by Joseph Storm
Joe Striker rode pure adrenaline out the bathroom door. It was as if his S&W 29 gun called out to him from the hallway floor. It was left there, dropped from his own hand after he was knocked unconscious. He picked it up, examining the small smear of Jenny’s blood traced over the barrel. The stain was from the dragging of her body.
Knowing that his most trusted, non-living companion would benefit him, he tucked the imposing gun into the back of his pants. It was safely concealed within his untucked shirt.
He made his way to the living room, focusing on the heaping mess of emptied drawers, hollowed out walls, and cracked open desks.
They were here for more than just me, he thought to himself. They were looking for some type of document.
Striker thought as hard as he could, imagining every document in his possession. Nothing came to his mind. Most of his mail consisted of complaints from constituents or praise for his brave service to this country.
This was not a random robbery, he thought. What could they have wanted that I had in my house? A sudden realization crashed into his mind. The package! He thought to himself.
On the Friday before the election, a load of mail was delivered to his office at the Rayburn House office building. He was running late for a rally, as the last weekend before an election is crunch time. Especially one where the entire American system was being challenged democratically.
Knowing he had to make his case, Joe quickly flicked through the mail. He came across a tightly sealed package, no thicker than a slit of paper. It was one which raised the red flag of not having a return address. Feeling around the envelope, he brushed against a tiny, square object inside. It was not his typical piece of mail, though it was anything but a typical day. Realizing that his constituents would only be constituents if he won reelection, Striker placed the mail back into the desk drawer. He left for the weekend. The congressman would return after his fate was decided, either continuing his job, or cleaning out his office for good. There was no reason to think that there wouldn’t be another chance to do so.
Brushing back the pain for a moment, Joe Striker realized he may have something his attackers were after. It was important enough for them to commit the most heinous of sins against him, his family, and the entire body of law to possess it. He didn’t know if they had confiscated his mail already, though he wasn’t going to wait to find out.
Joe headed for the door. A word muffled its way from the television into his ear, “Election victory.” Striker paused, yanking the TV from its face. He witnessed the news report of Leader Judas, Under-Leader Arnold, and Commander Xavier Sin basking in the publics’ praise. It was the commander’s face that flashed through this brain like a strobing nightmare.
“It will be a different...more fair...world. One that most of us have been awaiting all our lives,” the obviously nonobjective news reporter blurted.
Striker realized that the trail of murder started with the package on his office desk. He obviously was not welcome in such a high-risk place, knowing that an appearance could make his journey a deadly one. It was a risk that he was willing to take.
Joe Striker took one last gaze around the house. Memories of the past played out in each room. It had been their first house. The congressional money allowed them to afford a purchase in the very pricey area. It would later be followed by a second one in his home district in Northern Virginia.
The young couple was so proud. They always wondered if they could buy house at all, live the American dream. Two homes were far beyond their expectations. They had accomplished much more than dreams. Their home was not only a beautiful structure, but had once played host to many great moments.
Joe touched the trampled fabric of the living room couch. His mind sailed back to that fabric pressing against his bare body. It pillowed him as Jenny rode him passionately, staring in his eyes. They both knew that it could be the night their child would be conceived. She was correct in her thinking.
He had to accept that it was more than just a house he was leaving behind. It was all those little things that insurance never replaces after a fire. They were things money can’t buy. It was not about ‘stuff,’ but about the memory which accompanied it. For instance, there was Jenny’s large sunglasses sitting on the table, for which she refused to wear in public due to the ‘bug eyes,’ effect. On the shelf, there was the torn and tattered baseball that his deceased father tossed in the yard with him. Next to that was a picture of his smiling mother, standing at the base of a large waterfall. The location was a favorite for them, discovered along the many nature hikes in their Northern Virginia homeland. She passed away soon after his cancer-stricken father. After his death, she wilted like a flower without sunlight & fertilizer, he remembered.
It was at that moment, Joe Striker questioned his own ability to go on. Jenny was the fuel to my life. I can’t go forward without her, he assured himself. He was a tough man on the exterior. However, when he stared into her blue eyes, he melted like ice cream in a microwave, slow and gooey. The only sure thing about his life now, was that it wouldn’t end without justice.
As Joe went to exit, he cleared the door away from the entrance floor. Now clear of mind, he focused on the wire attached across the bottom. Joe bent down, feeling the thickness, realizing that the advantage of surprise was no longer his. It was a tripwire.
Suddenly, a large, dark, government-plated SUV pulled up to the house. Joe couldn’t believe his eyes as two mercenaries in black stepped out. Spotting Striker, a mercenary phoned-in a frantic message.
“Alert...target spotted....No ID! Male!”
The voice which answered back on the phone was Commander Xavier Sin. “It can’t be! I personally took care of that house this morning! I buried the man myself! Put the target down! I want the body brought back...dead or alive!”
“Yes!” the mercenary responded. He reached into the truck, pulling out two unlit Molotov cocktails. Handing one to his partner, they ignited both of the highly explosive weapons. “Smoke out rat!”
