by Robert Boren
“I see it,” Charles said, nodding ahead at the large beige van, a few armed men standing by it. They opened the double doors of the rear, and waited for the gurney to make its way across the rough cobble-stones of the road.
“You know where the rendezvous point is, correct?” Cedric asked the men.
“Yes sir,” one of them said, watching as the commandos lifted the gurney into the back of the vehicle.
Charles started to climb in, but a commando grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back, almost landing him on the ground. “You aren’t going with us.”
“Like hell I’m not,” Charles said. The commando pointed his assault rifle at Charles, the other commandos covering Sebastian and Jean.
Cedric chuckled. “You’re lucky these guns aren’t silenced. You’ll be going out on foot. About two hundred meters ahead there’s a branch to the right. Take that, then walk another two kilometers. It gets a little tight at the end, but you can still stand upright. There’s an old-fashioned bolt on the inside of the door.” He got into the van, the commandos joining him, and they rolled slowly away.
“Son of a bitch,” Jean said. “Think there’s really another way out of here?”
“Perhaps, but we aren’t taking it,” Sebastian said. “No way in hell. We’re staying in the big tunnel.”
Charles nodded. “That would be my suggestion. Wish I had better shoes on.”
“It is what it is, boss,” Sebastian said.
“Oh, it’s boss again, is it?” Charles asked.
“I knew this was going to happen. Too many vents to the grounds above, which is the only reason I didn’t waste those creeps before we came in the tunnel. We best get moving, because they’ll be through that oak door back there soon. They might have already gotten through.”
“Marvelous,” Jean said.
The trio walked fast, just under a trot.
“What if the van has been stopped at the exit?” Charles asked.
“I’ll open fire,” Sebastian said.
Charles shook his head. “You might hit Maggie.”
“I agreed to get you and Frenchy out of here,” Sebastian said. “I could care less about anybody else.”
“Then I’ll renegotiate and add her protection to the contract.”
Sebastian pointed his pistol at Charles. “Here’s my counter-negotiation. Now shut up and let’s save our skins.”
“He’s right, Charles,” Jean said. “Maggie may never come out of that coma. We need to protect number one.”
Charles eyed both of them, then nodded. “Okay, I’m convinced. Let’s go.”
They kept walking, passing by the branch to the walk-out tunnel.
***
Ben was working at his laptop when he got a text.
“Who’s that, partner?” Tex asked.
Ben turned towards him, grinning. “Ivan. He wants me to help him with a TV appearance.”
Frank turned towards them. “He got proof of Mateo killing the hooker. Can’t be anything else.”
Ben nodded, getting up, walking quickly out of the intel room and joining Ivan in their makeshift studio. Ivan was already suited up in his gangster outfit.
“What’d you get, boss?”
Ivan smiled. “Mateo killing a young lady. Clean shot of his face. It’s even got his voice on there, so the experts will be able to confirm it was him. This isn’t the only murder on video, either.”
“Oh, crap. How many are we talking about?”
“Fourteen total, including the Mateo segment.”
“Where’d you get them?” Ben asked.
“Our underground friends in Manhattan,” Ivan said. “I think this is the start of a very good partnership. Let’s get busy. I’ve got a prime-time window on all Mid-Atlantic channels tonight.”
***
Lance was at his laptop, gathering data for his file of locations, bank accounts, and security connections. The TV was running, showing the rioting in London and Manchester, Lance using it as background noise. Victor came through the trap door.
“When are you going downtown?” he asked.
“I made a deal. I’ll show myself as soon as the person or persons responsible for the murder of Mateo have been captured and indicted. My status of being missing and presumed dead has been lifted, and I’ve been given the ability to run my company in the meantime.”
Victor chuckled. “You got your cake and get to eat it too, huh? Nice. You’re going to stay here for the time being?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Victor said. “Glad to have you here.”
“Thank you.”
The TV went silent.
“Ah, shit, what’s wrong?” Lance asked, turning towards it, seeing a black screen. “It’s busted already?”
The picture came back on, showing Ivan the Butcher in full gangster costume, sitting behind a big wooden desk, his fedora cocked to one side. He smiled.
“Oh, shit,” Victor said. “You know who that is, right?”
“Shut up,” Lance said, eyes glued to the screen.
Greetings, citizens of New York. I’m Ivan the Butcher. You might remember me from my TV appearances in the great state of California. I come to you with some important news. The leadership of your city have been lying to you. They say Mateo, the Secretary General of the UN, was killed by a criminal, and there’s a huge, expensive manhunt happening throughout the region as we speak.
They aren’t telling you the whole story. Small wonder.
Your government is still riddled with the same traitors that perpetrated the war, killing millions. Their hive is UN Headquarters, which is still being allowed to exist on US soil, even after their heinous crimes against humanity.
“They’ve got something big,” Lance said under his breath, his face white as a sheet.
The screen changed to surveillance video, showing abuse and murder of a massage parlor girl, Mateo’s face and voice clearly evident.
“Holy shit,” Victor said under his breath. “This isn’t good.”
