The Flu 1/2 (2 page)

“Christ.” Watson shook his head. “You called in the Harley Cavalry?”

Confused, Harden looked to Agent Bloom. “The Cavalry?”

Sarcastically correcting him, Bloom nodded. “The
Harley
Cavalry.”

“What the hell is the Harley Cavalry?” Harden asked Chief Hogan.

Hogan pointed.

Mick Owens parked the motorcycle in the first available opening and dismounted. He sported a tight black tee shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Other than his shoulder harness, the badge clipped to his belt was the only indication that the big man was a law enforcement official.

Mick’s walk was intimidating, as if his bulky six-foot-five frame wasn’t frightening enough. His shoulder length blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he wore a black bandana.

He looked every part of the biker he used to be and probably still was. The product of parents who rode all their lives, Mick didn’t come from money and was as down to earth as they came. Growing up poor and living his entire young life in a trailer outside of Lodi, Ohio, made him honest, proud, and a bit rough. Although Mick would argue
that
fact, claiming his level of roughness touched around the realms of ‘only a little’.

“Hey, Carl.” Mick extended his hand to Chief Hogan, then to Watson. “Sheriff.”

Sheriff Watson grumbled, “Can’t miss a single moment of action, now, can you?”

Mick smiled and tossed up his hands. “Hey, I was perfectly content hanging back.”

“No, you weren’t,” Watson scoffed. “You were monitoring that damn radio waiting for the call.” With a ho-hum nod of introduction, Watson pointed to Harden and Bloom. “Mick, want you to meet the FBI agents on duty here. Harden, Bloom, this is Chief of Police, Mick Owens of Lodi.”

Harden was shocked. To him, Mick didn’t even resemble a police officer. “If you’re the Chief of Police in another town, what are you doing here?”

Chief Hogan answered, “Mick has jurisdiction. Still on the State Police payroll.”

Mick flashed a smile and began to take off his shoulder harness. “OK, bring me up to speed.”

“Another one dead,” Hogan said. “Six hours now. Three armed. Eight remaining, four are women. And you know, the usual I want this-I want that demands.”

Mick cringed. “Why in God’s name do people do that? Do they actually think they’ll be the one criminal that gets away with it?” He looked at the agents. “What do you know about them?”

“Everything,” Bloom answered.

“Give me the personality run downs,” Mick requested. “Carl, you have the plans to the building?”

“Right here.” Hogan pushed the layout forward. “Got an idea?”

“Absolutely.” Mick grinned. “But first, I need to know...” he turned back to Harden and Bloom. “You want them dead or alive?”

* * *

It wasn’t the usual attire for a television reporter, but it was a sight that Jimmy Lewis didn’t mind. Hidden behind the one shelf, Jimmy stared out the store window.

“Hey, Jimmy?” Marcus, one of Jimmy’s crew, called from across the store. “Something going on out there?”

“No,” Jimmy answered dazedly, never turning around.

Marcus shrugged to his cohort, Josh. “He must be dreaming.”

Jimmy was. Labeled an ‘easy sucker’ when it came to beautiful, sexy women, Jimmy was transfixed by the television reporter who obviously, to him, earned a special right to do that news report not far from the store. Jimmy swore at that moment he was going to find out what station she worked for and watch that channel faithfully.

He had never seen a reporter dressed like her. Tight black skirt that looked like leather; wrapped against her well-formed body, the garment barely covered her thighs, and it far from covered her toned rear-end every time she bent over to pick up items that she kept dropping. It was a vision Jimmy knew would increase any news broadcast ratings.

He watched her, biting his bottom lip every time she moved, smirking whenever he could see that hint of a purple G string she wore to ward off unsightly panty lines. Gorgeous from head to toe, the reporter captivated Jimmy. Leaning against that shelf, he surveyed her, projecting the results in a distorted manner into his mind, fighting the inopportune post-pubescent hard-on that pressed more tightly against his jeans each second as he slipped into a fantasy vision of his head wedged between her thighs. Just as he brought his bottom lip into his mouth, swearing he could taste her, the slight ‘thump’ of something falling in the back of the store snapped him away from the window.

