become expendable. After that, they would become useless.
* * * *
Richie had been assigned to guard the sector to the east of Matt’s St-Sauveur residence, located halfway up one of the numerous wooded mountains in the area.
Standing several hundred feet from the building, the biker had a relatively good view into the forest which spanned below him. To his left, through a clearing in the trees, he could catch a glimpse of the road which wound steeply upwards. A little to his right was a rather deep ravine which pretty much guaranteed that no intruders would arrive from there. Up the slope behind him, the roof of the large country home he was protecting could be seen protruding above the top of the multitude of evergreens which crowded the terrain.
He carefully scanned the woods before him, looking for any signs of activity below; nothing. As he turned his head, carefully scrutinizing the landscape, he sensed, rather than saw, a slight movement by the ravine to his right. Slowly, he crept forward, attempting to make as little noise as possible with the frozen snow underfoot.
As he approached, he felt for the grip of the silenced .22 Beretta Minx tucked in the small of his back. Before he had time to withdraw the weapon, a man’s head suddenly appeared over the top of the ravine some fifteen feet away. Initially startled, the man then broke into a smile and finished his climb over the edge.
“Wow, you scared me,” the intruder exclaimed, standing and brushing some snow off his black jeans and leather winter jacket.
“This is private property, buddy,” Richie warned, remaining alert as the stranger took a couple of steps forward.
The man stopped, giving Richie a puzzled and troubled look before replying.
“Well, yeah. I know. This is Matt’s place. I’m Matt’s neighbour. I live in the next house down the road. Is there a problem?”
“No. No problem,” answered Richie, relaxing a little, not feeling highly threatened by some neighbour maybe twice his age. “Some punks broke into Matt’s place so he asked us to keep an eye on it.”
“Not too much damage, I hope?” enquired the obviously concerned man as he moved a couple of steps closer.
“Nah, not too much,” Richie responded as he leaned against a tree and dug into a pocket for his cigarettes. “Busted some windows and stuff. Nothing serious.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” the man replied with relief, now standing just a few feet from Richie. “It’s getting that we’re not safe anywhere anymore. This kind of stuff used to be reserved for the city and now they come out here to rob us.”
“Uh, yeah. Right,” yawned Richie, becoming bored with this righteous conversation. “Listen. There’s gonna be few of us watching the place for a couple of days so it’s probably best that
you keep off Matt’s property for a while. Wouldn’t want one of us to take you for a punk, right?”
“Yeah, sure, I understand,” the man responded earnestly. “I do some rock climbing and the ravine here is a good spot to practice. But I’ll stay out of your way. You be sure to tell Matt to call me if he needs anything. Tommy’s the name.”
“Sure. I’ll do that,” Richie chuckled as he turned away to head back to his observation point.
The six inch steel blade plunged through his back into his heart so quickly that he barely had time to feel the pain before dying.
“One down,” breathed Chris as he began dragging the dead biker’s body the short distance to the ravine.
* * * *
“Good morning! Who’s going to Disney World?” asked Gene Fennell as he sat down at the breakfast table.
“We are!” chorused his four kids aged five to ten.
“You bet you are,” he beamed proudly at them.
Looking over at his wife who was busy preparing breakfast, he asked, “Bags all ready?”
“Yup,” she replied, glancing up at him and flashing a smile. “Once we’ve got these little monsters fed, we’ll be ready to go.”
“We’ve got lots of time,” said Gene amidst several anti-monster protests emanating from around the table. “It’s only nine o’clock. Flight’s at 12:10.”
As an inspector for Canada Customs, Gene Fennell had considered that he earned a relatively decent living with his annual salary of $46,268. This, naturally, had excluded the additional perks in the form of contraband merchandise seized from ignorant tourists returning from trips abroad. However, with four kids to raise, a mortgage and two cars, month-ends came quickly and savings, or other luxuries, had not been easy to come by.
This had been the case until Wayne MacKinnon had come along four years ago. Gene had met MacKinnon while carrying out an inspection at Rapid Forwarders, a local customs brokerage operation. They had been introduced by Andy Kovac and the three had ended up going to lunch together. That was when Wayne had put forth his proposal to Gene, outlining the complete drug import scheme to him.
At first, Gene had not believed the man and once he had realized that Wayne was serious, he had been shocked. However, MacKinnon was proposing some serious money for simply overlooking certain shipments of merchandise and Gene had ended up telling Wayne that he would think about it.
That night, he had brought up the subject with his wife who, after a moment of thought, had replied that they didn’t open every single parcel, crate or container when they carried out an inspection. Why not just avoid opening those loaded with dope? It was easy money. Money for vacations, stuff for the kids, retirement.
He had contacted Wayne the next morning and suggested the possibility that shipments be identified somehow to ensure that they not be tampered with. This would allow Gene to open only appropriate crates and keep his paper work kosher. Wayne had agreed, thinking that this was a splendid idea, and they were in business.
Gene finished the remains of his coffee and backed away from the kitchen table.
“I’m just gonna hop over to Bill’s next door and give him our keys.”
Grinning mischievously at his children, still in their seats, he added, “You guys go wash up and go to the bathroom because we’re leaving soon. Those who aren’t ready are gonna have to stay here.”
He laughed as he watched the four of them scramble off. As he started to rise, the front doorbell rang.
‘Must be Bill saving me a trip,’ he thought, heading for the door and opening it.
