François the paramedic closed up the back of his emergency vehicle and drove off into the moonlight. Three miles down, he pulled off the main street into a service alleyway. He put the vehicle into park, but left the engine running.
Inside the cab, François removed his paramedic's shirt and glasses and stashed them inside a black athletic bag. He put on a Montreal Canadians ice-hockey jersey and matching navy-blue beanie. Next, he wiped down every part of the vehicle he had touched. When he was satisfied, François stuffed the cloth inside the nylon bag, zipped it closed and took it with him as he exited the emergency vehicle.
He waited in front of the idling engine for his associates to arrive.
Walking along the fence-line one hundred feet ahead, a group of people- five men and one woman- approached, covering their eyes from the blinding headlights.
François reached into the side pocket of his bag and removed a thick envelope.
“As we discussed,” he said, handing over the package to the female.
The punk-rock dressed girl, whose T-shirt read “MisFits”, accepted the envelope and handed it to a grungy looking man on her left.
“Off to a hockey game now? One-second while my accountant makes sure,” she replied in a French accent.
François ignored the question, and answered bluntly, “It's all there. Just make sure you finish the deal. The keys are in the ignition.”
“So tell me,” MisFits said, walking up within an arm’s reach of François. She pulled out a switchblade knife and dragged the end of the blade vertically, starting at his groin. “What’s to stop me and my friends from killing you and taking whatever else you got with you?”
François didn’t flinch.
“That would be very bad...for you.”
The woman laughed and her gang of brute thugs laughed harder. François was easily outnumbered, and as if that wasn’t enough, the other men drew weapons of their own and waited for MisFits’ command.
“Interesting,” she said, now running the blade along his throat. “I would very much like to know why.”
The dark skinned paramedic stood fearless, staring into the woman’s eyes.
“Well, if you were to go that route, all of you would be dead in less than five-seconds. Then, I would have to spend the next fifty minutes disposing of your bodies,” replied François with a scary ease of confidence.
The gang members were unable see the .45 caliber pistol secured in the back of François’ waistband. Even worse, no one knew how lethal he was with or without it. If he wanted, François could kill all six of them with ease- and he already planned how he would do it.
First, using MisFits’ own knife he would slit her throat, then throw it at the thug on the left with a pistol jammed down the front of his pants. Depending on how much he wanted to get his hands dirty, François would use explosive hand-to-hand techniques to disarm and kill the rest, or just shoot them. He would decide when the time came.
MisFits was a stone cold killer, but as she stared into François’ dark brown eyes, she saw worse. A slight chill ran down her back. She retracted the knife and said, “Of course I was only speaking hypothetically.”
“But of course,” François replied. “Again, you know what to do, correct?”
MisFits looked back, and after receiving a nod from her accountant, she said, “Qui, Qui. Yes, I know. Take the ambulance for a joy ride around the city, and then torch it.”
“Good. Then we are done here.”
The gang could practically hear the underlying tone of "if you mess this up I'll kill you." And even to a group who had the city’s most ruthless reputation, their nerves shook. None were about to test François’ patience or even think about reneging on their deal.
“Looks like it, mystery man,” MisFits said, extending a hand for a completed business transaction.
With his bag in hand, François walked straight through the group of thugs, ignoring the woman's gesture. Nervous, the others parted and allowed François an uncontested path.
“Hey medic,” said MisFits. “We took some bets and were wondering...why did you pay us to beat up that business guy?”
Sergeant Major Craig West stopped and half-turned his head backward. West wanted to disclose that the Iranian businessman was part of a terrorist organization desiring nothing less than complete global destruction, but he didn't. He never did anything that jeopardized the integrity of his missions, despite the comical irony that a gang of bad people had done their part for global good.
So, West did as he was trained. He lied.
“Il a baisé ma femme,” he said, before continuing down the alley.
A slight chuckle ran through the gang. No one had guessed.
“All this for some guy sleeping with your wife?” she replied. “I'd hate to see what you had done to her.”
2132 hours
After a series of counter-surveillance measures, Craig West arrived at a predetermined safe house, located on the outskirts of southeastern Quebec. He parked his sedan in the garage of the rental house and lowered the door behind him. Inside his black bag, he pulled out a license plate and switched it with the one on his vehicle. Before heading inside the adjoined residence, he wiped down the car, erasing all fingerprints.
Once inside, West set down his bag and turned on the television. The channel defaulted to CNN, but Craig paid no attention- he was far too focused on the contents of his bag.
West neatly laid out the items on the glass coffee table. First, a manila envelope containing a complete dossier on Nasir Abil Mohhades; attached were multiple photos of the target. Next, was a nearly empty vial of the tracking compound that he injected into Nasir. The last item was a disposable cellular phone containing one programmed number that West was instructed to call after successful completion of his assignment.
Craig flipped open the phone and called the number. After three rings, a monotone voice answered and said, “Black Mamba, have you completed your mission?”
“Yes,” replied West.
The code name “Black Mamba” was randomly assigned to him. It had nothing to do with the color of his skin or his lethality. Although both were spot on.
