Cheap Thrills (6 Thrilling reads)

by Luis Samways

  Connor is visibly worked up. He signals someone behind the camera, and three people join him, hands cuffed in the front of them with white bags over their heads. He pushes each of them to the ground so that they are on their knees facing him. He pulls out his Desert Eagle and swings it as a child playing Cowboys and Indians might. He turns to the camera, still composed.

  Everyone in the incident room gapes in horror at the scene playing out in front of them.

  ‘So let’s make all these wrongs right. These three people grovelling before me are the big wigs employed by M.I.T. It will be my pleasure to rid the world of these tyrants. The government can save them by contacting me in the next twenty seconds by agreeing to write a 28th amendment and guarantee the safe passage of me and my men. If they do not agree, every half hour I will dispatch three more people. There are four hundred employees in my custody. This little game could go on for a few days. When I run out of people to sacrifice to this government's agenda, I have contingency plans in place. Your twenty seconds start now.’

  Chase paces the room, his mobile phone in hand, parading like a king, invoking fears into the hearts of everyone in the incident room. Shaw looks at the DA.

  Smith puts his hand on the chief’s broad shoulder. ‘We can’t do anything about it Shaw; we don’t have the power to grant him his wishes.’ ‘Who can make that decision? Those people need to be saved, we can’t let them die.’ ‘Washington has to make the call. But it’s the United States of America’s policy not to negotiate with terrorists.’

  ‘Fuck policy, we have to get them out!’

  ‘We will, but going in with all guns blazing will only get our men killed, along with the hostages.’

  Chief Shaw nods and walks out of the incident room as three gun shots echo, followed by dead silence.

  Shaw cringes at three souls perishing. His thoughts revert to finding the only man he knows who can turn this around, the only man he can trust in this situation, the only man who can lead his officers into battle. His thoughts turn to finding Frank McKenzie.

  Fifty

  ‘Shots fired I repeat, shots fired; squad B-miner in need of backup on corridor six.’ The officer shouts into his two way radio while ducking for cover and firing his weapon blindly. Six officers locate cover in the hallway and fire their weapons without daring to peak over their cover to see what they may be shooting at. Bullets ricochet off the surfaces of the walls, debris falls, temporarily blinding one of the men. For a split second, he flails behind his cover, trying to wipe the white dust blocking his vision.

  One guard takes a bullet in the arm. Blood trickles from his wound as he grabs his arm and screams in pain.

  Two squad mates come to his aid but one collapses on the floor in the middle of the hallway, blood pouring from his neck. The second looks at his fallen comrade, notices the bullet wound to his neck and swallows hard. He turns to the first injured officer.

  ‘This guy obviously has some training. We can’t risk losing more men.’

  The officer points to the dead guard on the floor ten feet from them.

  ‘What do you suggest we do then?’ The man shakes his head. ‘I think we should let him go to avoid any more casualties.’

  ‘We can’t just let him go. He’s killed our men. From what I could see when we came in, the crazy bastard is covered in blood! He has either killed some others or he sweats blood. Either way, he isn’t going anywhere.’

  The other guard nods in agreement and grabs his two way radio.

  ‘This is Lieutenant Fishman,’ he says as the noisy hissing subsides. ‘General security check. Have there been any other incidents besides the one on corridor six?’

  A long silence precedes the radio crackling back to life. Bullets hiss past Fishman and he hugs the wall tighter.

  ‘Negative Squad B-Miner, all sections are normal.’ ‘Copy,’ Fishman puts the two way back on his belt holster.

  ‘I say we let him go. Let’s get you and anyone else injured to safety. I am not risking you or any of my men for some spy bullshit.’

  The injured man reluctantly agrees. ‘You’re the boss.’

  Fishman stands and raises his hands. ‘We surrender. Just go about your business. We don’t want any more casualties.’ A dense cloud of dust obscures his vision. The smoky cloud finally clears from the hallway after a long silence. The hallway is empty except for the guard’s mangled corpse on the floor.

