“Why not? This won’t last forever and the rest of the world is untouched and waiting for us. I’ve got enough gold hidden away to buy a small country and everyone in it. We could be kings!”
“Bedford, I’m tired of this. Now about this woman.” Kuris brought out a picture of a young Latino girl that had been plucked out of the Fairground’s female population. She’d been missing for four months and last seen being taken to Bedford’s office.
“Damn it! Why won’t you listen to me?” Bedford yelled. He calmed himself and continued, “Who cares about a little slut like that? We could have any woman we want with my gold. Our gold, Captain.”
Kuris’s anger almost got the best of him. He clenched his fists under the table.
“Yes!” Bedford said, mistaking Kuris’ silence for thoughtful consideration. “I have a boat. A yacht, really, and we can be in South America within the week.”
Kuris was about to beat the man down when there was a knock on the door. As Kuris stepped outside to talk, Bedford sat up hopefully. The young captain was considering the bribe! He started planning their route to Florida’s west coast, where his gold and catamaran yacht waited.
Captain Kuris left the prisoner’s room and took that satellite phone from the DHS agent.
“Captain Kuris, this is Captain Ferrant,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
Kuris got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Ferrant was the general’s aide while he was still stuck here in Orlando. The call couldn’t be good if the general wasn’t the one to reach out.
“Yes?” Kuris hesitantly replied.
“I regret to inform you that the general’s granddaughter passed away just an hour ago.”
Kuris almost dropped to the ground. The general’s whole life had been tied up in those kids.
“There’s more,” the major said. “The general’s wife had an accidental overdose of sleeping pills. She’s in a coma now herself. They don’t know if she’s going to make it.”
Almost ten seconds went by without a response.
“Kuris, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.” Kuris replied, his mind reeling and emotions boiling.
“Are you alright?”
“No, I’m not alright. The son of a bitch that did this is getting three meals a day while he tries to bribe me to let him go. I’m having trouble holding back.”
After a pause, the captain replied, “Kuris, I don’t know if the general can go through a trial. Reliving the deaths of his grandkids and his wife’s overdose are going to tear him up.”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s up to you how to handle Bedford, Captain Kuris. His fate is totally in your hands.”
Kuris understood, and was glad that he had been freed from his leash.
“I’ll take care of it. You can count on me.”
“I know, Kuris. You are family as far as the general is concerned. Do the right thing.”
The captain disconnected the call, and Kuris turned the phone back over to the agent.
“Go get Bedford’s dinner,” he told the guard at the door. “Make it something good. I’m going to try to bribe that fat man.”
The agent nodded and left Kuris alone in the basement.
Twenty minutes later, the guard returned with a plastic tray. A dinner of flank steak and baked potato sat under a cloche, steam venting through the single hole in its top. It smelled divine.
As he stepped off the last of the stairs, a single gunshot rang out from the prisoner’s room. The guard pitched the tray onto a nearby table and, with rifle up at ready, he flung open the door.
Captain Kuris stood in the room, his service pistol drawn and smoke wafting from the barrel.
Bedford was on the ground. The former director stared lifelessly at the ceiling, a perfect hole in the middle of his forehead. His brains were plastered across the beige concrete wall behind him. Blood and chunks of tissue were slowly dripping down to the ground, mixing with the hairy fragments of the man’s skull.
“What happened?” the guard asked, lowering his rifle.
Kuris holstered his .45 caliber handgun. “He tried to escape.”
He stalked out of the room and picked up the tray from the table where the guard had dropped it. Steam was slowly rising from the dead man’s dinner. He lifted the lid and picked up a perfectly cooked slice of meat. Taking a bite, he nodded his approval.
“That’s good,” he said. Kuris turned to the stunned guard. “Have that cleaned up. I’ll have a report for you to sign in the morning. Make sure you are at my office tomorrow at 0800.”
The guard stared at the captain, then turned to stare at the dead man’s corpse once again.
