by Shawn Davis
“Congratulations on your successful assignment, commander,” an elderly, gray-suited man leading the group said as he shook Jane’s hand.
“You know I couldn’t have done it without your plan, Michael,” Campion said, smiling at the group like a politician addressing a friendly audience. “The cost it takes to repair the Getty Building’s generator and lower levels should send a message to the government.”
“The plan worked, but I don’t like you getting involved like this,” Michael said. “You’ve already been on enough missions to prove you’re a ‘woman of the people.’ If we win this fight, we’re going to need your help setting things up. It’s not worth it anymore.”
“Michael, you know I’d never ask anyone to do anything I wouldn’t do. That’s why I have to go on these assignments. I don’t want to hear any more about it. Don’t we have some things to discuss?”
“Absolutely, Jane. You’re not going to fault me for being concerned though, are you?”
“Not at all. But let’s get this meeting over with before we talk any more about it,” Campion said, placing her arm around the elderly man’s shoulder and leading him toward the office cubicles.
They weaved their way through a maze of cubicles until they reached an enclosed conference room. They sat around a long mahogany table similar to the ones found in the offices of top executives. There were eighteen men and women seated at the table. Campion was the first to speak.
“Do we have a volunteer for our next action?”
A woman wearing a gray-and-black urban camouflage uniform replied.
“I’m going to do it,” she said.
“Okay, that’s fine. You expressed some reservations about the assignment before,” Campion said, raising a perfectly-manicured eyebrow.
“I think we’ve ironed out the rough edges.”
“Okay, good. Tonight we blow up the White House.”
********
Peter followed a number of other workers as they walked along the painted yellow lines on the warehouse floor until he reached section six of the Breechlere Distribution Center. He took the freight elevator up to the eighth level and waited in yet another line as the work assignments were passed out. The line of about fifty employees formed behind a wooden podium, which reminded Peter of the podiums high school teachers stood behind in the old days when there was a public education system.
Behind the podium stood a colossal, six-foot-eight, 280-pound, dark-skinned man handing out perforated computer paper describing each worker’s duties. The formidable man wore a gray Breechlere uniform like the other employees.
However, unlike them, he had a shaved head and wore a black eye patch over his left eye, giving him a pirate look. The tall man was also violating the company dress code because he had torn the sleeves off his gray jumpsuit uniform to expose his muscular biceps.
“Move it, you grunts, we have work to do today,” the huge man shouted at the crowd in a deep, booming voice.
Peter thought the reason he tore the sleeves from his jumpsuit was strictly for intimidation purposes. A single glance at those muscular arms and the employees wouldn’t dare disobey an order from their Floor Supervisor.
Peter felt a surge of panic as he was suddenly pushed roughly from behind. He turned to face his unknown attacker only to find his friend, Billy Ryder. Ryder flashed him his patented boyish grin, which made him look at least ten years younger than he really was.
Ryder was Peter’s age, thirty-three years old, and embarrassed by the fact that he still had to show his ID before he could purchase liquor. Peter thought Ryder resembled a slightly older version of the famous young actor from the last century, James Dean. The blonde-haired Ryder was the quintessential image of a person aspiring for perpetual youth: an adult who refused to grow up and acknowledge the steady process of maturing. At thirty-three, he looked and acted like a carefree twenty-year-old.
“Billy! You’re lucky I didn’t punch you in the face!” Peter said, frowning.
“Chill, my friend. I didn’t push you that hard,” Ryder replied, casually.
“Hard enough to catch a beating after work.”
“From you? I don’t think so.”
“Are we still going out Saturday night after work?” Peter asked.
“Far as I know. I haven’t seen Henry yet to confirm,” Billy replied.
“Where is Henry today?” Peter asked. “I haven’t seen him. Now that I think about it, where were you? You guys weren’t at my apartment to meet me this morning.”
“Sorry, man, I slept in a little,” Ryder said, grinning sheepishly.
“I didn’t know you could afford to sleep in,” Peter said. “What about Henry?”
Billy paused for a moment as the line continued to move towards the podium, “As far as I know, he went out drinking last night and hasn’t shown up yet.”
“What’s wrong with him? He’s gonna get fired!”
“I guess he doesn’t need this job. Maybe he’s independently wealthy and we don’t know about it.”
“Cut the chatter, girls, there’s work to be done!” the colossal supervisor shouted like a drill instructor as they reached the front of the line. He shoved two perforated computer sheets into their hands as he stepped out from behind the podium.
“You guys better not screw around today. We have a quota to meet,” he said, pushing Rayne and Ryder toward the waiting forklifts parked to the right of the podium.
“Sure, Sinbad, I look forward to seeing you at the club Saturday night,” Ryder said as the giant shoved him forward with his muscular left arm while he did the same to Peter with his right. They stumbled from the force of the shove and continued walking casually as if nothing had happened.
“I don’t want to hear another word out of you, Ryder,” Sinbad commented as he returned to the podium.
“Okay, buddy,” Ryder said, winking at him.