  Fishman turns to see the remainder of his men motionless on the floor. Only he and the injured man remain. But the injured guard is also motionless on the floor. He rushes to turn him over and finds a bullet hole neatly placed in the middle of the man’s head.

  A cold sensation crawls down Fishman’s neck. A gun fires and Fishman collapses into a pool of blood.

  Frank McKenzie walks out of corridor six.

  Fifty One

  The year 2006: SIX YEARS BEFORE BOARDING THE TRAIN

  Mrs Gardener stands in front of her whiteboard as she surveys her class. Attendance is lower than usual since she is hosting the ever popular after school detention club.

  She hates that part of her job. The same people are there every time she is assigned to the job. She coughs to draw the attention of the ten students sitting in front of her with expressions of boredom.

  ‘Okay, boys and girls. It’s the end of the year and you still find it impossible to go about your school activities without finding yourselves here so I’m not going to waste my time telling you anything. Please use the time allocated for you to catch up on any work you are falling behind on. Save any questions till the end of detention.’

  The class moans and goes about their business. Mrs Gardner sits and starts grading papers. A bottle of wine and a TV dinner for one, she plans her evening ahead. She gazes out of the window, taking in the sunny day and the brisk wind ruffling the trees on campus. Someone sits on one of the outside benches facing her. She feels a vibration in her pocket and pulls out her mobile phone. She unlocks it and reads the message. She smiles. She makes sure none of her class is aware of her text messaging and replies, then hits send. She looks back out of the window. The figure on the bench in the distance reaches into his jacket and pulls out a phone. She smiles again. The figure on the bench is wearing charcoal washed blue denim jeans and a brown leather jacket. He fiddles with his phone and Mrs Gardener’s phone vibrates again.

  She reads the new message and laughs. She immediately puts the phone back in her jeans pocket as the students all look at her, and carries on marking her papers. She looks out of the window and notices the figure on the bench is gone. She quickly glances at the new message on her phone.

  “I’ll see you tonight at yours. Wear something revealing. Ideally nothing. Kiss.”

  She smiles as her heart beats hard in her chest. The name above the message fills her with glee. She knew who it was anyway, but seeing his name means it is real.

  The relationship is real. Her feelings are real. She glances at her class; no one is looking at her. She takes one last look at the name on the phone.

  617-338-7786.

  JASON BORDELLO

  Fifty Two

  Nathan sits on an oil drum in a store room and looks up at the man-made opening in the ceiling. He looks at his watch, gets up to straighten his legs and looks at his watch again.

  ‘Fuck sake. Hurry up!’ he says to himself.

  Ash drops on his shoulders. Nathan brushes it off and looks at the hole in the ventilation system. Fredrick’s head pokes out of the hole; He has a smile on his face. ‘Come on, star. It’s all safe up here’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you don’t drop cigar ash on me again,’ Nathan is still brushing his shoulders off.

  Fredrick holds his arm out for Nathan to grab and Nathan hoists himself up onto the oil drum. He steadies himself and reaches for Fredrick’s extended arm. Fredrick pulls him into the ventilation system.

  The vent is darker than the store room and very confined. Fredrick is crawling.

  ‘Wher
e the hell are we going?’ Nathan asks.

  Fredrick turns around slightly. ‘We are getting out of here.’ ‘Yeah, I know that, but where does this lead?’

  ‘It takes us right through the 1st floor of the M.I.T building. Straight through the hornet’s nest and out to the wastes, my breda.’

  ‘Hornet’s nest, are you mad?’

  ‘It’s the only available route. No one can get through the entrance foyer. Plenty of guards are walking patrol man, so if we get caught, we will die’

  ‘How did you get into the building?’

  ‘The same way we‘re going out, star. Through the ventilation ducts.’

  Nathan grabs Fredrick’s leg. ‘This better be safe’

  Fredrick pulls away from Nathan. ‘Course it’s safe. I never put myself in danger. Why you grab me like that? I’m no batty boy, star!’

  ‘Batty boy?’

  ‘Never mind, let’s get going.’ Nathan says to the silence.

  ‘Fine by me, star.’

  ‘Lead the way, “Star,”’ Nathan says sarcastically.