Joe, who placed his hand on the butt of the revolver, realized that it was no match for such a fight. The only way to avoid being burned alive by such a weapon, was to not be exposed to it.
Joe jammed the door back on, attempting to run for the back room. On his way there, he slipped on the slick, bloody floor. His body landed right next to the cloth couch.
The first mercenary approached the front window. His partner headed towards the backyard. The man tossed the flaming cocktail of death, shattering glass through the air. It crashed into the living room couch.
Flames exploded upon the soft cloth. They crawled across the room like an expanding spider. Wild sparks danced through the air like a ballet of searing heat, covering Joe Striker’s back. He rolled on a small area of unlit floor. The fire was extinguished before it could do any skin damage. Plumes of smoke filled the air, spreading its noxious fumes. All sight was clouded to a zero visibility.
Joe used his hands to see, quickly fleeing the waves of heat. He touched any familiar object left unscathed, using memory to guide his way forward. After a horrific struggle, he located the hallway, crawling to the master bedroom at the house’s rear.
As he neared the bedroom window, the second mercenary tossed his cocktail through the glass. It sailed up into the air, flaming bright. The weapon hovered above Striker as if frozen in time. Joe quickly rolled under his bed, watching the entire floor ignite beside him.
The flame rose higher with every flicker. It slowly caught the satin sheets, inviting the fire to blaze the bed in a massive inferno. The heavy, large posts were the next to go. As flammable varnish melted away, fire chewed the bed posts to a weakened state. By the time Striker discovered the posts, a new fire spilled from the mattress to the opposite side of the floor. He only had moments to decide his next action. The bed let out an eerie creaking noise, indicating that it would soon collapse on top of him. With only seconds to spare, Striker rolled out the opposite side of the bed. He passed thro
ugh the sea of fire to a small spot spared from the inferno. The bed frame collapsed completely to the floor.
“We done here,” one mercenary said to the other in a Russian accent, watching the rising smoke tunnel into the air from the front of the house.
“Proof....need body! DNA!” the other Asian mercenary said in fear.
“Hell with that,” he replied, as their attention went to the collapsing structure. In just minutes, the house crumbled in on itself. A cloud of dust sprayed up to the heavens.
“Leave, now! Before neighbor come out!” the mercenary said.
The two men in black started their large SUV, speeding off before the neighbors could witness their identities.
A few miles down the road, the Russian mercenary called into his phone. He alerted Commander Xavier. “Job done. Target eliminate.”
“Did you recover the body?” Xavier asked.
“There was complication.”
“What complication?”
“House on fire.”
“How in the hell did that happen?”
“Firebomb.”
“You asshole, I wanted a corpse...not ashes!”
“Target eliminate, sir. We see with eyes.”
“You better hope he burned, or you’ll spend the rest of your days in ice...Siberia! Head back to the scene and get that body...charred or not!” Commander Xavier Sin shouted, as he hung up on the call.
The men looked at each other, “Shit! Turn round. We get body.”
The Asian driver nodded. He slowed the SUV, U-turning on a tree-lined road. A loud thud landed on the roof. The two men looked at each other in a panic. “What that?”
All of a sudden, a pair of legs crashed through the front windshield. Joe Striker’s feet gripped the Asian driver around the neck. The panicked mercenary lost all control, letting the SUV coast into a tree on the rural road. Although the front light was smashed, the vehicle remained running. The Russian mercenary put the SUV in park, as the Asian was pulled out through the remaining driver’s side window glass.
“No!” he yelled, as Striker spiked the Asian man off the car roof, directly into the ground. His neck was snapped to the side.
The Russian mercenary exited the car with weapon in hand. By the time he could get his bearings, Joe’s foot kicked the gun free. Then he kicked the man to the floor. The scared man in black started to run away, fleeing the scene. He readied his phone to call in backup. Before he could dial the number, Striker blasted the phone into a million little pieces.
The mercenary dropped to his knees. His hands went in the air. The Russian accented man cried out loud, begging. “Mercy! Mercy!”
Striker leapt off the vehicle, bloodied, burned, and raw. Black soot masked his face, mixing with the blood and bruises. He had the appearance of the grim reaper, heading towards a final judgement.
The injured Striker had managed to escape the fire-filled house, avoiding burning structure and cracked beams from clobbering him dead. He managed to squeeze out of the bathroom window, the one that Jenny had cracked before her murder. The house collapsed, nearly burying him alive for the second time in twenty-four hours. However, he outsmarted his enemy once again.
The mercenaries watched the house’s destruction with pride. They didn’t see Joe Striker dragging himself across the ground. He had squeezed his way under the tall SUV, jamming his hands and feet in between the massive hardware.
As the vehicle traveled, he managed to muscle himself to the back bumper. He awaited the moment to scrape his feet across the slowly moving ground. Striker then pivoted himself onto the top of the SUV’s roof. He was now the one in control.
“Orders, I follow!” the Russian man cried out.
Joe cocked the hammer of his massive gun, placing it to the man’s head. Piss started to trickle down the mercenary’s leg, as Striker saw an opportunity in the making.