“No matter,” Lance said. “What’s done is done. Mateo is dead. I could care less about his legacy.”
Ivan was back on the screen.
Pretty disgusting, wasn’t it? I’m sure there are legions of you out there who will verify what I already know via voice-print analysis. Mateo and a number of UN thugs frequented this establishment, and no less than fourteen young women have died at their hands there. My question to all of you is this. Knowing what we do about the UN’s actions in California, Oregon, and other locations throughout the southwest, why do you still allow the UN to operate in your city? This is your city, your state, and your country. It’s time to take out the trash. It’s time to destroy the UN. Rise up. It’s your duty as citizens.
“Geez,” Victor said. “Why are they letting this jam our channels for so long?”
“Quiet, he’s about to say more.”
The UN hasn’t been working alone. I think you all know that. Their support is strong in the state and local governments, and sadly even in pockets of the federal government. This power base is funded by the following individuals, all of whom are in hiding at this time, leaving contracts behind to take out my associates, myself, and other resistance groups. I think it’s time for you to get to know their names and faces.
The screen went to a graphic showing pictures of all twenty of the globalist sponsors, with names under each.
“You’re on there,” Victor said in a hushed tone.
“We’re all on there,” Lance said. “Maggie, Charles, Jean, Rayan, Mateo, Justice Carleton, Jackie, Kurt… crap, all of us.”
Ivan got out from behind his desk, standing in front of it, the camera zooming tightly onto his face.
You know what to do. Overrun the UN. Kick them out of your country for good. Hunt down their funders and supporters and kill them if possible. Prison won’t hold them. They are the enemy, every bit as evil as the men who staged the Rape of Nanking or manned murder camps i
n Germany, the USSR, and Red China. Find them and dispatch them, or they’ll continue to work towards Globalist Tyranny. Thank you and good night.
The TV screen went back to the cable news station, the news readers shuffling papers nervously, having just watched the broadcast themselves.
“What now?” Victor asked.
“What do you mean what now? We’ll double down.”
“Won’t the authorities stop the deal they just made with you?” Victor asked. “Won’t they cut you off from your firms again?”
Lance chuckled. “I already did what I needed to do. These resistance idiots can run but they can’t hide. We’ll take them out one by one, and then go after their families.”
“Didn’t you already try that? Their response was to take down a sitting head of state.”
“Mateo was a moron,” Lance said. “The rest of us are not. They’ll figure out how screwed they are soon enough. I already know who the main resistance funder is. He won’t last long, nor will his stupid little company.”
“Which company?”
“Samson Corporation. Maybe we’ll stuff Jared Carlson into one of his rocket toys and launch him to the moon.”
Victor shook his head, then stood. “I hope you know what you’re doing, cousin. Carlson may be difficult to screw with. Rumor has it he cooked up those battle wagons and off-roaders that ruined your guys in Cali.”
“What’s he gonna do, shoot me with a ray gun?”
***
Langston and Creighton were still on the balcony watching the events unfold at Maggie’s estate.
“Well, they’ve completely breached the mansion,” Creighton said. “I’m seeing them on the third-floor balcony now. What are you looking at, anyway?”
Langston grinned, not looking towards him, binoculars still to his eyes. “You folks in Scotland Yard don’t do much research, do you?”
Creighton snickered. “I wasn’t even supposed to be on this operation, remember? It’s not like I can get an intel work-up done on an operation that doesn’t exist to them.”
“Fair point. That estate was built in 1531. Drawings of the facility are available, but you have to know what you’re looking at to make sense of them.”
“Drawings? We already know what the bloody place looks like.”
Langston chuckled. “I’m not talking about those kinds of drawings, I’m talking about architect’s drawings.”
Creighton was silent for a moment, but then he chuckled. “There’s another way out. Probably a tunnel.”
“There’s hope for Scotland Yard yet.”
“Where does it dump out?” Creighton asked.
“Two blocks away, in the brick works. There’s a wall blocking view of the tunnel from the street. We’re high enough to see over it.”
“Blimey, that’s why we’re up here, huh? Why aren’t we waiting at the opening?”
“There’s another MI6 team down there. They’ll turn those folks around. Then we’ll go hunting.”
Creighton was silent for a moment, thinking. “What about RaSP? They might get in the way.”
Langston laughed. “The Royalty Protection Command? They’re just glorified body guards. They’re no match for MI6, mate.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Creighton said. “I know a few of those chaps. They’re all top-shelf Special Forces veterans. You don’t want to tangle with those blokes. Trust me.”
“Son of a bitch, here they come. Big beige van, see it?”
Creighton squinted, nodding as he saw the van get out of the tunnel, heading towards a gate.
Langston pulled out his phone and hit a contact. “They’re out. All units converge. Shoot to kill. I repeat, shoot to kill. We have orders and clearance.”
Langston listened to his phone for a moment.
“Yes, you heard me right,” he said. “Direct order from Russell, which he got from the PM himself.”
“What now?” Creighton asked.
“Now we go down there. C’mon.”
They raced through the flat and down the stairs, rushing out the back door of the shop, getting to their vehicle.
