Boston Blood: The first Frank McKenzie Thriller (13 page)

He makes his way down the hallway and comes across a locked door; he tries the handle, no joy. He moves on deeper down the corridor and finds a sign pointing to the security post. He sighs and takes one deep breath and makes his way down the
spic and span
pathway. The corridor is bleach cleaned, the smell makes Frank feel queasy. He approaches the metal security gate that looked like a prison door with bars. He notices the fingerprint machine attached to the wall next to the door. He takes another deep breath in. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bloody rag once again. He takes the severed thumb out of the rag and places it onto the flashing finger print machine. The machines small screen reads “PROCESSING”

It beeps and the light above the door goes green. The door unlocks with a rather loud crunching sound. It surprises Frank. He was expecting a more Sci-Fi type whoosh sound when the door opened. It crunches open and Frank walks through it. He looks back as the door automatically swings shut. He sighs and carry’s on walking. The hallway was just as clean as it was on the other side, but brighter. The light was making Frank disorientated. He braces the wall for a second as he stops to catch his bearings. He carries on walking slower as the pain in his stomach increases and throbbed away like a nagging nuisance in the background. He stumbles on to a second gate. He looks above the door and sees a red light. He once again puts Jacob’s thumb to work on the print machine. The door once again crunches open. Frank makes his through the second door. He hears a high pitched noise similar to trainers on a basketball court. He turns around to see the security door close. Turning back around he is greeted with a punch to the face making his head violently snap back.

Forty Five

Sandra Austin is standing alone in the middle of the channel 72 newsroom. The once hectic area is now eerily quiet and vacant.  She looks around and surveys the area, cameras are tilted down facing the ground, the news desk is littered with papers and Styrofoam cups. Coffee stains are abundant on the surface of the desk. She stands alone, preoccupied with her thoughts. Her mobile phone rings. She answers. She nods her head twice and hangs up, putting the phone back into her back pocket as she runs up the warehouse like staircase towards the production area overlooking the newsroom from above. The lights in this room differ from those on the studio floor. Lighting from the twenty something TV monitors saturate the rooms natural light, the air conditioning’s loud and humming, playing a sort of orchestral piece with the other electrical equipment. The buzzing and rattling are accompanied by the sound of tape stretching out, the sound of the audio tapes doing their jobs. Bob Sinclair was an old school guy. He did not like the way most newsrooms and media in general relied on computers to do their bidding. He kept the retro style broadcast booth with all of its reels of tape and noise to boot. Sandra liked that about him. She enjoyed a challenge and keeping up with the other news crews was challenge enough, even more so with the advantage of digital versus analogue.  Bob was sitting in his seat overlooking the control panels, twiddling the dials and nobs as he saw fit. He was in his broadcast zone; the unflinching look in his eyes was one that Sandra and her co-workers were used to. When he was in that zone everyone knew not to disturb him, even if he did call for her. She waited. He finally looked up at her and smiled.

‘We have a lead on a train coming into Boston in less than two hours. My source says something big is going to happen and I’m sending you down to the train station to report on it when it does.’ He said.

Sandra nods in agreement, reluctant to express any disapproval.

‘Good, I’m glad you understand the situation. Now get going, I want a full a set up before any other news crews catch wind of what’s going down.’

Forty Six

Nathan’s eyes open as the light hits his retina, he squints in pain, blood’s running down his face, pooling around his idle body on the ground.
It looks worse than it is
He thinks to himself. He tries to get up but his hands are handcuffed behind his back, making movement hard as he lies on his front, face down in the dirt. Nathan turns his head and looks at his surroundings.
Where the hell am I
He asks himself quietly in his head. He takes another look around and notices that he is in a cage like structure, imprisoned like a dog, a hand cuffed dog at that. He stretches his head forward, his chin resting on the cold hard ground. He looks straight ahead and notices an abundance of computer serves and wiring.

‘The basement’ He says to himself

Out of the shadows and armed man steps out, the little light coming from his lit cigar is enough to illuminate his face. A scar runs down from his eye brow to his chin. He is wearing a camouflage bandana that looks just as greasy as the floor underneath his feet.  He smiles at Nathan’s struggle and takes another drag on his large Cuban.

‘The basement is right star’ says the man, his Jamaican accent suits his face like the two were meant to be, stereo typical as it may seem, Nathan thought.

Nathan struggles some more as he 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 the basement!’

‘Why am I down here tied up like some sort of pig?’ asks Nathan

The man shakes his head in disappointment.

‘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 laughs, blowing up dust as he does so, covering his face in more muck.

‘True, but this wasn’t my department. I was more of an errand boy, you know, a grunt.’ Says Nathan

The man in the shadows smiles in understanding while nodding his head in a rhythm.

‘I know what you mean, I been doing the same ting down here, I be looking after your ass, till they decide what they want to do with you.’

Nathan nods. Closing his eyes to stop them 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 once more to try and get a better look at the man in the shadows.

‘What’s your name?’ Asks Nathan

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 boots. He forces a smile loaded with gold teeth at Nathan. He signals Nathan to stay quiet with his finger pressed to his mouth. Another man comes out of the shadows; this one dressed differently to the Jamaican man Nathan has been talking to, less army and more of a mercenary style of dressing.

‘Who the hell are you’ says the other man

The Jamaican man pats the other man on the shoulder, while extending his right arm, he swings a heavy right hook at him, knocking him cold to the floor. He disarms the man, and takes his weapons and ammunition. Nathan looks on in shock.

‘Don’t you have enough ammo?’ Asks Nathan, still in shock of what he is seeing.

‘That’s the least of our worries. Come on star, I’m getting you out of here. The name’s Fredrick, Chief Shaw sent me here to rescue you. He had a feeling that you had been compromised, so here I am, and here you are. Let’s get gwaning.’