Standing on the front porch were two officers of the RCMP.
“Yes? Can I help you?” Gene asked, surprised and puzzled by these unexpected visitors.
“Are you Gene Fennell?” one of the officers asked in a serious tone.
“Y-yeah, yes I am. What seems to be the problem, officer?”
“Mr. Fennell, you are under arrest for conspiring to import illicit narcotics into the country...”
* * * *
Nick Sharp had a reputation of being an honest, experienced cop. The honest part, he had earned over the years by clearly demonstrating that he played by the rules and treated people fairly. The experience had also come with time, time during which he had learned that one couldn’t always go by the book 100%. Occasionally, one had to slightly circumvent the system, if only for the sake of expediency.
To this effect, Nick had developed a number of contacts over the years who could discreetly tap a phone line or conveniently turn off someone’s electricity for a while. Occasionally, such acts were required urgently and no time was available to get approval through the appropriate channels and, on those occasions, Nick sometimes took advantage of his contacts.
Naturally, Nick never highlighted the fact that such requests were made by the force and no obvious attempt was ever made to use evidence collected by improper means.
On this particular day, considering the schedule that Jonathan had laid out, Nick judged that he had to bend the rules a little. In fact, his intended action was of such a minor nature that he did not even have to consciously decide to make the request.
Picking the phone, he dialled the number of Keith Schmidt, a close friend employed by Bell Mobility, a cellular carrier.
“Keith. How goes it? Fine thanks, but busy as hell. Listen, you got a pen and paper handy? Good. I’m gonna give you a few numbers that should experience technical difficulties real soon. Yeah, three or four hours will be fine. Thanks, bud. I owe you one.”
* * * *
Bryan’s Mercedes veered wildly into the driveway of Greg’s home and came to a screeching halt.
Despite his portly stature, he was up the steps and banging loudly at the door within seconds. Not able to wait for a reply, he headed frantically to one side towards the rear yard, scanning the building for anything unusual.
As he reached the back of the house, his heart sank as he noticed the opened basement door at the far end swaying slightly in the wind. In a frenzy, he hurried over and entered the house, horrified by what he might find but knowing that he had look.
Halfway up the stairs, it dawned on him that if Greg had received a visitor as had Matt, the visitor in question might still be in the building. Cursing himself for his carelessness, he slowed his pace and pulled out the small pistol he carried in his jacket. He reached the first floor and proceeded hesitantly forward, his heart jumping at every sound.
He prayed that Greg wouldn’t be there, that he wouldn’t find another massacred corpse as he had at Matt’s. He shuddered as he thought of Matt, the image of the battered body covered with burn marks still clearly etched in his brain.
He reached the living room at the front of the house but found it empty. He moved back through the dining room and into the kitchen; still nothing. He glanced into the bathroom as he passed it but everything seemed in order. Continuing down the short hallway, he noticed that the door leading to Greg’s study was firmly closed. Grasping the doorknob, he turned it, ever so slowly, until it would turn no more.
After a moment’s hesitation, he decided that, if someone was in there, the element of surprise would be more effective than a slow announcement of his arrival. Slamming the door suddenly open, he jumped a step back as he raised his gun in self-defence.
He had nothing to worry about however, for Greg was alone. Alone, slumped in a chair before his computer, his brains splattered on the ceiling, walls and floor of the room. Bryan stared for a moment, as if in a trance, breathing heavily to fight the nausea. In a daze, he returned the gun to his pocket and headed to the front door.
Once into his car, he backed slowly out of the driveway and started his return trip to St-Sauveur, driving carefully, respecting speed limits. He hoped that no neighbours had seen him at Matt’s or Greg’s. Things were rocky enough as they were.
He suddenly remembered that he was to call Wayne to let him know what he had found. Picking up his cellular phone, he dialled the number to Matt’s co
ttage up north but realized that the phone was no longer working. This was turning out to be a really lousy day.
* * * *
Cathy McCall wandered into the dining room where her husband was reading the morning paper.
“So? Sandy feeling better?” Dave absently asked, glancing up from his reading.
“Couldn’t tell you,” his wife replied. “There’s no answer.”
“Therefore, she must be feeling better,” he concluded, returning his attention to an article about the never ending saga of Canadian unity.
“I guess,” said Cathy doubtfully, unable to shake the strange feeling that something was wrong.
* * * *
Pierre Tardif gathered with the other three plain-clothes RCMP officers at the main entrance of the luxurious condominium complex in Old Montreal.
“There’s only one door in the back so you can cover that, Bobby. Jim, once we go in, block the garage door with the car, just in case he tries to use that as an exit. Paul and I will go up and invite the gentleman to join us for a little chat. All set? Let’s do this.”
As the two others hurried off to their posts, Pierre and Paul entered the large entrance foyer and headed to the doorbell console located to one side. Pierre proceeded to press the buttons of dozen different apartments and stepped back to wait for a response. Within seconds, the intercom started emitting a staticky chorus of, “Hello?, Oui?, Who is it?”. However, at least one person responded by pressing the door button, allowing both men access into the building. People were so naive of the security they paid so dearly for.
They headed to the sixth floor and searched the hallway until they found apartment 619. They could hear the faint sounds of a television or radio coming from inside. Pierre knocked on the door as they positioned themselves on either side of it, each with his hand on the grip of his revolver resting in its unsnapped holster.
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