“You mind driving so I can man the phone?” Langston asked.
“No problem,” Creighton said. “Not very far at least. Looked like just a few blocks from here.”
They took off, tires squealing, racing north a couple blocks away from the estate, which still had throngs of people surrounding it.
“Turn left two blocks down,” Langston said. He hit the contact on his phone. “Talk to me.” He had a hushed conversation, then put his phone down.
“What’s going on?”
“They haven’t left the brick yard yet,” Langston said. “Something about this doesn’t feel right.”
“RaSP,” Creighton said, shaking his head as he made the turn, racing up two blocks, the stone walls of the brickyard coming into view. “Geez, how old is that place?”
“The Hines family made their fortune in the brick business originally.”
Gunfire erupted ahead of them.
“Here we go,” Creighton said.
“Pull over there,” Langston said, pointing, his phone to his ear again. “Dammit, I don’t care who they are, they’re shooting at the police and MI6 agents. Don’t let them get out.”
“Uh oh,” Creighton said as they sat in the car, the machine gun fire ramping up fast, sirens sounding now as police began the trip to the area. “It’s the bloody RaSP, isn’t it?”
Langston nodded. “Bloody well is. We’ve got them surrounded with superior forces, though, and there’s local cops on the way too.”
“You hope. What’s that sound?”
Langston heard it at that instant. The whine of jet engines. He put his phone back to his ear. “What is that?”
“Look there,” Creighton said, a smile on his face. “Sea Harriers, see them?”
“What are you smiling about?”
“They’re the good guys, right?” Creighton asked.
“Don’t count on it, RAF retired those years ago,” Langston said, his comment punctuated with fire from the Harriers, flying straight towards the area, several missiles hitting, pieces of cars and men flying into the air.
“I hope they’re hitting the right targets,” Creighton said.
“Hey, dammit, what’s going on?” Langston shouted into his phone, turning towards Creighton red-faced.
“Shit,” Creighton said. “They killed your guys, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, and now they’re escorting Maggie’s van into the countryside.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Langston’s brow furrowed. “Drive into that brickyard, and let’s see what we can find out in that tunnel.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, so drive, dammit. Bloody hell.”
Creighton started the car and they drove to the battered front gate of the brickyard, broken cars and buildings here and there. “Go in?”
Langston nodded, so Creighton drove inside. “Where the hell is that tunnel?”
“I’ve seen pictures,” Langston said. “Park and let’s walk in. Grab your long gun.”
Creighton found a good place, behind one of the brick factory’s out-buildings, and they got out, grabbing their weapons out of the back.
***
“They just left the tunnel,” Sebastian said. “Maybe we ought to slow down a tad. I’d rather come out after they’re gone.”
They continued on in the darkness, hearing the sound of machinegun fire as they neared the ramp.
“That’s why I didn’t want to hurry,” Sebastian said.
“Shit, maybe we should go to that smaller tunnel, no?”
“No,” Charles said. “I might be able to save Maggie.”
Sebastian cracked up. “Give me a break. I want to go out there because I don’t believe Cedric about that other tunnel. The last thing he wanted was for us to get away.”
“I see your point,” Jean said. “Lead the way.”
All o
f them froze when they heard jet engines, with more rapid automatic fire followed by several explosions.
“Sounds like the military is here,” Sebastian said. “Know that sound anywhere. Those are Sea Harriers. I’m usually glad to hear that sound. Not so much at the moment.”
“You think they’re trying to stop Maggie and Cedric from escaping?” Charles asked.
Sebastian chuckled. “No, probably the other way around. They might have left some troops around to clean up, too.”
“Clean up what?” Jean asked.
“Us,” Sebastian said as he kept walking, Charles and Jean stopping in their tracks.
“Why do you want to go out there?” Charles asked.
“To know where we stand,” Sebastian said. “We’re probably not gonna live through this. We can’t go back, because the rabble has gotten into that bunker by now. None of us want to take Cedric’s advice. This is the best shot we’ve got.”
“Maybe we ought to reconsider Cedric’s advice,” Charles said.
Sebastian shook his head. “You morons do what you want. I’m out of here. I’ll collect from your estate, Charles.”
“Not if you don’t help us,” Charles said. “My estate won’t give you dollar one if I’m gone.”
“I know where your son and grandkids are,” Sebastian said as he continued walking towards the ramp.
“Let him go,” Jean said. “Let’s go the other way.”
Charles thought about it for a moment. “No. We aren’t even armed. I’m going with Sebastian.”
“Smart choice,” Sebastian said. “Come on. Stay out of the way if I’ve got to fight. Comprende?”
“Yeah, we get it,” Charles said, moving forward, Jean reluctantly following.
{ 15 }
House Arrest
J ared Carlson came out onto the walkaround porch of his 1890s farm house, looking over the miles of Wyoming plains he owned. It was mid-day, and he was bored, squinting into the sun, pushing his long grey hair out of his eyes. His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, thin as a credit card, the satellite link icon showing. It was his son Alex, twenty-five and full of promise.