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.