Chapter 9
Posted: July 31, 2011 Filed under: Fiction. Leave a comment »Psycho burst into the room. “We have to leave now! Someone is tracing my internet access!” Chaos replaced calm as we frantically packed everything we could think of. “Jo is at the bodega!” “We’ll grab her on our way out!” “Could you tell who it is?” “If you guarantee me a few hours in a secure setting I’ll give you more information than you want.” We locked the apartment up. Psycho set up some kind of virus which would infect any computer that accessed her equipment. She then set up small viruses designed to wipe out her hard drives. As a failsafe small charges were set in her computer designed to go off if the computers are tampered with in any way. We proceeded to the seventh floor equipment room. Psycho had discovered an access panel behind a wall unit which led out to the roof of the adjacent building. In our business you always planned for contingencies.
“Whoomp!” We ducked into the bodega as glass rained down on the street. “Damn, who ever that is they are good. We just got out in time. I hope the motherfuckers were all blown to pieces.” At the register Jo stood mouth agape. She was pale as a ghost, the groceries scattered at her feet. Marie took Jo by the arm. Psycho and I gathered up the groceries and headed for the back of the store. A plastic curtain spanned the doorway leading to the rear. ” No, No, You no go there!” The clerk, a stout Asian woman about four ten and indeterminable age, waddled out from behind the register waving her arms wildly. The back room was a dimly lit mess. Roaches scattered from under our feet. Jo moaned softly as Marie gently led her. The back door was slightly ajar. Pressing my eye to the crack I was momentarily blinded. As the alley came into view, I spotted a short Asian man in a dirty white apron sitting on an upended pail smoking a joint. Slowly pushing through the door, as I passed the man I looked him in the eye and placed my fingers to my lips. He flinched as psycho fixed him with a glare of death.
“Take my six” Psycho softly whispered as she slipped past me. Marie and Jo slowly follow. Keeping an eye on the far end of the alley as well as the five exit doors from the businesses in this strip, I slowly eased up the alley being careful not to slip on the large quantity of debris. The alley ended in the parking lot of the Pelham projects. Three cars down was an old Delta 98, what a car. Long, black, four doors, sporting a 455 cubic inch engine under the hood. Major gas guzzler, it would easily fit us all. Best of all no computer and unless an antitheft device with GPS had been installed, it couldn’t be easily electronically tracked. Even I could break into and hot wire the car, no need for an advanced degree in electronics.
Sixty seconds later we were approaching the Bronx River Parkway. Entering on the northbound ramp, we quickly merge into anonymity of traffic. Bronx River to the Cross Bronx then a quick drive down the NJT and before we knew it we were merging onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike. We plan on being in Newport before dark. It’s about a four-hour drive from the Bronx to Newport PA. Stopping once at a Super Walmart to pick up some two-way radios and supplies, we arrived at 1400 hours (that’s two o’clock to you civilians) and began looking for access to the Juanita River upstream from the Long Pond Leadership Camp. Newport is a picturesque little town stuck in 1946. There is no crime to speak of and outsiders stick out like a sore thumb. If we can find someone willing to talk to us, we should have no problem discovering everything that went down, leading up to and immediately after the car was obtained. Someone sold it or had it stolen from them.
The camp turns out to be south-east of Newport, the entrance is just south of the intersection of Mahoney Road and Lower Baily. It features a man-made pond large enough for swimming and kayak lessons. The camp is separated from the river by railroad tracks. A foot bridge crosses the tracks to allow access the large tracks of wooded land bordering the river and portage for kayaks and canoes. We dropped Jo and Marie south of camp at the intersection of Basin Hill and Losh’s Run. The plan is, they would come through the trees and approach the camp from the north while Psycho and I drive right in through the front door.
You never know how these things are going to work out. On paper the camp is owned by Samantha Clark. But, based on the camp’s charter it had been around for sixty years. The Clarks would have to be in their eighties if still alive.
The camp entrance is a gravel road which looked freshly laid. The drive ends in a large clearing large enough to park about fifty cars and still have room to turn a bus around. Fresh gravel is piled at the far end of the lot near a front end loader. Three buildings angle off the lot, each adorned with a wrap around deck fronted by a freshly built handicap ramp. The wood was fresh enough to read the manufacturers brand stamped on each plank. In the background is a volley ball court and pool. Parking in front of the center building we step out of the car. No one appears to be around. The silence is palpable. “Let’s start here, we’ll see if anyone has been around lately and look for clues about the car.”
