by Luis Samways
Forty Six
Nathan’s eyes open and he squints in pain. Blood runs down his face, pooling around his idle body. It looks worse than it is, he thinks. He tries to get up, but his hands are cuffed behind his back, making movement difficult. He lies on his front, face down on the ground. He turns his head and looks at his surroundings. “Where the hell am I? The basement?” He notices that he is in a cage, imprisoned like a dog, a hand cuffed dog at that. He stretches his head forward and rests his chin on the cold hard ground. Straight ahead, he notices an abundance of computer servers and wiring.
‘The basement,’ he says to himself.
An armed man steps out into the little light coming from a lit cigar. It is enough to illuminate his face. A scar runs from his eyebrow to his chin. He is wearing a camouflage bandana that looks as greasy as the floor beneath his feet. He smiles at Nathan’s struggle and takes another drag on his large Cuban.
‘The basement is right,’ says the man in a Jamaican accent that suits his face.
Nathan tries to get a better look at the man.
‘I wouldn’t try that if I was you, boy. It can get mighty dangerous down here!’
‘Why am I tied up like some sort of pig?’ The man shakes his head. ‘Surely, you should know by now, star, it’s not every day you get to witness the going-ons from both sides of the fence.’
Nathan’s laugh blows dust up in his face.
‘I was more of an errand boy, you know. A grunt,’ the man in the shadows smiles and nods his head in a rhythm. ‘I been doing the same ting down here. I am looking after your ass, till they decide what they want to do with you.’
Nathan nods and closes his eyes to stop them from straining. ‘What do you think they are going to do to me?’
‘That I cannot be sure of, star. I imagine it won’t be pretty.’
Nathan opens his eyes and tries to get a better look at the man. ‘What’s your name?’ The man takes another drag on his cigar. I can’t tell you that. You know the deal, boy. Just stay calm in there and I’ll try and get you out.’
Nathan’s eyes widen. ‘What do you mean out?’
The man flicks his cigar onto the ground and stubs it out with his army boot. His smile is loaded with gold teeth. He signals to Nathan to stay quiet. Another man comes out of the shadows. This one dressed differently from the Jamaican. He’s less army, more mercenary looking by his style of dress.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asks the new arrival.
The Jamaican man pats the other man’s shoulder and swings a heavy right hook at him, knocking him cold to the floor. He takes his weapons and ammunition.
Nathan looks on in shock.
‘Come on star, I’m getting you out of here. The name’s Fredrick. Chief Shaw sent me to rescue you. He had a feeling you’d been compromised, so here I am. Let’s get gwaning.’
‘How the hell do you purpose I just “get gwaning”?’ Nathan asks.
Fredrick searches his pockets and finds something which he slaps onto the steel security door of the cell. The slapping sound reminds Nathan of bubble gum, and he fears the worst. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Getting you out, star. Tuck and roll on 3.’ Fredrick orders.
‘Tuck and roll? What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘1……2…..’
‘Wait, goddamn it!’
‘3.’
An explosion shakes the floor and the metal security door flies off its hinges. It lands on top of Nathan in a cloud of dust and debris. Nathan moans and tries to wriggle out from under the heavy door. Fredrick walks into the cage and lifts the 300 pound door with ease. The muscles on his arms bulge as he tips it away from Nathan.
‘I said tuck and roll!’ Fredrick says playfully.
He un-cuffs Nathan and helps him up.
‘First I don’t know what that means. Second, my name is not Star!’
‘I know. Now let’s get gwaning. They can show up at any moment.’
Dust fills the air as Nathan shakes himself down.
‘Not terribly subtle, you know, blowing the door off its hinges.’
‘What you going to do, ay? Wait for them to open it for us?’ Fredrick leads the way out of the basement and up the stairs. He turns to Nathan and signals him to hold his position. Nathan stays back while Fredrick mounts the winding stairs. Fredrick reaches the top and Nathan hears what sounds like a fight. He quickly moves up the stairs but a body comes crashing down at his feet as he reaches the fifth. He looks up again and sees Fredrick smiling down at him.
‘Let’s go, star’
Nathan rendezvous with Fredrick, who is lighting another cigar.
‘I don’t mean to be rude Fredrick, but don’t you think smoking while trying to sneak out of a hostile building is a bit… I don’t know….unstealthy?’
‘I don’t see your point Nathan.’
‘The smoke could give us away or something. They could smell us coming. I don’t think that counts as good stealth practice.’
