Boston Blood: The first Frank McKenzie Thriller Page 13

  Nathan and Fredrick carry on crawling through the air duct for a few minutes. They come across a T Junction.

  ‘Which way should we go? Asks Fredrick

  ‘How am I supposed to know, you’re the one who came through here.’

  ‘I know star, it’s just its different on the way out’

  ‘What do you mean different? They did not change the dam air duct layout in a day’

  ‘I know it’s different because I’m going the opposite way aren’t I, you stupid or something?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m the stupid one here, course you’re going the opposite way, that’s how backwards and forwards work!’

  Fredrick turns back around to Nathan, this time squaring off to him, pushing Nathan back a few steps. Nathan pushes Fredrick back. Fredrick swings for Nathan, but Nathan ducks out of the way, while the punch lands firmly on the metal walling of the air duct, rattling the structure with a humongous clang. Suddenly the floor beneath them collapses as both men fall through the air duct into a room, landing hard on some concrete flooring. Both men dazed look at each other in spite as they sit up to draw breath. Nathan looks up at the ceiling and notices the massive hole in the air duct where they were crawling in a few seconds prior. Nathan looks at Fredrick who appears to be worse for wear as he grabs his arm, clutching it in pain.

  ‘Are you alright Fredrick?’

  As Fredrick gasps for air, he’s hit in the back of the head with an AK47. Fredrick’s head snaps back to the ground, hitting it with a bloody thud. Nathan jumps in fear as he turns around to see a barrage of armed guards taking aim at him. Behind them, Connor Chase walks into view holding his trademark gun.

  ‘Glad you could join us Nathan, you gave me a scare. I was worried you left without saying goodbye’

  Fifty Eight

  Frank picklocks the padlock with a hair clip, he looks around making sure that no one is in his vicinity. He hears the clip snap in the lock.

  ‘Shit’

  Frank takes a few steps back from the rusty warehouse door and takes another look around his surroundings. He notices the nearby layby where cars are sweeping by at high speeds. Frank times his actions. He notices headlights coming down the layby to his right, glistening through the chain link fence separating him from the road. Frank ducks to avoid the beaming lights. The car sweeps by with a whoosh. Frank peaks up over the fence and sees no oncoming traffic. He gets up and walks over to the nearby door once again. He draws his weapon and fires a shot into the padlock. It snaps and buckles at the force of the bullet. He smiles to himself.

  ‘That should do it’

  He takes the buckled padlock off the door hinge and throws it on the floor. He opens the door to the warehouse and is greeted with a sheet of black. The whole room is pitch-dark. He manoeuvres himself into the black, feeling the wall for a light switch. He finds it and flicks the switch. The light bellows through the room, hitting his eyes with a fierce penetrating ray, obscuring his vision, making it go red for a few moments. His eyes refocus and light up with joy as he looks upon a mass of weapons and ammo stockpiled to the ceilings.

  He walks over to the assortment of heavy weaponry and picks up a bolt action Remington MSR sniper rifle. He cocks the bolt back and pumps out a .338 calibre bullet that lands on the stone floor of the warehouse with an everlasting echo that dampens into the night. The smoke coming from the side of the rifle plumes into the air, as Frank cocks the bolt back one more time for good measure. He enjoys the sound of the projectile hitting the floor, as he takes aim with the MSR; he scopes into the far distance of the warehouse. He aims down the sights, four hundred meters; he flicks the laser sights on and takes a deep breath, his finger hovering over the trigger, twitching with excitement.

  Fifty Nine

  ‘Okay men, this is it. We are going in for a sweep of down town Boston. I’m splitting you up into teams of ten. In total there will be ten teams. Each team will take on a certain block, in which I will relay that information closer to the execution of the sweep. In the next hour there will be a ten truck convoy riding down Boston. Each team will have a point man for the operation. I will call out the teams in a minute. Each of you will have a number on your shoulder. That number will correspond with your team. So for example if you pick out a number one, then you will be part of team one, and so forth. The selection of numbers will be random; you will pick out the numbers from a box. After picking your number, use the Velcro strap to put the number on your shoulder, then report to your team’s point man. I will announce the point men for the teams now, so bear with me.’ Says Chief Shaw

  Shaw announces the point men in a random order. Each man steps forward and turns around, forming a line across the width of the car park, facing the on looking officers. Shaw steps in front of the selected point men, he paces up and down, looking on at the remaining men.