“Who’s in charge of this operation? Who gave the orders!”
“Commander Sin! Have no choice.”
“Did he order my wife killed? Where’s her body? My son’s body? Where are all the bodies...the families of my friends!”
“I not know...swear! We do what told! Make no decision!”
“How do you access a government building?”
“No translate?”
Joe pressed the barrel of the gun deep into the mercenary’s drooling mouth. “Does this translate?” Joe asked.
“This...” he attempted to say, pointing to a badge on his jacket. “Take!”
Striker pulled the gun from the man in black’s mouth. Relief came across the Russian’s face, appearing that he would be spared.
“What use is this to me?” Striker asked.
“Guard in gate, he scan...let in! I go away, back to Russia! I no tell, promise!”
Striker yanked the badge off, studying the barcode system across it. Something this elaborate must have taken years and money, he thought to himself. “Up on your feet,” he demanded to the mercenary, yanking the man off his knees. “This concludes English 101 for today,” Joe said.
“I go?”
“You go...” Striker said, as he forced the mercenary’s jaw open. The long gun’s barrel slid back into the man’s mouth. He started to gag. “You go to hell,” Joe said passionately, blowing the Russian’s brains out the back of his skull. The hollow-point bullet dragged every piece of brain tissue that mattered to the dim man. It gripped on for dear life, only exiting due to the shallow cavity in his head.
Joe dragged the Russian into the woods. He removed the Asian mercenary’s piss-free, black uniform, putting it on over his civilian clothes. It was a good fit, as the mercenaries in black were also muscular, pushed to the edge in their training.
Striker fastened the badge to his jacket. He returned the gun to his backside, pulling the keys from his newly acquired pocket. Joe washed the soot and blood from his face with spit, ran his fingers through his hair, and untucked dark glasses from the mercenary's pocket. His injuries were concealed to the best of his ability.
He knew that he could not defeat an enemy, which had control of the most powerful nation on earth. Instead, he would pretend to be one of them.
Chapter Three:
The Package
“Change has come, folks, and the debate continues on. Is that change for the better or worse?” a curvy, blonde, and stubborn Becky Fox said. The 25 year old woman finished her news report, staring coldly into a camera lens. She was in front of the Rayburn House Office Building.
“Cut,” the cameraman shouted, as he put down the camera, focusing on his vibrating phone. A message had just gone through. The new ownership says to back off this story. Pack it up, it read. “We’re done here.”
“Done?” Becky asked in shock. “We haven’t even started! A bunch of armed men in black uniforms replace the D.C. police force, and we’re not supposed to cover it?”
“As you know...we don’t make the rules. We follow what the producers say...”
“Producers? And who do they follow these days? A dictator! We’re an independent station...that’s what separated us from the rest! It’s why we went internet based...so we could tell the news like it is!”
“What do you want from me?” the camera man asked. “Sorka Corp. introduced the same memo to you that they did me...in fact, it’s uniform for all their stations. I, for one, am glad that they purchased us...maybe we’ll get paid on time for once.”
“Paid on time? You’re worried about a paycheck...while our freedom gets stolen with a smile?”
“Cool it on the dramatics, baby.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that! Under the covers...I’m baby. Out here...I’m a news reporter. I’ve sacrificed too much to be treated like that!”
“Relax, someone will cover this story...just not us,” he said, peering over at SNN, Sorka News Network.
“Oh yeah, right. What spin will they put on this? The usual ‘they’re the ones we’ve been waiting for?’ They must have forgotten to menti
on that the police force would be disbanded...the military dismissed?”
“They did promise no more war. No more aggressive, offensive actions in our name! They said no more corrupt cops on the streets. These people are in charge now...there are consequences to an election.”
“Oh...so comforting. I wonder...who will protect us from their consequences?”
“Let’s go back to the station...maybe get some dinner afterward,” he said, moving in to kiss her. Becky pulled back.
“Don’t kiss me with that mouth! I always knew we didn’t agree politicly...but I didn’t think you were a lover of fascists.”
“Of what? Our connection was always sex...not politics. Love was never even an option...thanks to you.”
“Love...is only worth a man who is worthy of it. And as for politics...well, today, politics just leapt a notch on my list of importance.”
“Not in my world...hey...let them worry about the details. I have a life to live.”
“See the latest movie, follow the latest tweet? Give me a break.”
“Face it, this is just another excuse to hide your baggage...end another relationship for whatever your pathetic reasons are.”
Anger tainted Becky’s face. “You wouldn’t know a thing about those pathetic reasons...since you were always too busy drinking with your pig friends, getting wasted, to show any interest in my baggage!”
“Fine...we’re done. You were always too uptight for me anyway. Now, let’s follow our orders...and get moving,” he said, walking towards the news van. Becky didn’t move an inch. He turned back around, “What...are you gonna just stay here...report to an imaginary camera?”
Becky looked down, deep in thought. She slowly approached him, appearing like she had changed her mind. “No.”
“That’s what I thought.”