Agent M: Project Mabus (The Agent M Series Book 1)

by L. M. Vila

  Danny let his happy thoughts pull him away from reality. Before he could yell out a warning, the van made a vicious turn, attempting to avoid impact against a parked car. Gravity had a different idea. This old Chevy service van wasn't up to the task of drifting like so many other vehicles of a different class. Instead, it bent to the will of physics. Tires screeched terribly, leaving a stinking hot trail of black rubber in their wake. The velocity was too great to continue along this path. Lifting from the ground, the van turned over onto its side and began to roll.

  “You idio-!” was all Richard could get out before everyone's bodies began bouncing around inside the vehicle. Flesh slapped bone countless times, driving away any other thoughts besides pain. The van violently rolled with a passion the likes of which the local residents have ever seen before. Steel collided with the merciless street as it continued to travel east along the original path.

  An eternity of agony passed in the blink of an eye. Finally, the white vehicle slammed dead in its pathway of anarchy near a three-way stop connecting Occidental Boulevard and Hoover Street. Bits of fiberglass and debris coated this once peaceful neighborhood. The annoying drone of the engine struggling told Richard Montalv that he still lived. His body barely remained in the realm of consciousness after their tornado like journey.

  The world around Richard blurred, as if his existence was being ripped away from this reality. Slowly, it started coming back to him. He knew they were doing something important, the continuous thumping of his heart proved it. Focus returned to Richard's eyes. Memory hastily snapped back into place.

  “Get up morons!” He ordered while kicking a seemingly unconscious henchman. Almost in unison, they started moving. Leaving the motionless death-box became their urgent precedence. Things couldn't have gone worse for the survivors of the Montalv Gang.

  Richard gave a fleeting look inside the driver's seat and noticed blood soaking the partially shattered windshield. The two men sitting up front did not survive the rollercoaster ride. Richard thought for a moment and tried to connect any sentimental attachments he had to Danny. He could not resonate anything but anger after what that fool had caused. In hind sight, if Danny had somehow lived, Richard would have shot him outright for his grave mistake.

  “Come on Richard! We have to go,” yelled one of his remaining henchmen. Richard had no idea where to move but instinctually, he went north.

  Rain poured without sympathy to Richard's situation and within seconds he and his crew had been soaked head to toe. Their footsteps spanked the drenched road as they ran off without care into the street. Staying out in the open any longer than necessary was dangerous. If curious party noticed heavily armed men parading near their homes it wouldn't be long before the police became involved. Their previous accident didn’t help matters. All of that ruckus would attract someone's attention. One of many things they needed less of at this time.

  Surprisingly, fate had given them an olive branch in the form of an open sanctuary. Richard never cared much for religion after rebelling from his family before hitting puberty. However, there was no place more welcoming than a house of God.

  “Over there. Move!” Richard beckoned, pointing towards the building named the Precious Blood Church. They could hide out here momentarily and until he called one of his contacts for a pick up. All they had to do now is wait and survive.

  Richard sprinted ahead and without wavering he blasted the front door open with the soul of his boot, nearly knocking it off its hinges. The rest of his crew followed and flooded the entrance of the church.

  Darkness covered most of the building save for a few candles that were ceremoniously kept lit. With their bodies still drenched in water, Richard could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

  “You two, check for any side entrances, lock them up and keep them covered,” He commanded. They followed his orders diligently.

  Still pushing out heavy breaths from his previous episode of sprinting, Richard took a seat at a nearby bench. A break was definitely in order. His crew did not look too much worse for wear. They were battered from the accident and some had even drawn blood. Not as bad as their former companion Danny but noticeable nonetheless. Things were finally beginning to look up for the man ranked number one on the FBI's Most Wanted List. That is, until the faint echoing voice elated his senses.

  It sounded isolated but still more than enough to set off Richard's paranoia. He ducked behind one of the benches. His crew took cover in the shadows near the opposing corners. Footsteps began to tap slowly into the church.

