The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1)

by Wesley Cross

  “Boss?” said his lieutenant, trying to keep a respectful distance. He didn’t like rushing Johnny, but standing next to a psychopath with a blood-dripping machete and a dismembered body in the middle of the day wasn’t an option either.

  “Put a hat on him, Frankie,” finally said Johnny in his high-pitched squeaky voice, “and let’s get outta here.”

  Frankie produced a cheap paper butcher hat from his pocket and, trying not to step in blood splatter on filthy snow, took a few steps toward the body. From afar, when the gory details were still not visible, the dead man looked as if he had sat next to a small grocery shop and leaned against the wall for support. Frankie carefully put a white hat with a blue rim on top of the man’s head, doing his best to focus on his own fingers and not on the man’s mutilated features.

  “Is it good, boss?”

  “It’s perfect, Frankie. A fucking masterpiece.”

  Frankie stepped back with a sigh of relief. The two men went back to an old dirty Honda van, with Frankie behind the wheel. As they sped through grimy streets, Johnny pulled out a cell phone from his pants and dialed a number.

  “Boris, get them boys down to the warehouse. Me and Frankie will be there in twenty.”

  As the van continued to drive through the bleak wintry day, Johnny leaned back in his seat. Tonight was going to be extremely dangerous, but also rewarding. As much as he hated to admit it, Johnny liked working for his new master.

  It was a simple scheme. He got tips on great booty that he could keep for himself and his crew and, the best part of it all, his gang members didn’t even know that he had to bow to someone outside of the gang.

  All his new boss required was complete secrecy and that his assignments were accomplished on time. As long as it was going to pay this well, Johnny was going to deliver.

  All eighteen members of the southern division of the Red Dragon gang were already in the warehouse when Johnny and Frankie pulled up. A shabby two-story building that doubled as a car repair shop served as the unofficial headquarters of Johnny’s crew. When he walked in, the smoke filled room quieted, as his underlings settled in, ready to listen for what Johnny had to say.

  He slowly walked to the middle of his crew and placed his machete on top of a crate for everyone to see. He looked around at the hard faces, studying each man’s expression.

  “One million dollars in cash,” he said. “Each.”

  Johnny watched on as excited murmur spread across the room. He let them savor the news, then raised his hand to quiet them down.

  “Just a few small wrinkles in this plan, fellas. First, the guy we’re about to pay a visit has ten ex-special ops guys guarding his house. Second, his wife is not to be killed.”

  He took out a blueprint of the target’s grounds and rolled it out on the box, on top of his machete.

  “Let’s see how we’re gonna handle this puppy.”

  • • •

  Detective Chuck Kowalsky of NYPD grunted with annoyance as he tried to wipe the coffee stain off his shirt. He furiously attacked it with a rough wet paper towel from the department’s men’s room, but he could see that his efforts were failing. Finally, disgusted, he threw the towel into the trash bin, smoothed his now wet shirt over his bulging stomach and angrily marched back to his desk.

  Having slept less than four hours in the last two days wasn’t making him happy. What was worse he felt it was all in vain. In the past decade the police’s response to any crime fell into two distinct categories; it was either a high profile crime that commanded a lot of resources and support or it was a low profile and was pushed onto the guys like Chuck, and his alcoholic partner Bill Ryan. But in the beginning of this case Chuck felt that the police gods finally threw him a bone.

  It started with an old lady driving over some poor fellow in SoHo, then taking him to a local hospital. She also brought a case that the man had had with him, which was quite a feat considering it weighed almost forty pounds.

  The case had cracked during the accident, and the nurses, to their horror, found that it contained a high powered sniper rifle with laser–guided bullets. Unfortunately, so far they were unable to identify him, and the would-be sniper was in a medically-induced coma, so it was unclear when it would be possible to interrogate him.

