Killing the Giants

by Jeff Bennington

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 • On Strike

  Chapter 2 • Behind the Wheel

  Chapter 3 • Geusto’s Ferry

  Chapter 4 • The Hall

  Chapter 5 • Le Grande Pub

  Chapter 6 • Bereavement

  Chapter 7 • Another Long Island, Please!

  Chapter 8 • GAP

  Chapter 9 • The Palace

  Chapter 10 • C-4

  Chapter 11 • Oxygen

  Chapter 12 • MIT

  Chapter 13 • Little Girl

  Chapter 14 • Radisson

  Chapter 15 • My Girls

  Chapter 16 • I’m Done!

  Chapter 17 • Road Trip

  Chapter 18 • Grande Isle Interrogation

  Chapter 19 • Lunchtime

  Chapter 20 • The Empire State

  Chapter 21 • Another Visitor

  Chapter 22 • The Lobby

  Chapter 23 • Madame Speaker

  Chapter 24 • Capitol Hill

  Chapter 25 • The Good Old Days

  Chapter 26 • Jack

  Chapter 27 • The Meek

  Chapter 28 • Flight 340

  Chapter 29 • You’re Dead

  Chapter 30 • Coq Au Vin?

  Chapter 31 • Seven Hundred

  Chapter 32 • Lean-to

  Chapter 33 • 1340 AM

  Chapter 34 • Oasis

  Chapter 35 • CAR

  Chapter 36 • Exposed

  Chapter 37 • One Thousand Feet of Copper

  Chapter 38 • Details

  Chapter 39 • White Knuckles

  Chapter 40 • Never Forget

  Chapter 41 • Plea Bargain

  Chapter 42 • Cryptocracy

  Chapter 43 • Righty Tighty

  Chapter 44 • Something’s Missing

  Chapter 45 • Crypto Elites

  Chapter 46 • Welcome

  Chapter 47 • The Giants

  Chapter 48 • Memory after Memory

  Chapter 49 • Frozen in Time

  Chapter 50 • Everything You Have

  Bibliography

  Killing the Giants

  By Jeff Bennington

  Killing the Giants is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  Killing the Giants, All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2009 Jeff Bennington

  Cover Design © 2009 Jeff Bennington. All rights reserved.

  Published by nexGate Press, an independent publisher.

  Ebook creation by Dellaster Design

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Be sure to read Jeff’s other thrillers like: REUNION, a supernatural thriller, and The Rumblin’, a short suspense thriller. Visit www.jeffbennington.com to learn more about his books and what is coming next. You can follow Jeff on Twitter (@TweetTheBook), on Facebook, or at his blog, The Writing Bomb.

  Chapter 1

  On Strike

  Chapleaux, Ontario, Canada

  As the sun lifted in the small town of Chapleaux, Ontario, a mist covered the earth. The Canadian haze had thickened in the early morning hours, but began to fade with each passing moment. Likewise, the future of this struggling oil community lay in the balance as fear and questions permeated the morning air. The gravel road leading to the oil refinery was littered with vehicles and fifty-five-gallon drums. Several fires danced in the containers, emitting a ghostly warning of the dark moments that lay ahead.

  The vehicles parked along the side of the road belonged to the workers on strike. The men and women emerged from their vehicles as coffee absorbed into their bloodstreams. Their leather work boots quickened as they lifted their picket signs and posters around the gated entrance of their estranged employer, Petroleum Products International. The smell of fresh air and the sound of the wind beating the tree branches overhead grew bitter as the oily stench of unrefined petroleum filled their nostrils.

  The workers from Local 927 consisted of steamfitters, ironworkers, electricians, and oilmen. They were on strike because their union-negotiated contract had expired. Union representatives and company management were in a deadlock over wages and health benefits. Worse yet, a bus full of temporary workers from Texas had just rolled into town.

  • • •

  “Here she comes, Blake!” shouted Dennis in his obnoxious, high-pitched voice.

  Blake squinted to see the yellow school bus approaching in the distance. “I see it.”

  Blake Driscole, the local committeeman and one of the crew leaders, had grown accustomed to a life of greasy, intense labor in the oil industry. An oilman by trade, and a rock-solid leader, Blake was intent on sending a message to management that he and his fellow workers were not going to give up a lifetime of dedicated service. Nor had they any plans of accepting the demands of the very profitable company.

  “How many of them do you suppose are on the bus, Blake?” asked Dennis, brushing shoulders with Blake, his best friend.

  “Don’t know. Might be forty or fifty of ’em, I suppose.”

  “You think they have bats and clubs too?”

  “Hey!” Blake turned and looked down at Dennis. “I don’t know anything more about those scabs than you. So just shut up, hold up your sign and wait like the rest of us!”

  “Sure thing, Blake. Sorry I ruffled your feathers like that. I…I didn’t mean any harm. I just—”

  “Shut—up, Dennis!”

  Blake could tell that Dennis was scared. But then so was he. This, however, was a time to stand strong, shove fear into the dark recesses of your mind, and prepare to fight.