  “Hello?” Someone called out. “Is anyone there?”

  The entrance crashing was more than enough to alarm a disciple of the church. Mr. Manuel Rodriguez was not as young as he was during the Second World War but being a man of God meant he had nothing to fear so long as he had faith. He flipped a light switch not realizing that would be a mistake that could cost him his life.

  Instantly, the church awakened. Richard exploded from the hiding place and drew his revolver at the old church disciple, a heinous smile drawn on his face. This dark situation suddenly saw a glimmer of light.

  “Good evening father,” Richard smirked in a sinister tone, “Thank God you're here.”

  Members of his crew that weren't covering other points of entry grabbed Manuel and kept their automatic weapons pressed tightly against his body.

  “Take him to the back and see if he has any friends. Keep him there until we get a pickup.”

  The two men forcefully dragged Manuel into the corridor from which he came. He shook defiantly, cursing Richard for his sins, a paltry means of defense. Manuel had always thought of himself as a servant of God and for a brief moment, wanted to swear in defiance at the plan that had been laid out before him. Sometimes even the most religious men succumb to their primal nature when they are facing death.

  Richard turned his back to the holy man as his screams disappeared into the hallway. That man was a bargaining chip. Should another problem arise, Richard at least had a trump card; even if he had to sacrifice one of his own men to do it. He smirked while running his fingers through his long and soaked dark hair. Now he just had to make the call that would save their lives.

  Truly, this was a place where miracles happen.

  Beads of water slapped against the soft pane of glass just past the midnight hour. Inside that room, the drum of a phone kept beating trying to catch the attention of a particular resident. Meryl buried her head between the pillows begging the Gods of sleep to allow her to rest in peace. Primary moral functions told her that anyone calling at this hour must have one hell of a message. At least, they better. This woman was coasting on the border of a perfect sleep cycle.

  Meryl extended her arm from beneath the pillow and pulled the phone under it. She refused to remove her head from its resting place on the rare chance that this was not an emergency.

  “Hello,” she started, trying not to sound like she just got out of bed.

  “Lewis, this is Lieutenant Perkins,” that was all it took to snap Meryl awake. If her boss was calling at the middle of the night it had to be important. Meryl's consciousness and insight sharpened on whatever orders would be delegated, fighting against any refusal from her exhausted body.

  “There's been a series of major accidents in your area,” Perkins started. Meryl cursed to herself for being woken out of a deep sleep that survived several outside collisions. “We've got units responding but this storm is hindering our efforts.” She peeked out the window and watched rain relentlessly pour from the black sky above.

  “What can I do to help?” Meryl snapped out of bed and moved to the dresser. She started tossing pieces of her uniform over her body as the Lieutenant relayed the information.

  “Several calls just came in about an accident on the corner of 6th and Vermont that we're already responding to. What I'm particularly worried about is the two calls we just received about a van flipping over near Occidental.”

  “How bad's the damage?”
Meryl jumped into her black slacks being thankful that she didn't have to go out in the rain wearing only her underwear.

  “Undetermined. Both callers seemed a bit disturbed and for good reason. They witnessed five armed men kicking the door down and entering the Precious Blood Catholic Church.”

  Meryl felt her eyebrow tweak in curiosity. “That wouldn't have something to do with the series of accidents now would it?”

  “That's a possibility. Unfortunately, we don't have any more information,” Perkins could hear Meryl sigh on the other end of the line. She knew before he could even tell her what he was going to ask of her next. “That's where you come in. Check out the accident and give us any information you can then stake out the church until we can send in a squad to help you out.”

  Not the good start she hoped for but a start nonetheless. Meryl tucked in her shirt and affixed the hip holster into place with her fully loaded Glock 19 pistol.

  “How long are you going to keep me in the rain before backup arrives?” She jokingly asked. Well, half-jokingly anyways.