‘Who said anything about being stealthy? Don’t worry about them smelling us, star. They are going to hear us coming, breda!’
Forty Seven
Frank’s head jars against the bars on the gate with tremendous force. Blood spatters off his head, trickling onto the rusty cold metal then finding its way to the floor. He kneels and clutches his wounds. A mighty punch lands on the back of his head, knocking him down again. This time, his hands break his fall.
As he lies on the ground, staring into space, the guard grips a handful of his hair and repeatedly bashes Frank’s scull into the metal gate. When the pounding stops, Frank’s eyes focus once more. His wounds bleed profusely. He clutches at the gate and braces himself, resting his head on the floor. He hears his tormentor’s every footstep as he approaches once again to deliver a sharp kick to the ribs. Frank cringes and braces himself, trying to muster energy, another kick and Frank’s vision blurs. Consciousness slips.
‘Get up you son of a bitch!’ the guard yells.
Frank rouses to another kick. His hands grip the rusty bars of the security door. A jab to the kidneys and Frank’s grip grows tighter. He hears the rumble of another approach by the guard. He times it. Two seconds. One second.
Frank grabs the bars tighter and swings both legs to the right, catching the guard midstride as he comes in for another swing. With a snap of his hips, he sweeps the guard off his feet and onto his back. Blood distorts Frank’s vision as he gets up and feels for the fallen guard’s body. He finds his foot, grabs the guard’s heavy duty boots and twists the man’s ankle. Snap. The man screams. Frank twists again for personal enjoyment. The man screams once more. This time the scream is barely audible as the breath leaves the guard’s lungs.
Frank rises to his knees and shimmies closer to the guard’s sternum. He lays four heavy blows to the ribs and hears them break. Frank likes what he hears. He pounds the man’s chest. With each crushing blow, blood spews from the guard’s mouth.
Frank stops, out of breath and weak. He stands and examines his handy work.
The guard lies motionless in a pool of blood. The man’s chest is caved in, imploded. His breathing stops with a gurgle of blood and one last plea.
Frank smiles and stumbles closer to the fallen man. He kneels and strokes the man’s hair.
‘Hush little man, don’t you cry. Frank is not going to spare your life,’ Frank sing-songs.
Frank cracks his fingers in anticipation, breaths deeply and lands a barrage of kicks to the man’s scull, splattering blood in all directions. Frank is covered in his own and the guard’s. His rage grows as he demolishes the corpse of the guard.
Frank’s kicks take chunks of his humanity with them and he moans in enjoyment. He falls to his knees, almost orgasmic, his mouth open in awe.
He smears blood away from his eyes and leans against the wall. The once bleach clean hallway looks like a warzone. Frank knows that the war is far from over.
The guard’s radio goes off. “Approac
hing corridor six. Target last seen in the vicinity. Squad B-miner on point,” the voice says from the crackly radio.
Frank spots a security camera pointed directly at him over the door and he reads the sign below the camera.
“Corridor Six Exit” reads the sign.
‘Shit!’ Frank swats at the security camera, knocking it off the wall with a crash. His eyes dart down the corridor and he sees shadows approaching fast. Multiple footsteps, multiple men. At least six, according to Frank’s math. He bends and grabs the dead guard’s 9mm. He aims down the corridor and sees silhouettes approaching.
He waits. Three seconds. He cocks the gun. Two seconds. He breathes in deep. One second. He fires.
Forty Eight
Jason wakes to a vibration in his pocket. He flips his cell phone open and reads the message. He types something and hits send.
Jason puts the cell phone back in his pocket. Crystal’s head rests on his shoulder as she sleeps. Jenifer is stirring from a deep sleep. He nudges Crystal awake. She opens her eyes and smiles at him.
Shaking his head, he gestures at Jenifer.
Crystal understands what he is trying to say and sits up to brush herself down to make herself more presentable.
He smiles and gives her a playful wink.
Jenifer catches him in the act and coughs to get their attention. He glances at her, his face stern but friendly.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks.
Jason stretches in his seat. ‘Nothing, I just woke up.’
‘Is that so?’ Jenifer gets up from her cabin chair and faces Jason and Crystal.
‘Why are you sitting next to her?’ Jenifer points at Crystal.
Jason crosses the short distance to Jenifer and tries to calm her. He takes her hand.
She snaps it away and steps a few steps away from him.
‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but last time I checked, you were on this train ride with me. Now you’re with that frigid slut?’
