Searching for the Enemies

by R. J. GREEN

  Mullson, Jack, Agent Hill and McKoy dodged behind parked vehicles.

  More shots rang out; Mullson heard the whine of a bullet as it passed near his head.

  “Hold your fire!”

  The two continued to blast away before jumping into the pickup and sped away.

  Mullson and his team scampered towards their vehicles, hurried in, and followed. Heading east at a section along Hempstead Turnpike, Mullson’s Expedition and the FBI Sedan with flashing lights trailed the red Pickup. Mullson gripped the steering wheel of the Expedition a little firmer as he glanced at the odometer creeping towards 110MPH, with Jack seated in the passenger seat staring at the pickup zigzagging ahead.

  Inside the car, McKoy slammed her foot against the pedal. As she was about to pass the Expedition her attention was now focused on a Grumman Step Van heading in the opposite direction. Along the length of the van, as it darted by, she glimpsed flashes of the words ‘I SCREAM.’ Without warning she swung the car across the yellow line, cutting off oncoming traffic; the FBI sedan accelerated towards the ‘I SCREAM’ van.

  Agent Hill clenched to his seat. “Wrong way!” he said.

  “That's the truck,” she tried to convince him.

  “What truck?”

  Agent McKoy pointed at the Grumman Step Van ahead whose driver refused to stop for the flashing lights.

  Meanwhile, still heading east, Mullson’s Expedition edged away at the red truck.

  “Boring,” Jack teased.

  “Can you do better?” said Mullson.

  Jack stuck his gun through the window, aimed at the back tires of the pickup, and fired two rounds that shattered the intended targets. With the two tires blown out, the truck hit an oncoming car, flipped several times before coming to a standstill on three wheels — the other wheel rolled down the street and crashed against a building. After radioing in an emergency Jack and Mullson came towards the pickup; inside they found the two officers’ lifeless bodies.

  On the seat of the truck Mullson spotted what appeared to be the knife his daughter had shown him earlier, he could have sworn, but he didn’t want to get carried away. What if there were replicas floating around, or maybe the officers just didn’t book all the evidence, what if they were covering up something. All these thoughts raced through his head, yet he didn’t want to admit Johnny P might be telling the truth.

  He lowered his hand to retrieve the knife, as he was about to get a grip of the handle, a dismantled hand lying on the floor suddenly came to life and grabbed a hold of his wrist. Mullson’s heart raced, his mouth dropped, and the hair at the back of his neck rose. He tried to move, but his body didn’t allow him to.

  Jack had seen creepier stuff and didn’t have a bone of scariness in him, all this excitement had his adrenaline double pacing; before Mullson had a chance to react Jack used his Glock and slammed a bullet into the revivified hand.

  “Give me the knife,” he said to Mullson. “At least it will be in the right hands.”

  Mullson swallowed. “Don't even say a word about this,” he warned Jack, the whole thing gave him the creeps.

  Along Hempstead Turnpike, the ‘I SCREAM’ truck sped toward Hicksville Road, a busy intersection ahead, where the stoplights turned red. A gasoline truck driving along Hicksville Road approached Hempstead Turnpike, a few meters away. The driver pressed against the accelerator and began to wind the steering counter clockwise when he spotted the green lights.

  “Dad,” said a little girl sitting on the front passenger seat, “are we there yet?”

  “We’ll be there soon,” said the man. “Go get you some rest.”

  “Okay dad,” said the little girl, rushing to a bed at the back of the semi.

  “That’s my girl.”

  The ‘I SCREAM’ Truck sped even faster as it neared the intersection; the light had been red for the past few seconds.

  “Where are you guys?” Detective Mullson voiced echoed from the radio inside the FBI sedan, as McKoy and Hill saw the ‘I SCREAM’ van heading for an unavoidable collision with the gasoline truck. The Grumman Step Van smashed through the front of the gasoline truck. Upon impact the tanker flipped to one side. The ‘I SCREAM’ van continued ahead in its original course.