  ‘Ah. My man likes the word, star, now. That gwan’ be good, hear you say that’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. Let’s get the hell out of here, Fredrick. Leave the playing around shit for the outside. You get me out of here, and I’ll tattoo the damn word on my ass for you.’

  ‘I would settle for a beer, Breda. Let’s go.’

  Fifty Three

  Chief Shaw stares at the big screen in the incident room. His mind races as he gazes at the flickering blue screen in the now quiet room. Officers sit motionless at their desks, trying to get a grip on the day’s events.

  Shaw looks at his watch and sighs. Seven more hours and the FBI will take the case over. Shaw snaps out of his reverie and gets up to pace. Look concerned, act in control. Everything around him feels like it is slipping. Then the phone rings.

  Everyone gapes at the phone on the sturdy oak desk a few feet away from Shaw. He walks over and reaches for the shiny black phone. His hand reflects on the plastic that cases the handle. This particular phone line is dedicated to one thing only: communicating with Connor Chase.

  ‘Chief Shaw speaking.’

  A click sounds in Shaw’s ear. The recording equipment is doing its job.

  ‘Hello Mr Shaw. It’s Connor Chase here. I’d like to speak to Detective Frank McKenzie.’

  Shaw begins pacing again, slowly, and methodically. Walking helps him stand his ground. The incident room is full again and officers take seats around the desk. They all wear headphones, listening to the phone call. Standard procedure when it comes to terrorism. Chief Shaw bites his nails.

  ‘I’m sorry, Connor, that won’t be possible.’

  The only sound in the room is the deep breathing from the other end of the phone.

  ‘Why won’t that be possible?’

  ‘We fired him after learning about some of his questionable decisions.’

  ‘Was it anything to do with his unprofessional behaviour? Sleeping with a key witness? Or did he, I don’t know, just shoot up a down town storage facility?’

  The officers start dialling their phones.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Shaw asks and the line goes dead.

  ‘Shit, he’s gone, Sir,’ A technician at the analysis desk says.

  ‘I can see that!’ The Chief turns to face his men.

  ‘You all heard what Chase had to say. Chase just told me Frank was downtown in some storage area, shooting the place up. Obviously we don’t know if that’s true, but we need to find McKenzie and bring him in. This cocksucker is going to ride this out for as long as possible, so we need to get Frank in so if Chase demands to speak with him again, he can’t use Frank as another reason to kill more civilians. Check every storage facility in downtown Boston and make sure we find Frank. Sweep the area for McKenzie. Find him. Arrest him. Take him into custody. Right here. Right now. Is that understood?’

  Silent agreement fills the room.

  ‘Good. Get going people!’

  Fifty Four

  Frank leans against a brick wall and looks up at the sun. He shades his eyes. Sweat pours down his brow and he wipes it away, smearing blood on his temple.

  He looks at his feet. His black shoes are covered in mud and muck. His clothes are torn. Blood stains his clothing and his dirty blond hair. His marine core tattoo is visible through the right shoulder of his lacerated shirt. Fear and loathing run through his body like the blood once ran through the guard he beat to death. And his voices are talking.

  ‘Fear is for the weak, Frank. Knuckle up, you pussy.’

  Frank looks from right to left, trying to pinpoint where the voice is coming from. Open woodland and concrete storage tanks surround him. He looks up at the sun again and goes down to his knees. Reaching into his ripped shirt pocket, he pulls the empty pill container out and sobs. He moans in pain. He doesn’t recognise himself.

  ‘Man up!’ the voice shouts in his head. ‘Don’t be weak. You don’t need those pills, my boy. You have me!’ Frank looks at his palms. He has never believed in psychics or palm readings, but someone could read his life through his. Busted fingers and broken knuckles serve as evidence for his.

  Frank pulls himself up using the railing attached to the wall. He sees the gate where he entered a few hours ago. The guard who let him in is in the booth watching the CCTV. Frank takes out his gun and slowly pulls the hammer back.

  ‘Forgive me.’ he whispers as he reaches the window of the booth and takes aim.

