The Transamerica Cell: A fast paced, gripping, action adventure, conspiracy thriller, with a superb, breath-taking ending (Hedge & Cole Book 3)

by Kevin Bradley

  Hedge was still staring at the lad. His concern was mounting by the second. Then, much to Hedge’s horror, the boy pulled from his pocket a compact, electric hacksaw. He pressed a switch on top of the gadget, and pushed the vibrating blade against the nearest cable he could find. The blade must have been strong, and sharp, as before Hedge had even reacted, it had cut cleanly through the cable. The boys chair lurched violently. It was now held up by just three wires. He turned slightly and moved the electric saw to the next cable along.

  Hedge realised with shock, that the cable he was about to sever was also responsible for securing his own chair. If he managed to cut through it, then Hedge’s own safety would be at risk. He made a grab for the boys arm, but the lad was strong and pushed him away.

  ‘Don’t try and stop me. It’s no good. I’m going. I have to.’

  The boy’s eyes were blazing brightly, although they looked unfocused. As he spoke, he sprayed Hedge with small amounts froth from his mouth.

  Hedge ignored that and lunged for the boy again. His still wasn’t able to grab his arm though. Just as he was about to make contact, his own chair lurched sideways as the second cable was severed by the saw.

  Hedge felt nauseous. The ground was far below, and his chair was now hanging from just three cables. Both chairs were still hurtling through the sky. The teenager was still laughing hysterically. He turned, as if looking for the third cable to cut. Hedge saw his chance and grabbed hold of the boy with all his strength. He had him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides. The teenager tried to head butt Hedge, but the distance between them was too close. Instead, he changed tactics and sank his teeth into his shoulder.

  Hedge screamed but held on tight. He could feel the ride slowing, and the height seemed to be reducing. He glanced down again. Yes, the ground below definitely appeared closer. Then he heard the distant noise of an alarm sounding. Obviously the ground crew were now aware of a problem, and were trying to get the riders safely down. Several people on the ground were screaming, and pointing up at the two chairs that were hanging at such a strange angle.

  The boy was still shouting and struggling, but Hedge was hanging on to him. The power saw was still vibrating, but he couldn’t use it as his right arm was pinned down by Hedge’s grip.

  Then they were down on the ground. A team of security staff were dragging the boy away. Hedge climbed out of the seat, relieved to have survived the terrible ordeal. And there was Cole.

  ‘Did you enjoy that then? You looked like you could have done with a bit of help up there. Maybe you should have worn a reserve parachute, just in case you fell out.’

  Hedge was still trembling. He could barely focus his eyes. He was shaking uncontrollably, and his throat was as dry as sandpaper. Two words were all he could manage.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Then he stumbled away to find a toilet.

  He badly needed to be sick.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  The black Buick LaCrosse was heading east on Interstate 30. The fat Cuban was in his usual place in the back of the car. He sat quietly. This was a job that required patience. It was necessary to stay calm. The driver had asked if he could put the radio on, perhaps listen to some music. The fat Cuban had told him no.

  So the driver drove, and the man in the back relaxed.

  Occasionally he opened his small tablet computer, and glanced at the screen. It showed near enough the same thing as it had the previous hundred or so times that he had looked at it - a large, state by state map of the USA. When he put his finger on the screen, the map zoomed in. He did so now, and it showed his LaCrosse as a red flashing dot, moving through Arkansas, with the town of Little Rock a few miles to the east.

  Scanning his eyes to the right hand side of the screen, he could still see the flashing blue dot. It had just passed through Little Rock. The dark grey Mustang appeared to be heading east on Interstate 40 towards Memphis.

  He grunted in satisfaction. He slid down in his seat a little more, and addressed the driver as he did so.

  ‘Wake me if anything of interest turns up. And try not to drive over so many pot holes. How come they sent me a driver who has clearly never taken his driving test?’

  The driver sounded defensive. ‘I can assure you that ...’

  ‘Just shut up and drive. And if you don’t stop fucking whistling, I’ll cut your tongue out with a pair of blunt scissors.’

