by Nobody, Joe
Bishop was already pulling his body armor from under a wad of newspaper in his cart. “We don’t know for sure how many criminals are inside, what kind of skill sets they have, and who might show up while we’re taking care of business. I want every advantage. Let’s ditch the overcoats and go in there like men.”
Nodding, Nick began pulling on his gear. “Good call.”
Like Superman’s phone booth, the former studio soon emitted two completely transformed figures. Both men wore vests bristling with magazines and pouches, their knees and elbows covered with protective pads.
Balaclava masks covered their faces, Nick’s sporting the image of a growling human skull.
After checking for any approaching traffic, the two hunters hustled out of the studio’s entrance and hurried toward the drug manufacturing facility. Once they reached the back door, they exchanged nods, chambered a round into each of their carbines, and took a deep breath.
Nick reached for the knob, finding the entry unlocked. After a quick scan for any sort of tripwire, the big man flung the door open and stepped inside, weapon high and looking for work.
The two assaulters found themselves inside of a storeroom, random stacks of cardboard boxes and empty pallets keeping a hand-dolly company. Other than the light that spilled from the still-open entrance, the room was both dark and unoccupied.
Heading to the only other door, Bishop carefully twisted the knob and pulled it open just enough to gain a visual. He spotted a galley-type layout, featuring a long, interrupted hallway with several openings leading right and left. No light illuminated the space.
After whispering a quick report to Nick, the duo sneaked into the hall and began working their way toward the front of the establishment, clearing each room as they progressed.
The first door led to an abandoned office.
Twisting the second knob, Bishop spied several cots lining the walls inside of a small room. Two old, battered suitcases full of clothing sat in the floor. In the corner, a bearded man was catching a few winks, his mouth open while he sawed on a very large log.
Pulling back, Bishop used hand signals to let his partner know the room was occupied. One man. Asleep. Far corner, he relayed with a quick sequence of fingers and motions.
Lowering his carbine, Nick reached for the fighting knife on his vest. In a flash, the blade cleared the scabbard as the ex-operator’s eyes sent a signal of their own. “Cover the hall,” he communicated with a glance.
A brief flash of pity entered Bishop’s mind as he watched Nick’s massive shoulders move into the cot room. The knife looked tiny in his friend’s fist, the muscles of his arm bulging in anticipation of combat. I can’t imagine waking up and seeing that image hovering above me , he thought. That has got to be the worst… and the last nightmare any man could have.
The only evidence of Nick’s attack was a dull thud that was barely audible from the corridor. A moment later he had joined his friend in the hallway, nodding for Bishop to continue.
As they ventured further into the interior, the chemical smell grew stronger – a sure sign that the lab was active and occupied. Is this shit flammable , Bishop wondered? Will the entire building explode if we fire off a shot?
Evidently, Nick had the same concern at that very moment. Holding up a hand that signaled Bishop to stop, the big man pointed toward the knife on Bishop’s load vest. With a quick motion, the blade was clear and ready for the job.
At the end of the hall another door secured a room to the left. Again, Bishop carefully peered through.
Here, the space was quite different. “Chemists” in a brightly lit room were actively creating a substance that emitted an unbelievably rank, chemical stench. Bishop spotted three men, all of them wearing masks over their faces while they stirred some material in plastic buckets.
An older Hispanic man was also present, his hands busily pouring some clear liquid into yet another container. Seated at a table along one wall, lounged a pair of biker-types. Both burly men sported shaved heads and handlebar mustaches, their skin painted with ink from their feet to their scalps. Both of them wore leather jackets that were decorated with identical motorcycle gang patches. A pistol laid on the table next to them; a shotgun rested against the wall. They were engaged in a lively game of rummy, the pair seeming to serve little purpose in the laboratory. Either they are in Quality Control or Transportation, Bishop mused, nothing to do until the cooking is done.
Gently closing the door, Bishop rapidly informed Nick of the room’s occupants.