  Fifty Five

  Officer Mullins is greeted with chatter as he walks into the incident room in midtown Boston. Officers walk and run urgently. His partner blinks at the chaos. The incident room’s central operations area is boarded up with plaster wood. A few of the officers Mullins knows acknowledge him with nods and smiles. As a street officer who walks a beat, he feels out of place. He jumps as someone clamps on his shoulder, jolting him out of his haze. It’s the DA, Eddie Smith.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you there,’ the DA apologizes.

  Mullins nods, happy to see a familiar face.

  ‘No problem, Sir.’

  ‘It seems Chase has taken a liking to Frank McKenzie and wants to talk to him. Obviously that’s impossible since Frank is MIA. We need to locate him as soon as possible. I fear Connor might use him as an excuse to kill more hostages.’

  Mullins glances at his partner and sees worry wash over his face.

  ‘The thing is, Sir; I want to do more. I feel I could do more to help the investigation.’ Mullins says.

  ‘I understand kid. We all want to do more.’ Eddie nods sympathetically. ‘How do you think I feel being cooped up in this office? Truth is, we all play an integral role in the success of this case. There’s a lot more going on in Boston than what’s happening down in the M.I.T Building and we need people like you on the streets. ’

  Mullins nods in understanding.

  ‘I want you to go down to the garage and meet your team.’ Eddie continues to them. ‘We need you to search downtown for any signs of Frank McKenzie. You’ll be leading your team into possible hostile areas and if there is any resistance from Frank or Chase’s men, plant a couple of bullets into their legs. I want everyone alive and able to talk. I’m trusting you kid. You have shown initiative. If you play your cards right you could be bumped up to Homicide when this is all over.’

  Mullins nods emphatically.

  ‘No problem sir. We’ll bring Frank in.’

  As Mullins and his partner walk away, Eddie gets out his phone and mashes the buttons. He smiles at the message he just typed. “It’s done.” the message reads.

  Fifty Six

  The year 2006: SIX YEARS BEFORE BOARDING THE TRAIN

  Mrs Gardener stands on her suburban porch watching traffic go by. It’s a delightful evening and colours jump out of the sky. The stars shine brighter tonight than ever. The air seems cleaner, too, and people passing say hello.

  She’s always gotten a
long with her neighbours, but suburbia has taken its toll on how she sees most people. People change when receiving bonuses on their already meaty cheques. Mrs Gardener enjoys the good things in life too, but sees the luxuries other people want as burdens. She enjoys good wine and good people. She also enjoys looking after kids and gets tremendous satisfaction from cooking Thanksgiving dinner for her mom and dad. Yet she sees herself as a shadow of what she wants to be.

  A car horn on the street jars her back to reality and she shakes her head in disappointment. Two men shout at each other a few hundred yards down the street. They scream obscene words at each other and holdup traffic.

  She goes into the house and admires the view from her pristine living room. She glances at the clock on her wall and starts to strip down to her French underwear. Her body is immaculately well-kept as if she goes to the gym regularly.

  Her doorbell rings and she opens the door wide, sees her visitor’s face and pulls him into the house, closing the door behind him. She pushes him against the door and starts kissing his neck.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Gardener.,’ She looks up at him, smiling.

  ‘Hello, Jason.’

  Fifty Seven

  The long crawl through the air ducts is cramped and hot. Sweat drips down Fredrick’s forehead and he turns around to Nathan, who is a mere few feet behind him.

  ‘How can an AC air duct be so damn hot?’ he whispers.

  Nathan laughs and taps Fredrick’s leg.

  ‘It’s okay, man. Let’s keep going. We need to get out of here.’

  ‘Why are you touching me? I told you, star, I’m no batty boy’

  Nathan stops crawling. ‘I told you, I don’t know what that means. I’m assuming you think I’m gay. Well, sorry to disappoint you, I’m not a ‘batty boy.’ Call me that one more time and I’ll kick your ass!’

  ‘You crazy or something? You want to fight the man who is saving you in an air duct? You crazy white boy.’

  ‘Racism is not the answer, Fredrick. Have I called you a black boy?’