The Arena: The Awakening (1)

by James Robert Scott

  “WHAT?” shouted Mia, “ASSASSIN? WHAT THE HELL IS HE SAYING?”

  The tall man then took a deep breath and announced “Let me show you all the fruits of our labour”.

  From the sidelines of the arena, a small team of doctors and nurses appeared and approached Mia. Due to her state, she had no idea that she was in fact already attached to various medical monitors. The tall man stayed at the lectern in front of Mia but didn’t turn around. One of the doctors from the medical team approached him and he handed over the vial of serum. The doctor took it and loaded it into an injection gun and walked towards Mia.

  “WHAT? WAIT!” Mia shouted.

  But this was a wasted effort.

  He approached her right hand side and whispered into her ear “Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing”. With that, he injected the serum into her right arm and then the medical team, all at once, stepped back.

  In a heartbeat, everything changed for Mia. Using her legs, she kicked up the footplates of her wheelchair and stood up, tall and proud as if standing to attention. She stood there for a few seconds before the medical team re-approached. They all looked at their various monitors and in succession, nodded to one another before they started disconnecting Mia from them.

  The tall man sipped from his glass of water again and then announced to the arena “Start the clock and let us begin”.

  Chapter 3

  The Investigation

  That very same day, a few hundred miles north in Morristown, New Jersey, Special Agent Hank Richards arrived at work cradling his usual large, extra hot caramel latte. Work was a covert F.B.I. field office hidden on the top floor of the Midtown Shopping Centre in Morristown and that coffee was the only bit of sunshine in his otherwise cheerless day. As he took a large gulp from the cup, he noticed a researcher watching him impassively from across the room.

  “You know what I love about franchised coffee? Uniformity! Wherever I am in the world, this would taste the damn same every time”.

  “You need to get a life” replied his colleague.

  “I’ve got one” Hank snapped back. “It’s not much, but I’ve got one, so quit staring and get back to work”.

  Hank wasn’t known for being the most approachable person in the office. Tall, thickset, unshaven and rumpled, he stood out against a backdrop of young preppy suits. His sour mood wasn’t helped by the email at the top of his list once he turned his computer on. It was from the boss who wanted him in his office as soon as he got in.

  “Great” he thought. “Yet another pink and fluffy conversation about how I’m coping”. He took another mouthful of his coffee, straightened his tie and walked down the corridor to the boss’s office.

  Senior Investigating Agent Michael Scott beckoned Hank into the office as he finished a call and hung up the phone.

  “I’ll get straight to it Hank, I’ve been handed this box of files containing cold cases that are in need of reviewing. They all have a similar modus operandi. You’re the only Agent with field experience in this office, so the job’s going to fall to you to deal with them.”

  Hank was glad to avoid the expected personal conversation, but eyed the archive box gloomily.

  “Where did these files come from boss, PD or agency?”

  SIA Scott had his head down but fixed his gaze firmly on Hank. “That’s not really important is it? You’re getting them from me and that’s all that matters”.

  The boss’s tone was unusually curt, and there was an uncomfortable silence while the two men scrutinised each other. However Hank stayed motionless and the boss knew he wanted more information.

  “Trust me Special Agent Richards, you don’t want to kick that rock over. All I’m prepared to tell you is that it came from another clandestine agency. Just take the files and see what you can make of them. You’ve got free rein to visit the scenes and access all forensics, and you can use anyone here you need. I’ve also allocated you an office at the far end of the building to use as you see fit. It has a lock on the door which you’re going to need. I’ve upgraded your security level for the appropriate files on the systems, just keep me in the loop of any developments.”

  The job in itself didn’t really interest Hank, but the limited details of the other agency made him curious.

  The office the boss had allocated him was small and sparse, with just a desk, a chair, a computer and a whiteboard. The only saving grace was a small window, from which there was a clear view of the park opposite the building. Hank set down his coffee and opened the box. All the files were fairly straightforward in content, detailing a seemingly random killing each by a single gunshot to the head. There was a lot of paperwork to go through, so Hank started with the basics. On the white board, he jotted down the location of each incident – Manhattan, Philadelphia and rural Blairstown in north New Jersey. Expert biochemist Leonard Fowler had been shot outside the offices of the biggest pharmaceutical company in New York City, where he had been working. Howard Rogers, the victim in Philadelphia, was a retired mathematician vacationing with his wife when he was killed. The female victim, Constance McDonald, was shot on the driveway of her Blairstown home; she was a phlebotomist working for a blood donation agency.

  There were no obvious links between the victims other than their rather gruesome deaths. The pictures from all three scenes showed that in each case there was little left of the victim’s head at all, which suggested to Hank that these were high velocity shots. The forensic analysis report noted that only bullet fragments were recovered from all three incidents. All the fragments were made of solid carbon fibre. This meant the bullets had a high tensile strength, but no rifling marks were evident on the fragments for comparison and they couldn’t be matched to anything on the National Ballistic Database. The reports also confirmed that whatever held the bullets together had ruptured on impact, splitting the round into multiple pieces which, in turn, caused maximum damage.