“Stay here,” Nick ordered. “I’ll be right back.”
Hustling back where he had dispatched the sleeping man, Nick returned less than a minute later with the bloody body slung over his shoulder.
Dumping the dead man next to the door, the ex-operator then produced a hand grenade. “I don’t want to leave any witnesses,” Nick grunted. “We want Ketchum guessing… wondering what in the hell is happening. Now run.”
Bishop didn’t hang around to argue as Nick pulled the pin and then rolled the fragmentation device into the makeshift lab.
Hot on Bishop’s heels, Nick followed his friend down the hall and into the night air. Without breaking stride, the pair continued to sprint back toward the photography studio. They had managed to get halfway across the street when the grenade’s “whoop” reached their ears. A nanosecond later, a secondary explosion erupted behind them.
The blast wave, fueled by the chemicals stored in the facility, challenged their ability to remain upright, nearly bowling over the two retreating aggressors. Bishop felt the heat a moment later, his ears ringing from the roar of the detonation.
Finally, behind the cover of the neighboring building, both men took a moment to glance over their shoulders.
Blackjack’s laboratory was now a roaring ball of red-hot flames and boiling, black smoke. Rubble and debris had been blown into the street, one wall of the building having been obliterated by the detonation and the expanding pressure wave.
“That ought to get his attention,” Bishop commented.
“At first, he won’t know if this was an accident or if someone hit his lab,” Nick replied. “Let’s get back into our homeless garb… we’ve still got work to do.”
Five minutes later, after a glance at the inky column of smoke that still reached toward the heavens, the pair of vagabonds headed out onto the streets of New Orleans.
Four blocks away, Nick motioned Bishop into a nearby doorway. “Blackjack’s boys will be rolling up any minute now. Let’s stay out of sight until the first responders arrive and see how they interpret our move.”
Sure enough, just a few minutes after his prediction, the roar of racing engines reached Bishop’s ears. Two SUVs screeched past, both vehicles brim full of Ketchum’s armed troops.
“Let’s move,” Nick stated. “I want to head back to that apartment complex.”
Staying in character, the pair shuffled and limped along the route. Halfway back, Bishop interrupted the silence of the afternoon, “Hold up a second. I’ve got an idea.”
The two men had just pushed their buggies beside a vacant lot of weeds, small islands of its bare, sandy soil visible among the dark patches of green vegetation. Acting like he’d spotted the prize egg from an Easter hunt, Bishop strolled through the plants and bent low to retrieve his treasure.
Scooping up a handful of sand and emptying it into his pocket, Bishop grinned at Nick and then proceeded to add more of the grainy soil to his collection.
Twenty minutes later, the vagrant imposters had returned to the travel agency and were peering through the window at the apartment complex. The generators were still running.
“Blackjack might be inside,” Bishop observed once they had returned to Spy Central. “Let’s see if we can tempt Elvis to leave the building.”
“Lead on,” Nick offered with a wave of his arm. “I’ll cover you from over here.”
With one hand pushing his cart, the other holding onto the stock of his hidde
n carbine, Bishop crossed the street and made a beeline for the pair of generators humming in the distance.
After a quick glance right and left, the agitator bent and twisted off the first gas cap. Retrieving a handful of sand from his pocket, he dumped the dirt into the generator’s tank.
After repeating the fouling procedure a second time, the phony homeless man moved on, leisurely rolling his buggy as he ambled across the parking lot.
By the time Bishop had circled around and rejoined Nick, the first generator was stuttering and coughing. Less than five minutes passed before both machines had ceased running.
“I guess somebody forgot to pay the electric bill,” Nick joked.
It took a surprisingly long time before someone appeared from the apartment building, a sleepy-looking woman exiting the lobby and wandering toward the failed generators. “It’s got to be getting hot in there,” Nick whispered. “Probably hard to sleep off last night’s festivities without any A/C.”