  The driver didn’t reply. He stared out of the front window, and tried to focus on the road ahead. The fat Cuban closed his eyes, a few moments later he had drifted off to sleep.

  Sometime later, he woke suddenly. The car had stopped, and pulled off the road.

  ‘Where are we? Is there a problem?’ the fat Cuban felt groggy. He had a slight headache.

  ‘We went by Little Rock about an hour ago. Even better, we have just driven past the silver Impala. It’s the same one that we spotted a couple of days back. He seems to be having some engine trouble.’

  ‘Let’s go back and take a look. Maybe we might be able to help?’

  The driver laughed. He then turned the LaCrosse and drove back the way they had come.

  Two miles back down the road, they swung the car around, and pulled up behind the Impala. Sutton was standing at the front of the vehicle. His hands fixed firmly on his hips. He was looking down at one of the front wheels.

  ‘Anything we can help you with?’ The fat Cuban had climbed out of the LaCrosse, and was walking towards the FBI man.

  ‘It’s a flat, nothing too serious. I’ll just have to put the spare tyre on.’

  ‘I can lend you this if it helps.’ The fat Cuban reached into his jacket pocket.

  Sutton looked across at him. He wasn’t sure in which order the next four things happened.

  Did he hear the muted bang, or was it the bright yellow flash that his eyes picked up. At what point did he recognise the silenced Glock in the right hand of the man. And when in the sequence of events did his left kneecap explode.

  He wasn’t sure. He knew for certain though that all those events occurred before the arrival of the searing pain. He had immediately fallen to the ground, clutching his knee. He was screaming in agony. It felt like a thousand red hot knives were being stabbed into his body at the same time. It all seemed so unreal. Who was this guy? Why had he shot him?

  The fat Cuban was kneeling down next to him now. He pushed his hand into Sutton’s jacket pocket. Pulling out his FBI issue handgun, he then stood and hurled it into a grassy field nearby. He did the same with his small, two way radio. The driver was walking across to join them.

  ‘Help me get him into our car.’

  They bundled Sutton onto the back seat. He was shivering with the shock of what had just happened to him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ the FBI man said. His voice was low. He was clearly still in a lot of pain.

  ‘We’re just taking you for a little ride. We may need to ask you a few questions.’

  Twenty five minutes later, having turned off the Interstate on to a narrow, dusty track, the driver parked the LaCrosse near a large, rocky bluff. They pushed Sutton out of the vehicle, and dragged him away from the car.

  ‘Who are you? Are you police, FBI or what? And what are you up to? Why have you been following the girl and the Mustang?’

  Sutton laughed. ‘And if I don’t talk, what, are you going to stir me into submission.’ He laughed again, but he quickly stopped, and made a grab for his knee. The pain had returned with a vengeance.

  The fat Cuban shrugged his shoulders. ‘Stir you? What do you mean?’ Then he looked down at his right hand. ‘Oh, you mean this. Yes very funny.’

  In his right hand he was holding a teaspoon. It was silver in colour, and made of stainless steel. You could buy a similar item in any kitchen or hardware shop. The only difference was that this one had been sharpened around its edges.

  ‘No. I’m not planning on stirring you, although that’s a very funny joke. But, if you don’t answer my questi
ons, I will gouge out your eyeballs.’ He held up the teaspoon. ‘This is amazingly effective at doing that.’

  ‘Fuck you, asshole,’ Sutton replied. ‘I’m not telling you shit. Do you think I’m stupid? There’s no way I’ll be getting out of this situation alive.’

  Sutton was amazed at how calmly he had spoken those words. Of course, he knew his fate was sealed either way. He was miles away from any kind of help, and the injury to his knee left him completely incapacitated. Maybe it was the shock, or had the intensive FBI training kicked in? Whatever it was, he felt quite calm.’

  The driver of the LaCrosse had moved up behind Sutton. The fat Cuban nodded, and his companion immediately leant down and took hold of Sutton’s head. His arms were strong, and Sutton felt like he was being held in a vice.