  Hank didn’t know of any organisation, agency or otherwise, with such advanced technology. What he did know was that the shooter in all these cases was likely to be a sniper rather than a close range killer. Whoever had initially been looking at these files had clearly had the same thought, but none of the places from which the sniper took their shots were ever identified and the only connection established between the three victims was the bullet fragments.

  After several hours of reading and re-reading the case files, Hank had had enough of paperwork for the day and decided he needed to visit the crime scenes. Both the males had been shot in public places almost two years ago, so his best starting point was the Blairstown address for the female. She had lived alone with no family and the house had remained empty and unsold since her death. It was only an hour or so away from the office so Hank decided to hit the road with Laura, his vintage muscle car and most prized possession. The trip also afforded him the opportunity to catch up with an old friend on the way.

  Chapter 4

  An Old Friend

  On an unkempt road just outside Denville in New Jersey, Hank pulled Laura cautiously up a long driveway. The house at the end was sun-faded pink and had a set of green painted garages situated just behind it. He pulled past the house and parked just outside the garage doors. With the window down, Hank could hear classic '70s rock coming from inside the garage.

  “Ha! Nothing’s changed here then” Hank thought to himself with a half grin on his face.

  Hank had sounded the horn a couple of times but there was no reply. Taking the initiative, he went to the garage side door and went inside looking for Fitz. It had been a couple of years since they had last seen each other, but they were old friends and Hank knew they would always pick up from where they left off.

  “FITZ?” shouted Hank.

  An unintelligible reply came from across the workshop from behind what looked like a dismantled Cadillac.

  “I knew I would find you here under another pile of crap” Hank said in a jovial tone.

  “What are you talking about pal
? This is going to be a dream machine when I’m finished with it” replied Fitz as he turned down the volume on the stereo.

  “What is it, a seventy-two Eldorado?” asked Hank.

  “Yep, in body only” replied Fitz. “Picture her with a triple black paint scheme, custom cream interior and a brand new souped-up motor. That should shock a few people when I pull away on a green light!” After a brief pause for Fitz to wipe off the worst of the oil and grease, the two men eagerly shook hands.

  “Damn good to see you buddy. Sorry to turn up unannounced but I need to tap into that oversized head of yours.”

  “Sounds important” said Fitz, wishing Hank were there for a social visit and not work.

  “I need you to take a look at these ballistics reports and tell me what you think” said Hank, passing him the pile of papers. He looked around the garage at all the various mechanical projects, giving Fitz all the time he needed to read the reports. After a few minutes, Fitz closed the reports and sighed.

  “I think you’ve got a serious problem with this one”. Fitz had worked for the ballistics division of the National Security Agency prior to his retirement, and his concerned expression worried Hank.

  “We trialled this a few years go in the Agency but couldn’t get it to work. Creating the bullet so it had no rifling marks wasn’t a problem but getting it to shatter on impact was. Also, the chemical make-up of gunpowder would damage the end of the bullet and reduce accuracy dramatically. We tried different types of explosive compound, the last one being a two compound epoxy-type resin. It showed promise but budget restraints put an end to it all. Are these reports correct in that someone has actually made this work?”

  “Yes” replied Hank. “It’s been used at least three times now and I’ve been asked by the Bureau to find out by who.”

  “Best of luck with that my friend,” replied Fitz quietly. “Whoever has the finance and expertise to pull this development off, probably isn’t someone you want to be investigating.” Hank’s confused expression made Fitz clarify.

  “It has to be one of the agencies Hank. This isn’t some backwater weapons maker. This is seriously advanced research, with big funding”. Fitz’s tone became more urgent. “If you’ve been handed these by the Bureau to investigate, you can be damn sure you’re not alone in your investigation. Somebody, somewhere, is watching you!” Hank suspected his friend was right, and shook his hand before leaving.

  “Perhaps luck is all I need Fitz. I’ve got to have some sometime. I promise my next visit will be a social one”.

  Chapter 5

  The Mission

  As she looked through the 'scope on top of her rifle, Mia muttered under her breath “Wind, four miles an hour at one thousand and fifty yards, adjust two clicks to compensate”.

  With her right hand, she slid back the bolt on her rifle with a hefty 'clunk'. On the floor to her right, she picked up one of the three rounds she had in her arsenal. To the layman, these would look more like science fiction ammunition than normal rounds. They were transparent and were in three separate parts. The main cartridge of the round was filled with a green fluid one side and yellow in the other. The main bullet was black instead of the usual copper or lead. As Mia slid the bullet into the chamber of the rifle, it made a chinking sound similar to that of two champagne glasses being clinked together during a toast.

  'Clunk, Click!''

  She threw the bolt forward securing the bullet in the chamber and then took a deep breath and refocused down her 'scope. She could see her target’s vehicle arrive at the entrance to the apartment block at the other side of Boston Common from where she was positioned. She could see the flags on the front of his vehicle blowing in the wind.

  “Wind, six miles an hour, one thousand and forty-seven yards, one click to compensate” she said to herself.