  Blake turned to face the approaching bus as it came closer to the picket line. As he turned, he cocked his neck slightly in the direction of the rest of the crowd and shouted. “Okay everyone, this is it! Get in your formation and hold up those signs! Gail?” Blake looked at the tall, rugged female ironworker to his left and nodded. “Start the battle cry.”

  At that moment, Gail Skinner, encased in denim welder’s clothing, began to yell. “Keep our pay…No scabs today! Keep our pay…No scabs today!”

  Dozens of union members cried out in unison. “Keep our pay…No scabs today!” The workers moved in what seemed like slow motion, thrusting their signs and banners up and down into the air, and marched in step with the rhythm of their declaration.

  The local media had just rolled in to get an update on the strike. They scurried about, loaded their cameras, straightened their ties and checked their teeth for cleanliness.

  Blake could hear the reporters giving directions.

  “Over here Bill. I think we’ll get a better shot with the refinery as a back drop.”

  Another shouted, “Hold on! My battery’s dead!” The cameraman dropped the battery in a frustrated attempt to install a new one.

  Behind the angry demonstrators, half a dozen company security guards stood at attention. They were dressed in grey military-like uniforms, with black pinstripes down the side of their slacks, and a Canadian flag sewn on their left shoulder. In addition, they were accessorized with riot gear, which consisted of face shields, riot padding, and belts holding small cans of tear gas and billy clubs.

  The guards were usually on good terms with the ot
her workers. In fact, they diligently served the company, hoping that one day they might get a better-paying job inside the facility, or maybe even get an apprenticeship in one of the trades. Nevertheless, on that day, they had orders that conflicted with business as usual. On that day, company officials required the security guards to keep their friends and neighbors out of the refinery. They had orders to allow the temporary workers into the facility, so the refinery could continue production.

  The guards stood in front of the ten-foot-tall rolling gate, shoulder to shoulder as their sweaty hands nervously clenched their clubs. Looking across the fragile scene, each security officer mimicked the lifeless expression of Greg Miller, the captain of the guards. As the union members began their battle cry, Greg yelled out his first command.

  “Attention!”

  Blake turned and watched as they prepared.

  Greg walked in front of the group and said, “Hold your ground gentleman, this might get ugly.”

  As the bus drew near, it slowed down to avoid running over the protesters. The driver applied the brakes, and the dirt rustled up a dusty fog that replaced the mist. The peaceful scenery that served as a backdrop only minutes prior to the bus’s arrival appeared clouded and filled with tension. A sense of anxiety began to permeate throughout all three parties.

  Blake could feel the weight of the moment resting on his shoulders.

  Without hesitation, Blake walked in front of the bus and lifted his hands into a stopping command. His union brothers and sisters followed. The war cry ended, replaced with the squealing brake pads on the old bus. When it stopped, silence emerged, as if it stepped out of the dusty smoke and rolled through the crowd.

  Blake stepped toward the bifold entry door. He stretched out his arm, knocked on the glass portion of the door with the bat and said, “Open up!”

  The driver didn’t acknowledge Blake, which pissed him off. He hit the door harder. “Open the door!”

  The door squeaked and rattled, folding and jiggling to the right. The bus driver held the door open, looked at Blake and sighed. “Hey, mister,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble. All I wanna do is drop these folks off, and get home to my family—safely. Now, if you’ll kindly let us pass, I sure would appreciate it.”

  Blake sneered. “You’re not going anywhere with those scabs. We’re on strike, and we’re not going to let ’em in. So if you don’t turn around, you’re going to be driving these folks to the hospital. Is that what you want?”

  The bus driver shifted nervously in his seat. “No…I…I don’t think anyone here wants that, but I’ve got a job to do. I’m sure you understand.”

  Blake looked away for a moment and thought about his next move. He then stepped inside the bus. The driver attempted to close the door, thrusting Blake to the side. The act of defiance ignited Blake into a blazing fire of anger. The oilman lunged forward, grabbed the bus driver’s arm and shirt collar and yanked him out of the captain’s chair and down the steps. The driver’s arms and legs kicked and flailed about as Blake mercilessly dragged him onto the dusty gravel road.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, friend,” said Blake, as the driver thumped down the steps, protesting with an incomplete, “What the fu—” Blake’s large shoulders puffed up as he pulled and his lips tightened with rage.

  “Shut up, and quit squirming around! You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

  Blake continued to drag the driver away from the bus until he was several feet away. When he felt satisfied with the driver’s position, Blake threw him down on the ground as if he were shaking water from his hands, cleansing himself of the spineless character. Some of the other union workers completed Blake’s work by blocking the door, preventing him from reentering the bus and stopping the passengers from exiting.

  Dennis looked at the driver and squeaked, “Stay there!” He glanced at Blake, as he always had, hoping for a sign of his approval. It never came. Blake walked away and reentered the large vehicle.

  He tried to communicate with the mostly Mexican workers. “Hola. No Espanola…no work…go home…adios!” He pointed in the direction from which they came, and walked out of the bus, hoping that the example he made of the driver had intimidated them.

  Greg Miller rushed to assist the bus driver.