  ‘Okay team eight will be led by officer Santiago. Team nine will be led by Officer Phillips. Finally team ten will be led by Officer Mullins.’

  Mullins steps forward and joins the point men in formation.

  ‘Okay team leaders disperse to the convoy area and line up next to your numbered truck. The selected men will join you once they get their numbers randomly assigned to them. I will come and brief each one of you in the next thirty minutes.

  The selected team leaders leave the formation and walk up to their assigned vehicles. Mullins walks up to his number ten truck and looks around at the other men down his left, each leaning against their trucks. Truck number nine’s point man nods his head in acknowledgement. Mullins nods back. He takes a deep breath in and swallows hard. Something just doesn’t feel right he thinks to himself.

  Sixty

  Sandra Austin pushes the hot water button on the vending machine. The water spills out of the plastic nozzle flowing into a polystyrene cup. She then hits the cappuccino button. The machine hums and sputters as it delivers its powdered coffee into the cup. She bends down and grabs the steaming beverage out from under the dripping nozzle. She takes a sip from her drink and pulls a face. Her work colleague standing next to her laughs in amusement.

  ‘Tastes like shit right?’ He asks.

  Sandra nods her head in agreement.

  ‘What the hell are we doing down here? It’s a damn train station, nothing news worthy is happening, unless you count bad coffee and train delays as news.’ He asks

  Sandra takes another long sip of coffee

  ‘I don’t know Mike. Just stick to pointing the camera in my direction and leave the questions to me.’

  Mike puts the camera on his shoulder and points it in Sandra’s direction. He pans a shot from her feet up to her chest, focusing on her bust.

  ‘Stop being immature Mike and save the space on the hard-drive. We don’t know how long we are going to be here do we?’

  Mike nods reluctantly, putting the camera back on its tripod overlooking the tracks.

  ‘Why do you think Bob asked us to set up on this platform specifically?’ He asks

  ‘It could be one of many reasons. One of them could be someone famous or of importance is going to disembark on this platform.’

  Both Sandra and Mike stare down the tracks in anticipation of the train’s arrival.

  Sixty One

  Frank is stocking up on ammo and weapons in the warehouse. He has the MSR rifle slung across his back and two 9mm’s hoisted on his belt. He grabs a twelve inch army knife from a box on a shelf above him. He suddenly spots a box next to it that has the word “EXPLOSIVES” tattooed on its side. He reaches up and grabs the box. He settles it down on top of a stack of crates towering to his chest level. He tries to pry the wooden box open but is unsuccessful. He looks around for something to help him open the stubborn box. He spots a crowbar resting near his feet, he grabs it and splits the explosives box open, revealing a medley of frag grenades. He grabs three and attaches them to his belt, using the supplied frag clips in the box. He closes the explosives box and puts it back on the shelf. He spots some black
face paint on the shelf under the boxes of explosives. He grabs the round shoe polish like tin and opens it. He starts to apply it to his face and arms. He rips the remaining sleeve material off his tatted shirt and pastes his arms in the paint. The dried blood on his skin is masked by the dark camouflage like substance. Suddenly he drops to his knees in pain as he grabs his head, his finger nails digging deep into his skin, scratching at the surface like a cat at its scratching post. The images of pain and suffering resurface in his psyche as he claws for sanity. He screams in pain as he uses the crates to steady himself back to his feet. The voices in his head are thumping away at his conscious as he relives the day’s events, the killing of Tasha, the bloodshed in the hallway, the massacre at Connor Chases home.