  “More bad news I'm afraid. This storm is causing problems all over the city. There are accidents on Alvarado, Beverly, and Virgil, blocking access to Occidental and anywhere in a half-mile radius. We're calling up more off-duty officers but it could be anywhere from twenty to thirty minutes before we can get people to maneuver through this mess.”

  A loud stomp filled the receiver side of Perkins' phone. Little did he know that was just the sound of frustration as Meryl slamming her boots onto the ground. Timing was the only thing that seemed to be sarcastically perfect about this entire mess.

  “Count on me boss,” she replied rushing out the door. Meryl jogged down her hallway and headed towards the stairs. Perkins continued.

  “Be careful out there, we don't want another,” Perkins briefly stopped which made her wonder what he was about to say. “Just a second.” She could hear him mumbling in the background. The thunderstorm wasn’t helping. It cried more furiously outside that it did inside the confines of her apartment.

  Perkins came back with good news for a change. “Looks like you're not in it alone Lewis. Deputy Miller lives near your complex. He's on his way to back you up.”

  At least I'll have company she thought.

  “Your previous orders still remain; do not proceed into the building until we can get a squad over to support. Is that understood?”

  “Roger that.”

  “I mean it Lewis.”

  Meryl felt a little insulted that the Lieutenant didn't trust her. Of course, he's probably still peeved about the incident at the lumber yard. Meryl tried her damndest to save all of that wood. It's not her fault one of those idiot criminals couldn't throw a Molotov cocktail to save his life. Literally. But that was weeks ago. Surely Perkins is over it by now.

  “Scout's honor.”

  “Good, keep in contact as the situation changes. Call me straight back to this line.”

  “Yes sir,” Meryl replied making a saluting gesture in her mind. She jammed the phone back into her pocket and proceeded out of the complex.

  Stepping into the cold wet atmosphere put another sour note on Meryl's already ruined night. She quickly set pace for 6th street. Normally this would have been a quick ten second journey but the constant and heavy downpour gravely limited her movement.

  Meryl turned her head west after arriving at the origin of destruction and saw the aftermath of the initial accident. Squad cars already on the scene eased her mind and bit as she moved due east. The van's path of demolition was easily spotted as several cars had been smashed and scraped along the way.

  The journey ended at the sight of the flipped vehicle. Meryl surveyed the wreckage that was once an honest piece of American ingenuity. She immediately called Perkins. Meryl made her way around the vehicle while it was ringing and was suddenly welcomed by a bloody surprise.

  “This is Perkins,” the voice tinged on the other line.

  “Lewis here. I just arrived.”

  “That was quick. What have you got for me?”

  “Plates for starters,” Meryl quickly gave him the information from the front of the vehicle.

  “Got it thanks. Anything else?”

  “Well,” she started as her hand grabbed the latch of the driver side door. She took a breath and pulled the lever. Suspicions were immediately confirmed. “Looks like we've got two fatalities. Both driver and passenger.” Seeing the amount of blood that coated the windshield, dashboard, and their own bodies was more than enough evidence to confirm it.

  Perkins blew a dismissing sigh. More money and resources down the drain tonight. “Any IDs?” He responded.

  Despite the things she's seen over the four and a half years she served as an L.A.P.D. officer, this was a bit excessive for one officer to handle alone. “Unconfirmed,” Meryl replied, “Their bodies were tossed around for an undetermined amount of time. They look like they're wearing their jeans as hats.”

  Disgusting imagery aside, Perkins urged Meryl on. “We'll work on the plates. Meet up with Miller at the church.”

  After taking a much needed breath away from that massacre, Meryl responded. “Understood.”

  “One more thing Lewis,” Perkins continued. Was her fearless leader about to offer some much due words of encouragement? Meryl waited in anticipation.

  “Don't do anything stupid.”

  The phone went silent on the other line. She couldn't decide whether or not to be upset at his unjust perception or honored that he seemed somewhat concerned for her well being. Lt. Perkins was usually famous for his 'by the book' attitude, not his compassion.

