Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

  Buckala’s eyes widened; mighty Mitchelli the Marauder was back standing in front of him, resurrected from the malaise of his prescription stupor. Mitchelli let go of Buckala’s shirt, his hand shaking as it fell to his side.

  Mitchelli turned and looked at Coarseni, who nodded his head in approval; his friend was himself again. He studied Butaninni; her dress was torn and her face was red from Buckala striking her. Her hands held her torn dress over her bare body. No blood or scratches were on her face, Buckala had been careful; the only casualty of his molesting Butaninni was her torn dress.

  He walked to her, and caressed her face with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, Melanie. Sal had to bring me back to the horror I must face.”

  Butaninni could feel Mitchelli’s hand shaking as it touched her cheek, “How long do think you can live on the edge? You’re a buddle of nerves, a time bomb ready to explode.”

  “Not much longer. They know the tension has kept me alive.” Mitchelli left the barn. He needed time. His mind burned intensely and it had to cool.

  Buckala looked at Butaninni as she watched Mitchelli walk away. She started to follow him. Buckala understood; it was clear to him now. “Melanie he didn’t… you don’t know do you?”

  She stopped. “I didn’t force him, he was frickin’ train wreck when I found him. I was just trying to get him well, back on his feet. He was a mess, catatonic.”

  “I’m sorry; he saved my life, among others. He wouldn’t last long on those pills, not with the job he has to finish. He needs that brazen edge to survive. He’s, well, a Titan, or a warrior, hell he’s a damn anomaly.” Buckala put his coat around Butaninni, “At first no one gave him a chance. He’s not a professional cop. Dom and I owe you an explanation; we’ll fill you in on his life over the last three weeks. Then maybe you’ll understand.”

  Melanie Butaninni’s mind surged with emotions, struggling to come to grip with Peter Mitchelli’s dilemma. She understood now the names Mitchelli called out in his delirium, his sudden pivots of his head checking to see if anyone was behind him, wearing his gun at the dinner table, and going into the woods at night. His trembling hands, his nervous twitch; it all made sense now. Mitchelli was more than a nervous man. He was heading to and from harm’s way on a journey he could not avoid. If he ran, his enemies would pursue him, eventually killing him. He had to finish what he had started or he would die.

  Butaninni went to him. She wanted to speak with the real Peter Mitchelli. In the short time she had known him, he was either delirious or doped up on his prescription pills. As she walked toward her house, she could see him sitting on her porch staring into the distance. She sat beside him on the wicker couch.

  “They told me what you’ve been through. Damn you for not telling me. Shit, I should’ve asked you, insisting on an explanation, but I didn’t want to know if you were criminal.”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  “I didn’t care, I still don’t. You needed my help and I had to care for you.” She noticed he was wearing his shoulder holster. She grabbed his hand, rubbing it gently. “Do you think you’ll be alright?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t even drive three hours from my house without running off the road into your tree.” He looked at Butaninni in her big brown eyes. “I’m sorry I got you involved, like you said: it just happened, destiny.”

  She held his trembling hand between hers. “The pills stopped the shaking; it’s a symptom that something’s wrong, seriously wrong. I gave you the pills to help you. You understand that, right?”

  “Melanie, believe me I’ve known I’ve had serious problems for quite some time. You’re not the first that’s tried to diagnose me; it’s a full time job of my brother Phil.”

  Butaninni appeared to be confident. Twenty years in the army had destroyed her feminine attributes. She was used to wearing masculine uniforms with her hair pinned up or cropped--military requirements to hinder the sexuality of women. She was insecure regarding her looks. Butaninni had to know, was it the pills that influenced Mitchelli’s emotions to kiss her, or was he attracted to her? She knew he was involved with another woman, but she didn’t care. Mitchelli had broken her lonely routine, if only for a short time. He ignited her desire to be an attractive woman. She wanted to be able to turn off her abrasive personality and let a man get close to her.

  “I have to leave.” Mitchelli pulled his hand away to stand up, but Butaninni held it on her lap and would not let it go. She then held his hand close to her chest and Mitchelli kneeled in front of her. “What happened to the rough and tumble Melanie? She needs no man and will not give up her maiden name. Sometimes I think I have no passion. I haven’t had much practice with romance.” He moved closer to her. “Just because I’m no Casanova doesn’t mean I don’t know a beautiful woman when I see one. I’m not apologizing for kissing you, then or now.” He learned forward they engaged in a passionate kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him from releasing from their kiss.

  “Bastard, you made me feel like a woman again.” She held his face between her two hands. “Does she know what a basket case you are? If you’re too much for her to cope with, tell her I’ll take care of you?”

  “If I live through this, you can tell her yourself.” He stood, “If I’m not be back in two days, you’ll know why. Coarseni will be instructed to contact you and take care of your expenses.”

