Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

  The blue boat approached Time Raider on her portside. Time Raider reached its next waypoint and turned hard to port, and Time Raider smashed into the side of the blue boat. Mitchelli’s body slid, wedging between the radar arch and roof and momentarily immobilizing him. Time Raider turned to port again, reversing its course navigating to go under the second span of the Peace Bridge. The hulls of the two boats smashed against each other a second time, the smaller Chicago boat knocked aside by Time Raider. MacJames drew her pistol as the gunmen sprayed the floor of the cockpit with machine gun fire, attempting to hit the engines below deck.

  “BASTARDS!” MacJames stood and fired through the starboard cockpit glass at the gunman. The blue boat maneuvered away, but not before the gunman released a burp of machine gun fire into the hull and cockpit, shattering the glass that surrounded MacJames. She fell to the floor as the bullets ripped through the cockpit.

  “ANGELA!” Mitchelli burned with rage, realizing his strategy was terminally flawed and deadly wrong. They wanted to immobilize the boat and hold them as hostages. MacJames was only several deadly feet from their primary target: the engines. They will kill Angela to capture me, Protect Angela! He could not let her die; he had barely survived Ann’s death. Angela had to live-- he couldn’t destroy another woman’s life. His emotions exploded and hatred took over his mind. Leonard, Angela, and my children would be next. The threats must all die. His mission and his goal were perfectly clear to him; the gunfight had focused his mind. Come after me and you will die. Mitchelli topped off the shotgun’s magazine tube and stood. He turned the radar bar off with the toggle switch at the back of its base. He rose from his prone position to a strong side kneel and fired at the Chicago boats. He used the radar arch to brace himself.

  Coarseni stood at the center of the Peace Bridge with two FBI snipers on either side of him. Border patrol officers on both sides of the bridge stopped traffic. Coarseni looked up river towards Lake Erie for the boats. The snipers kneeled, preparing their weapons, with spotters at their side. Freed’s car raced up the bridge and came to an abrupt stop behind the sniper position on the southern pedestrian walkway. The fog diminished at the mouth of the river, three hundred feet to the south. As Freed ran towards Coarseni, the roar of the boat engines penetrated the fog, their approach imminent. The snipers raised their rifle stocks to their shoulders, anticipating the approach of their targets.

  “Jesus Christ!” Mitchelli’s boat appeared first out of the fog, the two Chicago boats were on either side of him firing directly into his hull, Coarseni shouted, “Don’t shoot the big guy on the roof of the white boat, he’s one of ours! Let the other bastards have it!”

  Both Freed and Coarseni pulled their pistols when they heard the machine guns firing at Mitchelli’s boat. The snipers were searching for targets in vain. The fog and windshields obscured their targets. Mitchelli focused his fire at the closest threat, the black boat to his left. He fired his shotgun into the cockpit. The twelve gauge slugs tore through the glass, hitting one of the two gunmen. Blooding pouring from his wounds, the man pointed his machine gun at the floor and squeezed the trigger in pain. The bullets ripped through the deck into the engine compartment. The bolt on the machine gun locked back, signaling the machine gun was empty. The self-inflicted blow delivered, smoke began to billow from the engine compartment vents on either side of the black boat. The gunman fell to the white cockpit deck, which quickly became covered with his blood. The snipers on the bridge fired, hitting the driver’s shoulder, and the exit wound ejected pieces of bloody flesh on the back of the driver seat. The black Chicago boat turned towards the bridge abutment. The sniper on Coarseni’s left continued firing with proficiency. He shot the other gunman in the head, dead he fell into the water. The injured driver failed to maintain control of the boat and it hit the concrete bridge abutment. The current lifted the boat and smashed it against the bridge foundation. Overreacting, the driver turned the wheel hard to port towards Mitchelli’s boat, ramming it. The collision knocked Mitchelli off the roof of the boat, on to the foredeck. MacJames raised her head on impact and watched Mitchelli fly through the air, his body falling to the deck with a loud thud. Mitchelli slid to the stainless steel railing; his arms and legs between the rails, hanging overboard. His shotgun harness was still around his neck and he did not move. Smoke began to fill Time Raiders engine compartment. It first rose from the holes shot the through the top of the deck, then began to fume out the bilge vents.