Sinbad allowed a crooked half-smile on his face before he forced it back to its perpetual scowl. He turned away from the workers and continued handing out assignments to the people waiting in line. Rayne and Ryder mounted their forklifts like cowboys mounting horses and put their vehicles into gear. Peter smiled when he read the name scrawled with red paint on the back bumper of Ryder’s forklift, “Porky.”
Only Ryder is crazy enough to name his forklift, Peter thought.
He glanced down at the computer sheet in his left hand as he maneuvered the steering wheel with his right.
“At least he didn’t give us much work to do,” he said, surveying the long list of boxes he had to move in the ten-hour shift.
“Yeah, right. Sometimes that guy doesn’t know which side he’s on,” Ryder replied as they pulled their forklifts out of the parking spaces to begin the workday.
Chapter 3
Tragedy
As the speedboat closed in on the yacht, Karyn Brennon readied her automatic pistol. She watched her partner, Nick Fahey, aim a rifle with an attached grappling hook at the yacht railing.
As the speedboat pulled alongside the yacht, Fahey fired at the railing. The hook attached, trailing a black cable to the rifle barrel. Nick pressed a switch on the side of the rifle and the cable receded into the base of the grappling hook.
The cable pulled him out of the powerboat and lifted him up to the railing. Brennon watched him un-strap himself and disappear over the railing onto the deck. A second later she heard two loud gunshots. She saw Fahey’s hand reach for the grappling hook and press a switch in the side, dropping the rifle on its cable into her waiting hands.
Brennon holstered her pistol, grabbed the rifle, attached the rifle strap to her waist, and hit the switch. The cable pulled her up to the yacht’s deck. She climbed over the railing and looked around. Glancing left, she saw Nick enter the yacht’s glass-encased control room and fire several rounds into the white-uniformed captain’s chest.
“Hey!” a voice shouted from the right.
Turning, Brennon saw a stocky man wearing a gray suit leaving
a passenger cabin and reaching for something under his jacket.
Brennon responded by drawing her pistol and firing two rounds into the man’s chest. The bodyguard fell back onto the deck with two small red splatters on the front pocket of his suit jacket.
She saw the man’s right hand clutching the butt of a gun he pulled from a hidden shoulder holster. Brennon dropped the grappling rifle down to the speedboat so the others could climb up after her. She followed along the deck until she reached a stairwell leading down to the yacht’s lower levels.
Brennon was confident about the mission. It was the first time she had seen any real action with the organization, but she had been training for it for years. She had fought as a soldier for the U.S. during the Columbian War from 2048 – 2052.
She descended the stairwell to a narrow corridor flanked by a line of wooden doors extending a quarter of the way down the length of the two-hundred-foot yacht. She walked down the corridor until she reached an ornately carved wooden door. She pushed the door open and entered a luxuriously-furnished suite where she found a man wearing a black tuxedo and a woman wearing a dark blue evening dress eating a lobster dinner at a small candlelit table. The couple looked up from their dinner as Karyn aimed and fired two bullets into the man’s chest. The man clutched his bloody chest with both hands as he tumbled over backwards in the chair.
Brennon walked up to the woman and asked, “Senator Keating?”
“Who the fuck are you? How did you get on the boat?” the woman shouted, trembling with fear and rage.
Karyn responded by firing a bullet into her brain. A small red hole appeared in the woman’s forehead as her mouth gaped open in a surprised expression. She slumped over in her seat and crumpled to the floor.
Brennon pulled a small black radio from a side holster and spoke into it.
“I found the Senator,” she said. “Below deck, on the starboard side.”
“Received,” a female voice replied.
After shooting everyone on the yacht, the operatives met in the luxurious suite where the Senator lay on the carpet in a puddle of blood staring at the ceiling with wide, surprised eyes.
“Yeah, it’s her. Go to work, doc,” Karyn said, leaning over the body and unconsciously focusing the barrel of her handheld machine gun at it.
Senator Keating was responsible for the deaths of thousands in her deadly, but profitable, sweatshops around the world and the deaths of millions by endorsing non-defensive wars against countries that were not even threats.
A woman carrying a large black briefcase walked over to the body and set it down on the floor. She opened it and withdrew a silver instrument that vaguely resembled a scalpel from a row of silver instruments. She began slicing the Senator’s face.
********
At 2 PM it was time for Peter’s lunch break. Like he did every other day at that time, he parked his forklift and headed for the entrance to the Breechlere sales floor, which led to the mall. His pal, Billy Ryder, accompanied him.
“Henry’s gonna meet us there, right?” Peter asked.
“If he showed up,” Billy replied
“Didn’t he use up all his sick time?”
“Yep.”
“Then I hope he showed up.”
They cut across the sales floor and entered the spacious mall extending for almost a full mile ahead like a colossal indoor cityscape. The vast ceiling of the mall was transparent, so the winter sun to shone down on the numerous shoppers and employees.
The transparent ceiling and spaciousness of the mall gave it the appearance of being outdoors, although it was strictly temperature-controlled. Elevators and escalators brought people up to each of the eight levels. Catwalks crisscrossed the vast space in the middle like a complex modern art design. Almost every conceivable store or shop existing in the United States was represented.
They walked by a number of restaurants, including a McDonald’s, which now boasted over five trillion served. “When’s the last time you ate at McDonald’s?” Billy asked, stopping to stare at the giant picture of a Big Mac on the large menu above the cashiers and registers.