  ***

  Spartacus lumbered to altitude and linked up with Thunder for refueling. Kaitlin and Peter Jakob were barefoot; they didn’t have any time to put shoes on when they had left the house. The cargo crew of Spartacus removed their own socks and placed them on the children’s feet. They used white medical tape, wrapping the wool socks tight around the children’s calves. The crew delicately covered the shaken children with green wool blankets as they snuggled up against MacJames. The children said nothing as she held them in her arms. They watched as the two airmen admired the Mercedes coupe, they stood at the rear of the car, pointing to the numerous bullet holes in the trunk’s lid. Amazed no one was injured, the curious airmen opened the trunk and found six ceramic ballistic blocks. They picked up a block, admiring how it had stopped the bullets from penetrating the passenger area. MacJames cringed as she looked at the block, thinking about how Kaitlin and Peter Jakob had barely skirted death. Coarseni! Coarseni had placed ballistic blocks in Mercedes coupe after the car chase from Buffalo to Lancaster. He had saved their lives.

  “Ms. MacJames, I’m Colonel Hart, Air Force Reserves.” He thrust his hand in front of her face.

  “Thank you, Colonel.” MacJames graciously shook his hand.

  “No ma’am, thank you. Good golly, the 906th had an historic day.” He looked at Peter and Kaitlin. “Kids, Airman O’Malley will take you up front and you can see us take on fuel from the cockpit.” The kids jumped from their bench seat as Airman O’Malley lead them to the cockpit.

  MacJames and the Colonel were alone. “Ma’am, we’ve been ordered to fly you and the children to Bermuda.”

  “Bermuda!”

  “Yes ma’am, from there you’ll be transported by helicopter to the Coast Guard cruiser Belinda, she’s on joint maneuvers with a Marine Amphibious Task Force.”

  An airman brought MacJames a Styrofoam cup filled with hot coffee. “Colonel, why are they sending us aboard a ship?”

  “Orders from HLS, the old timer Secretary feels the only way to protect the Mitchelli children is to surround them with ten thousand Marines and sailors. The damn Coast Guard Admiral fought to get you aboard one of his ships. It seems several of the men you’re trying to find are in the Coast Guard. The Secretary said he would assign his assistant Ms. Richards to stay with the children if you weren’t up to it.”

  MacJames rubbed her head. She was exhausted. “No, I can’t, I promised I would look after the children.” What would Peter do if he knew what happened today? They’re safe, don’t cloud his mind. Don’t try to contact him, Peter needs to focus; protect his childre
n. She looked at Peter Jakob and Kaitlin with socks taped to their feet. “They will need clothes.”

  “Yes, Ms. Richards ordered our base in Bermuda to have your provisions ready when you and the children chopper out.”

  “Agent Freed, and the men at the house? How are they?” MacJames remembered Freed had made their escape possible.

  “Ma’am when we’re refueled, you will be able to speak with the Command Center and request an update on their status.”

  MacJames’s phone buzzed, reminding her of an appointment. She looked at her phone. PETER JAKOB MUST STUDY-THREE DAYS UNTIL EXAMS. Overly conscious, she had entered the Mitchelli children’s schedule into her phone days earlier.

  ***

  “VICE PRINCIPAL WINER, PLEASE COME TO PRINCIPAL STEPHEN’S OFFICE IMMEDIATELY.” The voice screeched over the Clarence Middle School intercom system.

  A pale skinned, tall, lanky body ran up the stairs at the end of a long hallway. The figure nervously and anxiously walked down the hall. The heels of his thick-soled shoes clicked on the vinyl tile floor as he walked. His long, swinging, flailing arms were bending awkwardly at the elbows and shoulders. He quickened his pace, being obnoxiously careful not to run in the hall. NO RUNNING, it was his pet rule, which he spitefully enforced. The man walked the length of the hallway, his spindly body reflecting of the floor. He put his shoulder against the office wooden door and rushed in.

  Principal Stanley Stephen was seated behind his desk. “Wally, I would like you to meet Arnold Joseph, he’s the Deputy Director of Education.”

  Winer interrupted the principal, “Oh, for the county?” He nervously shook the Director’s hand. Winer was expecting a promotion to the County Department.

  “No,” Joseph quickly answered.

  “Oh, you’re a New York State Director. Good God, you have to work with all those federal bureaucrats in Washington, those ideological dreamers!” The pitch of his voice annoyingly rose and fell as he spoke. “They don’t have a clue what real administration is, they never worked in the trenches with this new generation of entitled brats.”

  The principal interrupted him, “Wally, please sit down. This is important!”

  Winer sat down next to Joseph in front of the principal’s desk. “Mr. Winer, are you familiar with one of your seventh graders, a Peter Jakob Mitchelli?” Joseph asked him.

  “Oh God yes, his father has been all over the news. The Mitchelli family has been in the mafia for years. His grandmother had my uncle fired for no good reason at all. You know it was an Italian thing, they consider themselves some type of southern European minority.” Winer looked at Principal Stephen, who leaned back in his desk chair with his hand on the side of his face. “The Mitchelli boy has been absent, that shooting at their house an all. Looks like my uncle will be avenged.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well Director, if Peter Jakob Mitchelli doesn’t take his final exams, New York state law requires him to repeat his grade year,--the entire year, not just summer school.”

