7 Deadly Tales (Seven Thrilling Reads!) Page 11

  ‘Asshole,’ mutters Shaw.

  He reaches into his pocket and looks at the menu on his mobile phone in anticipation.

  ‘Still no messages. What’s going on, Nathan?’ he mutters.

  He puts the phone back in his pocket and pours himself another drink.

  Thirty Eight

  Nathan’s eyes open to a circle of humanity looking down at him while he lies on the floor catching his breath. His vision is blurred and unclear. The pain in his jaw reminds him of the punch that he suffered a minute ago. The ominous crowd reminds him where he is. A few dozen guns pointed at his face make him snap out of his daze. Nathan slowly sits up with his hands raised.

  ‘Relax, fellas,’ he says calmly

  The butt end of an AK47 knocks Nathan back to the ground. He spits out a bloody tooth and the pain is back again.

  ‘Shut the hell up!’ the AK47 swinging guard commands.

  Connor Chase pushes his way through the circle of animals. His pack smiles at his presence, cheering and jeering as he signals for quiet.

  ‘Looks like you’re a bit banged up there, Nathan, my boy!’ Nathan scrambles back to a seated position.

  ‘Don’t you move!’ Chase orders.

  Nathan scans the area for an escape and doesn’t like his chances. He closes his eyes, preparing for the worst.

  ‘Look at me!’ Nathan follows the order and looks Connor square in the eyes.

  ‘That’s better. Now I know that this may come as a shock to you, but you are being held prisoner now.’

  ‘No shit.’ Nathan says.

  The guard with the AK47 kicks Nathan in the face and he hits the ground again with a thud.

  Connor puts his arm in front of the guard’s chest to stop him. ‘Not yet Mike, You’ll have your fun. I promise.’

  Mike grunts in understanding.

  ‘Looks like we have a problem, Nathan; my crew has taken a disliking to you. I’m not quite sure why that is. Maybe you can shed some light on the matter?’

  Now blood is pouring out of Nathan’s mouth like a waterfall spurting out of a rock face. He sits up again and wipes his bloody mouth with his dirty sleeve.

  ‘I don’t know’ Nathan answers.

  ‘My men are good, hard working men, Nathan. They pull their weight around here, and maybe you don’t. That could be a good enough reason. Or maybe you left the toilet seat up and someone needed a crap. If they had to take the time out of their day to put the damn seat down or maybe you pissed on the seat, so when they did manage to get the seat down they had pissy hands for all of their hard work!’

  The men chuckle and Chase turns to them and gives them a stern look. The chuckling stops.

  ‘As I was saying, maybe you’re just an asshole and nobody quite likes you. You do have one of those faces I just want to punch…no offence, of course.’

  Nathan shrugs. Chase’s face fills with rage and he cocks his gun.

  ‘Answer me, God dammit!’

  Chase presses the cold barrel of the gun into Nathan’s scull and sends shivers down his spine.

  ‘I don’t know why they don’t like me!’ Nathan manages.

  Chase pulls Nathan’s mobile phone from his pocket. Nathan’s throat sinks to his shoes.

  ‘I believe you left something on the operating table next to poor old Hodgey, God rest his soul. Why have you got a mobile phone, Nathan? Mobile phones are not allowed on this job. Outside communication with the world is prohibited. It could jeopardise the mission. You know that. Why do you have the phone?’

  Nathan stares at the floor.

  Chase clicks the buttons on the phone and skims the content displayed on the small LED screen. He stops and reads messages. He takes a good five minutes before smiling. He nods as if the messages answer his questions. He throws the phone on to the floor, and stamps on it, obliterating the device. The phone splinters and pieces hit Nathan in the face. Nathan thinks he’s taken his last breath. He doesn’t blink; he stares at Connor who is licking his lips.

  ‘Interesting messages you got there, Nathan. Interesting messages indeed.’

  Nathan braces himself and Connor kicks. Nathan’s vision goes black.

