by R. J. GREEN
Joe thundered over the intercom, “Step out of the truck, slowly. We don't want to hurt you!” Benny dragged his oversized body to the front passenger side of the Grumman van and pointed his pistol at the person who faced away.
Joe exited the trooper car; his gut feeling told him something wasn’t right, maybe because he kept focusing on the ‘I SCREAM’ tattooed across the back of the van. He radioed for back up — the first time he actually did this. He and his partner had always handled themselves pretty well, they loved the action, writing reports. Who had time to waste? The thought alone turned their stomachs.
Joe and Benny peeked into the van. “What have we here?” said Joe, standing by the driver’s side.
“What are we going do with this one?” said Benny to Joe.
“That's the ugliest nigga I ever-” Joe pointed out, before his head hit the ground while his body remained standing, all this happened in a flash.
Benny’s eyes popped opened as he spotted his headless partner. The blood doubled pace through his heart. His head pounded, goose-bumps itched away on his arms and legs. He tried to move, but his feet wouldn’t allow him to. He opened his mouth and only managed to force a few crackles.
Wrath stepped out of the ‘I SCREAM’ van, a Rastafarian hat tipped to one side of his head, a pair of sunglasses covered his eyes, and sporting the uniform of a JFK Airport Security Officer with the name-tag: JEFT. He had a machete in one hand with blood trickling from the silver-white blade.
POW! A bullet thundered toward the Frankenstein thing. Benny squeezed the trigger, again and again.
Wrath used his bare fist and punched away all the bullets reigning toward him.
Benny was out of ammo, but he continued to press the trigger. For the first time his gun had failed him. All the confidence he’d built over the few years of service began to rot away like his self esteem, like faded memories of his imagined girlfriend after losing his virginity to a hooker he was supposed to book, all that power energizing his body after putting a smack down on Mr. Rex.
Wrath threw the machete on the ground.
Benny pulled out his flashlight and swung at Wrath.
With anger raging inside, Wrath used his hands and ripped off Benny's head then crushed it against the patrol car. Sirens echoing miles away had him forcing his hands against his ears to block out the painful sound. He jumped in his van and swirled the opposite direction, heading back the way he came.
CHAPTER 8
The sun penetrated the land with no signs of clouds for miles. A few apartment buildings stood on a section of sandy soil that had no room for much, other than a few spiny leafless plants with fleshy stems and branches hosting colored flowers. Further ahead where the soils bind, the ground is cracked and begging to be quench by the slightest drip, if merciful. Vehicles parked at random, with doors opened and containing purses, money, diamonds, necklaces, children toys — but no humans. Not one in sight as far as the eyes could see.
The latest version of the military fighters plane: a Black Stealth resembling an AH-64 Apache with wings of a conventional Stealth Bomber, appeared out of thin air and hovered above the apartment buildings. Mounted below its body: 30 millimeter M230 Chain Gun, AGM-114 Hellfire and Hydra 70 rocket, green bombs and missiles with expandable capability.
On the pilot’s headpiece engraved the words: SILENT KILL. He poked a button and released two of the green missiles; they stopped in midair as if waiting to be commanded. His assignment was quite simple, but not easy. Foremost he must keep everything a secret. The mission was given to him because of his trustworthiness, mankind’s last draw against its enemies — but whom and where are the enemies, the thought flashed across his mind.
“Enlarge!” he yelled, with a rush of confidence, shifting the war machine to the side to focus on the missiles hovering below. One of them began to break into tiny particles that seemed alive and still lingering close to the other missile, like bees in a hive. The disintegrated particles converged toward the intact missile, and underwent rapid growth, doubling in size in a matter of seconds. Silent Kill threw up a fist. “Terminate!” Upon his word the enlarged missile darted towards the earth and thundered against the ground. Dust plummeted above the spot where the future of weapons landed. Other than that there was nothing spectacular about the fireworks, for there was none. Not a single building or car seemed to be damaged.