  The fat Cuban moved forward, took hold of one side of Sutton’s face, and at the same time, pushed the round end of the spoon into the FBI man’s left eye socket. The edges of the spoon were indeed sharp. They cut through skin, tissue, and the external sheath of the optic nerve, in one quick movement.

  The eyeball popped cleanly out of its socket. Sutton screamed, but as much as he tried, he just didn’t have the strength to free himself from the grip of the driver. Some blood ran down from the hole where the eye used to be.

  The fat Cuban stood up, and with a shriek of laughter, he threw his arm back and hurled the eyeball as far as he could.

  ‘A present for the birds,’ he said. ‘Now where were we?’

  He turned to look back at Sutton. The lawman looked pitiful as he lay on the ground. The driver still had his head in a tight grip. His left eye had closed up. There was a small pool of bright red blood around his injured knee.

  ‘Do you want to talk to me yet?’

  ‘Same as before, fuck you.’

  The fat Cuban shrugged his shoulders. ‘Take a good look at me. It’s the last thing that you’ll ever see.’

  He then bent down and repeated the action with the spoon on Sutton’s right eye. Sutton stayed silent as he did so. It took all his resolve, but it was a final small victory for him. The eyeball popped out easily, as before. This time though, the fat Cuban didn’t throw it away. To the horror of the driver, the fat Cuban placed the eyeball in his own mouth, leaned close to his victim, and started to crunch it with his teeth.

  ‘Very tasty,’ he said as he gulped down some of the crushed particles.

  The driver let go of Sutton’s head, and moved away. ‘That’s disgusting,’ he said.

  The fat Cuban laughed. He swallowed down the last pieces of his impromptu snack, and then turned back to their car.

  ‘Let’s get going. We have some catching up to do.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to finish him off?’

  ‘No. He’s dead already. No one will discover him out here anytime soon. And by the time they do, the birds will have already eaten most of him.’

  ‘I think you may be right about that,’ the driver said with a shrug.

  ‘Well, I’m just glad that we see eye to eye on that.’

  He slapped the driver hard on the back, as he started giggling at his own joke. It was some time later, when they were back on the Interstate, that he finally stopped laughing.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  ‘Grey,’ said Cole.

  ‘No, orange.’ Hedge was being quite forceful.

  ‘Grey.’

  ‘Orange.’

  They were sitting in Starbucks, in the central area of Memphis, having a coffee and a sandwich. Hedge had just about recovered from his ordeal on the SkyScreamer, although he had definitely decided not to visit any more adventure parks for a while. Cole still laughed about the incident, much to his friend’s annoyance.

  Now that Maddie was no longer with them on the trip, they had made the decision to ditch one of the Mustangs. There was a rental office just down the road, and they planned to drop off either the orange or the dark grey car.

  The trouble was that they couldn’t decide which.

  ‘It doesn’t look like anyone is following us anymore, so let’s keep the orange one.’ Hedge repeated his main argument.

  ‘But, if they are tailing us, it stands out too much.’

  ‘But no one’s there.’

  ‘So you say. But I think your sister wasn’t so sure. She didn’t say as much, but I wasn’t certain that she was telling me the whole truth when I last mentioned it to her.’

  Hedge felt a touch of sadness thinking about Maddie again. At least she was safe with her uncle. But they had planned this trip as a holiday. It should have been fun. Instead it had turned into a bit of a nightmare, especially for Maddie. He hoped she wouldn’t get too comfortable living back at home with her aunt and uncle. He wanted her to return to London again soon. He had grown used to having a younger sister around.

  ‘She doesn’t always get things right.’ Hedge felt a bit disloyal saying that. But Maddie occasionally sensed things that weren’t there. Nevertheless, her ability to feel that something wasn’t right had been correct many times in the past.

  ‘The grey car is classier.’ Cole tried a different tack.

  ‘The orange one is faster,’ Hedge replied. That was true enough. They had discussed it before. It was strange, but the Mustang’s were exactly the same specification, V8 five litre engines. But the orange one had better acceleration, and could achieve a higher top speed.

  ‘But maybe that’s because I’m a better driver,’ added Hedge.

