by Luis Samways
Static comes from the phone and Eddie looks at the bars and moves closer to the window to catch a better signal.
‘Hello. Anyone there?’
‘Isn’t it strange how a person can stay on a phone, not say a word, and know there is still a point in talking? Most bad news on the phone is just that, bad news. Believe me, if I had a chance for an in person audience with the District Attorney, I would take it. Unfortunately, certain circumstances prevent me from accomplishing that. I hope you don’t mind.’
The DA takes a long hard drag on his cigarette. ‘I was wandering when you would call, Mr Chase.’ ‘Oh you do have some intelligence after all. The papers got it all wrong then, saying you are not the smartest or toughest DA material. I got to give you credit where credit is due. Not many people could figure stuff out so quickly. Three seconds? That’s impressive.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Don’t be rude Mr DA. I called to address some issues that I’m having with these so-called negotiations.’
Eddie rubs his face. ‘What seems to be the problem with the negotiations?’
‘That’s better. All about me. Just how I like it.
Eddie coughs on his cigarette smoke.
‘Smoking is unhealthy, you know that. Right?’ Connor mocks on the other end of the phone.
‘Just get to the point.’
‘If you don’t find me Frank McKenzie and put him on the other end of the phone, something could go very wrong.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘No, I’m just saying find the bastard!’
‘Look pal, I don’t have to do shit for you. You hear me, you stupid prick?’
The phone goes dead and Eddie throws it across the room in frustration.
Forty Three
Officer Mullin’s car pulls into the industrial district. It’s dark and visibility is low. The search lights on the patrol car scans the area, illuminating the buildings and wire fencing surrounding the perimeter.
‘Are you trying to make sure McKenzie knows we’re here?’ Mullins’s partner asks.
‘Shut up. I’m doing my job. Every lead has to be followed, even if it is all the way down to the crapper.’
‘You got that right, partner. This here is a shithole. Who would work down here?’
‘It’s been derelict for twenty five years, ever since that big processing plant shipped to Mexico.’
‘Mexico? How do you know all this stuff? You’re barely twenty one years old.’
‘My dad worked for the processing plant. He knew all about this area.’
Mullins moves the search light to the left into the dark alleyway adjacent to the car.
He indicates the alley. ‘Good place to hide,’ he tells his partner. ‘Be my guest kid, it’s also a good place to get ambushed.’
‘It’s what we do, get your ass out of the car and back me up; you’re my goddamn partner!’
‘That McKenzie guy is some nut. You know he busted some guys face up at a crime scene just for ribbing him. What a whacko!’
‘Yeah that may be true, but we have to find him.’ ‘Ah what the heck, I need to stretch my legs, let’s get going and see to your precious alley mission.’
They get out of the car and make their way down the dark alley. The path is full of boxes and garbage. Mullins nearly trips over a trash can.
‘Watch where you’re going kid. Turn your damn flash light on!’
‘I was going to. Give me a chance.’ Mullins turns on his flashlight. The light highlights the rubbish.
‘Goddamn, it smells like dog shit.’ His partner gasps for air.
Mullins spots a shadowy figure leaning against a wall in a seated position. He draws his weapon.
‘Put your hands up! Boston PD,’ Mullins shouts.
Mullins partner also draws his weapon.
The figure doesn’t respond.
‘I mean it; put your damn hands up!’ The figure stays seated in place. The officers look at each other, and Mullins’s partner signals him to move forward. They move cautiously, surveying the figure’s every move. Forty feet, still not visible, thirty feet, no movement, twenty feet, Mullins swallows. ‘God dammit, It’s a stack of trash!’ Mullin’s partner shouts in dismay. He kicks the bags and rubbish explodes around them like confetti.
‘It looked human the way it was propped up like that.’ ‘Well it isn’t a human kid; it’s a goddamn trash bag, in a trash filled alley. What a surprise!’
