Searching for the Enemies

by R. J. GREEN

  The plane’s wings shifted and resisted against a sudden rush of wind, slowing as it approached New York City. As the plane began its descent, Mullson looked out the window and poked a piece of gum into his mouth. He could see the tops of skyscrapers, the Statue of Liberty, and the crammed streets below. The plane took a sharp turn and aligned with a runaway at John F. Kennedy Airport. The landing gear popped from the belly, at the edge of the wings the brake flaps slid out. Darting along, the wheels thundered against the pavement before squeaking to a halt.

  As soon as Mullson stepped inside the arrival building a blast of cold air hit his face. He hurried along a passageway until he reached a room that eventually was packed with people. He joined the line for U.S citizens and handed his passport to a clean shaven gentleman who took it and smiled.

  The man skimmed through and stamped across a clean page, before handing it back. “Have a good day, Detective Mullson,” he said.

  Mullson opened his carryon and shoved the passport into a side compartment. “Thank you.”

  By the time he left customs Mullson was already under the radar, a security officer followed his every move, staying a good pace back. Scurrying towards baggage claim Mullson glanced over his shoulder and wondered where Father Andrew went, he hopped onto an escalator that took him down to a large open area where weary passengers stood waiting at a conveyer belt spinning with luggage, hauling off their belongings when spotted. The officer edged closer and closer to Mullson who had no clue of the man’s intention. He finally spotted him and wondered if he was being tailed; because of recent threats facing the airport he let the thought slide.

  Mullson grabbed his luggage and dashed towards the exit on the opposite side of the room. The officer went to the door and glanced at Mullson, from his pocket he retrieved his cellphone and sent a text: He’s back.

  A docile German shepherd who’d being lying peacefully on the floor jumped and tugged to be set free. With all his might Jeft held onto to the leash while his partner Barton stood over a piece of luggage, both men were in their late thirties. Barton stooped and ripped the luggage open. The 20-month-old K9 finally broke loose and sprinted away. Both officers gave chase, as fast as their legs could carry them. People ran and screamed as they spotted the furious dog. He dashed into a plane and pounced upon the seat where Detective Mullson had sat earlier. Jeft and Barton tumbled in and stood gasping for air. Their hearts raced, sweat dripped from their foreheads, itchiness tickled their legs.

  The dog rushed to the back of the plane, echoed a bark, dived over a trolley and entered the galley. After sensing something in the darkness, with killer instincts he preyed upon the unknown. His ninety pounds of raw muscle was no match for whatever was inside that room, for as soon as he entered his body got tossed in the opposite direction, landing where Jeft and Barton stood, all the way to first class.

  Both men’s hearts raced even more as fear spread through their veins. With their fingers twitching for the slightest of movement, they ripped their gun from its holsters and aimed. Jeft strode silently toward the back of the plane while Barton stood over the badly hurt canine. Jeft shoved the trolley out of the way and continued to scan his surroundings, drawing closer to the galley, he entered. Barton stooped. “Jeft,” he said.

  “I'm listening,” Jeft answered, from the midst of the galley.

  “Be careful.”

  “I’ll be okay Sam.”

  Barton pickup his radio and yelled, “We have an emergency aboard plane. Canine down. Please send reinforcement.”

  The lights flickered, darkness followed.

  “Jeft!” Barton bellowed. “Jeft! Are you okay?” Hidden by the darkness someone exited the galley, Barton shined his flashlight and spotted the name JEFT across the chest of a figure standing tall. Just as the plane regained power a human head propelled forward and knocked Barton off his feet.

  Outside, people crammed the sidewalk waiting to enter taxis, their cars, or other transportations available. Detective Mullson walked back and forth, glanced at his cellphone to check the time, gazed at oncoming traffic stopping to pick up passengers. In the distance he spotted a black Ford Expedition approaching, a smile flashed across his face as he rushed and retrieved his luggage. A beautiful girl with dimpled cheeks came out and hugged him.

  “Miss Anna, how ya doing?” he said.

  “I’m fine dad, how was your trip?” she said.

  “Well,” he said hesitantly, “we'll talk later.”