  Agent McKoy, seeing the accident, jammed on the brakes; the reaction sent the FBI Sedan plunging into the back of a garbage truck. It didn’t take long for the hazmat team to arrive on the scene and had been slaving to contain the oil spill, after people were already forced to evacuate for miles. Detective Mullson, with blood all over his clothing, accompanied Agent Hill and the driver of the tanker into a hospital located on the outskirts of Hempstead; both men were in critical condition.

  “Charl… Charlene,” said the truck driver, gasping for air.

  “Who is Charlene?” said a nurse. “Anyone know Charlene?”

  “At the back, said the truck driver, his voice faded. “At the back of-” his heart monitor beeped as the line on the screen flattened.

  “I think I know where to find her,” Mullson whispered to himself, as he dashed toward the exit.

  Detective Mullson raced to the intersection of Hicksville Road and Hempstead Turnpike and parked his Expedition a few blocks away. Toward the overturned truck he sprinted with all his might until he got to the scene where several firefighters apprehended him.

  Foam covering vehicles and buildings was a temporary fix, most of the gasoline got vacuumed up by a tanker that had long gone. Wiring under the truck had begun to spark. “The truck goanna blow!” a firefighter yelled at the top of his lungs.

  “A child is in that truck!” said Detective Mullson, struggling to set free.

  “Impossible!” a second firefighter assured him.

  “Give them the go ahead,” the Captain told the first firefighter.

  “Yes sir,” he replied. Over his radio he shouted, “Evacuate the building!”

  With the firefighter distracted Mullson set himself free; he scrambled on the truck, but there was no visible access to the cabin. He looked around and spotted a Firefighter Axe lying on the ground that he retrieved. The shirt Mullson ripped off from his body he used and wrapped around the head of the axe to cover up the metal area. He began to plow his way through the truck’s roof, each hit had the potential for disaster, but a girl screaming from within the midst of the cabin encouraged him to work faster. The shirt fell off from the axe, but that didn’t deter him. By the time Mullson got a grip of the little girl who’d being trapped inside a bed located at the back of the cabin, he was pretty much banged up. The place went up in flames. Explosions sent vehicles launching through the air. Firefighters retreated and shouted for Mullson to do the same, but it was too late as the flame engulfed him.

  With almost nowhere to go he held on to Charlene and scanned the fire. Only if he’d listened to those firefighters who advised him not to endanger his life. Oh God he prayed, as tears of blood oozed down his cheeks, his final day had come. If he could only tell his wife and daughter how much he loves them, trying to save the girl was the right thing and not a thought of regret lurked in his mind.

  A buzzing sound had him staring at the sky; a Rescue Helicopter hovered above the tanker, from the helicopter a rope came plummeting towards him.

  “Hurry!” said Jack, from the back of the helicopter.

  Mullson hugged the little girl tightly with one arm; he used the other hand and clinched the rope. The helicopter hauled them to safety, before the tanker shattered to pieces.

  Outside Island hospital, a few miles away from the deadly accident scene, the National Guard had already begun to evacuate patients. A man in a wheelchair pedaled his way to a parking lot, the wheelchair got stuck in a pothole; the man made several attempts to free the wheels, but failed each time. He finally got up and sprinted away.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Big Apple had not seen this much action since 9/11, and nobody was more delighted than the news media who ran a story on every channel, analyzing and playing detective. The fo
llowing morning when people woke it was only to learn of a serial killer on the loose and the massive explosion at the intersection of Hempstead Turnpike and Hicksville Road possibly linking to what had happened at the George Washington Bridge a few nights back. People were encouraged to walk in groups or if possible, not to go outside after dark. Regardless, New York City was open for business, only this time more police and undercover agents strolled the streets.

  At a hospital, somewhere in Long Island, Agent Hill was still in a coma. A few of his colleagues who’d stop by the ICU headed out. At the outpatient area they entered a lobby where Agent McKoy sat in a wheelchair waiting. On her right hand she wore a cast; a nurse wheeled her towards the main lobby out front.