Forty Four
Frank sits at Jacobs’s desk with a shot of whisky and a bloody glove. His confusion is returning and he downs the booze to get rid of it. Jacob lies still on the floor, not moving one inch.
‘He was moving a lot, before, wasn’t he Frank? He was moving. You could almost say he was squirming,’ the voice whispers in Frank’s head
Frank pours himself another shot and downs it almost as fast as he puts the bottle back down on the desk. He thumps his fist hard on the wooden desk, the pain hits his stomach.
‘In a little discomfort, Frank?’ asks the voice.
Frank shakes his head, trying to rattle his conscious. He pats his pockets looking for relief. He grabs his pill dispenser and shakes it. No noise. ‘Shit.’ He opens the container, turns it upside down. Nothing comes out of it.
‘Empty empty empty!’ the voice whispers.
Frank swings his arm across the desk, knocking everything off it onto the ground.
‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’ he pleads, almost welling up.
The room is silent. He slides to a seated position against the wall and looks at Jacob face down on the floor across the room. A small pool of blood seeps around Jacobs’s body.
Frank gets up and rushes to the clutter on the floor from the desk. He searches the pile, finds his pill container, chucks it over his shoulder and carries on scavenging. He finally stops and takes a deep breath. A white rag, covered in red stains holds a severed thumb. He wraps the thumb back up in the stained rag and pats himself down. The blood on his hands smears all over his leather jacket.
‘Crap!’ He says
‘That’s not going to come out easily,’ says the voice in his head
Frank turns and makes his way out of the room. He leans against the entrance and peeks around the corner to see if the coast is clear. It is.
Making his way down the hallway, he comes across a locked door and tries the handle. He moves deeper down the corridor and finds a sign pointing to the security post. Sighing, he takes one deep breath and makes his way down the spic and span pathway. The corridor is bleach cleaned, the smell makes Frank queasy.
He approaches the metal security gate that looks like a prison with bars. The fingerprint machine is attached to the wall next to the door. Taking another deep breath, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bloody rag. He places the severed thumb onto the flashing fingerprint machine. The small screen reads “PROCESSING.” It beeps and the light above the door goes green. The door unlocks with a loud crunching sound. It surprises Frank. He expected a more Sci-Fi whoosh’ when the door opened. Frank walks through the open door. It automatically swings shut behind him. The hallway is as clean as the one on the other side but brighter. The light makes Frank disorientated. He braces against the wall for a second as he catches his bearings. He walks slower as the pain in his stomach increases. It throbs like a nagging nuisance and he stumbles on a second gate.
Above the door, he sees a red light. Once again, Jacob’s thumb is put to work on the print machine. Once again, the door crunches open.
Frank goes through the second door and hears a high pitched noise similar to athletic shoes on a basketball court. The security door closes behind him. Turning back around, he is greeted with a punch to the face and his head violently snaps back and cracks against the rigid metal bars.
Forty Five
Sandra Austin stands alone in the middle of the channel 72 newsroom. The once hectic area is eerily quiet and vacant. Cameras are tilted down, facing the gro
und; the news desk is littered with papers and Styrofoam cups. Coffee stains the surface of the desk. She stands alone, preoccupied with her thoughts. Her mobile phone rings and she answers, nodding twice before hanging up. She puts the phone into her back pocket and runs up the warehouse like staircase towards the production area overlooking the newsroom.
The lights in this room differ from those on the studio floor. Lighting from twenty something TV monitors saturate the room’s natural light. The air conditioning is loud and humming, playing a sort of orchestral piece with the other electrical equipment. The buzzing and rattling accompany the sound of tape stretching. The sound of the audio tapes are doing their jobs.
Bob Sinclair is an old school guy. He does not like the way most newsrooms and media rely on computers to do their bidding. He keeps the retro style broadcast booth with all its reels of tape and noise. Sandra likes that about him. She enjoys a challenge, and keeping up with the other news crews is challenging enough, especially with the advantage of digital versus analogue.