‘I’m not with anyone, Jenifer! I’m here for the ride to Boston’
Jenifer slaps him across the face; she leaves a red palm mark on his cheek. He grabs at his burning skin.
Jenifer pushes him into his seat and walks away, leaving him and Crystal staring at each other in silence.
Forty Nine
Chief Shaw rushes into the DA’s office. The carnage of empty bottles from the mini bar and case files that are strewn all over the rinky-dink office make him gasp in shock. He shakes his head in amazement as he walks over to the Eddie’s desk.
Eddie is fast asleep, his head resting on the assortment of files on the solid oak surface. Shaw rattles a bottle next to him, grabs it, takes a long swig of the clear alcoholic liquid and purposely thuds the bottle back onto the desk, awakening the sleeping District Attorney.
Eddie looks at Shaw with clear distain. ‘What the hell do you want?’ Shaw takes a drag of his oversized cigar. ‘I want you to get your ass up and follow me to the incident room.’
‘I’m the goddamn District Attorney. Don’t talk to me like that,’
‘You’re drunker then my dad on Saint Patrick’s Day and that’s saying something considering he’s Irish!’ Shaw laughs at his light-hearted joke.
Eddie smiles, appreciating Chief Shaw’s humour. ‘Okay. I’m getting up. What seems to be the problem besides me losing all hope and drinking the department’s liquor budget for the whole year?’
‘You should see Frank’s office at the Christmas party. Now there is a man who can drink!’
‘On the subject of Frank: any news on his whereabouts?’ Shaw shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The man is MIA. But it’s not unusual for him to go missing for days on end. He’s probably in a gutter somewhere drinking himself stupid.’
‘Well we have that in common.’
‘Chase is about to go live again, according to his YOUTUBE channel.’
‘Why haven’t we shut that thing down?’ asks the DA
‘We can’t. It’s beyond our jurisdiction; FBI would have to subpoena Google.’
‘Why?’
‘They own YOUTUBE.’
‘Let’s hear what Connor has to say this time.’
When they arrive at the incident room, the place is abuzz with officers gathering files and intelligence. Eddie Smith turns to Shaw in confusion. ‘What’s with all the rushing? Don’t your people ever rest?’
‘It’s called an incident room for a reason. They are investigating leads on various cases, including this current one.’
‘Various cases? Surely everyone should focus their attention on Connor Chase.’ ‘Unfortunately, the people of Boston have taken to the streets and started mass looting. There seems to be a kinship with Chase and his beliefs. A lot of people support his message.’
‘Only in Boston I swear! How can anyone support this man?’ Eddie shakes his head
‘People may not agree with terrorism, but Connor’s message has reached a huge number of people. It could spark a city wide demonstration and result in mass violence.’
‘Are these people mad?’
‘No, but they’re eating up Chase’s speeches and blaming us for all his killings. They want a 28th amendment.’
An officer approaches them. ‘It’s about to start, Chief.’ The three men walk to the large screen. A live picture of Connor Chase flashes, showing him standing where people have become accustomed to seeing him. He’s as serious as ever as he stares at the camera. He paces, apparently not aware he is live. An off camera voice tells him and he snaps out of his haze.
‘Hello, ladies and gentleman. I’m here again to discuss the progress on my purposed 28th amendment. Or lack of progress, shall I say? I’m severely disappointed in the lack of interest the Boston and Washington establishments are showing me. The government that swears to protect and serve hasn’t contacted me, they are letting people die. That is unacceptable. I am deeply shocked at the carefree attitude they are taking. It offends me that they would rather have people die at my hands than honour my requests. They are making a monumental mistake in not taking me seriously. Maybe I should be more assertive in letting them know I mean business. Surely the fact that the people of Boston are revolting should wise them up. But no, they play dead and blind saints who cannot see nor do evil. Of course they have no reason to want to address my 28th amendment because they would have to give up collecting all of your information. Why would they want to give up that currency on the black market? Why would they want to give up their only way of knowing who we truly are? They can tell a lot about each and every one of us through credit card statements, web browsing behaviours, credit reports, family history, social networking profiles and internet logs. They have us under a virtual wire, a wire of oppression. They save money on good old fashioned hard working men whose professions were to search for people, find information. Now all they have to do is go to a yellow pages style programme and pick out the lucky candidates. Screw this government’s way of using our personal information to entrap the poor and free the rich. Screw the cocksuckers who trade our information for more tax money’
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. W
hen 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.’