“Silent Kill,” a voice echoed over the radio, “Do you read me?” Hundreds of miles away, high voltage and off limit signs plastered on a fence surrounding a satellite dish. On the outer perimeter corpses of raccoons, Mexican gray wolves and mountain lions decayed. A Western diamondback rattlesnake sizzled after forcing its head through a hole in the fence. The land, deemed a radiation zone by federal officials, didn’t seem to slow the growth of cacti and desert animals, instead, they flourished.
Hidden deep beneath the surface was a control room called Bunker X. Inside logos of the Pentagon embraced the walls, the lights radiated a greenish glow, Thermo-Hygrometer placed throughout the room monitored the icy air rushing through a side vent in the wall. State-of-the-art computers jammed on desks at the center. Soldiers sat at every computer desk. Behind them stood higher-ranking military officials, glancing at radar images. One in particular with nothing on the screen should have been showing the abandoned building Silent Kill targeted, but got knocked out. Sweat scattered over their foreheads as they waited. In the meantime as if about to eat the nails off their fingers, and kept pulling every strain of hair from their almost bald heads.
“Mission accomplished sir!” Silent Kill bellowed over the radio.
They jumped, laughed, and congratulated each other on a job well done. “No one will ever guess,” said the commanding officer, a slight grin across his face.
Silent Kill stared at the abandoned building below. His eyes never drifted to the side where two men in the distance stood watching his every move. The men, about late-thirties, were mirror images of the other. Assassin #1 and Assassin #2 — the Asian twins zoomed in on the abandoned buildings; their vision appeared magnified as if some type of device were built into their eyes.
“When the time is right,” said Assassin #1, “we will make a move.” Assassin #2 echoed an evil laugh. A strong wind rushing across the desert swept away the abandoned buildings and vehicles, as if they were made from loose sands, spreading their particles near and far. Strangely enough the missile had caused more damage than first thought. A greener type of war had forced people to seek better ways of killing with the least amount of damage to the environment. Silent Kill felt please and jetted away. Little did he know the project sparked the interest of Engulf; anything to do with the destruction of humanity wetted the beast’s appetite. Not that Engulf needed such inferior toys for his personal use; for in his heart his power equaled the gods he challenged. But chaos had a sweeter role in his quest. With his army growing larger each day he planned to unleash more wrath upon humankind, but first he must conquer the other Mullson brother.
Along the New Jersey turnpike Detective Mullson and Jack sped south. Jack drove his BMW towards a shoulder then cut ahead of other vehicles. Mullson followed in his 911 Carerra. Both men had sirens on the dash of their cars, and neither was wailing. They drove and drove, switching lanes like maniacs to avoid the slowing of traffic; a jam further ahead had a trickling effect. Some of the more heated motorists honked their horns at the two impatient bastards. Jack and Mullson had no time to retaliate as they would; they were summoned to help with a case in New Jersey and they hurried to get to Liberty Street. Agent Hill buzzed them more than once, the fact that he despised their reputation and was willing to join the team was extremely important — and they knew it.
They took a sharp right and exited to a rocky road where they drove until they spotted Liberty Street that had been blocked off by State Troopers. Canine dogs and their masters had been rushing through rows of corns and flowers in nearby fields. The dogs sensed something ahead, where tracks of a vehicle pl
unging over rows of corn had left a dent, but their handlers turned them away, as if preventing the uncovering of the town’s secrets. The troopers did their best to hide all the evidence pointing toward the middle of the field.
This department in particular had a lot to hide. After the FBI had targeted them for racial profiling a few years back many of the troopers sought revenge. Joe had taught them how to eliminate the enemies without leaving a trace, so it was personal to lose one of their brightest stars. Even more disrespectful was for outsiders to fringe upon their privacy, their way of living, and all the things they fought to preserve over the years. The Feds weren’t welcome and now they sent for those two arrogant bastards from New York, with all ’em fancy cars — what the hell is this world coming to — all sort of things raced through the troopers’ minds, and a gleam of suspicion flashed across their faces.