  Cole baulked at the suggestion. ‘So which one of us has had advanced, Special Forces driver training then?

  ‘You should have paid more attention on the course,’ laughed Hedge. ‘You obviously missed the crucial part about how to drive fast.’

  Cole was enjoying the banter. It was good to be with his old friend. They had been through many things together in the past few years. They were a strange combination, he thought to himself. Hedge was a normal guy in most respects. He had lost his parents at an early age, which had obviously been tough for him. But he had pulled through that. He was nervous as hell, but brave with it. Cole on the other hand, was supposedly a tough guy. He was ex-military, highly trained, fit, and hard. Not so fit nowadays though. He was getting older, and he felt it.

  ‘Ok. I’ll make you a deal,’ said Hedge. ‘I’ll accept that slow piece of grey shit if you agree to my terms.’

  ‘Please elaborate’ replied Cole.

  ‘Well, I would be very keen to go and visit the Sun Studio while we are here in Memphis. It’s where Elvis made his first proper recording, you know.’

  ‘Oh for fucks sake.’ Cole was shaking his head. ‘I didn’t have you down as an Elvis Presley fan. And I suppose when we pass through Nashville you’ll want to go and look up Dolly Parton?’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ replied Hedge jovially.

  ‘No way, that’s a step too far. Okay. We visit Sun Studio, and we keep the grey car. That’s a deal. Let’s go and get rid of that toy you’ve been driving.’

  Hedge laughed. They both got up and left.

  A few seats away, towards the back of the cafe, the fat Cuban was sitting reading a newspaper. He wasn’t actually looking at the print though, he had been listening. As he watched the two men leave, his face showed signs of relief.

  He had been dreading making the call to Pancho explaining that they no longer had the car. But he wouldn’t have to now.

  He walked out in to the car park, to see where his driver had parked the black Lacrosse.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  ‘Listen carefully folks. This is the very first recording made by Elvis Presley. It was made right here in the Sun Studio in Memphis, Tennessee in 1953. The great man was then just eighteen years old, and he walked in here, right off the street and sang this.’

  The tour guide hit a button on the old fashioned recording device, and a youthful voice began to sing. It was pleasant enough, clearly showed great promise, and left most of the other people on the tour totally mesmerised.

  �
��Now that’s pure quality,’ whispered Hedge.

  ‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ replied Cole.

  ‘You’re a Philistine.’

  ‘No way,’ said Cole, ‘I’ve never collected a stamp in my life.’

  Hedge shook his head. Was his friend being serious, or was he joking. He couldn’t tell.

  ‘This is a great tour, don’t you think. Did you see them old photos of Elvis and B.B King?’

  No. I must have missed that. What a shame.’ Cole looked bored. ‘I’m getting out of here. I’m going for a walk around the town. I’ll come back in an hour. Let’s meet in the car park. Then we can get this trip back on the road.’

  Cole headed for the door marked ‘Exit.’ As he was passing through, he noticed a man standing nearby. He was fairly unremarkable. Medium height, short, brown hair, and wearing a lightweight, grey suit. There was something about him though. Had Cole seen him before? He wasn’t sure. But why did he turn away from Cole the moment he saw him? Or was that unintentional? Again, he wasn’t sure. Maddie had said that they weren’t being followed. Actually, thinking back to their conversation, she had said that ‘she’ wasn’t being followed any more. Did that mean that they still could be? He realised that he was starting to behave irrationally. Maddie’s lack of clarity with her reply had got him spooked. He carried on walking, and headed towards the centre of town.

  There was something else though, he thought as he strolled along. Cole recognised the way the suit jacket hung. It was a good fit on the man, so there was no problem with the tailoring. So why was the material lying in the way it did? Then it hit him. The man must have been wearing a gun holster under his left arm. He shook his head, and decided to ignore it. Well lots of people carry guns, after all this is America.

  Back at the studio, the tour guide was really getting into his stride.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the actual microphone that the great singers would have used back in the 1950’s.’

  The young man was holding a long metal pole, with an antique looking microphone stuck to the end of it. It appeared authentic enough, and the crowd of onlookers were drooling all over it.