  There was also a high-speed chase with shooting on Williamsburg Bridge that ended up with an overturned SUV, with the driver dead and the passenger missing. Going through surveillance videos, Chuck was able to gather that the limo chased by the SUV made a stop in SoHo, just a block away from the place where the sniper had been run over.

  That couldn’t have been a coincidence. A quick scan of the limo’s plates turned up Mike Connelly, a former military, with no priors. It was interesting, and possibly connected, but for now a dead end. As Connelly was working for himself, it was virtually impossible to find out where they were driving from.

  Kowalsky went through eight hours of video feed trying to figure that out, but it was useless. He caught a little break with a camera on Delancey Street. Although the video was out of focus and the lenses were covered in grime, Chuck could still see that a young couple, a man and a woman, got out of the car for few seconds before going on their way.

  Chuck sighed; finding a couple with no names nor faces in the city of eight million people and connecting them to a John Doe with a sniper rifle who was now in a coma. That should be easy.

  First, Kowalsky sorted through real estate records within the five-block radius from their SoHo stop for the past decade. The search returned forty-one couples who jointly owned apartments in the area. Thirty-two of them happened to be much older than the people on the video, six were same-sex couples, and two had too much of a height difference to fit the bill. One couple loosely fit the parameters but a quick check indicated that they had moved to Sweden four years ago and hadn’t been back to the city since.

  Disappointed, but not ready to give up, Chuck dug into the archival system, pulling every registered crime that had happened in the same area in the hope that something would stand out.

  The stats themselves were appalling. Over the past ten years the crime rate increased almost tenfold while the percentage of solved cases dramatically dropped. He scrolled through pages and pages of murders, rapes, and other wonderful examples of human behavior, but nothing was jumping out at him. He leaned back in his chair, frustrated.

  “Good morning, Sunshine.” Bill Ryan plopped his skinny butt on a chair next to Chuck’s and stretched his legs. “You surely look sour.”

  Kowalsky looked up. His partner’s handsome face was sporting the usual two-day stubble and bloodshot eyes. The not-so-subtle smell of hangover was drifting from him in waves Chuck almost expected to be able to see.

  “You don’t sound too happy either,” Kowalsky shot back.

  “What the hell happened to your eye?”

  “Accident.” Ryan flashed a thousand-watt smile. “I was—”

  “Good idea,” said Chuck and turned back to his computer.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Accidents,” said Chuck. “Gotta check those, too.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Ryan, looking part annoyed that he didn’t get to tell the story, part happy that he gave his partner an idea.

  Kowalsky pulled up a list of recorded accidents for the same timeframe. Few slips and falls, a collapsed floor, boiler fire, carbon monoxide poisoning, and a few strokes. He paused for a moment and came back to gas poisoning, not quite sure why. A wealthy financier, Andrew Hunt, and his wife were found dead in their apartment. It was ruled out an accident. There was a gas leak that coincided with a malfunctioning of their ventilation unit. It was briefly investigated by a detective named Ron Pizetti, but no foul play was found and the case was closed.

  Kowalsky tried to trace the current owner of the penthouse, but it turned out to be a trust, and its beneficiaries weren’t disclosed. For now Chuck didn’t have enough to subpoena the records.

  He checked for kids, and it
seemed that the Hunts had one son, Jason, who would have been in his thirties now. Chuck pulled up Jason’s information, but it appeared that the younger Hunt resided in Fort Lauderdale. Another dead end.

  Soft snoring interrupted Chuck’s line of thought. He turned around to see his partner leaning back in a chair, mouth wide open, a thin line of drool running down his chin. Chuck kicked the leg of Ryan’s chair that brought him out of his nap with a start.

  “Wake up. Let’s do some real estate shopping.” He grabbed his coat and started walking toward the elevator, his half-asleep stumbling partner in tow.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jason woke up as the first rays of the rising sun broke through the half-open blinds of the hospital window. He watched the sky to change its hues from scarlet and mauve to lighter shades of pink and gold, then watched them fade into a pale morning winter glow. His body was stiff after sleeping in a hard chair, and he slowly stood stretching, trying to get some blood into his rigid limbs. He stood there for a few seconds, then, no longer able to contain himself, he gently pulled the curtain blocking the hospital bed from his view.