  Thankfully, the church was closer than Meryl envisioned. She raced towards her next objective wondering what else could make this evening more pleasant.

  A black Honda CBR motorcycle ripped through the intersection of Western Avenue heading east. Water sloshed resisting the burn of its rubber tires, futilely attempting to restrict travel. This didn't stop the rider from pushing the odometer past ninety miles per hour.

  Despite the rain's harsh demeanor, luck appeared to be on his side. Most of the streets were empty save for a few late night motorists. It did little to dissuade him from running every red light he came across. Traffic laws were of little consequence. There was only one thing on his mind; one last thing to do. One name left on his list.

  Montalv. Montalv. Montalv. He repeated in his mind, keeping his attention away from the rain cutting against his face. Only a pair of custom built sunglasses and an ominously large black trench coat shielded him from Mother Nature’s onslaught. The vicious hail of water attacking his bike also diverted attention away from the gunshot wounds already received. Luckily, his arms were only grazed by gunfire. A minor annoyance. The one that bounced off his ribcage and the other that punctured his left thigh sang at a much higher volume. His makeshift tunicate had only stopped the blood from oozing out; a temporary remedy for an ongoing problem.

  The bike blitzed through the next intersection. Street names began to fade. Determination kept him moving. Willpower kept him focused. Skill kept him alive.

  Lights began to flash just up ahead. Another hindrance approached. Three police cruisers were tending to the big rig tractor with a small recreational sport utility vehicle affixed to the front end. Orange cones blocked off traffic from all four sides. Officers were detouring vehicles at nearby intersections. Finding a way through this mess would prove to be difficult, but not impossible.

  The motorcycle slanted towards the left and continued into the opposite lane. With the accident ahead, he didn't have to worry about oncoming traffic. An opening approached. Instincts guided him. The rider jumped the sidewalk and dashed through the empty parking lot. Circumventing the accident without stopping instantly became a reality. Officers hastily vocalized their protest which fell on deaf ears. More important matters lie ahead.

  Montalv. Montalv. He continued. The name haunted him. Not only because he was responsible for the bullet that pass
ed through the rider's leg. This was the final objective in an otherwise impossible journey. The rider blatantly disobeyed every order from his superiors over its course. However, his unorthodox methods resolved some of the toughest cases in known history. The fear of termination did not even sway the rider’s judgments. Nothing mattered more than finishing his first mission as an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  Memories nearly bested his instincts. Before he knew it, the rider approached the van that had plagued recent memory. Surprisingly, it had seen better days. His prey’s luck had seemed to run out, much like the rider’s at this moment. He immediately slammed the brakes but the water covered asphalt painfully shut down that request. The bike dropped to its side and dived towards damaged vehicle. Even wearing a Kevlar laced trench coat, bracing for impact became mandatory.

  The bike slammed into the side of the van with a gut-wrenching impact. Thankfully not at the same incredible velocity yet still more than enough to rattle the rider's senses. His already engraved wounds began to scream even louder. Slamming into a flipped van was not the proper remedy. Nor was the sound of the crash that could alert the targets to his arrival.

  Gritting his teeth, the rider motioned to stand. Pain had to be ignored despite its constant berating chatter. His left leg was not responding to his exact orders and he let out a searing grunt, forcing it to obey. Every muscle screamed loudly, letting him know the agony that had befallen them. The rider defied their cries and pressed on.

  Unbeknownst to initial inspection, a door was open. Looking within revealed the distorted bodies of two individuals he had been pursuing. Estimating the amount of blood spilled and shape of the bodies proved that they had died on impact. This particular open door revealed two possibilities.

  There were survivors or someone else had been here already.

  The rider headed towards the back of the van. Blood covered the bland grey interior of the vehicle without a single body in sight. He immediately checked the ground for any evidence that would lead him to the direction of their departure. Rain had washed away any trail of blood that would have aided in his search.