  “Is that so?” The Director removed a letter from his briefcase.

  “Yes the little mafia boy, like all other New York State children, has to take his State Regency exams with a New York State certified teacher present. If he cannot attend school, a New York State Regency certified examiner can administer the exam or else they have to repeat the entire grade year.”

  “Well, Mr. Winer are you certified with the Regency Board, qualified to administer the exams?”

  “Yes I am, but what does that have to do with the dirty mafia Mitchelli boy?”

  The director handed Mr. Winer a letter from the New York State Educational Department head, “Mr. Winer you are to be at the Niagara Falls Air Force Base in two hours. You will be flown to an undisclosed location that is top secret. This means if you disclose the location to anyone, even your cat--”

  “--How did you know I have a cat?”

  “Lucky guess. As I was saying, disclosing any information regarding your trip would place the Mitchelli family at risk, and thus jeopardize United States National Security. You will be prosecuted as a terrorist. You will carry all the exams that Peter Jakob Mitchelli needs to take. You will administer those exams per New York state law, grade the exams, and send them to the New York State Education Department where they will be recorded so he does not have to repeat the seventh grade.”

  “That’s ridiculous, I will not be coerced! What nerve you have speaking to me in that manner, as if I’m a terrorist or dirty criminal like those Mitchellis.”

  The principal sat up in his chair, “Wally, I received a phone call today from the Federal Secretary of Education, the top man in Washington. If Peter Jakob Mitchelli does not take his exams and suffers any inconvenience the Secretary is threatening to reduce Federal Aid to New York State, specifically to the town of Clarence.”

  “What does that mean?” Winer’s nasally voice honked.

  “Be at the Air Force base in two hours. Mrs. Humphreys packed all the exams in the briefcase next to your chair.”

  Winer froze; he did not move. The Deputy Director stood up and shook hands with Principal Stephen. Winer’s lanky body nervously stood up to shake the Director’s hand.

  “Enjoy your flight Wally, by the way I’m a Director with the Federal Bureau of Education, I’m one of those dreamers. My family name was shortened at Ellis Island, it was originally Josephono, I’m an Italian American. I knew your uncle.”

  “Oh you did, how fabulous,” Winer stuttered.

  “He was an insidious asshole. Make sure you leave enough water for your cat.” The Director walked out the door, and Winer’s skeleton body collapsed back into the chair, his head flopping over the backrest and hitting the wall.

  ***

  Mitchelli had found a reasonably level area two hundred yards from the hilltop camp that was suitable for a Landing Zone (LZ). He entered the perimeter of the LZ into his GPS unit. Then moving in a grid pattern, each tree’s location within the LZ was entered into his GPS. After he recorded the tree locations, he coiled the brown and black camouflage explosive detonation cord around each tree’s trunk. Mitchelli had worked two nights wrapping trees with detonation cord. Coarseni had measured and cut the dent cord specifically for shattering tree trucks. After placing the dent cord around each tree trunk, he attached a small rectangular detonator. The electronic detonator was half the size of a pack of cigarettes. Each detonator had a radio receiver tuned to the master transmitter. Coarseni had programmed the sequence of the explosions; Mitchelli would have to enter the exact time of the explosion. After all the trees had been wrapped with explosives, Mitchelli used his GPS to locate a tree in the center of the LZ. He had to place a large explosive pack as high as he could in the tree. Within a millisecond of the exploding tree trunks, the large explosive pack hanging from the tree in the center of the LZ would blast away the shattered trees and clear the debris.

  Coarseni had repeatedly warned Mitchelli regarding the devastating strength of the small explosive pack. The exotic explosive was small, but equivalent in power to a thousand pounds of TNT. The lightweight, compact explosive was extremely expensive. Its intended use was for special operations units penetrating by foot deep behind enemy lines needing to quickly demolish bridges, power stations, or clear LZs for helicopter support.

  Mitchelli was too old and large to climb the tree. Instead, he cut down a twenty-five foot sapling at his base camp. He stripped the limbs from the tree, transforming it into a pole. Then he carried it a mile uphill to the LZ. He secured the explosive pack to the top of the wooden shaft and placed the opposite end of the shaft against the base of the tree located in the center of the LZ. Lifting the shaft farthest from the tree, he raised it over his head and walked towards the tree arm over arm. The closer he got to the base of the tree, the less mechanical advantage he had over the shaft and explosive pack above his head. He struggled to hold the pole above his head. The elevated unsecured end of the wooden pole flexed from the weight of the ex
plosive pack. The wooden pole bending almost to its breaking point, Mitchelli remembered Coarseni’s warning: You’d better be at least two hundred yards from this shit when it blows, and in a deep hole. It burns extremely hot and fast; the techs call it the incinerator. Mitchelli’s face dripped with sweat. His black shirt was soaked with perspiration as he watched the explosive pack dangling above his head. Then the shaft sprang, straightening itself and thrusting the pack upwards and towards the tree. Finally, the pole was vertical and fell gently against the tree.