Bob sits in his seat overlooking the control panels, twiddling the dials and knobs. He’s in his broadcast zone. The unflinching look in his eyes is one Sandra and her co-workers are used to. When he is in that zone, everyone knows not to disturb him. She waits. He finally looks up at her and smiles.
‘We have a lead on a train coming into Boston in less than two hours. My source says something big is going to happen. I’m sending you to the train station to report on it when it does.’ Sandra nods, reluctant to express any disapproval.
‘Good. Now get going, I want a full set-up before any other news crews catch wind of what’s going down.’
Forty Six
Nathan’s eyes open and he squints in pain. Blood runs down his face, pooling around his idle body. It looks worse than it is, he thinks. He tries to get up, but his hands are cuffed behind his back, making movement difficult. He lies on his front, face down on the ground. He turns his head and looks at his surroundings. “Where the hell am I? The basement?” He notices that he is in a cage, imprisoned like a dog, a hand cuffed dog at that. He stretches his head forward and rests his chin on the cold hard ground. Straight ahead, he notices an abundance of computer servers and wiring.
‘The basement,’ he says to himself.
An armed man steps out into the little light coming from a lit cigar. It is enough to illuminate his face. A scar runs from his eyebrow to his chin. He is wearing a camouflage bandana that looks as greasy as the floor beneath his feet. He smiles at Nathan’s struggle and takes another drag on his large Cuban.
‘The basement is right,’ says the man in a Jamaican accent that suits his face.
Nathan tries to get a better look at the man.
‘I wouldn’t try that if I was you, boy. It can get mighty dangerous down here!’
‘Why am I tied up like some sort of pig?’ The man shakes his head. ‘Surely, you should know by now, star, it’s not every day you get to witness the going-ons from both sides of the fence.’
Nathan’s laugh blows dust up in his face.
‘I was more of an errand boy, you know. A grunt,’ the man in the shadows smiles and nods his head in a rhythm. ‘I been doing the same ting down here. I am looking after your ass, till they decide what they want to do with you.’
Nathan nods and closes his eyes to stop them from straining. ‘What do you think they are going to do to me?’
‘That I cannot be sure of, star. I imagine it won’t be pretty.’
Nathan opens his eyes and tries to get a better look at the man. ‘What’s your name?’ The man takes another drag on his cigar. I can’t tell you that. You know the deal, boy. Just stay calm in there and I’ll try and get you out.’
Nathan’s eyes widen. ‘What do you mean out?’
The man flicks his cigar onto the ground and stubs it out with his army boot. His smile is loaded with gold teeth. He signals to Nathan to stay quiet. Another man comes out of the shadows. This one dressed differently from the Jamaican. He’s less army, more mercenary looking by his style of dress.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asks the new arrival.
The Jamaican man pats the other man’s shoulder and swings a heavy right hook at him, knocking him cold to the floor. He takes his weapons and ammunition.
Nathan looks on in shock.
‘Come on star, I’m getting you out of here. The name’s Fredrick. Chief Shaw sent me to rescue you. He had a feeling you’d been compromised, so here I am. Let’s get gwaning.’
‘How the hell do you purpose I just “get gwaning”?’ Nathan asks.
Fredrick searches his pockets and finds something which he slaps onto the steel security door of the cell. The slapping sound reminds Nathan of bubble gum, and he fears the worst. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Getting you out, star. Tuck and roll on 3.’ Fredrick orders.
‘Tuck and roll? What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘1……2…..’
‘Wait, goddamn it!’
‘3.’
An explosion shakes the floor and the metal security door flies off its hinges. It lands on top of Nathan in a cloud of dust and debris. Nathan moans and tries to wriggle out from under the heavy door. Fredrick walks into the cage and lifts the 300 pound door with ease. The muscles on his arms bulge as he tips it away from Nathan.
‘I said tuck and roll!’ Fredrick says playfully.
He un-cuffs Nathan and helps him up.
‘First I don’t know what that means. Second, my name is not Star!’