  Rachel was still asleep, her jet black hair around her sunken face in a perfect circle, like a black hole ready to consume her. She must have heard him, despite his efforts to be quiet; her eyes fluttered and her shallow breathing deepened.

  “Jason?”

  “I’m here.” He sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand.

  “What happened?” She managed to open her eyes and look at him. “It’s so embarrassing. Did I really pass out?”

  Jason felt as if something hot was burning his eyes. He stretched his hand and tenderly brushed her cheek.

  “Stop looking so worried,” she said and smiled to him. “I’m just overworked, that’s all.”

  He looked at her for a long time, unable to bring himself to speak, just sitting there, squeezing her hand, numb.

  “Alright.” She propped herself up on the pillow. “Now you’re starting to freak me out.”

  “I’m sorry, Rach,” he heard himself say, tears now running freely down his cheeks. “It turns out, you have lung cancer.”

  She grew tense, squeezing his hand tight, her eyes searching his face for clues, then, finally her body went limp and she let go of his hand and turned away from him to face the window.

  “How long?”

  “They don’t know,” he said, “but they think you’ve had it for a while.”

  “That’s not what I meant. How long do I have?”

  “Rach—”

  “How long?”

  “Few weeks. Maybe a couple of months. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she turned back but her eyes had a faraway look. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a little while. Bring me a nice breakfast, will you? French toast with a good maple syrup and a nice cup of coffee?”

  He stood, looking down on her, smiling at him as if nothing had happened. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but the words were refusing to form.

  “I’ll be quick,” he managed and left the room.

  He found Max in the hallway, right outside of Rachel’s room, sleeping on four hospital chairs pushed together, his lean body at an awkward angle.

  “Max.” He shook his friend’s shoulder.

  “Hey.” Max sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. “My God these chairs are horrible.”

  Is she still sleeping?”

  “No. She’s up and asked me to bring her some breakfast, after I told her.”

  “I’m sorry pal.” Max got up and squeezed Jason’s shoulder. “Let’s go get her some breakfast then.”

  They went to a small cafe just two blocks away from the hospital, and Jason got Rachel a French toast few slices of bacon, and a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Jason and Max only got themselves coffee. Neither had any appetite.

  “You’re not going to tell her, are you?” Asked Max as they walked back to the hospital.

  “Am I going to tell her? I’m not crazy, Max. Of course I’m not going to tell her. Especially right now.”

  They entered the building, stepped into the elevator, and Jason pushed the floor button, but an older woman caught the closing doors and stepped in, smiling apologetically.

  “Sorry, in a bit of a rush.”

  Jason and Max politely smiled back.

  “Don’t you worry, it’ll happen before you know it.” She patted Jason on his arm. “It always does.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The delivery, of course,” she said smiling at him. “You have the look. Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  Jason couldn’t find what to say and simply shook his head. Mercifully, the elevator stopped and the woman stepped out, patting him on his arm just one more time.

  “I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Jesus,” said Max as the doors closed.

  As they entered Rachel’s room, they found her sitting on her bed furiously typing something into her cell phone.

  “Thank God you’re back. I’m starving and you surely took your sweet time.”

  Jason and Max looked at each other, not knowing what to say.

  “Sit down, both of you,” she commanded them in a voice that anticipated no objections. I need to tell you something.”

  Jason sat on a chair he’d slept in and waited as Max dragged another one from the hallway. As he was looking at Rachel, going at her French toast and bacon as if she hadn’t eaten in a week, some crazy hope moved in his chest.

  Could it have been a mistake? Some kind of mix up with paperwork, where they got somebody else’s results instead of Rachel’s?