“Stay at your location. You will be contacted shortly with exfil plans.”
Before West could reply, he heard a click and the line went dead.
For the last three days, former Delta Force operator Craig West was on a top-secret mission for the United States government. While the details were limited, he and a group of eleven other special ops men had been hand-picked for a vital assignment. They were asked to do their part in stopping the greatest worldwide terrorist attack in history.
With their specialized skills, the operators were assigned to track, locate and inject their individual targets with a tracking device- the key being without the target knowing. From there, the government would track the terrorists and acquire intelligence: names, locations, attack plans, targets, but most importantly was a rumored new weapons system capable of disastrous consequences.
West couldn't help but smile at a job well done. Even for his superior standards, planning this operation and adhering to a strict timetable was spectacular. Using a local gang to fake a robbery-assault so he could use the guise of a paramedic to administer the tracking substance was brilliant. Craig West, retired, was still at the top of his game.
West placed the mission contents back into the athletic bag. All materials were ordered, "destroyed after use," and he would comply. But there was a personal item he wanted to do first. Shower.
The quiet chatter of news anchors and worldwide correspondents fed through the television’s speakers as West undressed. After spending fifteen minutes indulging in a long, well-deserved shower, West stepped out and used his forearm to wipe the steam that clung to the mirror in front of him.
As he stared into his own reflection, he thought about how symbolic the shower was. A cleansing, a rebirth. After a lifetime of missions, good and bad. After years of killing in both offen
se and defense, during times of war and peace, all in the name of the country he loved dearly, Craig West was finally done.
He smiled. “One million dollars. Ranger up and callher,Chucky. It’s been long enough.”
Inside the adjoining bedroom, West put on a fresh set of clothes and laced up his all-purpose boots. He walked to the kitchen intent on eating a late dinner but stopped. The LCD television was now filled with flash alerts and bold headlines. The most recent ticker displayed "RIOTS ACROSS THE WORLD.”
West moved into the living room for a better view of the news channel.
The white, middle-aged anchor was describing reports from more than half a dozen major cities around the world that were experiencing riots- and not just any riots. The newsman stared into the camera, but paused as he read the next line from the prompter.
“There must be some mistake. We are being told from our teams on the ground that rioters are violently attacking and- I hope I'm just reading this incorrectly- buteating other people. And we are now receiving reports that one of our own cities, Los Angeles, is experiencing similar riots,” the news correspondent said, before pressing against his ear for another slate of breaking news. “This just in, we are being told by government officials that these riots are the product of a synchronized worldwide terrorist attack. Special government teams were able to intercept one of the alleged terrorists in Los Angeles, but I'm being told he was killed in a subsequent shoot out. I'm also being told we have an image of the man responsible…”
Craig West thought he had seen it all, but he was not prepared for the image that the news channel displayed.
There must be some mistake, he thought.
“Freddy?” he mumbled.
Plastered across the entire television was an image of Freddy Diggons. Weeks earlier at the secret warehouse meeting in New York, a mutual friend named Benny “Skinny” Hepson had introduced the retired Air Force Combat Controller to West.
The TV screen was split between displaying images of Freddy and amateur footage of the worldwide riots. Viewers were asked to use discretion when watching graphic content. The live and recorded video feeds of the various worldwide riots were unsettling. Footage from cities from as far away as Shanghai, China, displayed images of crazed people literally feasting on other people in cannibalistic fashion.
West immediately tried calling his handler’s number. “Come on,” he growled, pressing “send” for the second time. The line was busy. He tried a third time, but it produced the same result.
West tossed the cell phone onto the couch, then reached inside his bag and pulled out a separate burner cell phone. He tried dialing his friend Benny. After a series of rings, the call went to voicemail.
“Benny, it's Chucky,” West started to say, “I'm watching the news and they are saying Freddy was a terrorist. Something's wrong. Mike, Sierra, One, Sierra, Tango,” he finished.
MS1 was an old phrase the two coded to simply mean, “meeting spot one.” ST meant “same time.”
West's mind went into overdrive, and all of his senses followed. His situational awareness spiked with each heartbeat. Standing inside the living room, West spun in a complete three-sixty, waiting for his mind to download and process the information. As he turned, he did a double take of the kitchen.
Something was different. Something was off.
The ex-Delta Force operator tilted his head and zeroed in on the oven.
The time,he thought.It has been 11:35 since I walked in.
As fast as he could, West grabbed his bag and hustled over to the back door. Just as his foot passed through the crest of the frame, it happened.
The explosion initiated from the oven, but the blast tore through the entire house. The flames licked West’s backside as the force of the explosion lifted him up and tossed him into the backyard like a sack of potatoes. His body landed violently on the grass, bounced a few times, and skidded ten feet before finally coming to a rest near the wooden fence.
Craig West lay motionless.
***
Standing across the street from the safe house, a blond-haired man with a strong athletic build, dialed a number on his touch screen phone.
“It's done,” he said, unable to hide a sinister grin. “It will be reported as a gas leak.”
