by Peter Parkin
He slithered across the floor to a floor lamp, grabbing hold of the base and swinging it just as she arrived behind him. It caught her square in her exotic face, and she staggered backward. Mike jumped to his feet still brandishing the floor lamp, bracing himself. She wiped the blood away from her face, and smiled in a way that made Mike's blood run cold.
Suddenly everything was a blur. All he saw in the fog was her flying into the air, spinning. The first foot knocked the lamp out of his hand, the second foot followed a millisecond later with a hammer blow to the side of his head. Mike went down. She came after him. Mike scrambled along the floor again, making his way to the area between the desk and the closet. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw Troy flinging himself headfirst through the open window. Thank God!
Troy jumped to his feet and landed a punch on the beauty's nose. The only sign that he had hit her was the blood streaming from her nostrils. Otherwise, her fighting stance hadn't moved an inch. Troy looked shocked. Her tiny hands now moved in rapid succession, pounding several times into Troy's face. His head snapped back, and she spun—both feet thudding into his gut. Troy went down. The sexy Arab had landed securely on her feet, not missing a beat. She turned her head and looked in Mike's direction. He was still on his knees peering over the desk, trying desperately to figure out how they would take this lethal machine down. She moved toward the desk, smiling in that sinister way, seemingly aware of what Mike was thinking.
Suddenly Mike remembered. He slid open the top drawer and pulled out the staple gun, praying to God it was loaded. She screamed in a shrill banshee way and leaped on top of the desk, staring down at him. Mike could see up her skirt—no panties. He was momentarily distracted, and she knew it—the way she opened her legs to display her charms. She moved her feet to the edge of the desk, and raised her right one up in preparation for a killer strike against the man crouching on the floor.
Mike brought up the staple gun, aimed at her left foot that was planted on the desk, and pulled the trigger twice. He felt the gun jerk in his hand and he knew his prayers had been answered. It was loaded.
She screamed in pain. Mike rose to his feet and shot two more large staples into her breast area. He could see she was confused, screaming in pain and looking at him in shock. He wasn't going to waste a second. She brought her hands down to her breasts in a reflex action that left her face exposed. Mike brought the gun up and shot a staple at each eye. She shrieked and fell backwards off the desk, blood streaming down her cheeks.
She was gasping for breath now and her hands were clawing at her face, scratching in panic at the metal missiles that were embedded in her eyeballs. To Mike's shock, she suddenly leaped back to her feet and moved in his direction once again, deadly hands extended back in fighting mode, leg muscles tensed and ready. She sensed exactly where he was despite being blind. Mike froze in shock.
But Troy didn't. He was now on his feet again too, behind her now, wrapping one big forearm around her neck, his other hand sliding strategically along her forehead. He made one swift move with his hand, her head moved... Mike heard the snap of her neck, and a second later witnessed the instant limpness of a dead person, flopping down in Troy's big forearm.
Chapter 41
"We have to talk about this. We really do...I do."
Mike rubbed his tired eyes and looked up at his friend. "I know, I know.
I've been trying to forget what happened, but it's not working."
They were sitting in Mike's office trying hard to enjoy a coffee together, but one topic was standing in the way. The topic both of them had avoided for several days now. They had killed a woman.
"I killed her, Mike. With my bare hands. I feel kinda sick."
"She was going to kill us, Troy. You saw her—she was an animal, and a very well-trained one at that. If you hadn't arrived when you did, I don't think I would have made it out alive. I owe you my life, Troy."
"Hey, you've saved my butt on many occasions in the past. You owe me nothing."
Mike got up from his chair, leaned over and gave his friend a tight bear hug. Troy hugged him back and slapped him on the back. "Thanks, I needed that, and I needed for us to talk about this."
"I know, Troy. But I've just been in a kind of state of shock over this. That wasn't supposed to happen. No one was supposed to die. Taking a life, even an evil one, feels very weird to me. And hey, remember this—don't absorb all the guilt yourself. We did the deed together. It was one of our more sickening team efforts."
