Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

  The white truck was behind him and its occupants were still shooting. Mitchelli smelled diesel fuel. The bullets had struck his diesel fuel tank mounted in the bed of the truck; he had used it to fuel his boat. The tank held over a hundred gallons of fuel. The white truck pulled alongside of him, their guns pointed at Mitchelli’s tires. He drew his Glock and held his right arm across his chest, the pistol inches above the window. He turned to his left, instantly aligning his gun barrel with the passenger in the white truck who was training his barrel on Mitchelli’s tires. His pistol spit five rounds out one after another, tearing through the door of the truck and into the passenger, who dropped his pistol to the road. The white truck immediately slowed.

  Mitchelli’s truck tires screeched as he slammed the brake pedal down. The white truck glanced off Mitchelli’s truck, slamming into the side of a New York State Trooper’s car parked on the side of the road, for reasons unknown. The men in the red truck shot up the trooper’s car, and placed several rounds into Mitchelli’s cab. Mitchelli dropped the throttle and his truck made a right hand turn onto Genesee Street, heading west.

  Mitchelli knew this area well. As a child he had ridden his enduro motorcycle through the gravel pits. When he was old enough to drive, he had hauled sand out off the pit in a Mitchelli Construction’s ten-wheel dump truck. The trucks sped towards Mitchelli. The door of the white truck opened and the body of the gunman who Mitchelli shot was pushed out of the truck onto the street, arms and legs flailing as the body tumbled onto the road. Mitchelli’s mind turned from survival to rage as he saw the trucks heading towards him. Both drivers and passengers had guns extended out their respective windows. The bullets ripped through Mitchelli’s truck seat into the dashboard and through the windshield. That’s enough! I’ve had ENOUGH! Mitchelli’s truck turned off road and into the gravel pit entrance. The two trucks followed. He approached a steep crest in the road, Fly Big Stud, Fly! Mitchelli’s truck launched into the air, all four wheels left the ground. The rear of the truck rose above the nose but the weight of the diesel engine dropped the nose quickly. As the truck rose then fell through the air, his coffee cup hovered above the dashboard and his phone floated off the seat. The truck landed with a violent jolt. Mitchelli’s head struck the steering wheel, and then whipped back against the headrest. He held the accelerator down and headed for the shear gravel pit wall. The trucks drew near, guns firing. Suddenly a flash appeared in his rearview mirror and deep red flames swirled off the bed of Mitchelli’s truck, the speed of the truck feeding the flames. His truck skidded sideways. Flames, smoke, and sand flew everywhere, surrounding the truck. Mitchelli was soaked in coffee; diesel fuel, and blood dripped from his face.

  He quickly exited the truck pulling his black nylon bag with his arsenal of weapons out from the back seat. Mitchelli moved and positioned his body behind the hood of the truck, protected by the iron block of the diesel engine. He stood his ground. He placed the bag behind the front wheel, quickly opened it and took his Remington 870 Express shotgun out. He immediately racked the slide, chambering a round. He quickly swung around his shoulders a leather bandolier holding twenty rounds of assorted shotgun shells. He hunched low below the hood. The red truck appeared first. Mitchelli popped up over the hood of his truck, firing a round and instantly shattering the windshield with double odd buckshot. Without hesitation, he racked the slide and fired a second burst. The hood flew open and the truck veered to a stop, its passenger side exposed to Mitchelli’s shotgun muzzle. He aimed into the cab. Suddenly, the white truck crested a sand dune behind him. The flames from Mitchelli’s truck obscured its view. The white truck passed Mitchelli’s then turned to its right passing behind the red truck. Mitchelli had missed his opportunity for a shot. He would not hesitate again. Three men exited the truck, their pistols firing in rapid succession into Mitchelli’s cab, the occupants unaware that he was not in the truck.

  Realizing his mistake, Mitchelli dispatched four more rounds into the cab of the red truck as the two occupants returned gunfire, their rounds ricocheting off his truck hood and engine block. The two men in the red truck followed Mitchelli’s lead; they hid behind the engine of their truck and released a barrage of fire at him. Mitchelli kneeled behind the fender of his truck and he waited for a pause in the gunfire. Their shots missed wildly, their marksmanship poor. The few well-placed gunshots were wasted as they struck the engine block, which shielded Mitchelli.

  Mitchelli turned the shotgun upside-down and drew double odd buckshot rounds that were closest to his hip from his bandolier. He pushed the rounds in the loading port, depressing the feed ramp at the bottom of the receiver and driving his thumb behind the shells, locking them in the extended magazine tube. He crawled to the rear of his truck. The flames were above him and the heat was tremendous. There was a high potential for a secondary explosion from the primary fuel tank. Mitchelli reached the rear tire of his truck and moved away from his truck in a crouch, flanking the gunman of the red truck. The flames concealed his movement. The thugs quickly aimed at movement directing their pistols at Mitchelli who quickly fired two lethal shots. The thugs’ bodies fell against the side of the red truck and to the ground.