At the junction Agent Hill and Agent McKoy inspected a pool of blood. Detective Mullson and Jack parked their cars, and walked toward several troopers who stared at them up and down, mostly focusing on Mullson. Two troopers built like gladiators and resembling drill sergeants meeting privates for the first time, advanced toward their prey. One stood before Mullson with a rather wicked grin, the other before Jack, denying them entry.
Jack and Mullson held their ground.
“Step aside bitches,” Jack lashed out at the two men. “Don't you recognize trouble?” he pointed at Mullson. “By the way, today is his birthday.” The two troopers retreated after Agent Hill and Agent McKoy rushed over to Jack and Mullson.
“Welcome gentlemen,” said Hill. He looked Mullson in the face. “Heard you’re a bad ass— nothing personal, I don't give a damn-” He pointed at McKoy, “This is my partner Agent McKoy.”
She shoved her hand forward.
“Hi, nice meeting you Detective Mullson,” she said. Detective Mullson gripped her hand gently, and almost got the life squeezed out of his.
“Nice meeting you too Agent McKoy,” he said. A ringtone echoed from his cellular phone. He whisked it to his ear, “Hello, hello, hello!” Mullson pressed the END button after listening to the silence from the other side for more than a minute. As he was about to toss the phone back in the case clenching to his belt it sang again.
“You have until midnight,” said a distorted voice over the phone.
“Who’s this?” said Mullson, his bushy brows squinted out of control. CLONK! The telephone slammed in his ear had his mind racing as fast as the blood gushing through his veins. He seemed dumbstruck and tried to mask his emotion as Jack, Agent Hill, and Agent McKoy stood waiting for him to say something. Jack sensed something was wrong.
“What's that about?” he asked Mullson.
“I don't know,” said Mullson. “Feels like I'm constantly being watched.” He thought about what he’d asked Father Andrew earlier, on the plane “don’t tell me people who died in the line of duty comes back to haunt us.” Maybe, Father Andrew’s voice echoed in his head.
“What's the matter pal?” said Jack, tapping on Mullson’s shoulder.
Mullson glanced at his watch as the sun sneaked behind a cloud; the time read 11:45. Driven by instinct he went and surveyed the spot where Mr. Rex got disciplined, and found a large platinum necklace partially buried in the dirt. Mullson handed Agent Hill the necklace. “It belongs to Mr. Rex,” he said.
Jack stared at the fresh cover of dirt hiding the blood beneath. “Mr. Rex as in Rexan?” he said, to Mullson.
“His wife contacted the FBI and reported him and the child missing,” said Agent McKoy.
“What makes you so sure Detective Mullson?” said Agent Hill, observing the pendant that spotted the word MR. REX surrounded by diamonds. He moved towards several troopers who had been isolating themselves, and stood at the spot where Benny and Joe used to hide in their patrol car. These men had their eyes on every movement, and already planned not to cooperate with any outsiders willingly.
Jack glanced at his wrist and thought his watch had to be broken, for 12:30 p.m. had totally caught him off guard.
Agent McKoy made note of the different personalities around her, all along she’d suspected the troopers were not telling them the whole story. What happened to the camera mounted on the dash? The department is cutting back on budget is not an excuse why the equipment malfunctioned. She searched her cranium to put the puzzle together. Maybe they’re just protecting their asses. She led on to agree with their story. A killer on the loose was her major concern.
All along Mullson thought about the strange call; he sneaked a peek at the time, and had begun to wonder if his wife and daughter were okay, earlier when he buzzed them he’d no luck.
“Let’s go,” he told Jack, already scurrying towards his car.
“May I ask where?” Agent McKoy blunted, to Mullson. He finally told her he’d met a couple on the plane that could shed some light about one of the victims at JFK. McKoy seemed interested and signaled her partner to hurry along. A serial killer was on the loose and God forbid the public get ahold of the information not available to them as yet. With time against them they needed to act fast. And they did just that. Jack and Mullson revved their engines and had their tires rocketing stones and dirt in the opposite direction, before speeding away. Agent McKoy and Agent Hill jumped in their FBI sedan and followed.