  Blake glanced at the squirrely man and he peered back at Blake with disgust.

  The oilman considered his family and the years he spent working for PPI. The thought that his many years of service had come to such a pathetic conclusion boiled inside of him, stirring up a red-hot rage that he feared had become an essential ingredient in making things right.

  In that moment, silence resumed as everyone stood still, waiting, wondering and anticipating what would happen next.

  Chapter 2

  Behind the Wheel

  Greg Miller stuck his key into the lock, and turned it to the right. A few seconds later, with the help of his comrades, the tall chain-link fence slid open. The guards moved forward as their captain directed them, until they formed two parallel lines that made a path for the bus to enter.

  Blake watched the gate roll open. “What are you doing, Greg?” he asked with indignation. “You think we’re gonna stand here and watch these guys stroll into the plant, while they steal our jobs?”

  Greg lifted his hands out in a calming gesture as he walked toward the bus driver. “Take it easy, Blake. I know what you’re up against here. Just get through the negotiations and let the union and management settle this…peacefully?”

  “Yeah right!” Blake rolled his eyes and pointed at the bus. “And let those scabs in there, to do our jobsand run our plant !”

  Greg reached down, grabbed the driver’s hand and helped him up. “I’ve got a job to do, Blake.” He grunted as the man stood to his feet. “So if you care at all about our friendship, you’ll let these folks in.”

  Blake shook his head. “Don’t do it, Greg.”

  The driver smacked his pants and dust billowed all around him. Greg waved his hands to clear the air of the debris and told the driver to get back on the bus and start driving.

  Blake stared at Greg with eyes that could’ve killed, and slapped his baseball bat in his hands. “Dennis!” he said, straight-faced. “Get everyone in front of the bus!”

  Dennis obeyed as usual. “Come on, everyone. You heard the man! Get over there!”

  The union members stepped into position, and the guards braced themselves and gripped their clubs. The workers weaved in between security, but were met with resistance. The guards pushed them away with their clubs and kicked them back with their boots.

  Blake called out to Dennis as he tried to make his way toward him. “Dennis! You want to get on the bus and drive the son of a bitch out of here?”

  “Hell, yeah!” Dennis turned, and ran toward the door.

  Blake shoved a guard out of his way and watched over his coworkers.

  Gail tried to pass a security guard who must have assumed she attempted to assault him. He defensively pulled his billy club back and swung hard, hitting her on the side of her skull. The club popped her head and made a knocking sound as if the club hit a hollow wooden object. Gail fell flat on her face, lying still and lifeless. Blood began to flow down her ear and face. Blake tried to move, but was pinned in by four other union members. The workers near her retaliated with equal force, swinging their clubs and sticks.

  • • •

  Dennis encountered trouble when he attempted to take control of the bus. As he made his way up the steps, a very large Mexican, standing about six foot two, ran up the aisle and tackled him hard and heavy. The two bodies went flying toward the front window. When Dennis hit the glass, the back of his head smacked so hard that the glass shattered, causing several lacerations to his head and neck.

  “We want to work por favor!” the Mexican angrily exclaimed, then pointed toward the refinery. He proudly traipsed past Dennis, who was stunned and bleeding from his wounds. Dennis collapsed onto the
driver’s seat and moaned in pain.

  • • •

  From outside the bus, Blake noticed the scuffle that had ensued between Dennis and the Mexican. However, he was already occupied with one of the guards.

  “Dennis!” As much as Dennis irritated him, he still felt responsible for his friend’s safety. He felt that way about all of the workers, and in a way, he was. For a brief moment, Blake forgot about the guard, who then swung his club across Blake’s right shoulder. The blow completely incapacitated his arm for a few seconds, burning his muscles all the way down to his fingers. Blake grabbed his arm, gritted his teeth and roared in agony.

  The baseball bat fell from his hands, yet his instincts caused him to reach down and retrieve the weapon, regardless of the pain. In one determined motion, he swung the bat parallel to the ground, directly at the guard’s left knee. When the bat connected with its target, it made a crunching sound, breaking and splintering the bones inside his flesh. The guard shrieked in pain and his knees buckled.

  • • •

  Dennis screamed, “Oh…geeeze! Oh noo!” as he lay sprawled across the driver’s seat. He knew he had let Blake down again. He tried to get up, pushing past the pain, but he felt dizzy and fell back down.

  Dennis watched the Mexican jump down the steps into the thick of the brawl. It didn’t take long for the Mexican to get noticed by the rest of the mob. Although he put up a good fight, the crowd overtook him. He took down a few tradesmen, but he was no match for their numbers. Within minutes, the large man fell to the ground, bloodied and dazed. The sight energized Dennis. He smiled and then grunted in agony, worried that no one would notice that he was missing. The thought made him wonder if he’d end up in Texas if they sent the bus back where it came from.

  • • •

  The frenzied fighters screamed and cursed as the injured cried for help. Of course, the media filmed live as they attempted to give a blow-by-blow description of the intense moment. The temporary workers stared out of the windows, while the breath from their noses fogged up the glass.