  There was a very brief pause and then a crackled radio transmission: “Mia, green light to proceed when ready”.

  Mia took a deep breath, focused then exhaled half of the breath.

  'Click!'

  The firing pin of the rifle moved forward as Mia squeezed the trigger. Through the 'scope of the rifle, she could see her target standing stationary at the side of the car that dropped him off. He was a well-dressed man wearing a suit that was obviously hand made. His hair was well groomed and he was wearing a pair of sunglasses. From the 'Click' of the firing pin to the man's head virtually removing itself from his body felt like forever when, in fact, it was less than two seconds. The explosive power of the two fluids in the round were silent as they detonated. The clear structure of the round disintegrated, with the green and yellow fluid saving the firer from having to eject the cartridge from the chamber. The man's body dropped to the floor almost instantly after impact. Through the scope she could see a lot of commotion below. The car driver, doorman to the building, pedestrians in the street, all rushed towards the body of the now deceased man.

  “Objective complete, subject down” whispered Mia.

  “Copied that. Return to the Arena within six hours for debrief.” crackled another radio transmission.

  With that, Mia started to dismantle her equipment. She started by systematically stripping her rifle down to its component parts. Silencer, tripod, barrel, body, bolt, stock, it all came apart. She placed each part into the custom designed suitcase. The last things to be put in were the two remaining rounds. They were first placed into a custom round carrier before being put in the case. Once everything was packed away and ready to go, Mia went to the room's bathroom, straightened herself up and dusted down her clothes. Lying on a table for three hours is extremely uncomfortable and will play havoc with your outfit.

  Mia left the room taking both her suitcase and handbag and headed to the elevator in the hallway. Once in the elevator, she again checked herself out in the mirror inside.

  “You can do this. You’ve done this before,” she said out loud while staring at herself.

  She was saying it as if she needed convincing. She had gotten on at the fifteenth floor and it took what seemed like forever to get to the foyer. 'Bing', the doors opened and she walked confidently to the reception desk. The click of her high heels alerted the receptionist of her presence.

  “Can I help you ma’am?” enquired the clerk.

  “Yes” replied Mia “My name is Laura Richards, I checked in this morning for an overnight stay but I’ve received bad news from a family member and need to return home, so I need to check out.”

  “No problem at all Ma’am, if you bear with me, I’ll just check you out on the system. Do you have the card you made your booking on?” asked the clerk.

  Mia went into her purse and pulled out the credit card in the name of Laura Richards. The clerk indicated that she swipe it through the machine on the desk, which she did and, once the transaction was complete, the clerk handed her a checkout slip.

  He said, “We hope you enjoyed your stay and that everything is all right back home. We haven’t billed you for your stay and hope you’ll use us on your next trip”.

  “Thank you, I will” replied Mia before turning and walking out of the building. Mia never skipped a beat throughout the whole process. Her heart rate remained the same even though she was lying. There was no perspiring, no mix-up of words, nothing. She had completed her task with pinpoint precision. She just had to get back to base without any issues.

  Mia had parked her car in an underground parking lot about six blocks away from her hotel. This put her deep into the Chinatown area. Wheeling her suitcase all the way, it only took Mia thirty minutes to get to the lot. Once she reached her car, she placed her suitcase into the trunk and then looked around to check if there were any security cameras. Once she was happy that there weren’t, she unzipped a compartment on the bottom of the suitcase. From it she pulled out two number plates and a small cordless electric screwdriver. She switched both front and rear plates and got in.

  “I forget what a nice place to be this actually is” she said to herself out lou
d.

  Her car was a black Mercedes AMG 63 with privacy glass and full leather interior. The softness of the seat wrapped around her like a security blanket. With the press of a button, the German engineered V8 purred into life and within seconds she was heading to the exit. Before pulling up to the barrier, Mia retrieved a set of large glamorous sunglasses from the glove-box of the car and put them on. She had noted on the way in that the exit ticket machine had a small pinhole camera attached just underneath the LCD display. As she pulled up to the machine, her window was already down and in putting her pre-paid ticket into the machine, used her arm to quickly block the view of the lens of the camera. She held it there until the barrier rose and then floored it out of view. The camera only picked up a blur. She was now on the road back to the Arena.

  The trip was arduous at best. The traffic was heavy and, despite all the driving techniques she was trained in, she could only go as fast as the vehicle in front. Sunset was beautiful that evening and as Mia headed south on the New Jersey Turnpike, she spotted the turn-off for Newark International Airport. As she pulled off, she headed for an industrial estate on the West side. Once there, she pulled into a fast food outlet parking lot where she knew had no CCTV system. She parked out of view at the far end, went in, grabbed a cup of coffee and stretched her legs. As she waited to get her coffee, she checked her watch and saw that she had three hours left to get to the Arena. She was confident she would still make it with time to spare. What she wasn’t expecting was that, through the glass of the food outlet, she could see two guys loitering around her car. She grabbed her coffee and walked casually towards the car. As she approached, she could see that they were still there and trying fruitlessly to get into the driver’s door.