The two bedroom home on the outskirts of Quebec City was completely leveled to the ground; not one wall stood.
The mystery man closed the phone and gazed at his creation, a work of art in his opinion. “See ya in hell, Gramps.”
The man strolled down the darkened street whistling the Irish folk song, “Johnny I Hardly Knew Ya.” He was thinking of one particular verse.
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg
Ye're an armless, boneless, chickenless egg
Ye'll have to be put with a bowl out to beg
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.
Providence State Beach
November 26, 2009 (Present Day)
0645 hours
Before morning hit Camp, a small group of volunteers was already up, shuffling around. Normally, they would still be enjoying the comfort of sleep, but not today.
Today, Diane Phillips was leading a team on a crucial mission to Vancouver, Canada. At a World Health Organization facility just south of the city, she would continue her research and testing in hopes of creating a vaccine for the Trinity Virus.
Inside the warm kitchen of the Ranger's station, the group congregated near the coffee pot for breakfast. Diane had been awake since 5:30 AM to double and triple check everything.
The team's computer expert, Matty Finch, was still waking up. With two hands wrapped around a hot mug of green tea, he was already regretting the decision to join the mission- not out of fear of death, well some, but mostly because it had already cost him hours of his most prized possession- sleep.
After downing his cup of coffee, Eddy Graham dove straight in for a refill. As a foreman for a construction company out of Seattle, Eddy was used to long nights and early morning shifts. “Mmm, that’s the stuff.”
“Teddy,” Diane said, extending her hand, “I wanted to thank you again for coming along. It really means a lot.”
The evening before, Diane had approached everyone in Camp and asked if they wanted to join her mission. Eddy was the only person who agreed to come along.
“Of course, Doctor. Although I can't say my motivations weren't entirely selfless,” he admitted.
“What do you mean?”
“I've been living in Camp almost since the beginning. Don't get me wrong, I'd much rather be in here than out in the chaos, but I was always used to being on the move, you know going from site to site. So, I'm looking forward to getting back on the road and seeing what it's like out there.”
“Well, regardless, thanks, Teddy.”
The sleep around Matty's eyes was slowly diminishing. He attempted to sip some tea, but his lips immediately retreated from the scalding liquid.
“Why are you calling him Teddy? I thought it was Eddy?” he said, blowing on the tea.
The 6'5" tall foreman released a hearty laugh, nearly sending coffee spilling onto his red and black flannel shirt. Eddy’s entire image screamed Paul Bunyan's twin.
“Eddy. Teddy. Either way. I go by both,” the burly man replied. “My Christian name is Eddy Graham. When I was a kid, some of the others used to tease me and call me Teddy Graham, you know? Like the snack? It pissed me off at first, but come high school, I just owned it. Since then, the name just stuck.”
“I thought it was because you're so nice, like a teddy bear?” Diane asked.
“Actually, I have quite the temper. At least that is what my therapist used to tell me.”
Matty stared at the giant. Eddy's hairy forearms were easily the size of his legs. “Well, I for one never want to see that side.”
A cold draft originated from the fron
t door as Alex entered the Ranger station. The air continued to funnel in, as the glass pane was propped open by Alex’s foot. “Hey, Doc, the truck is packed and ready to go. We should hit the road ASAP.”
“Sounds good, Alex. You have the course we plotted out last night, right?”
“Close the door, Alex, it's freezing!” Matty interjected, pulling up his sweatshirt.
Alex ignored the complaint.
“Yes, ma'am. Like I said, ready to go. Well, actually I take that back,” he said, feeling a gurgle in his stomach. “I gotta drop the kids off at the pool.”
The others stared at him, unsure of what he meant. So, he continued with the euphemisms.
“Drop a deuce? Take the Browns to the Superbowl? Come on! Get with the lingo,” Alex said, heading off to the bathroom. “I gotta take a shit!”
Just before the front door shut, Collin grabbed the handle and entered- allowing another cold draft into the station. Using his new cane, he strolled over to the kitchen.
“Thanks again, all of you for doing this. I know that each of you know how important this is. I'd be right there with you, but, well you know,” he said, patting his bad leg. “Just make sure you all get back in one piece, okay?”
After his speech, Diane pulled Collin aside. “Hey, sorry I didn't want to wake you this morning.”
“I heard you get up and leave. I was still tired from our extracurricular activities,” he replied, smiling.
“Well the way I figured it, I could die on this trip, and I sure as hell didn't want to go out sexually frustrated.”
“How about you hurry back with a vaccine, then we can spend a few days celebrating,” he said giving her a kiss. “Seriously though, you better make it back.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Well,whenI do, you better have finished your little project, too. Because there's no way I'm letting your attention be anywhere other than this body.”
“Agreed.”
For the third time, a draft of frigid Washington air rushed into the station as Ranger Nick entered. Following closely behind him was Steve.
“Damn cold,” Matty cursed. This time he ignored the burning and swallowed a mouthful of tea.
The Longest Road (Book 2): The Change Page 11