“What was that?”

Josh answered, looking to the back of the store. “Something fell?”

“Something fell?” Jimmy snapped with sarcasm. “Just fell?”

“Want me to check it out?” Josh asked.

With a motion of his revolver and a nod of his head, Jimmy indicated a woman huddled by the bread rack. “Yeah, take her as your cover.”

“Got it.” Josh reached down and snatched the woman from the floor, causing her to scream. “Shut up!” he yelled, then cast a look at Jimmy, and then at Marcus by the coolers. He roughly pulled her to the back storage area. It was quiet, filled with boxes.

“Anything?” Jimmy called from the front.

“No, it’s...” Josh stopped when he heard another ‘thump’, not as loud as the first. “Hold on.” Pulling the hysterical woman closer to him, Josh walked in the direction of the sound—a door, seemingly to the basement. Quietly, he reached out and opened it.

The surprising ‘meow’ of a cat and the scurrying of its furry body caused Josh to not only jump, but laugh at himself as well. “A cat.” He turned his head from the door, watching the cat run away.

“A cat?” Jimmy yelled. “I fuckin’ hate cats.”

“Me too.” Still chuckling at his unwarranted fear, Josh turned around to close the door and found himself face to face with a chest. He slowly lifted his eyes, and while he was momentarily unable to react, a huge hand shot forward and grabbed his face.

Thumb on one temple, fingers on the other, Mick’s hand nearly crushed him as he lifted him from the floor and injected a sedative-filled syringe into the side of Josh’s neck.

Still holding the young man, Mick dropped the syringe and swung his other hand out, covering the woman’s mouth to prevent a scream. He waited a few seconds, felt Josh’s body go limp, and Mick quietly lowered him down to the floor.

Releasing his silencing hand from the woman, he shook his head to her as he pulled out his revolver and crept to the door that led to the front of the store. Quickly he peered into the area where the captors held the hostages. He spotted Jimmy and Marcus at what Mick believed was a short but safe distance from those they held. He knew the racking of the slide would be easily heard in the silence, so he had to be fast.

And he was.

Pegging his targets, Mick spun into the doorway, raised his revolver and fired. No hesitation between shots. No time.

Marcus dropped first from a shot delivered to his stomach, then as anticipated, Jimmy raised his gun. Mick fired once and that was all that was needed. The clean entrance hole in the front of Jimmy’s forehead propelled a shower of blood from the back of his head. Jimmy flew back amidst the screams of the hostages.

The standoff was over.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Tube socks, an empty bag of chips, and a few wrestling magazines were strewn about the living room floor. Two sets of huge teenage feet were propped upon the coffee table as Dustin and Christian Hughes watched the event playing loudly on the television.

Totally engrossed, the boys, two years apart could have been outdoors, but they opted for the excitement of the news. After all, in a sense it had to do with their town.

Seventeen-year-old Dustin passed a new bag of chips to his younger brother, Christian, while his eyes never left the set. Chip, chomp, pass. They ate, sat, and looked alike. The two could have passed for twins, same light brown hair, facial features, and build, but the height differences told another story.

Dustin briefly lifted his eyes from the set, listening to his mother’s footsteps racing about the floor above. When she hit the steps, he hissed, “Here she comes.” He listened to his mother, counted the steps, and did a preemptory call out, “I’ll clean up.”

As if she didn’t hear him, Dylan Hughes froze on her entrance into her living room. “Shit. Look at this mess. I want this cleaned up,” she stated, moving her thin body quickly toward the dining room. “I mean it. Dustin?”

“I said I would,” Dustin answered. “Hey, Mom, check out...”

“Twenty bucks is on the table.” Dylan tucked her long light hair behind her ears. “Are you listening? And where is Tigger?”

Both Dustin and Christian pointed to the chair.