  Mullson hurriedly tossed his luggage into the back of the SUV; as they pulled out of the airport they spotted helicopters hovering above, NYPD, and fire rescue ambulances and trucks from Engine CO 29, heading the opposite direction, toward the arrival ramp.

  NYPD officers rushed into the plane and found a man, a head, and a dog, all confirmed dead. At the back of the plane an officer discovered a decapitated body, stripped of clothing. A white male and a black female, wearing FBI jackets, entered. The man is Agent Hill, about forty-two. He walked with a certain swagger that commanded attention.

  “Listen up boys,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.” The woman is Agent McKoy, early thirties, with a pretty face and a gorgeous body.

  “Someone is pissed off,” she said, after observing the scene.

  “Wonder what provoked him?” said Agent Hill, sounding confident.

  “Or her,” Agent McKoy added.

  A white male, about mid-forties, entered. He sported black dress pants and a white dress shirt unbuttoned and revealing a pink undershirt. He had a cellphone in one hand and a paper bag containing food in the other. Jack flashed his badge before Agent Hill's face.

  “Just the man I don't want to see,” he said with an Italian accent.

  Agent Hill retaliated with a mean look across his face.

  Agent McKoy stared at them and shook her head.

  Agent Hill and Jack forced an innocent smile.

  Detective Jack, after squeezing by Agent Hill, went and stooped over the canine; he ripped the bag open and stuffed a hot dog in his mouth, afterwards, dialed his cellphone. Agent Hill glanced at Jeft's head in a bag resting on a nearby seat.

  “Hope you and Mullson don’t take matters into your own hands,” Hill warned.

  “What do you know about us?” asked Jack, sounding a little edgy.

  “Off the record,” said Agent Hill, looking over his shoulder. “You two are a menace to society. More like the devil’s advocate.”

  “Somebody’s got to do your job,” Jack blurted, to Agent Hill. “Better watch your wife.”

  “Jack?” said Agent McKoy, in disapproval.

  “I know you like me,” said Jack, flirting with her. “But I’m not ready for a serious rejection-ship, gives me sometime sweetheart.” Even though she pretended not to give in, Agent McKoy had begun to fall for Jack more than ever, his sexy accents, the way he put a smile in her heart, his crazy words.

  The very words that annoyed Agent Hill who stood grinding his teeth and clinching his fists, “You arrogant bastard!” he shouted at Jack.

  “Okay,” said McKoy, “enough.”

  “I’m going to give my partner a call,” Jack told McKoy, teasingly. “Hope you're not jealous.”

  As the evening progressed, traffic was moving bumper to bumper for miles, nothing unusual during rush hour on any New York City street. Heading east on I-495, a black Expedition sandwiched front and back between two armored trucks had been trying to make a move. As soon as other cars spotted the indicator they raced to narrow the gap.

  Inside the SUV Anna Mullson glanced left and spotted a car, she tried to swing right but she had no way out as they approached exit 41S, about a mile ahead. Anna was in her early twenties, with hair hanging to her shoulder, perfectly aligned teeth. Yet not many guys were willing to date her. Not that anything was wrong with her. They were afraid of what she had; the bully sitting at the front passenger seat. Detective Mullson’s reputation spread throughout the Tri-state: hard criminals feared him for his ruggedness; Ann
a’s wannabe boyfriends never got the guts to face him. Deep down Mullson had the heart of a baby, but continued to play tough.

  Dimples sunk in Anna’s cheeks as she smiled off the frustration built up inside. Those bastards kept her trapped. She thought about tunneling her way to the next lane, luckily the crawling of traffic bought her more time, so her mind hadn’t been freaking about missing her exit. She flicked on a pair of sunglasses she retrieved from a storage compartment and focused on the armored truck ahead. The truck seemingly underwent some form of x-rays, as if penetrated by Anna's powerful eyes, a computer projection revealed two skeletons at the back; they appeared to be engaged in some form of unusual activity. Anna took off her sunglasses and everything was back to normal.

  “Dad,” she said.