“Do you understand?” Kuris barked.
“Yes sir!” the guard said as he recovered enough to reply. As Kuris turned to leave, he asked, “Sir, what do I do with his body?”
“Send it to the dump,” Kuris replied. “There’s no one who’ll want to claim it.”
And with that, Kuris turned and left the basement, taking the plate of food with him. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.
CHAPTER 29
HOLDING CELL, DHS HEADQUARTERS
ORLANDO, FL
THE NEXT DAY, DROSKY SAT in his cell, waiting for his captors to take him away. The night had been miserable, with no bed to sleep in. He had a toilet and sink, and at least the bastards were feeding him. But they weren’t making his stay pleasant.
As he lay back on the thinly padded bench he’d been provided in lieu of a cot, he heard a sound outside his door. He rose and crept to the wire-reinforced glass window and peered out.
Bru’s smiling face appeared on the other side. The bolt clicked open and the metal door swung open. His partner stood there, holding Drosky’s tactical gear.
“Room service,” Bru deadpanned.
Drosky stepped into the hallway as his partner helped him into his plate carrier and battle belt.
“It’s good to see you,” Drosky said as he clipped his belt around his waist.
Bru handed Drosky his Glock with a grin. He started down the hall toward an open door made of metal bars. Drosky jogged to catch up. As they went through another security door, Drosky saw a body on the floor of a small room where security monitors showed a now empty cell.
“Is he…” Drosky started to ask.
“No, she’s not dead,” Bru said looking at the downed agent. “But she’s hogtied and ready for the market.”
Drosky grunted out a laugh as they exited the area, leaving the penal part of the building behind. The two men stopped at an intersection where the main corridor met their hallway. It was mid-morning, and there were a few agents going about their business. He was a known prisoner, and being recognized now would be a fatal problem for them both.
As Drosky and Bru hovered in a recessed doorway, waiting for the hallway to clear, an agent looked up from her desk in a nearby office and saw the two men across from her. As a good agent should do, she picked up her house phone and dialed the main desk.
“This is Agent Avella in room 142. I want to report that a prisoner has escaped.”
Unaware of the impending disaster, Bru leaned out and after about a minute, saw that the hallway was finally clear.
“Let’s go,” he said, and the two men beat feet down the corridor toward the side entrance where Bru had left their M-ATV. The pair rushed through the double doors and out onto the short sidewalk.
“STOP RIGHT THERE!” a voice called out.
Bru and Drosky froze. Not twenty yards away, a HUMVEE was surrounded by four soldiers armed with M4 rifles.
“Shit, I’m sorry John,” Bru said as he put his hands on his head and dropped to his knees. Drosky followed suit, and the four men advanced on them, rifles drawn down on them and fingers on triggers.
“Well! What do we have here?”
Drosky recognized that voice. Travis Nixon stood up from behind the HUMVEE. The cocky agent slowly strode up to the pair, savor
ing each step as it brought him closer to his enemy.
“Armed escape? That’s a capital offense, Agent Drosky,” He crowed.
“Blow me, asswipe,” Bru shouted.
Nixon snickered and cuffed Bru across the face. The agent bent but didn’t break.
“You still hit like a girl,” Bru taunted. “You always were a pussy.”
Nixon’s rage flared, but as he went to swing again, Bru dropped to his side and brought his right leg up and kicked Nixon in the groin.
The bully dropped to his knees as his stomach muscles spasmed and the wind left his lungs. One of the four guards clocked Bru with the butt of his rifle a moment later, sending him to the ground. To Bru’s credit, he made no sound while Nixon whined and choked on his own spittle.
When he was able to stand, Nixon brushed off his clothing and walked back toward the building. He paused at the double doors that led inside.
“As soon as I’m gone, shoot them.” The four men gave him a confused look, and Nixon sighed. “They’re trying to escape. Just shoot them!”
“Uh, yes sir,” one of them replied.