‘How the hell do you supposed I just “get gwaning”’ Asks Nathan

Fredrick nods and searches his pockets rapidly, as if his life depended on it. He finds what he is looking for and slaps it onto the steel security door of the cell that Nathan is occupying. The slapping sound reminds Nathan of bubble gum.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Getting you out star, tuck and roll on 3’ says Fredrick

‘Tuck and roll? What the hell do you mean by that?’

‘1……2…..’

‘Wait goddamn it!’

‘3’

An explosion shakes the floor as the metal security door flies off its hinges and lands on top of Nathan in a cloud of dust and debris. Nathan lets out a moan as he tries to wriggle out from under the heavy set door. Fredrick walks into the cage and helps Nathan out. He uses all his might as he lifts the near 300 pound door with ease, the muscles on his arms bulging as he successfully tips the door away from Nathan.

‘I said tuck and roll star!’ Says Fredrick playfully.

He un cuffs Nathan and helps him up.

‘Firstly I don’t know what that means, secondly my name is not Star!’

‘I know what your name is, now let’s get gwaning, they can show up any moment’

Nathan shakes himself down, dust filling up the air as he does so.

‘Not very subtle you know, blowing the door of its hinges’

‘What you going to do ay, wait for them to open it up for us?’ explains Fredrick.

Both men make their way out of the basement and up the stairs. Fredrick turns to Nathan and signals him to hold his position. He slowly makes his way up the winding staircase while Nathan stays back. Nathan looks up at the winding stairs and sees Fredrick reach the top, shortly after he hears what sounds like a fight. Nathan quickly moves up the stairs but before he can take more than five steps, a body comes crashing down to his feet. He looks up again and sees Fredrick smiling down at him.

‘Let’s go star’

Nathan reaches the top and rendezvous with Fredrick, who by now is lighting up 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.’

‘Well I’m just saying, the smoke could give us away or something, they could smell us coming. I don’t think that counts towards good stealth practises’

‘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 hits the bars on the gate with a tremendous jar, blood spatters off of his head trickling onto the rusty cold metal finally finding its way to the floor.  He kneels down clutching his wounds, wiping the blood from his face. A mighty punch lands on the back of his head, knocking him down again, this time his hands break his fall. As he lays on the ground staring into space, the guard grabs his head, a hand full of hair, and repeatedly bashes Frank’s scull into the metal gate. With each impact the sound grows weary, until Frank can only hear his heartbeat. The pounding stops, his eyes focus once more; the once controllable wound is now bleeding profusely. He clutches at the gate and braces himself. As his head rests on the floor he can hear his tormentor’s every footstep. He hears them coming once again, a sharp kick to the ribs. Frank cringes. He braces himself again, trying to muster enough energy, another kick. Frank’s vision blurs. Consciousness slips.

‘Get up you son of a bitch!’ The guard yells

Frank awakens to another kick. His hands grip the rusty bars of the security door with all the will he can muster. Then a jab to the kidneys. Frank’s grip grows ever tighter. He hears the rumble of another run up by the guard. He times it.
Two seconds. One second
. Frank grabs the bars tighter and swings both of his legs to the right, catching the guard’s strides as he goes in for another swing. Frank snaps his hips and sweeps the guard off his feet onto his back, blood distorting his vision; Frank gets up and feels out for the fallen guard’s body. He finds his foot. He grabs at the guard’s shiny heavy duty boots and twists the man’s ankle.
Snap.
The man screams in agony. 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 gets up onto his knees and shimmies closer to the guard’s sternum; he lays in four heavy blows to the ribs. He hears them breaking. The sound is encouraging to Frank, he likes what he hears. Frank pounds the man’s chest like a mallet at the butchers. With each crushing blow, blood exudes from the guard’s mouth. Frank stops, out of breath and weak; he stands up and examines his handy work. The guard lays motionless in a pool of blood pouring out of his mouth; Frank looks down at the man’s chest, caved in, akin to a building imploding. The man’s breathing stops with a gargle of blood and one last plea. Frank smiles a smile only he can wear. He stumbles closer to the fallen man’s head. He kneels down and strokes the man’s hair.

‘Hush little man, don’t you cry, Frank is not going, to spare your life’ Sings Frank in a melodic tone.

Frank gets up and cracks his fingers in anticipation. He breaths in deeply and lets out a barrage of kicks to the man’s scull, each one of them splattering blood in all directions. Frank is covered in blood, his rage is ever growing as he demolishes the once human like corpse of the guard. His kicking taking chunks of humanity with them. Frank moans in enjoyment, almost orgasmic as he falls to his knees, mouth wide open in awe.

He smears the blood away from his eyes and leans against the wall to try and catch his breath. The once bleach cleaned hallway is now reminiscent of a warzone, a war that Frank fought in, a war that is far from over.

The guard’s radio goes off.

‘Approaching corridor six, target last seen in the vicinity. Squad B-miner on point’ says the voice on the crackly radio

Frank looks up at the security door and sees a security camera pointed right at him. He quickly shoots up as he reads the sign below the camera.

“
CORRIDOR SIX EXIT”
Reads the sign.

‘Shit!’ Says Frank

Frank swats his fist at the security camera, knocking it off the wall with a crash. He darts his eyes down the corridor and sees shadows approaching fast, accompanied with the sounds of footsteps, multiple men, at least six according to Frank’s math. He bends down and grabs the deceased guard’s 9mm. He aims the weapon down the corridor and see’s silhouettes approaching. He waits.
Three seconds.
He cocks the gun.
Two seconds
. He breaths in deep.
One second
. He fires.