‘I know. Now let’s get gwaning. They can show up at any moment.’
Dust fills the air as Nathan shakes himself down.
‘Not terribly subtle, you know, blowing the door off its hinges.’
‘What you going to do, ay? Wait for them to open it for us?’ Fredrick leads the way out of the basement and up the stairs. He turns to Nathan and signals him to hold his position. Nathan stays back while Fredrick mounts the winding stairs. Fredrick reaches the top and Nathan hears what sounds like a fight. He quickly moves up the stairs but a body comes crashing down at his feet as he reaches the fifth. He looks up again and sees Fredrick smiling down at him.
‘Let’s go, star’
Nathan rendezvous with Fredrick, who is lighting another cigar.
‘I don’t mean to be rude Fredrick, but don’t you think smoking while trying to sneak out of a hostile building is a bit… I don’t know….unstealthy?’
‘I don’t see your point Nathan.’
‘The smoke could give us away or something. They could smell us coming. I don’t think that counts as good stealth practice.’
‘Who said anything about being stealthy? Don’t worry about them smelling us, star. They are going to hear us coming, breda!’
Forty Seven
Frank’s head jars against the bars on the gate with tremendous force. Blood spatters off his head, trickling onto the rusty cold metal then finding its way to the floor. He kneels and clutches his wounds. A mighty punch lands on the back of his head, knocking him down again. This time, his hands break his fall.
As he lies on the ground, staring into space, the guard grips a handful of his hair and repeatedly bashes Frank’s scull into the metal gate. When the pounding stops, Frank’s eyes focus once more. His wounds bleed profusely. He clutches at the gate and braces himself, resting his head on the floor. He hears his tormentor’s every footstep as he approaches once again to deliver a sharp kick to the ribs. Frank cringes and braces himself, trying to muster energy, another kick and Frank’s vision blurs. Consciousness slips.
‘Get up you son of a bitch!’ the guard yells.
Frank rouses to another kick. His hands grip the rusty bars of the security door. A jab to the kidneys and Frank’s grip grows tighter. He hears the rumble of another approach by the guard. He times it. Two seconds. One second.
Frank grabs the bars tighter and swings both legs to the right, catching the guard midstride as he comes in for an
other swing. With a snap of his hips, he sweeps the guard off his feet and onto his back. Blood distorts Frank’s vision as he gets up and feels for the fallen guard’s body. He finds his foot, grabs the guard’s heavy duty boots and twists the man’s ankle. Snap. The man screams. Frank twists again for personal enjoyment. The man screams once more. This time the scream is barely audible as the breath leaves the guard’s lungs.
Frank rises to his knees and shimmies closer to the guard’s sternum. He lays four heavy blows to the ribs and hears them break. Frank likes what he hears. He pounds the man’s chest. With each crushing blow, blood spews from the guard’s mouth.
Frank stops, out of breath and weak. He stands and examines his handy work.
The guard lies motionless in a pool of blood. The man’s chest is caved in, imploded. His breathing stops with a gurgle of blood and one last plea.
Frank smiles and stumbles closer to the fallen man. He kneels and strokes the man’s hair.
‘Hush little man, don’t you cry. Frank is not going to spare your life,’ Frank sing-songs.
Frank cracks his fingers in anticipation, breaths deeply and lands a barrage of kicks to the man’s scull, splattering blood in all directions. Frank is covered in his own and the guard’s. His rage grows as he demolishes the corpse of the guard.
Frank’s kicks take chunks of his humanity with them and he moans in enjoyment. He falls to his knees, almost orgasmic, his mouth open in awe.
He smears blood away from his eyes and leans against the wall. The once bleach clean hallway looks like a warzone. Frank knows that the war is far from over.
The guard’s radio goes off. “Approaching corridor six. Target last seen in the vicinity. Squad B-miner on point,” the voice says from the crackly radio.
Frank spots a security camera pointed directly at him over the door and he reads the sign below the camera.