  “I spoke to the doc when you were out and the good news,” she said between two pieces of toast, “is that both tumors, as massive as they are, haven’t spread beyond my lungs.”

  Hope died before being truly born. She’s not rational; she must be traumatized by the news and losing her grip on reality.

  “Stop looking at me as if I were crazy,” she said as if she could hear his thoughts. “I understand the gravity of this situation, but I just might have a solution.”

  She put down her coffee cup and gave them a hard look.

  “I’m not supposed to share this information with anybody without the proper clearance, but considering the impossibility of anyone punishing me beyond lung cancer that left me with just a few weeks to live, I might as well.

  “You, however, shouldn’t share this information with anyone. This is jail-time kind of sensitive.”

  As Jason listened to a tale of artificial implants that could possibly save his wife’s life if she was allowed to participate in early human trials, he couldn’t help but wonder about fate. A phrase he’d heard somewhere before, surfaced in his mind. Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.

  “What do you think are the chances?” he heard himself say.

  “In animal trials, twelve of sixteen subjects had survived. And technology has been greatly improved since the last trial. I think, realistically speaking, my chances are over ninety percent.”

  “Will they have to get some kind of approval from outside of the company? FDA? I don’t really know how this works.”

  “Well.” she said, “they’ve been approved by the FDA. I guess, technically speaking, they would have to bend a rule or two. There’s an internal committee that has to be gathered, some paperwork to sign. Some red tape, but nothing that would create any real delays.”

  “Okay,” Jason said, “so what do we do?”

  “First, I’d have to call Steve Poznyak, my boss. But if I had to guess, ultimately Mr. Engel would have to make this call.”

  “Did you say Poznyak?”

  “Why? Do you know him?”

  “Never mind,” he said, “let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The snipers took out the two guards watching the front of the compound without any problems. Less than five seconds later a 400 horsepower Peterbilt garbage truck slammed into th
e front gate, tearing it to pieces along with a security booth, killing another guard in the process. As the emergency lights flooded the front and two more guards rushed out of the house raining lead on the massive vehicle, Johnny’s main forces started scaling the fence in the back of the property.

  They collided with three guards by the guest house. One gang member went down, but their sheer numbers overwhelmed the defenders. As Johnny stepped over the guards’ bodies, he pushed a button on his remote control, setting off the charges planted on the driverless garbage truck, instantly killing the guards in the front yard.

  The house grew quiet, but he knew there were two more guards left, lurking somewhere in the building, waiting to attack. They watched the house with infra-red goggles for some time trying to figure out where the rest of the guards were hiding, but the walls were giving off a light greenish glow that masked any movement inside.

  Finally, frustrated with waiting, Johnny motioned to Boris, a tall muscular kid, to place a small patch of C4 on the back door. Boris was a former Russian boxer, and Johnny loved former boxers.

  A mighty bang shook the building and the door blew in, scattering debris all over the large chef’s kitchen. Next went the stun grenades, and Johnny stormed in, machete in his right hand.

  His crew split up with him leading half of his men through the west wing and the rest of his gang fanning the east. As he entered a dark corridor, Johnny felt a movement to his right, instinctively ducked, and took a hard swing with his machete. A stifled yelp told him that he had caught the attacker, and as he turned, ready to continue the fight, he saw the guard on the floor, facedown with a huge pool of blood quickly spreading from under the body. Boris caught up to him, and they continued walking through the dark house.

  It was when they were slowly making their way through the hallway when another guard tackled him from the shadows and knocked the machete out of his hands, but before the guard had a chance to do anything, Boris was on him like a mad dog.

  Both briefly tumbled to the ground, but a moment later the two were circling each other looking for an opportunity. The guard unleashed a series of tight quick punches aiming for ribs and the chin. Left, left, right; left, left, right. Johnny was mesmerized. He had no illusions, despite his quick reflexes, if it were him fighting that man, he would be knocked out by now.