“Not since I started this job eight years ago,” Peter replied.
“I’d do anything for one of those Big Macs.”
“If I had ten dollars to waste on a Big Mac, my troubles would be over. But as it is now, that’s almost an hour’s pay,” Peter said.
“I know. I used to eat there all the time when I was a kid. It was cheaper then,” Billy said.
“Inflation will do that.”
They continued walking until they reached a row of elevators leading up. They rode the elevator to the fourth level and walked towards their usual spot: a park bench next to a row of snack machines.
“I don’t see Henry,” Peter observed.
“He’ll be here. He only gets out a few minutes after we do,” Billy said.
“If he showed up.”
“Obviously.”
They sat down and opened their brown paper lunch bags. Peter pulled out a turkey sandwich, a Coca Cola, and brownies while Billy opted for two peanut butter and fluff sandwiches and a beer.
“You risked bringing that past security again?” Peter asked when he saw Billy sipping from the beer like it was a fine red wine.
“Why not? I didn’t get caught last time,” Billy said, belching contentedly.
“What about the occasional stop and frisk from security?”
“I’ve been very lucky. They search about one in every hundred employees and I haven’t been searched in years.”
“That is pretty lucky. I got searched last week,” Peter said.
“Hey, look who’s coming,” Billy said, pointing.
Peter looked up from his sandwich to see a tall, muscular black man wearing a gray Breechlere uniform traveling toward them on the moving sidewalk.
“Hey, guys, I knew you wouldn’t start eating without me,” Henry said, stepping smoothly off the sidewalk and walking over to the bench. “What do we have today?” he said, grabbing Billy’s sandwich out of his hands and taking a sizable bite. “Aahh, the illustrious peanut butter and fluff sandwich, the lunch choice of champions.”
“You have your own lunch, Henry,” Billy growled, snatching the sandwich back and protecting it by thrusting out his elbows like a prisoner guarding his meal from other inmates.
“You’ve always been too uptight, Ryder. You need to learn to have a little fun,” Henry said, sitting down next to Billy and opening his own lunch bag.
He pulled out a turkey and bacon sandwich, chips, a soda, and a package of chocolate chip cookies. He began eating the cookies.
“I have to admit, my wife treats me well. Look what she packed me,” Henry said, showing off his meal to his friends by lifting the sandwich in one hand and the cookies in the other.
“You may eat better than us, Henry, but you still have to put up with being married,” Ryder said, grinning boyishly.
“It’s not that bad, Ryder. Are you going to be a bachelor for life, or what?” Henry asked.
“That’s the only way to be.” Billy replied.
Henry knew better than to mention bachelorhood to Peter, who had been devastated eight years back when his fiancé broke up with him after his sudden decline in fortune.
“So, Henry, what time did you get in today?” Peter asked.
“Two minutes past eight.”
“No way. I got in at eight on the dot and you weren’t even in sight,” Billy said.
“No, seriously, I came in through another entrance,” Henry said.
“So it was worth it? Going out last night?” Peter asked.
“Definitely. We went to the Nexis Club,” Henry replied.
“The Nexis? We’ve only been there on Saturday nights. What’s it like on a Sunday night?” Billy asked, as he leaned forward like a sports fan anticipating a great play.
“I’m not sure if you would be able to handle it on Sunday nights, Ryder,” Henry said, lifting his left eyebrow.
“Hey, don’t change the subject. Don’t you want to hear about my night last night?” Henry asked.
“I thought you said I couldn’t handle it,” Billy said.
“Forget it then. You guys are the ones missing out on the entertainment.”
“I doubt it, Henry,” Billy said, rolling his eyes.
Peter knew the truth was that Billy was jealous that Henry had enough money to go to the techno-club more than once a week. Henry’s wife was one of those rare individuals who had a good-paying job in middle management.
Henry took another bite of his sandwich and lifted his left eyebrow at Billy. For the next few moments they ate in silence. Peter glanced past the snack machines on his left at the travel agency next door. He stared through the clear glass walls at the posters of exotic locations around the world. He watched a man and woman, wearing business suits, walking through the front doors hand-in-hand.
“You gotta love the beautiful people,” Peter muttered, finishing his sandwich and shoving the wrapper noisily into the crinkled paper bag.
“You ready for a vacation, Rayne?” Henry asked.
“Who isn’t?” Peter replied.
“Hey, I have an idea for a trip to the local beach. We can body surf in the toxic waste,” Henry suggested.
“Sounds great, Henry. When are we going?” Peter asked.
“You guys can’t afford no vacation,” Billy said, raising a blond eyebrow.
“No kidding, Einstein. What do you think we were say-”
Henry’s sentence was interrupted by the tinkling of shattering glass followed closely by the sound of crackling thunder. The three friends instinctively ducked and shielded their heads as glass from the nearby travel agency flew through the air like airborne razor blades. If not for the snack machine on their left, they would have been skewered with glass shards.
They heard a second round of explosions echoing loudly from other locations in the mall. A fireball blasted through the plate glass window of an unknown store across from them on the third level.