  “I told you that van is responsible for all that mess,” said Agent McKoy. All the other FBI members glanced at her; a cloud of doubt seemed to tamper their belief. “I'm sorry about Agent Hill,” she continued. “It’s my fault, but I’m not a liar.” They entered the main lobby and exited.

  At a Bronx Precinct, escorted by two officers, the deranged man was brought to the interrogation room and forced to sit at a table planted at the far corner. The two officers left when Mullson and Jack entered. The deranged man crumbled as he spotted the two.

  Mullson had a rush of déjà vu and immediately sighed.

  “Not again,” he said, to the man whose identity was still unknown.

  Jack held a picture of the prostitute before she got decapitated in Hunts Point.

  “What a beauty,” he said, slamming the picture against the table. “Did you love her?”

  “I love you all,” the mysterious man answered.

  “Why did you kill her?” Jack accused.

  “I could easily answer all your questions,” the man bragged, “Even before asking, but life wouldn't be fun. Don't you agree Detective Jack?”

  Mullson tossed a wallet before the man. The fellow scooped the wallet from the table. “It's about time you guys do your job,” he said, as he got up to move toward the exit. Jack grabbed the man and flipped him high above the table and connected with a vicious blow to the man’s chest. The man sprawled on top of the table. “Can I get up?” he mumbled.

  “Go ahead,” said Mullson.

  The man jumped to his feet, stretched his arm towards Jack, and shuffled across the room. “Can I have a dance?” he asked Jack.

  Jack glanced at him from head to toes. “Do you love your nuts?” he said.

  “I'm longing to dance with the devil,” the man teased Jack.

  Mullson spotted Jack clenching his fist and rose above the head. “Jack!” he said, interrupting his motive. “Why are you her be?” Mullson continued, to the man.

  “Tricky question?” he turned and smiled at Mullson.

  “Wrong answer,” Jack threatened the fellow.

  “I promise you this,” said the man, to Mullson, trying to ignore Jack. “Whenever my mission is completed, if you wish, I’ll be with you no more, but as for Jack, I’ll be watching.”

  Mullson came and stood before the deranged man. “How do you explain the wallet?” he said to the fellow.

  The man hesitated for a bit. “Since you insisted,” he told Mullson. “I was robbed. I'm not the one you're looking for Detective Mullson.”

  “Get the Chief,” said Mullson, to Jack.

  Jack received and returned greetings as he strolled proudly along the first floor hallway. “A world without Jack is a dull world,” he whispered to himself. “Don't you all agree?”

  While Jack was scurrying along to the chief’s office Mullson had something else in mind. First he wanted to know who he was up against, for the deranged man seemed to be hiding something or just playing dumb. From the interrogation room he stuck his head out and peeked into the hallway, both directions. As Mullson turned he found himself face-to-face with the deranged man.

  “You and I have a score to settle,” the man threatened.

  Mullson used the index and thumb of his right hand and forced his wedding band further against his left-ring-finger. He slowly clinched both of his fists and punched several times toward the face of the deranged man who stood without even a blink. Mullson’s hands were moving so fast they appeared blurry; a fist landed less than an inch away from the man’s face.

  “No name,” said Detective Mullson, “no fingerprints, no family.”

  “You're all my family,” the man bragged.

  “Why are you always resisting?”

  “You have to. If you don't you will ended up like the others.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Depends on which side you're on.”

  “Let’s go for a ride.” Jack entered the room as Detective Mullson and the stranger were about to exit. “I will be back,” said Mullson, to Jack.

  “What should I tell the Chief?” said Jack, eyeing the deranged man.

  “Anything,” Mullson told him. “Just makes something up.”

  A well built woman, about mid-forties, entered. By the door she stood towering, her nametag read: JUSTICE. She scanned the room and spotted Jack bracing against the wall. “Detective Mullson!” she bellowed. She stared at Jack, “Where is that good for nothing bastard?” she continued, scurrying away when Jack's body expressions indicated he’d no clue about Mullson’s whereabouts. “God, have mercy when I catch him.”