  He falls down once again, shaking in pain; his head hits a puddle of water on the floor. He chokes on it, trying to lift his head up to draw breath. He tries again, but feels as if someone is holding his head down, drowning him. He forces himself up but it thrown straight back into the puddle, the force of the blow is tremendous and cuts his eyebrow open, blood is trickling out, the taste of copper in the water, is now in his mouth. He manages to force his head up and gasp for air, but again is pushed back down into the water. He screams, the force of the scream ignites bubbles in the puddle, he pushes one last time, this time he manages to free himself from the unworldly grip. His head bursts out of the water, soaking wet as he looks around the dingy warehouse, no one in sight. He breaths deeply and staggers up. His face is dripping, as he breaths, his breath is visible in the air, like breathing in a freezer. He looks around again and notices nothing out of the ordinary. He looks down at the puddle and sees his reflection. A blood droplet falls gently from his check and lands in the crescent of water. A small ripple bursts in the puddle, washed with a tint of red. He looks deeper into the sheen and sees nothing. No reflection, nothing, just pure black. He snaps out of his daze and looks around. He walks over to the shelves and grabs another gun. He pulls the hammer back and aims down the sights. He strafes from left to right, making his way through the dark warehouse. He sweeps the immediate area and moves on deeper into the seemingly empty building. He makes his way to a section near the entrance of the warehouse. He hears a noise, similar to a pin drop, a noise that is very familiar to Frank, the sound of a shell casing hitting the floor. He ducks behind a massive pylon like structure next to the door, the light switches just above his head. He hits it and the lights go off. He hears a crash, like someone knocking into something.

  ‘Damn it’ the voice says quietly.

  Frank grabs his torch and turns it on. He puts the torch in left hand while holding the gun in his right. He moves forward and spots a person slowly moving away from an overturned trash can. The person doesn’t spot Frank. Frank squeezes the hand grip of his gun tightly as he slowly makes his way towards the intruder. A mere foot away he cocks his gun for effect and places the cold barrel of the weapon on the back of the person’s neck, making the shadowy figure stop dead in his tracks.

  ‘Freeze dirt bag!’ Shouts Frank

  ‘Frank?’ Asks the man

  Frank turns the man around and shines the torch in his face. It’s the DA, Eddie Smith.

  ‘Eddie, what the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I was going to ask you the same question Frank’

  ‘Well I’m sorry to disappoint you Eddie but I’m not taking any questions at this time’

  Sixty Two

  The year 2006: SIX YEARS BEFORE BOARDING THE TRAIN

  Flowers commemorate the entrance to the campus of the Boston High school. Students stand in seldom silence as people continue to lay flowers and ribbons on the campus lawn. A mass of media outlets and news crews are strewn across the entrance of the school overlooking the flowers and students. Sandra Austin is standing on the spot just in front of the school’s Football team sign. She looks at Mike who is signalling her with a five finger countdown, Five, Four, Three, Two, and One.

  ‘High school teacher Maggie Gardener was found brutally murdered in her home last night. Neighbours complained about a so called ruckus in the early hours of the morning in which Boston PD responded. They arrived on the scene in which her front door was unlocked and open. They walked in and found a horrific scene in which blood was found in nearly every room of the house. They drew their weapons and searched the house for any sign of a body. They found Mrs Gardener on her bed brutally beaten. She was pronounced dead on the scene. The police have just informed us that the teachers’ cause of death was asphyxiation. They have also told us that they suspect the woman was raped after her death. At this moment there are no leads on any suspects. The only thing certain about this case is that Mrs Gardener will be missed by many. As you can see behind me, students and faculty members are paying their respects. Over seven hundred bouquets of flowers have been delivered by hand. The principle has declined to comment on the situation stating and I quote “This is a troubling time for us all, I would rather not comment on such a heinous crime, I will leave the character and resolve of the teachers and students to speak for themselves.” It’s obviously a sad day here in Boston, millions around the country are showing their respects for the decorated teacher who by herself, has lifted a countries standards in teaching, She has won many achievements in her career and was considered one of the more valuable members of the school board. Her mark on teaching will be missed.