  Mitchelli dropped and sand exploded around him as the bullets struck the ground. He took aim at the rear of the white truck just behind and above the rear axle, firing his remaining rounds at the fuel tank. The tank erupted into flames, and a secondary explosion followed. The flames from the two trucks lit up the night sky; the black red flames from Mitchelli’s diesel fuel tank, and the bright yellow flames from the gasoline tank of the white truck were apocalyptic. The three men lifted their heads for a moment, and moved away from their truck and towards the rear of Mitchelli’s. The hit men were scared and irrationally ran from one fire towards the other, possibly seeking concealment from Mitchelli’s truck or attempting to flank his position.

  Mitchelli lied on his belly, his body quivering. God, what have I done? Focus, pray, you must pray. Praying, that will help…God will not listen to a murderer! His thoughts were frantic, his situation desperate. He must live to kill Handly before Handly killed his children. He struggled to steady his shaking hands as he reloaded his shotgun with nine rounds from his bandolier, all slugs. Our father who art in heaven… He was reacting instinctively. His eyes widened as he looked up into the night sky at the flames. The Marauder rolled away from the trucks; he tucked his arms and shotgun into his chest and rolled. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty feet from the trucks, he stopped in a small crevice at the base of the sand dune the white truck had raced over. Thy kingdom come they will be done… He pressed his body flat on to the ground. Deliver us from evil…evil, Mafia, raider, pirate, Mitchelli, Marauder. Peter Mitchelli is the Marauder, the Marauder is a killer...A hired assassin. He could not see, the irregularity of the sand and brush diminished his line of sight. He had transitioned to a kneeling position when he heard a voice cry out.

  “Mitchelli, we know where you’re live. Think of your children. We want the merchandise, that’s it. Even if you get past us, they will send more, more men from all over the country. Give us the junk and we’ll go easy on you.”

  The Marauder detected the fear in the voice. The Marauder is evil…an assassin. Kill these thugs, send Handly a gruesome message. He knew he had the advantage; his emotions went beyond fear. The rage of a killer. Ann, the children, the years lost with depression. The wrath of Mitchelli’s Mind Kill turned him numb to any negotiations. Rage fueled his hate… the Mind Kill seized control of his actions. Mitchelli was dead; the rise of the Marauder had begun. He rose. Standing, he saw shadows, no movement, and he sensed the men crouched behind the hood of the white truck, their position illuminated by the flames. He walked towards the truck. Behind him the flames rose above his head. The blaze was no match for the inferno that burned in his mind. Shots rang out; the killers’ pistols chattered, booming shot after shot towards Mitchelli the Builder, Pirate, Raider, Marauder…the Killer! The bullets were barely missing him, slashing t
hrough his shirt. The thugs had no firearm training; their shots haphazard and their marksmanship poor. He raised his shotgun, put his finger on the trigger, and pumped the action, the gunfire rapid. Five rounds ripped through the fenders of the truck, the slugs shredding anything in their path. He quickly moved to his right, keeping the stock of his shotgun on his shoulder. He fired four more rounds at the hood of the truck. The slugs penetrated the hood and exited the fender, killing the cowering thugs, who dropped to the ground.

  The Marauder rapidly transitioned the shotgun to the palm of his left hand and drew his pistol, the muzzle pointed at the fallen men. When he was confident he had stopped the threat, no more stopping the threat, kill your enemies, all must die, he holstered his pistol and reloaded his shotgun.

  Mitchelli stared at the three dead men on the ground, the light from the flames dancing across their flesh, their blood pooling around their bodies soaking into the sand. They were in their late twenties, much younger than Mitchelli. Their pistols were nickel-plated to impress and dazzle, Hollywood bullshit. The shining metal would reflect sunlight, flames, any light, sending a signal to their enemies their position. The black gun was one chosen by a profession. Handly sent young scum to get me. They won’t make that mistake a second time. You better be prepared. I must be prepared. Send a message. He loaded nine double odd shotgun rounds from his bandoleer. He stood over a redheaded thug, his body covered in blood, his dead man’s eyes open. The Marauder held the muzzle of his shotgun inches from the thug’s neck and fired twice, severing the head from the body. He repeated the procedure on two more thugs.

  He grabbed the redhead by the hair and held the head inches from his face staring into the gunman’s eyes, studying his face. A million thoughts sped through the Marauder’s mind, searching his memories for his past. I know this man, this is someone’s younger brother from my childhood. Our lives have crossed before his ended with violence.