  The snipers fired continuously into the blue boat, missing its occupants. As the boats passed under the bridge, Freed and Coarseni emptied their guns into the boats. Their pistol slides locked back and ammunition exhausted, they reloaded their guns with full magazines as the boats passed under the bridge and down river. Freed ran to his car, followed by Coarseni. Tires screeching, they drove towards the next bridge.

  Pistol in hand, MacJames rose slowly from a crouch as she searched for the blue boat. She looked at the dashboard. The precision-instrument panel was destroyed, riddled with bullets. The radar and plotter screens were completely shattered. The indicator light for the autopilot was black. She moved the steering wheel and throttle levers with no response from the boat. Time Raider was dead in the water and drifting towards Strawberry Island.

  MacJames looked at Mitchelli’s lifeless body on the foredeck, his arm and leg hanging over the side. She screamed, “Peter!”

  She fell to the floor as the blue boat hit the drifting hull of Time Raider. The gunmen saw their opportunity to grab their mark, Mitchelli. The blue boat’s cockpit was amidships of Time Raider, and the driver assisted the gunman, who was trying to pull Mitchelli’s body onto his boat. They strained in vain, tugging on his arm and leg to get him in their boat. Mitchelli’s shotgun snagged behind the railing and the shoulder harness around his neck and torso prevented his body from budging. The driver pulled a ten-inch knife from his waist and went for Mitchelli’s neck in an attempt to cut the shotgun harness and Mitchelli from the railing. Mitchelli came to and grabbed the driver’s hand, holding the knife inches from his throat. The gunman began hitting Mitchelli in the chest and arms in a relentless effort to get him to cease resistance, with no avail.

  Mitchelli wrestled with the assailant and twisted the knife away from his neck. He began to falter; lying on his side and hanging over the edge of the deck, he had no mechanical advantage. The knife grazed his face and neck, just missing the nylon harness. The gunman pointed the barrel of his machine gun at Mitchelli’s face and his eyes widened. BOOM. A piece of the gunman’s forehead hit the driver in the face, then another shot hit the driver’s face just below his eye, followed by consecutive rapid fire. Their heads and chests ruptured with bullets, flesh splattered behind them, and they fell to the deck.

  I HAVE TO PROTECT ANGELA! Mitchelli lifted his head and saw MacJames leaning over the side of the boat, her gun aimed at the abductors. She lowered her gun to the ready position. Satisfied, she had eliminated the deadly threat to Mitchelli. She holstered her pistol and ran to him.

  CHAPTER 25

  MacJames sat at her desk reading Freed’s report, which accused her of letting her personal relationship with Peter Mitchelli cloud her decisions regarding the investigation. As she read the report, she stopped and put her hands on her swollen face. Her good looks were shattered from the river gun battle. Her heart sank thinking of the misery she brought to Peter Mitchelli and his family. She covered her face with her hands.

  Her assistant entered her office. “This package just came for you. It came special delivery from a store in New York City. The invoice said it was ordered this morning.” Her assistant placed the box on MacJames’s desk, but she did not move to open it. “Angela, open the box! I’m dying to find out what he got you.”

  “I’ll open it later, I don’t feel right. I’m ashamed of myself for getting him involved. You know what’s funny? I accused him of manipulating my feelings for him to get what he wanted, just what Bob has accused me of in his report. We�
��re so damn arrogant. From the start, we used him. First to make Stuart happy, and then to solve a crime we couldn’t solve on our own.” She pushed the box away. “What have I done? Maybe I don’t have a soul!”

  Pam pushed the box back towards MacJames. “Open the damn box! The suspense is killing me. Honey, it will cheer you up. That’s why he sent you the gift.”