  This is Sandra Austin reporting live from Boston High.’

  Sixty Three

  The TV in the incident room flickers back into life as an officer hits the AV button. The screen focuses in and the familiar site of Connor Chase appears on the screen. He is dressed in his white tux; this one seems to be cleaner than the other one, likely a switch.

  Chief Shaw is watching on as he turns to the group of officers surrounding him.

  ‘Who has time to switch tuxedos? I’ve been wearing this cheap suit for nearly two days’ He says, the surrounding officers concurring with nods of their heads.

  Shaw looks on intently at the TV screen as it flickers the images of oppression brought by Chase and his men who are standing in formation holding automatic weapons. Shaw thinks how stereotypical an image he is witnessing, the essence of terrorism brought by a group of men who claim to be patriots. The speech begins as Chase enters the shot, his follower’s onscreen part ways much like a crowd giving way to the pope. The importance of the man is evident in the loyalty and brotherhood that is seen in the eyes of the men wearing balaclavas. Chase is the only man whose face is visible, a fact that has been gnawing at Shaw for some time. A man that is not afraid to be associated with the events in Boston. A man that is not afraid to die for his cause.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, I’m here once again to bring you, the public some troubling news. News that not only shows the corrupt scattering for the hills, but the brave being sacrificed by the so called good. Where I come from, no man is equal. That is a fact. That being said we all like to think that we are of equal ability and status in this messed up world. That too is a lie. You may be wondering, where is this place you talk of. The place where no one is equal? Well my fellow people, its America. I am an American. Not by choice, because god knows, this country is hell bent on making choices for me, such as where I will go to war, who I can marry. Which sex I should be intimate with. What movies I should watch. What adverts I should see. What president I should obey. What laws I should abide by. Not one of these things is a good thing. In this country we have learned to bite our tongue, obey the rich and do their bidding. If they want a new holiday home, we pay for it through taxes. If I want a new holiday home, I must dream on because I know that the government will cut my wages, and every one else’s wages in the public sector before they give me a pay rise. This here isn’t about money though, that’s not why I have come here to speak about. Yes there are many problems in America, and I, Connor Chase plan on addressing them as the time comes nearer. Today’s problems are our future children’s obstacles. This 28 amendment that I
am installing is not one only derived for people’s privacy, its one for the people. It’s the amendment that gives us American citizens the power again, the power that this government has confiscated. It’s because of hard working Americans that they can sell our information, use our information and bargain and burden our lives. It’s because of hard working Americans they can spend billions on wars and so called global missions of peace. It’s hard working Americans that pay for the wages of hard working police, fire department and hospitals. It’s because of this government that all three of these vital commodities are in danger. It’s because of this Government that an undercover cop will die today.’

  Shaw’s face whitens as Connor grabs a man into view, wearing a bag over his head, his identity is not certain to anybody, apart from Shaw. Connor smiles as he pulls the white sack from over the unidentified man’s head. It’s Nathan.

  ‘This is here is Nathan. I am not sure if it’s his real name or just his undercover one. I’m pretty sure it’s not his real name, but that’s beside the point. It’s what Nathan is doing here that tickles my funny bone.’ Says Chase while sadistically tickling Nathan’s elbow

  ‘Now I’m going to ask you a few questions Nathan is that okay?’

  Nathan nods his head, the sweat on his forehead strobing on the TV screen

  ‘Okay, good to know your cooperative. Let’s get down to this.’

  Nathan nods once again, visibly in shock of the current situation he finds himself in.

  ‘Are you an undercover cop Nathan?’

  Nathan nods

  ‘No, I asked you a questions boy, you will have the decency to answer me!’ Demands chase, his tone ever more aggressive.

  ‘Yes I am an undercover cop, special forces to be precise.’

  ‘Oh, Boston SWAT. A man of skill indeed, no wander we snapped you up, you certainly have the credentials. Why are you undercover here then Nathan?’