"Thanks for that, Mike."
"We have to look at it this way—these people are pure evil. They're terrorists— they definitely were responsible for the school attack and subway bombings. We know that; I've seen Samson with that terrorist, a monster I will never ever forget. We've done the world a favor by killing that woman. She was one of them."
"I'm going to try to look at it that way."
Mike leaned forward in his chair and stared into Troy's eyes. "So, where...
did you learn to do that...you know...neck thing?" Mike asked in a whisper.
Troy shrugged and whispered back, a sheepish look on his face, "T.V."
The tension broke with Troy's answer. Mike tried to restrain himself, but he couldn't. The laugh started deep in his belly, then exploded through pursed lips. Once he started, he couldn't stop. His laugh was contagious, and Troy couldn't help but join in. They were both doubled over in their chairs holding their stomachs when Mike's secretary, Stephanie, opened the door and peeked in. "Everything okay in here?"
Mike waved her off. "No problem, Steph. We're just unwinding a bit here." Stephanie nodded, a suspicious smile on her face, and closed the door. Mike and Troy smiled at each other, still holding their stomachs. Just the look in each other's eyes started the guffaws once again.
*****
The boardroom seemed huge with just the three of them sitting around the opulent table. Mike, Troy and Jim decided to use this room for today's discussion, due to the extra soundproofing in the walls.
Each of them had steaming mugs of coffee, and prepared themselves for a long session. Mike started the meeting off by summarizing everything that had happened over the last few months, including the terrorist attacks, the killing of the Arab girl, and the irrefutable evidence now that Samson was the master terrorist and intimately knew the commando who was now the subject of a worldwide manhunt. They also discussed Mike's precarious position with the RCMP and that it might only be a matter of days until he was arrested.
As Mike sat at the table he thought how ironic it was that he was conducting this meeting in a format just like any other business meeting with his executives. Old habits were hard to break.
"I've checked the papers every day this week, and the internet, and the online police reports. There was nothing, nothing anywhere about that girl's death. Or the break- in."
"Yeah, Mike—did the same thing. I'm stunned. It's like it didn't even happen." Troy was doodling on his pad as he talked.
"Yup, a woman died and it's been completely erased!"
Jim jumped in. "Well, from what we know so far about this dude, it sounds like he'd have the resources to 'clean it up' so to speak, and with the business he's in he would have every reason to not draw attention to himself. No way he'd report it."
Mike nodded. "You're right but..."
"These people consider death to be a necessary part of their cause. This is a war they're engaged in. They're desensitized to it." Troy got up and poured himself some more coffee, then refilled the cups of his friends.
Mike held up the brochure and bill of sale for the Gulfstream jet, and waved it in the air. "I think this is the key, guys. This jet may be the only connection that we can use to get this guy. Where the money came from, tracing it back. Not something we can do, but the police certainly can. This is a large expenditure and the money trail should prove that it was a laundered purchase. It's at least something that may indicate to the RCMP that something is terribly wrong. I mean, fifty-one m
illion dollars for a plane is a lot of laundered money. They could track this Mayday Holdings company— what it does, where it does business, if it does any real business. Any related companies."
Jim stood up and started pacing the room as he always did when he was thinking hard about something. "Okay, you're right. It's a monster-size purchase and it would certainly raise some major eyebrows. But, who's going to listen to you? You're a suspect!"
"Yes, I am. And I fear that I don't have much time to clear myself. If this guy disappears, I'm doomed."
The three friends sat quietly for a few minutes, absorbing that last ominous comment.
Mike looked up. "Ideas, guys? Ideas? I'm desperate here. This should not be happening to me and this prick is not going to get away with it. He's killed hundreds of people and he wants to stick me with it just because I bullied him in high school. It's sick beyond belief. At the very least, he's going to make sure I'm nailed for insurance fraud. I look pretty guilty with that Colin Spence situation and that damn Panama bank account."