All Dylan saw were magazines, until she lifted the pile exposing her six-year old son Anthony. A child who suffered from Endocrine Dysfunction, his tiny body–no bigger than that of a three year old–curled tightly in the chair as he slept.

Dylan whined. “Damn it. Don’t let him sleep too long. And there’s twenty bucks on the table. Get a pizza. Don’t blow it on junk. I’ll be home after the store closes. Guys?”

“Mom?” Dustin, again, tried to get her attention. “Check this out.” He pointed to the television. “Mick did it again.”

Grabbing her purse, Dylan halted mid-kiss of Anthony as she looked at the news. Hearing the broadcast about Mick’s ending of the hostage situation, she sighed. “Christ, as if his ego isn’t big enough.” She moved to the door. “Love ya, guys, I won’t be late. And clean up.” Throwing open the front door, she stopped, physically blocked by the man standing there.
Sam.

Big, with a little extra weight and short-cropped black hair, Sam Hughes smiled nervously at her. “Hey.”

As always, his presence affected Dylan. There was something about him. Of course, to Dylan, there had always been something about Sam, and had been since they were five years old. Viewing his handsome face caused her to smile inwardly and her stomach to twitch like a teenager’s. She sort of enjoyed that since the sensation had gotten lost in the shuffle of a long-term marriage recently ended. “What are you doing here?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Um... I knew you were working, thought I’d come by and sit with the boys.”

“They don’t need a babysitter. Dustin...” Dylan looked over her shoulder. “Well, he does OK. And I’m a mile away in town.”

“I know that.” Sam spoke with the hint of a country accent. “Can’t I spend the evening with them anyhow? Adult supervision is never bad.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll make them clean up,” he spoke persuasively.

“Sam, you do this all the time.”

“I’ll leave. But, I did drive all the way.”

“Oh, yeah, ten miles.” Dylan opened the door wider. “Fine. And my house better be clean. Further visits are contingent on it.”

“Spotless.” Sam smiled and stepped inside. “Hey, Dylan.” He called as she was about to leave. “Should I...should I be gone when you get back?”

Dylan walked out.

Sam shrugged. “Hey, guys.”

A less than enthusiastic ‘Hey, dad’ emerged from the teenagers still watching television.

“Thanks.” Sam said sarcastically. “Where’s Tigger?” He saw the pointing fingers of his elder sons and looked down at the chair. “Damn it. We can’t let him sleep too long.” He walked over to join his boys on the couch. “What are you guys watching?”

“The news,” Christian answered. “It’s cool. Look, Mick did it again.”

Sam shook his head. “Christ, as if his ego isn’t big enough.”

After getting quick odd glances from the boys over the same remark spoken a few minutes earlier by Dylan, Sam stole the bag of chips and plopped down with his sons.

* * *

Fairbanks, Alaska

Nothing was better than the hard unforgiving surface of a hotel mattress; at least that was what Trevor Donahue thought. Falling back, arms out, and landing with a deadened ‘thump’ on the bed, Trevor grabbed his camera from the nightstand and began to check it out. He propped his lanky body against pillows and crossed his legs.

The story had been started. Trevor only needed to make his mini road trip to get the photos to go along with it. How many days had he spent in this Holiday Inn? Five or six? He had started to lose count, especially since the sun didn’t set. At least the magazine was paying for what was turning out to be a little vacation. He had nothing to do but line edit his story, stare out the window, watch television, and swim in the indoor pool. The hotel lounge left a lot to be desired, although the karaoke contest two nights earlier wasn’t bad.

Thinking about when he would finally make it home to Los Angeles, Trevor reached to replace the camera on the nightstand. He looked up at the knock on the door that adjoined his room and the next.

“Come in,” Trevor called out.

“Good news.” Bill Daniels walked in, an older man with a deliberately shaved head. “Weather’s looking good for tomorrow.”

“Yes!” Trevor pumped his fist excitedly like a teenager. “So you going or hanging back?”