  All sorts of things scattered in Mullson’s brain, he braced against his seat, almost pushing it all the way back. The long journey had begun to take a toll on him. “Yes, Miss Anna,” he answered.

  She gave him the sunglasses. “That's your Father's Day gift,” she said. “It's only ten days late.” Mullson was more than happy for the pair of sunglasses and slapped them on to block the sun pouring through the front windshield.

  “Holy crop,” he said, almost jumping out of his seat. “Where did you get this?”

  “Just enjoy your gift,” said Anna, with a smirked across her face.

  Mullson focused on the armored truck ahead; he saw an image of two skeletons at the back of the truck — one standing, the other resting both knees on the floor. The skeleton with knees resting on the floor moved the head region back and forth at the waistline of the standing skeleton. The first thing that flashed across Mullson’s mind: what on earth are they doing? He’d now witnessed the future of spyware — a dirty business, real dirty.

  Anna spotted the sign that read: Exit 41S.

  “It's time,” she said.

  Mullson continued to focus on the freak show ahead. “Take the other exit,” he suggested.

  Anna plowed her way to the right lane then made a sharp turn onto exit 41S. “Sorry,” she teased.

  The armored truck continued on further south. Inside the back of the truck a security guard stood tall with a wrenched facial expression. He closed his eyes and groaned. “Good job honey.”

  “This is a hard one,” a male voice echoed. Looking down, another male guard was resting on his knees sewing his comrade’s zipper; he moved his head back and forth to avoid the needle.

  CHAPTER 4

  The sun had begun to fade as Anna cruised along route 107, a small town near Broadway mall, somewhere in Hicksville. Trees towering on both sides of the street hid most of the houses. Less than two miles away stood Old Westbury College and a short distance after C.W. Post University. College students gave this tiny town levity. Most of the rich folks in Old Westbury were not happy about students invading their town, they loved it the way it used to be, quiet, more wooded, and not so friendly. The trees were breathtaking, especially during the fall when their leaves changed from green to yellow, and finally reddish-brown. The residents in this sophisticated area seemed to be handpicked, except for Mullson and a few other minorities who got tossed in to deaden the racial stigma that taunted the area awhile back.

  Detective Mullson had begun to doze when his cellphone vibrated. “Hello,” he said, after pressing the answer key. “Mullson speaking. Wait a minute, slow down a little. What yuh mean? I'll call yuh later.”

  Anna angled the Expedition along a familiar side street barely visible from the main road, hidden among the shrubs and trees. From the corner of her eye she glanced at her dad and could tell he was worried; she waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. “So what's that about?” she finally asked.

  “Not sure,” said Detective Mullson, using a hand to pull on his chin. “I’ll find out later. Hmm… strange.”

  “Dad, what's wrong?”

  Something about that priest is not adding up? A thought kept hopping around in Mullson’s head, he got so caught up he didn’t even hear his daughter.

  “So, how was it?” Anna continued.

  “Things never worked out,” he said. “My brother gave me his word. That's not like him for not showing up.”

  “Here we go again,” said Anna, slowing as she approached nine hundred and ninety-nine Storehill Drive, “Always taking up for your people. Uncle Daniel is only human. What is he doing in the Congo to begin with?”

  Father Andrew had being roaming around New York City, sometimes more than one place at a time, like what was happening at the 96 Street and the 125 Street train terminals. At 96 Street, by a pay phone, he stood and glanced at a man in a white suit standing at the edge of the uptown platform. Father Andrew drifted toward the yellow line and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  Further inside the tunnel a train accelerated towards the uptown platform.

  The man turned and stared at the rest of commuters. Suddenly a cool evening breeze sent shivers down his spine. He trembled a bit as he observed the station for the last time. His clothes became reddened, almost as if blood was gushing through his pores.

  Meanwhile, at the 125 Street Station, about four stops further uptown from 96 Street, Father Andrew was also at the edge of the platform with a hand resting on the shoulder of a gentleman wearing a black outfit. The man crossed beyond the yellow line then stared at the crowd, people wondered what his intention was. The sounds of a train squealed in the distance — an uptown train approaching at high speed drew closer. “I’ll save the God in you,” said Father Andrew. “But the devil has to go!”