  “I’ll open it for you, but don’t blame me if it’s a dead fish. The relationship is over. Whatever it is, I’m sending it back anyway.” She ripped the shipping paper off the box, uncovering a dark brown handcrafted box with the exclusive designer’s name printed on the box lid in gold letters.

  Pam gasped, “Oh my God, he didn’t!” MacJames carefully removed the lid, revealing a tan velvet sack with the designer’s name embroidered on it. Pam shrieked, “I have to get a camera! I don’t believe it!” From the sack, MacJames removed a black Epi leather purse. A sachet hung from one of the handles. At the bottom corner were the discrete overlapping initials of the designer, LV. “Angela it’s a… You’re so lucky!” Pam jumped up and down. “It’s beautiful, you’re not sending it back! Oh my God, I’ve never seen one up close--only in magazines. Don’t you dare send it back!”

  MacJames moved her fingers across the leather. She studied the distinctive letters in the corner. She carefully opened the purse and removed a piece of paper the size of a business card with a message written on it:

  Since we’ve gotten to know each other, it appears to be critically apparent additional ammunition is required whenever we go out for a night on the town. This should help you carry the ammo in style. Nice Shooting, Thank You!

  ***

  MacJames and Freed sat across from one another in the FBI secured conference room impatiently waiting for a teleconference with Secretary Stuart’s assistant, Molly Richards. The doors and walls soundproofed, the room was awkwardly quiet. The constant whoosh of air from the pressurized sound extenuating the air-conditioning system added to the uncomfortable silence between the two professionals who were once close friends. They did not speak to each other.

  Freed’s written report to Secretary Stuart was critical of MacJames’s ability to make command decisions, which involved Mitchelli. Freed had adamantly accused MacJames of favoritism towards Mitchelli because of their intimate personal relationship. The FBI specifically forbids intimate relationships between ranking federal employees and their immediate subordinates. Freed, who had once protected MacJames and her relationship with Mitchelli, now used the relationship to his advantage in an effort to manipulate information from Mitchelli. Freed believed Mitchelli was out of control and running wildly rampant. Freed stated in his report that Mitchelli’s unauthorized actions endangered the lives of himself, the Mitchelli children, the investigative team, including the agents protecting the Mitchelli family, and unsuspecting citizens who happened to be injured in the potential crossfire. Freed insisted in his report to Secretary Stuart that Mitchelli inform the task force of his flight plan, specifically the location where Leonard Divido had been shot. Freed claimed that Mitchelli was withholding key information from a criminal investigation, and thus by not releasing the information, Mitchelli had committed a felony. What truly annoyed Freed was his own lack of understanding of what prompted Mitchelli to fly over specific undisclosed sights in the southern tier.

  Freed stare at the cuts on MacJames’s warn but beautiful forty-five year old face. Her bloodied face was a result from the Chicago boat attack. Her fair Irish skin was swollen from the lacerations inflicted by splintered fiberglass from Mitchelli’s boat and bullet fragments. Freed cared for his long time friend. Although MacJames was embarrassed, he felt he was protecting her from a Mitchelli disaster that could possible end her career or get her killed. Freed just couldn’t comprehend how Mitchelli could be a successful detective when he operated outside the Hoover manual.

  MacJames had turned a cold shoulder to Freed since she read the report. She had kept communications between them strictly professional. MacJames looked up from her report, noticing Freed staring at her face. Self-conscious of her looks, physical and mentally exhausted, she covered her face with her bandaged hand. Caught, Freed quickly looked the other way. They sat for what seemed to be an eternity waiting for the video security code entry prompt on the screen.

  Freed began touching the knife wound on his neck. Nervously massaging the scar, he moved his fingertips from one end of the scar to the other. His nightmare of his assistant slitting his throat while he sat as his desk now occurred nightly. Paranoid, he had begun locking his office door when he was alone. He had become withdrawn and he was keeping communications with his staff to a minimum. He found it difficult to trust his agents and assistant. He had never outwardly admitted there was a mole in his office, but the thought quietly terrorized him.