Troy smacked his palm on the table. "As you said, Mikey, the plane is the key. If we can at least get the turd arrested for money laundering, that's a good start. It will lead from there to other things—hell, they can torture the truth out of him. Wouldn't be the first time."
"Okay, I agree. But how?"
"I think, first off, we should impersonate Samson on the phone and find out more about the status of the plane. Where it goes, what if anything is owing on it, where the payments come from, tax write-off declarations, etc."
"He has a distinct accent—how would we do that?"
"You know Mehmet, don't you? One of my engineers? Even though he's a Canadianized Arab, he does have that distinctive tone and perfect word formation that Samson has. I'm sure he would sound just like him over the phone."
Mike rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "Has some merit, Troy. But we couldn't tell him anything. What ruse would we use to get him to do this so he doesn't think we're nuts?"
"Let me handle that. I would just tell him we need his help to pretend to be someone else—a potential client that we're not sure of. Someone who owns several plots of land that he's offered to sell us, but we're not sure of his credentials or whether or not we can trust him. He'll be okay with that."
"Okay, so we'd have to write him some kind of script."
"Yes, we'll jot down a few things for him to say."
Mike was getting more enthusiastic now. "Who would he call first?" "Well, I would suggest we start with where the plane is right now, and go on from there depending on what we learn. So, we should have him call that maintenance company, Skyspace, at Buttonville Airport."
Mike nodded his head slowly. "But what would we learn?"
"I don't know, Mike—but it's a start. We'll see where it leads. We have to start somewhere."
Mike tapped his pen on the table. "Okay, I'm with you." He looked over at Jim, who gave a thumbs-up sign. "We're unanimous then...let's do this... today."
*****
They were back in the boardroom again, speakerphone in the middle of the table, Mehmet looking a bit sheepish with the company's three top executives sitting there with him. Troy had briefed him well and he seemed to understand what was expected of him. If he seemed puzzled by it, it didn't show on his face. But he did look a bit intimidated, Mike thought.
"Mehmet, we're counting on you to be convincing. This guy you're going to be imitating is confident, well spoken, and authoritative. Are you clear on that ?"
"Yes, Mr. Baxter, I am. I have a good idea of what you need to know, and I will do my best."
Mike glanced down at the sales agreement for the jet, and read out the number for Skyspace Services. Troy began to punch in the number and before he hit the last digit, he glanced at Mehmet. "You ready?"
"I am ready."
Troy punched the last number and they all heard the phone ringing over the speaker.
"Hello, Skyspace Services at your service!" A perky female answered the phone and gave the friendly greeting.
Mehmet took it from there. "Hello, I would like to talk to the service manager about the status of my jet, please?"
"Of course—your name, sir?"
"David Samson."
"Oh, of course, Mr. Samson. I didn't recognize your voice. I apologize." Grimaces around the table.
"That is quite all right. We have only talked a couple of times before."
"I know, I know. But I pride myself on being good with voices. Let me transfer you to Grant Myers. He's the manager in charge of your jet, and I know he has been arranging for everything you asked for."
Eyebrows raised around the table.
There was a moment of silence, then a strong booming voice.
"Mr. Samson, Grant here. Are you getting ready?"
Mehmet looked momentarily stunned, then replied, "Of course, I am always ready."
"Ha, ha—I like your attitude. A man on a mission, eh?"
"Yes, there is always another mission." Mehmet permitted himself to chuckle.
"Well, thanks for checking in. I was going to call you. But, we're pretty much all done here. Your pretty bird is fit and ready to fly."
"That is good. Can we go over the arrangements once again so that I know we are together on our plans?"