A few seconds after the double doors closed, Nixon heard over twenty rounds being fired. With the pain in his groin slowly receding, he began to walk with more authority. Several agents rushed by him in response to the gunfire.
Perfect. He thought to himself. Witnesses saw me inside the building when those two were shot. Can’t blame me for that.
Nixon strolled down towards the cafeteria and grabbed a coffee. Sitting by himself at one of the many tables, he heard some of the agents talking as they entered the room.
“That was crazy,” one of them said. “They never had a chance.”
Nixon smiled. It was finally over.
“I’m freaked,” the other one said. “They were shot right outside the building! I mean, that’s where we park.”
“Who could get that close?”
Nixon was confused. Why would the death two escaped prisoners elicit this kind of response?
“Excuse me,” he said. “What just happened?”
“Four agents were just killed. Shot in the parking lot!”
“Four?” Nixon asked. “Not two?”
“That’s what I said,” the man replied.
Nixon leapt from his chair and sprinted down the hall. He pushed his way through the throng of agents near the double doors. Once outside, he couldn’t believe what he saw. His men were lying in a pool of their own blood, each with multiple bullet wounds including at least one head shot.
He staggered back to the cafeteria to collect himself. If I blame the men for acting without him, that may work, he thought.
“Crap. Drosky has more lives than a cat,” he said to no one in particular.
***
Five minutes earlier, as Bru and Drosky waited for the bullets to strike, they heard the distinctive high-pitched crack of a .556 round. The both tensed, waiting for the lead to tear into them, when the fusillade of fire suddenly stopped. Bru glanced at his friend and found him staring back, both of them alive and uninjured.
“Move it!” someone shouted.
Drosky looked down the road and saw Big Mike and his battle buddy Cynthia, both with smoking rifles in their hands.
He and Bru ran to the waiting HUMVEE. Within seconds, the beast was off, careening down Hughey Street. Turning west, they drove along streets that were littered with abandoned cars and the street garbage of a dead city.
“How?” Drosky yelled over the roaring engine.
“How do you think?” Mike replied from the passenger’s seat.
Drosky smiled. “Natasha?”
“Hell, John, she knows everything.”
“What about you?” Drosky asked their driver. Cynthia tore through the city streets, expertly weaving around the obstacles.
“I’m done,” Cyn replied. “We’re getting help now from outside the city. Things are going kinetic. I’ll explain later.”
“We’re heading to Sanford,” Mike said with a grin.
“About time,” Bru called out from the back seat. “What about Tanya?”
“She’s safe for now. Beth will have to get her out when she can.”
They rumbled up Route 441. The wide road was a major artery that fed the city from the north. There were no trees or roadside structures tall enough to hide their progress from any overhead eyes.
“Hold on!” Cynthia shouted as she careened their vehicle onto a side street. The street, also called Orange Blossom Trail, ran parallel to a commuter and freight train tracks.
“Up there!” Mike yelled, pointing to a two-lane street that cut into an older residential neighborhood. Taking the turn too fast, they jumped over the elevated tracks and briefly went airborne.
Mike grabbed onto his seat as if he might fall out of the HUMVEE. “Woah! This ain’t a Blackhawk!”
“What’s the rush? We’re at least a couple of miles from HQ,” Bru said.
“We need to put some space between us and them,” Cyn said as she spun the steering wheel and ran through two front yards to avoid a series of stalled vehicles that were blocking the road. “They’ve got eyes in the sky now.”
The HUMVEE slammed over a small retaining wall as they swerved back onto the pavement.
“How do you know that?” Drosky asked as they cut across another yard and onto a different side street. The zigzag pattern was moving them steadily north and east. Eventually, they would have to cross the interstate. With almost a half a mile of open space from one side of the expressway to the other, it would be their area of greatest vulnerability.
“You aren’t our only asset inside DHS,” Cyn replied as she spun onto a brick street that was lined by ancient oak trees. She slowed down near an intersection. With a confused look, she turned to the others.