  Thirty Nine

  Crystal undoes her blouse. The smooth velvety fabric falls off of her curvaceous bust. , She grabs Jason’s belt and looks deep into his eyes, deep into his soul. She pulls the belt from Jason’s trousers up and the sound turns her on. It whooshes and sends shivers up her neck. Her hair brushes his chest. She’s on her knees, pulling down his trousers. His erect penis stops the pulling motion. She wants Jason in her mouth. She can’t stand the wait. She tugs the trousers harder. He whimpers.

  ‘Damn that hurts,’ She looks up at him and he smiles and helps her undo his trousers. They fall to his ankles. She gasps his hard penis stares straight at her, inviting her to opens her mouth. She grabs it, pulling it closer to her and she takes it in. She feels full.

  He grabs her hair tight, bunching it up as he feels pleasure. She moans and takes every thrust deeply in her mouth.

  He thrusts harder as he grabs her breasts. They are firm and hard and he thrusts even harder. Her knees rub against the rest room’s floor. He stops looking at her as he raises his head up and looks at the ceiling.

  She moans as she grabs his penis with both hands. She sucks hard as she rubs him at the same time. He grabs the side wall nearly ripping the mirror off as he releases in her mouth. She embraces the warm liquid. He stares at the ceiling and convulses with pleasure, finally looking down at her with nothing but euphoria in his eyes.

  Forty

  Officer Mullins sits in the patrol car waiting for his partner to come back from the coffee shop. The radio in the car goes off. Mullin’s reaches for it. ‘Car 765 receiving, over.’ ‘We have a confirmed sighting of suspect Frank McKenzie entering the industrial area in downtown Boston. He was spotted in a dark blue Ford Capri. Suspect is presumed armed and dangerous, approach with caution, Car 765, the voice on the radio intones.

  ‘Shit.’ Mullins sounds the horn and sirens to catch the attention of his partner. His partner rushes out of the shop and enters the car out of breath.

  ‘What’s the rush, Mullins?’

  ‘We just got a 10-4 on Frank McKenzie.’ ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Just strap up and let’s go!’

  ‘Keep your blond Irish ass in check man. I’m strapping up, damn it!’

  Mullins presses the gas pedal and swerves out of the parking space. The patrol car speeds through the lower eastside of Boston.

  Forty one

  ‘Blocking the door won’t do you any good, Frank. They can breach it if they must,’ Jacob watches Frank rearrange the room. Frank sifts through the furniture, turning desks over and pushing filing cabinets down.

  ‘Where the hell is it?’ Frank demands.

  Jacob looks confused. ‘Where the hell is what?’

  Frank faces Jacob. ‘Where the hell is your key card?’

  Jacob shakes his head and laughs. ‘My key card? What the hell are you talking about? What key card?’

  Frank grabs the corporate looking blue tie Jacob wears.

  ‘The key card to the armoury.’

  Jacob pushes Frank away. ‘Are you crazy Frank? This is the Twenty First century. We don’t carry key cards anymore.’

  ‘So how do you get access to certain buildings?’

  Jacob does his jazz hands gesture.

  ‘Fingers, Frank. Every place in this building uses military grade finger printing security. You need an authorised person to unlock any door.’ Frank’s eyes widen with glee as he approaches Jacob. He pulls a blade from his pocket. Jacob screams and Frank grabs his face to muffle the sound of his cries for help.

  Forty Two

  Eddie Smith lies face down on his desk, fast asleep. His arm twitches and an empty bottle of vodka falls off the table. The crash wakens him to a bitter taste of cigarettes and alcohol. He stretches his arms wide above his head. The colour drains from his face, illuminated only by
the beads of sweat dripping from his forehead and shining in the light coming through the cracks on the window blinds. He lights another cigarette and walks to his liquor cabinet. His mobile phone goes off. ‘DA Smith speaking,’ he answers.

  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 crac
ks 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 ground; 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.’