  Bums and drugs addicts roamed a side street where a black expedition sped along, slamming into potholes and running over garbage piled at random. From a distance a car trailed the expedition, inside the car Nina pressed the brake gently, coming to a standstill as she watched the SUV disappear out of sight.

  Detective Mullson angled the Expedition to another street; through the rearview mirror he glanced at the deranged man who sat at the back.

  “What if I am not on your side?” said Mullson.

  “You're exactly what they're looking for,” the man blurted. “The choice is yours.”

  “Should I believe all this nonsense?”

  Mullson slammed on the brakes. He turned around, but the stranger had gone, almost as if vanished in thin air.

  Detective Mullson searched inside the SUV, looked up and down the street, still no signs of the man. Using a hand he wiped away sweat gathering on his forehead, scanned his vehicle once more and discovered a ring on the backseat. He examined the ring, closely.

  “You and I have a score to settle,” the voice of the deranged man echoed in his head, as he recalled the incident in the interrogation room earlier. Mullson stared at his ring finger expecting to find his ring, but it was gone. He remembered threatening the man with his fast and furious fists, clenched fists, the thought of the man removing the ring from his clenched fist, disturbing.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered, as he slipped it on his ring finger.

  At an abandoned warehouse at the edge of a small town parked several military looking vehicles. On the exterior of the building bricks were falling apart, the surroundings had shrubs popping up from cracks in the pavement, construction materials piled up in a far corner stood there for ages.

  A hummer hurrying across an open lot came and parked at the front of the warehouse. Assassin #1 shoved the door open and leapt out of the driver’s seat. He had on a black trench coat, this one free of burnt holes and rips. Engulf jumped out of the front passenger seat.

  They headed towards a nearby door, and entered.

  Inside the warehouse, a diverse group of men wearing black uniforms and well armed stood in a two-row formation, arms length away from each other. Engulf strolled back and forth inspecting his troops. “Failure is acceptable!” he said, with a wicked grin across his face.

  “Never!” the troops said, proudly.

  Ever since Mullson’s house had been destroyed, Engulf found it difficult to keep an eye on the unpredictable bastard. In Jamaica his wife and daughter seemed safe, but not for long, Engulf thought. The grin disappeared from his face.

  “We all deserve a vacation,” he said. “I have the perfect place
in mind.”

  “YES SIR… YES SIR!”

  “Damn,” Mullson muttered under his breath. A splitting headache hit him as he drove through an empty street after swinging to exit 7 off the Jersey Turnpike. He’d agreed to meet someone at Fort Dix about possible leads regarding the deadly assault on his former unit.

  He pressed on the lever and stared as windshield washer fluid sprayed out and the wipers swished away the excess dirt. Well, he could only trust the person was not playing some sick prank. Mullson flipped on the radio and lowered the volume, his intent: the light music would smooth his headache. The thought of his family reminded him he needed to tell them about their house. He passed a cluster of plants at both sides of the road. Up ahead, closer to Route 537E, he planned to stop at Fowl Catcher Disco to get a drink.

  As he drove along Route 537E his cellphone rang twice; he whisked it to his ear. “Where are you?” he said.

  “Closer than you think,” a male voice echoed from the other side. Several troopers’ vehicles emerged from both sides of the cornfield. Mullson spotted them, and as they started to close in from all directions leaving him trapped, a sense of suspicion occupied his mind. He flashed his badge.

  “NYPD!”

  One of the troopers chuckled, Mullson recognized him from the crime scene at Liberty Street.

  “You’re out of your jurisdiction Detective Mullson,” said Trooper Branson.

  Mullson recalled hearing his voice before, wait a minute, the phone call. Oh no?

  “You bastard!” he yelled, when he realized he was tricked. Mullson dived towards the front passenger door, busted it open then darted towards the cornfield.

  A few troopers spotted their prey and gave chase.

  With all his might Mullson trampled his way through the cornfield, not even the sharp edges of leaves slashing his arms slowed him.

  In the backdrop an engine rumbled to life causing birds in nearby field to take to the sky.

  Three troopers began to gain ground.