The troopers sighed in relieved when the outsiders began to retreat. Knowing the FBI would be back they gathered and began to chitchat, hoping to straighten any deviation in their stories and to seek revenge for their fallen comrades. First they must ask Reverend Dick Slayer to pray for their souls. Next they planned to question those mighty fine girls at Fowl Catcher Disco; if any stranger passed through they were usually the first to know.
It was later in the day when Mullson and his team arrived at a single family house surrounded by freshly cut lawn and colorful flowers in a small New Jersey town closer to New York. At the front of the house red bricks layered while the side and back were covered with hardiplank. A bird feeder hanging above a small garden attracted mostly chickadees, titmice, and finches. Squirrels chased each other among a clutter of trees further at the side yard, where a yellow-bellied sapsucker paused as Mullson, Jack, Agent Hill and McKoy marched towards the front door.
Mullson tapped against the doorbell, repeatedly, and a buzzing sound echoed from the midst of the house. They stood waiting, but nobody came out. Detective Mullson thought about his wife and daughter the whole morning, an appointment he had with Father Johnson who supposedly lived somewhere in Upstate New York, and an early retirement to toss at his department that expected so much from him, especially with the recent series of headless killings. He’d not yet told Jack about his plan to retire. SIGH.
Ever since Mullson got back from Africa Jack sensed their friendship was coming to an end. He enjoyed every bit of their companionship, yet the fact Mullson had been drawing closer to two particular priests rattled his nerves. Being a human has its advantage, but Jack would rather be his old self where he’s used to commanding with an iron fist; having his desires flamed by a raging fire, literally, and where the screaming of souls sounded like sweet music to his ears. He respected Mullson for not questioning his religious beliefs. From the day of his creation Jack opposed God’s plan for mankind, but that he must keep to himself since he didn’t wants to disturb all them religious folks hanging around.
Agent McKoy and Agent Hill pulled their guns then headed to the back of the house, leaving Mullson and Jack at the front, still waiting for an answer. “But you just spoke to them,” Jack reminded Mullson. “Let’s go inside to see what's wrong.”
“We have no warrant,” Mullson warned Jack, like he expected it would make a difference. Before he finished the conversation Jack had already raised his foot and smashed it against the door, collapsing the outer wooden door as well as an inner one.
“I have a warrantee on my boots,” Jack bragged to Mullson — who stood staring at both doors on the floor and was too shocked to comprehend the po
wer of Jack’s leg. At the backyard Agent McKoy had already kicked-in the solid door from off the frame. Agent Hill glanced at the door on the ground, then at McKoy. “Oh my God,” he said, running a hand through the hair on his head.
“Move it sir!” said Agent McKoy, storming into the house and flashing her pistol from side-to-side. Her partner followed and they scanned every inch of the family room which contained a sectional and a small television resting on a wall unit. Most notable was the icy air rushing from the AC that froze the room. The first thing that flashed across McKoy’s mind — “Iceman” experiments with disguising the time of death of his victims by freezing their corpses. Inside the living room, Jack and Mullson entered with their weapons pointing and spotted what appeared to be a man and a woman sitting in a loveseat, facing away. A collection of antique knives inside a glass case was shoved against the wall, perpendicular to the loveseat. Mullson couldn’t help but notice a rack that had one knife missing. Picture of the Jefts family embraced the wall, wherever space was available for the large frames.
The old couple didn’t move a bone as Jack teased loudly, “How do we say hello in sign language?”
“Hello,” McKoy voiced rumbled from the back of the house, “anyone home?”
Still the couple did not move. Mullson shuffled to the other side of the loveseat and recognized the pair as the Jeft couple he’d met on the plane a few days ago. Luckily Mrs. Jeft had slipped him an old business card, that’s where he got the address Conrad Jeft used awhile back for a PI firm he’d started, but the company didn’t materialize— Mullson had a friend run some background checks.