  At 96 Street Station Father Andrew watched as the train hit the fellow in the white suit, scattering body parts in all directions. The wheels of the train squeaked, fire sparked as metal rubbed, the sudden pull on the emergency brakes sent people flying as the No.5 tumbled to a halt.

  Back in Long Island a Ford Expedition turned onto the driveway of nine hundred and ninety-nine Storehill Drive and parked before the garage. Inside the SUV the radio lowered in the background, Anna and Detective Mullson unbuckled their seatbelts.

  “Hope mom is happy,” she said.

  Mullson sighed, “Been awhile. Think it will work? Hold for a minute.” Detective Mullson wound the knob right and turned up the volume.

  The Reporter’s voice echoed, “At about five-thirty in the evening two men committed suicide at two separate New York City Subway Stations.”

  “This is a crazy world,” Anna gave out.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Next door a dove perched on a statue of the Virgin Mary. “That's a sign of good luck,” said Anna, pointing at the dove.

  “I could use some of that,” Mullson admitted.

  They got out of the vehicle and hauled themselves up a few steps to get to the front patio. Anna searched a bundle of keys she whisked from her pocketbook, inserted one into the front door and turned the knob.

  She entered the living room and held the door open as her father shuffled by with his luggage. Detective Mullson placed his belonging at the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floor, at a corner not blocking the path.

  Wall grilles and wall plaques crafted from wrought iron, with patterns of fleur-de-lis, hung on bare wall space in the living room. Ceramic tiles sporting lovely fleur-de-lis designs bordered the fireplace opposite the staircase, adding brightness and an inviting feel to the room. Throw Pillows cuddled the sofa and loveseat, a sixty-inch television on an entertainment unit placed against the wall was on, at the center stood a cocktail table with shaped legs and scrolled details, made of stone with the warmth of a copper-brown finish.

  Inside the kitchen Magarette Mullson listened to the television in the backdrop. Looking like a goddess in a teal dress hugging her curvy configuration, the one she ordered online and got two days ago. She stood by the gas range preparing ginger shrimp stir-fry and vegetable fried rice. Already the radiating aroma had their mouths watering.

  Anna went and threw her arms around her mother, sq
ueezing her gently. “Hi mom,” she said. “Dad is here.”

  “Hi baby,” said Magarette to Anna, with a light Jamaican accent.

  From the dining room Detective Mullson entered the kitchen.

  “Hi honey,” he said to Magarette, “your husband is home.”

  Magarette yanked the cover off a pot and stirred the rice she’d been slow cooking, facing away the whole time. Her facial expression changed from the sweet soul she was to looking all wretched with her eyes popping out. “Two long months and one postcard,” she said, in a bitter tone, pretending not to be happy to see the man that made her heart flutter and who threatened to press charges against her for stealing his heart when they’d first met. “That's what you call love?”

  Detective Mullson inched closer to his wife, cautiously. “Honey,” he said, pulling on his chin. “You know how the job is. I'm planning for an early retirement… I’ll give Jack a call.”

  “If you guys need me I’ll be upstairs,” said Anna, scurrying away.

  “Bye darling,” said her parents, they stood looking as she dashed through the living room and towards the stairway that led to her room. “See you at dinner,” Mrs. Mullson added. She turned off the stove. “Jack can wait until tomorrow,” she told Trevor.

  On the second floor, Anna came to a door which stood slightly ajar; she pushed the door and entered her room. Inside the room, posters of various fashion models cluttered the walls, soft music, playing at a moderate level, filled the air. Stuffed animals and pillows bundled at the head of her bed, a dresser resting in one corner was packed with colognes, lotions, and makeup. Anna shuffled towards a nightstand and snatched a cordless phone from its base then went and stood by the window facing the front yard.

  Mullson had promised Father Andrew a visit sometime tonight, ten o’ clock to be exact. He thought about telling his wife, but decided to wait until later. By the kitchen sink he went and adjusted the faucet until the water felt pleasing, before rinsing away the lather from his hands, and used a piece of paper towel he ripped from the holder to wipe them dry.