"No problem. Hey, I knew you were a 'detail guy' when we met. So, let's see now. Your jet will be fueled, serviced and ready to fly this Thursday. Your scheduled departure here from Buttonville is 2:00 p.m. Our understanding is that you will provide your own crew, and your estimated time of arrival in Panama City, Panama, will be 8:00 p.m. local time. Oh, and I have already arranged for the broker in Panama to take possession of your Gulfstream when you arrive. He has agreed to a ten percent commission, and the asking price for the jet will be no less than forty-eight million. But if you ask me, Mr. Samson, I think you'll get more than that—in my opinion. Too bad you won't be returning to Canada though. We've enjoyed having your business. Hope you'll keep us in mind if you ever come back?"
"Oh, you can be certain I will make use of your company again. I have interests all over the world, so there is a very good chance that you will see me again."
"Wonderful to hear. So, we'll see you on Thursday then. The plane will be on the tarmac and you can just board at will. Customs and Immigration will be handled of course in Panama, so there should be no delays in your departure."
"Thank you so much, Mr. Myers."
"Hey, call me Grant, buddy."
"Okay, Grant. You call me David, then. Goodbye. We will see you on Thursday."
Mehmet hung up the phone and let out a deep breath. Mike, Troy and Jim each jumped out of their chairs and patted him on the back. They could tell that Mehmet was relieved, but also darn pleased with himself.
Mike glanced up at his buddies, concern written all over his face. "In three days Samson will be gone—forever. We can't allow that to happen."
Chapter 42
It was Tuesday, middle of the afternoon. Forty-eight hours to go until Samson attempted his great escape. An escape that Mike was determined would never happen. The three friends had strategized until late in the evening on Monday. They knew they needed to be at the airport well before Samson's Gulfstream was scheduled to fly—so around 1:00 in the afternoon. And they were relieved knowing this was not going to be the giant Pearson International Airport that they would have to negotiate their way around. Buttonville was a small privately-owned municipal airport where security would not be quite as stringent, and access to all areas would be quick and more convenient for them.
They needed a plan, and also needed free and unencumbered access. Jim came up with an idea; his brilliantly structured accountant's brain was usually the one they counted on for the details and mechanics of any business idea they adopted. This time was no exception. Jim was also a genius at desktop graphics and printing. He would produce three authentic-looking 'Transport Canada' identification tags in phony names. These tags would have the Canadian fl
ag with the iconic red maple leaf—that alone usually made people want to genuflect in reverence. He would have the tags laminated and equipped with metal clips that could easily be affixed to the pockets of their suit jackets.
The research they did on Buttonville airport gave them their opening. The Greater Toronto Airport Authority (GTAA) had cancelled subsidies over a year ago, and since that time the private owners of the airport struck a deal with a large developer to have the airport land developed for a residential community. The airport was no longer viable after the subsidy was cut, so the owners had sought out an alternative use for this prime land north of Toronto.
The economic recession had put the plans on hold, it seemed. The land was supposed to be developed within the next five years, but that deadline now looked weak. So the airport would have to continue to operate until economic conditions made the development more viable. Which meant they needed a subsidy, or funding, from somewhere. Since the federal government already funded several regional airports throughout the country, it was logical that they might consider Buttonville, to make up for what the GTAA would no longer do and keep the capacity of the airport functioning. Obviously this would be in the best interests of everyone.
Logically, a surprise visit from officials of Transport Canada to conduct a spot inspection would probably not be opposed by the airport management, nor would it be seen as intrusive. It would instead be most likely welcomed with open arms—the prospects of money always opened doors. A fact of life that the three executives at Baxter Development Corporation were more than intimate with.
They would wear their best suits—dark of course—and wear the usual sunglasses, cop fashion, that government employees liked to wear. They would look like "men in black."
The only one of the three who owned sort of a weapon was Troy—a replica 357 Magnum pellet gun, complete with hip holster. He would bring it along and to the untrained eye, and not up too close, it would look like the menacing real thing. They would have to make sure that Samson and his men didn't get too close a look at it, because their eyes were definitely trained. It wouldn't do much damage if he had to use it, depending of course on which part of the body he aimed it at, but it would come in handy for what they had in mind.