Evidently, the loss of electrical power wasn’t any big deal. Only the one young lady appeared, her posture casual, her face more bored than worried. Her first act was to unscrew the gas cap and peek inside. After seeing there was still fuel in the tank, her demeanor changed, a scowl wrinkling her forehead, a curse escaping her lips.
She tugged once on the pull cord, making a half-hearted effort to restart the engine. After fidgeting with the controls, she pulled again. Neither tug produced the desired results.
Releasing the pull-cord, she meandered to the second machine and again checked the fuel supply. Finding the tank almost full, she must have realized that having both generators fail at the same time was more coincidence than she was comfortable with accepting.
Frustration began to set in, her annoyance obvious by the frown crinkling her brow. Her fists flew up to rest on her hips as her gaze turned upward toward the row of second-story windows. Her stance seemed to say, “This is beyond me. Somebody else needs to come down here and see what is going on here.”
She didn’t have to wait long, a muscle-bound man appearing on one of the balconies. “Do they have gas?” he shouted down.
“Yeah. First thing I checked. They are all fueled up and still won’t start,” she answered.
Before the balcony-watcher could respond, another fellow rushed from the lobby. He was clearly pissed. “Do they have gas?”
She repeated her report to no avail, the new arrival apparently not believing her and unscrewing the cap to see for himself.
He obviously didn’t trust his own eyes either, reaching for a nearby can of fuel and topping off the tank. Yanking the cord several more times with no result, an avalanche of foul language erupted from his throat.
For the next fifteen minutes, Bishop and Nick watched as a small crowd gathered around the fouled generators. Several of the men took turns trying to restart the units, those efforts intermixed with cigarette breaks, advice from bystanders, and strings of creative cursing.
All in all, Bishop counted eleven men and a handful of women. None of them were Ketchum Jones.
Before any of the milling throng could decide on a course of action, the two SUVs Bishop had seen rushing to the exploded lab returned to the garage. Their cargo of men soon poured out and joined the crowd beside the generators.
“I don’t think Ketchum is here,” Nick stated. “We would have seen him by now.”
“They’re going to need access to electricity tonight, and they don’t appear to have a back-up generator on site,” Bishop nodded. “We should try to follow them and find out where they are storing their ill-gotten gains.”
While the two Texans couldn’t hear all of the ensuing conversation from across the street, snippets of some exchanges were crystal clear. Over and again they heard phrases like, “Blackjack is going to be pissed,” and, “I’m glad I don’t have to tell the boss what’s going on.”
Lefty and another man soon began loading the disabled units into the bed of the elevated pickup, shouting over their shoulders, “We’ll be back with replacements. Everybody just chill out.”
“That’s our cue,” Nick announced, standing to his full height.
“We won’t be able to keep up on foot,” Bishop replied.
“I’ve got an idea. Come on. Let’s get a move on,” Nick directed, waving for his friend to hurry.
Exiting the back door of the travel agency’s building, Nick surprised Bishop again. Instead of heading for the street to chase after the bad guys, the big man pointed toward a metal fire escape ladder bolted into the brick exterior of the neighboring building.
Glancing upward, Bishop noticed it was a three-story structure, as tall as any in the area. “We’ll might be able to see them, or at least follow their engine noise and get a general sense of their direction.”
“One hell of an idea,” Bishop nodded, rushing to the rusty ladder.
Climbing as fast as he could, Bishop was only halfway up when he heard Ketchum’s crew backing out of the apartment building’s garage. Nick was right behind him.
Reaching the tar roof, Bishop rolled over the edge and immediately scrambled for the far side, hoping to catch a glimpse of their prey. After scanning the grid of New Orleans streets below, movement drew his eye to the dark blue vehicle three blocks away and accelerating. He easily identified Lefty’s truck, the two uncooperative generators visible in the bed.
Nick crouched beside him, bringing up his optic to follow Ketchum’s men. They were clearly heading toward the downtown area and the skyscrapers rising in the distance.