  Lights crossed Mitchelli’s torso. Hanging onto the head, he raised his shotgun and directed the muzzle at the lights. The head firmly in the Marauder’s left hand, it dangled below the shotgun for grip. The state trooper’s car stopped. The young trooper threw open his door. “Police don’t move! Police don’t move!” His car was riddled with bullet holes and his hands were shaking. Staring down the barrel of a shotgun was frightful in its own right, let alone the death weapon held by the Marauder. The trooper’s eyes locked on the decapitated head, its eyes directed at the trooper Mitchelli threw it at him. The head flew through the air and landed on the patrol car hood, stopping to rest at the base of the windshield.

  Mitchelli held his sites on the center of the trooper door. The shotgun slugs would have easily ripped through the thin metal of the door. Kill your enemies, they all must die.

  “POLICE, DON’T MOVE!” The trooper’s nerves were rattled by the collision with the trucks, the sight a dead body tossed onto the street, three wrecked trucks, two of which were burning, and five dead bodies in front of his car. And now, standing there, looking down the barrel of Mitchelli’s shotgun was too much for the young trooper in one night.

  The Marauder’s hands began to tremble. Fear filled his mind. Mitchelli had taken control. This man must not die, stay calm, Peter. Gather your strength for those you have yet to kill. He lowered his shotgun, holding the receiver in the palm of his hand, alongside his leg, the barrel pointed at the ground. Mitchelli did not move; he yelled, his voice commanding attention, “TROOPER! My shotgun’s at my side. Can you see the license plate on the black truck, the bed is on fire.” The trooper did not respond. “Trooper, call my license plate into your barracks, have them contact Robert Freed with the Buffalo FBI office immediately.” The Trooper dazed did not move. “DO IT NOW!”

  The trooper’s eyes appeared above his door, his pistol pointed at Mitchelli. He called in Mitchelli’s plate number. Voices could be heard over the radio, Mitchelli could hear commands being given to the trooper, Hold position, back up on its way, hold your fire. The trooper relayed Mitchelli’s description over the radio, in detail, the description forwarded from the State Police to the FBI. Orders were dispatched over the radio from the FBI, do not approach, do not fire upon individual described. Back up, federal officers, and fire company dispatched.

  Ignoring the state trooper, Mitchelli walked to the rim of the gravel pit; the drop to the bottom was over a hundred feet. The trooper held his pistol on Mitchelli the entire time. The fire company’s emergency horn could be heard in the distance. Mitchelli stood by the rim as the sun rose. The sirens of emergency vehicles were approaching. Mitchelli contemplated his next move. He was a marked man; contracts were given to have him killed. One lucky gunshot from a mindless punk and his children would be orphans; Ann would be furious. His Mind Kill grinded away giving way to the rise of the Marauder. The guilt was overwhelming. What have I done? Why did I agree to work with the government? Ann knew my life is a lie, I’m a killer!

  Freed arrived at the scene just before the State Police and Clarence Fire Department. He attempted to speak with Mitchelli, but he did not respond. Freed stared at the blood on Mitchelli’s face and neck. “Peter are you hurt?” Mitchelli did not move. “Peter tell me what happened.” Mitchelli did not acknowledge Freed’s presence. Freed tugged at his arm; it held like steel. Freed moved several feet away. “Angela’s on her way, just sit tight.” He looked at the trembling trooper, his body shaking as he stared at the bloody head on his patrol car. Freed knew who had done this, the flames lit up the decapitated heads of the two other thugs on the ground, “Oh my God, Peter! Jesus, you’re crazy, you’ve gone mad.”

  As Freed approached the State Police Captain, he could hear the volunteer firemen questioning, “Who was the owner of the black pickup truck?” Freed paid little attention to the comments until he heard, “That’s the Chief’s brother’s, Peter Mitchelli’s truck; I installed the fuel tank and grab bars.”

  Freed quickly approached the closest firefighter. “Where’s Chief Mitchelli?” he asked. The fireman directed him to the closest fire engine. As Freed walked towards the pumper, a slender fireman came rushing in his direction wearing a white firemen’s hat with gold trim, not red like the other men.

  “Chief Mitchelli!” Freed called out. The Chief stopped and Freed quickly walked towards him presenting his FBI credentials and introduced himself.

  “Is my brother alive?”

  “Yes, he’s alive.” Freed pointed beyond Mitchelli’s smoldering truck.

  Pat Mitchelli’s eyes locked on to his brother standing at the rim of the pit, shotgun in his hands, pistol holstered at his waist. He grinned. “So Agent Freed, what’s my brother involved in, and who the hell shot up his truck?” Pat Mitchelli’s eyes moved to the State Police who had surrounded the dead bodies on the ground in an effort to protect the crime scene. “Did they make him angry, good God, don’t make him angry. Shit I’m not even going to ask who severed the heads. Have you ever seen my brother angry?”

  “Well, yes, several times.”