“I need some help here. John, you were a beat cop. Which way do we go?”
Drosky hadn’t been keeping up with the street signs as his body was used as a pinball by their aggressive driver. “What’s that cross street?” he asked.
“We’re on Westmoreland and that’s, uh, Yale.”
“Let’s use Par Street to cut under I-4. There’s plenty of cover getting there, and that way we’d be going under the interstate instead of over it,” Drosky said.
He directed Cyn, leading her through the old neighborhoods and keeping their vehicle on as many tree-lined streets as possible. With the cluttered and blocked roads, it took about fifteen minutes to make it to the Par Street underpass.
They waited nearby under an old gas station’s overhang, not a hundred meters from the interstate. They were hidden from above, giving them some time to plan their journey. After everyone had put in their two cents, they decided to follow Drosky’s suggestion to cut through Winter Park and Maitland, then use the neighborhoods beyond to wind their way north of town. It was going to be an arduous trip, with white supremacist gangs standing in their way. But being discovered by DHS carried a far grimmer fate. They could shoot back at the gangs, but they were helpless against the missiles from a helicopter or drone.
Cyn accelerated out from under the cantilevered roof and turned left on Par Street. Less than a minute later, they were driving through an older residential neighborhood with streets named after various mid-western states.
“Get us to Minnesota Avenue, just up there at the stop sign, and stop under that oak tree,” Drosky said, pointing up the street.
Cyn pulled up to the shaded area and turned to the other three. “This is where it gets dicey,” she said. “From here on out, it’s very commercial and very wide open. We have to decide right now: Do we weave through Winter Park or blast up 17/92 and take our chances?”
Mike frowned. “I saw the latest intel map of the area, and it’s all gangs through Winter Park. I don’t see us driving through there without taking some serious gunfire.”
“I agree. But all of us need to make this decision,” Cynthia replied.
“I trust Mike,” Drosky said.
“You guys just saved our asses back there. You got my vote,” Bru added.
“Alright, then. Orlando Avenue it is,” Cyn said.
“I’ve got the turret,” Bru said as he started to climb through the portal above them.
“I wish we had a 50,” Cyn added, decrying the lack of a mounted machine gun. “I’d feel a lot better about this run.”
“Hold up for a sec,” Drosky said, pointing across the street to a fenced-in industrial park. “Pull in over there behind the pet care store.”
Cynthia gave him a strange look but accelerated into the abandoned parking lot. Drosky jumped out of the HUMVEE, jogged over to the building, and found an open door. A minute later, a metal garage door lifted on the side of the building and Drosky waved his friends over. Cyn pulled up and into the open bay, where he was holding a big sack of sand.
“My parents boarded our dog here once, and I remembered that they had a sandy play area in the back parking lot. They used to let the animals poop and pee in it.”
“Yeah?” Bru said. “What of it?”
Cyn chuckled and grabbed a fifty-pound sack. She heaved it over to the side of the vehicle. “No way to strap these on the outside, is there?”
“I don’t think so,” Drosky replied. “I doubt there’s netting here, but we can put them inside. It’ll give us some ballistic protection. A hell of a lot better than these flimsy doors.”
Within minutes, the inside of the HUMVEE was stacked with bags of sand. It made the already uncomfortable ride even more so, but it was a good trade-off. The sandbags would stop just about any bullet. Other than a 50-caliber strike, they’d be safe.
“Well, that was special!” Cynthia muttered after having to crawl across the rear storage area and through the back window of the vehicle and then over two sets of sharp-edged military seats. It was impossible to open any of the front passenger doors without having the stacks fall out.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?” Mike sarcastically replied.
“Not my problem you’re a freak.” she shot back, making fun of Mike’s giant frame.
Mike grunted as he squeezed into the back seat.
“Need help?” Drosky asked his friend.
Charlie's Requiem: Resistance Page 24