  Suddenly, the telecommunication screen came to life and the Department of Homeland Security’s official seal filled the screen, signaling both parties to enter their six-digit security code. MacJames punched in the code. The system buzzed, an internal test to verify the line was secure. Security verified, the video conference began. MacJames and Freed were surprised to see Secretary Stuart seated next to his assistant Molly Richards. Richards made a formal review of the meeting’s agenda and then Secretary Stuart interrupted her.

  “Molly, I’ll take it from here. This meeting is informal, I encourage the two of you to speak your mind because I’m going to speak mine, understood?”

  Freed and MacJames nodded their heads. “Affirmative,” they both answered.

  “Bob, I’ve read your report, Angela’s rebuttal, and interestingly enough, Peter’s assessment of Task Force E’s operational effectiveness, which he feels has been compromised.”

  Freed turned white, fidgeting in his seat. “Sir?” Freed motioned with his hand.

  Stuart looked up from his notes, “Yes, Bob?”

  Freed looked across the table at MacJames and then back at the camera. “Peter Mitchelli has sent you a report? I think Angela and I would agree we haven’t seen his report. Nor did we know or would we have condoned a subordinate submitting a report directly to the Secretary, thus ignoring his immediate superiors. Sir, it’s unorthodox and unacceptable. If I would have known, I would have forced him to stop.” MacJames laughed under her breath and smiled. She knew no one could force Peter Mitchelli do to anything, especially Robert Freed.

  Secretary Stuart inquired, “Interesting Bob. Please elaborate.”

  “Sir, this is just another example of Mitchelli’s independent, freelance activities that are detrimental to the safety of the investigative team. Submitting a report around your superior, Sir, it shows no respect for the chain of command. In that regard, he shows no respect for the law. The man stole a plane.”

  MacJames corrected Freed. “Sir, I must clarify Agent Freed’s accusation. No charges have been filed by the owner of the plane against Peter Mitchelli. The owner was highly compensated for the rental of the aircraft.”

  “Secretary Stuart, if I may, he obtained flight clearance by misrepresenting his flight as an investigative reconnaissance flight for Task force E. Sir, I never authorized the flight. In my opinion he was impersonating a federal officer in order to gain takeoff clearance for his own benefit and not that of the investigation.”

  Secretary Stuart asked MacJames, “Angela do you concur with Bob’s assessment?”

  “Sir, as frustrated as I am with Peter Mitchelli’s methods and means they have yielded significant advancements in this investigation. I understand Agent Freed’s concerns, but do not agree with them.”

  Freed interrupted her. “What about the heads?”

  “Heads!” The Secretary’s assistant placed another report in front of the secretary pointing at a specific paragraph. “Yes, well I understand, Bob. You may discuss the heads if you feel it’s relevant.”

  “Mr. Secretary, Peter savagely killed six men during the truck chase in Clarence. The autopsy report stated the heads were dismembered from th
ree of the hitmen’s bodies.”

  “You’re implying these heads were not removed from the bodies during the course of the gun battle?”

  “Sir, the coroner states the heads were removed after the men were dead. We believe Mitchelli severed their heads by firing two to three rounds pointblank from his shotgun at the deceased’s neck. The first law enforcement officer on scene was a State Trooper...”

  MacJames interrupted, “Peter Mitchelli was the first law enforcement officer on scene.”

  “I mean a real officer.” Freed looked across the table at MacJames.

  Stuart interjected, “Bob, for the time being we will refrain from categorizing what type of law enforcement officer Peter is. Continue.”

  “The Trooper reported Peter was mesmerized by the decapitated head, holding it inches from his face, then he savagely threw it at the patrol car.”

  Stuart looked up from the papers in front of him. “Well Bob, what did Peter say when you asked him about these severed heads?”

  “Sir!”

  “What did he say when you debriefed him, certainly if you were so concerned about the severed heads you questioned Peter?”