The duo observed the target take a right, travel through two streets and then hang a left. At that point, they lost sight of the SUV as it passed behind a series of buildings.
“Lost them,” Bishop snorted, lowering his rifle.
“Shhhhh. Listen,” Nick hissed, holding up his hand.
Indeed, Bishop could hear the SUV off in the distance. Pulling up his sleeve to monitor his wristwatch, he began timing the motor’s exhaust as it accelerated again for a short period. After forty-five seconds, the engine noise gradually dissipated and then stopped altogether.
Pulling out his map and a pencil, Bishop began tracing the route taken by Blackjack’s crew. With his gaze shifting back and forth between his chart and the actual streets in the distance, he began turning his mental math into a schematic. “I’m marking out a game trail,” he whispered to Nick.
It was another 20 minutes before the sound of the SUV’s exhaust again reached their ears. With both men studying the New Orleans streets with their optics, it was Bishop who caught a glance of the blue Ford as it passed behind a massive billboard in the distance. That sighting provided a new data point, sending him back to the map and eventually narrowing down where Blackjack’s goodie shack might be secreted.
“Let’s go shopping,” Nick smiled, motioning toward the ladder. “We’ll come back and visit these guys later.”
They scrambled down the rungs, pausing at the bottom only long enough to gather their shopping carts and double-check their gear.
They were a block away by the time the replacement generators were being unloaded at the apartment complex.
Bishop had narrowed down their search area to a grid measuring three blocks wide and seven blocks long, that feat helped along by good fortune.
A sizeable park edged one of the sections where Ketchum’s men had traveled. Both Bishop and Nick had agreed that it was unlikely any valuable equipment like a generator would be stored amongst the trees, grass, and fountains.
There was also a limited distance their prey could have traveled given the time that the engine noise was still audible. A quick, back-of-the-envelope calculation had limited the geography even further.
“Let’s split up,” Bishop suggested. “We can map out a grid and cover twice as much ground.”
“Works for me,” Nick agreed. “Let’s stay one block apart so we can still help each other in case you get in trouble... again.”
After splitting up, they
began working their way along a pair of parallel streets. At each intersection, the first to arrive would wait until his partner appeared before continuing. It took time, both men shuffling slowly and playing their thespian roles while also searching for any sign of recent human occupation.
Bishop found himself in what had been an older section of the Big Easy. The buildings here sported mostly brick or limestone facades, were narrow and deep, and had been in various states of disrepair even before the collapse. He passed a hardware store that had been thoroughly looted, a beauty supply company that had seen better days, and a tuxedo rental store that was practically untouched. None of those structures showed any sign of recent human activity.
On the third block, he wandered by an empty lot, whatever structure originally occupying the space having been torn down long ago. Several layers of graffiti adorned the nearest exposed wall, the multi-colored tags appearing to have faded long before the collapse.
Weeds and trash had moved in, Bishop reasonably sure the vacant land would not have been considered a prime commercial location before the downfall. Along the outside wall of a bordering building, the wind had deposited a mounting hill of cardboard, newspapers, soft drink cans, and other assorted garbage.
Bishop was looking for signs of his nemesis, scanning the buildings, vehicles, and windows for any sign of recent activity. It was at the last second that he sensed a presence behind him.
Out of the trash heap, three men emerged like trap-door spiders ambushing a hapless insect. Pivoting just a little too late, Bishop absorbed a savage right cross on his jawbone, the jarring impact blurring his vision and knocking him to one knee. Before he could raise the carbine under his coat, he was surrounded.
The three ambushers were a surly lot, covered in filthy rags, accessorized with mismatched shoes, and crowned with oily mops of unkempt hair. All of them were brawny men, the largest fellow standing with balled fists and leering down at the still-stunned Bishop.
“This is our place!” the leader growled, the spittle of anger spraying with his words. “You can’t be here!”