Walking from cabin to cabin we inspected the doors and windows for accessibility. Every door appeared to have had new locks installed. Windows all appear to have magnetic sensors on them. The largest cabin appeared to be the main building and had magnetic sensors on all the doors and windows as well as what appeared to be motion sensors mounted on the walls. Someone had recently become worried about security. It was very apparent that remodeling had been going on and seemed to have been paused. Everything was either freshly painted and or power washed. Walkways had been staked out from cabin to cabin and between recreational facilities. It looks like they are preparing to install paved or concrete sidewalks. The flagpole is brand new, enormous and appears to be one of those new “concealed” cell phone towers, probably the source of funding for the remodeling going on. “The security system doesn’t look finished, but, it appears to be state of the art and installed by someone who really knows what they are doing. If it is online, then whoever runs this place already knows we are here.” Psycho stated with a cautious tone. “OK then, why not stay here tonight. Let’s call the girls in and discuss our plans. Tell them to keep their eyes open. Whoever installed that security system may have detection or defense devises in the woods. We won’t stay in the buildings, instead we will hide the car and set ourselves up in observer nests, see if any one shows.” Using our new radios we called the ladies in and began looking for places to hide the car and ourselves.
Just as we were settling in a van pulled up. Driving around the parking lot in a circle the van pulled up in front of the main building. The rear doors opened up exposing a lift which unfolded and began to lower. A serious looking, muscular caucasian male operating a light weight wheelchair adorned with Marine corps emblems emerged. His hair was close-cropped and the way he casually surveyed his surroundings spoke to me of an operator. “ya’ll show yourselves, I know your here. Ya’ll not afraid of a cripple are ya?” Cautiously, trusting that the ladies had my back I stood and walked into the middle of the lot. “Who are you?” I ask. “We are not talking till your three friends show themselves,” he replied. Slowly the ladies walked into the parking lot. “What is this? Ex models turned burglars?” he asked with a smile. “Please give me an explanation as to why you are on my property.”
Chapter 8
Posted: June 26, 2011 Filed under: Fiction. Leave a comment »Marie walked in, “my Doc aren’t you all domesticated and such. What a nice surprise.” “I am a bachelor you know, you’d be surprised at what I am capable of.” I replied. Psycho walked over and patting me on the ass said, “Doc I’m surprised at you cheating on me already, that’s not cool, at least, not unless I’m invited.” She gave Marie a kiss on the cheek. Jo stumbled in still with sleep in her eyes. She looked around confused. “Don’t worry you will get used to us.” I told her, ”Heck we are just starting to get used to us again. Here have some pancakes and Psycho will get you some coffee.” “May I ask you something?” Jo asked, “I mean, what the fuck is going on?” I stayed quite for a while. Not sure what Marie had told her, I was not sure how much to say. I mulled it over while flipping pancakes and turning the bacon. The sweet smell of cooking filled the apartment and I began to relax. Psycho returned with a Brazilian blend and a ten cup coffee maker. While the coffee brewed we discussed how much to reveal of what we know. Eventually we decided to reveal everything and include Jo as a member of the team.
Over breakfast we filled Jo in as much as we felt we could. “We used to work together sometimes at the request and convenance of the government, kinda per diem. I believe none of us is currently in government employment.” Everyone agreed. “Sometimes we engaged in dangerous activities of a more military nature. We each have a specific skill set, some of which you witnessed the other day at our friends house. A few days ago someone tried to grab me. I ran into some trouble while trying to follow-up. That’s when I decided to look up some old friends for help. The situation has become more disconcerting. We all saw what happened at Debbie’s apartment. Last night I discovered that my home was breached by some unknown persons. They bypassed my alarm and accessed my hard drive. Someone has been making inquiries at psycho’s place of employment. We have to assume that Marie is also compromised. My phone was unlisted, and everything I owned was in aliases. I assume that Psycho and Debbie employed the same subterfuge, yet someone found them. Until proven otherwise we assume it was the same people. Other than the people in this apartment everyone else I worked with at the government is either still in their employ or dead.”
Marie spoke first, “OK doc, since this all started with you, why don’t you fill us in on what you have done so far.” I related the events of the past few days. “All that I’ve got left to go on is the car. Which, according to Department of Motor Vehicle records, came from a summer camp in central Pennsylvania called Longpond Leadership Camp. It’s a 225 acre farm just outside Newport Pa. I did a little research; Newport is a town on the Juniata River about three hours from here. I would like to propose a road trip. Psycho, how long would it take to make up some Federal ID’s? If questioned we can represent ourselves as federal agents investigating some terrorist plot or another.” “Well Doc give me a few minutes,” she replied, “I still have several ID’s for myself from back in the day. I’ll set up my stuff and see what we can do.”
“Why don’t we send Jo to downstairs to get some sandwiches and other supplies, you know snacks, drinks and stuff. That will give the rest of us time to prepare up here. We have to download some maps and look up the demographics of the area.” We pooled our resources and came up with a list of sandwich making ingredients and drinks, enough for at least two meals. Jo headed down to a little supermarket across the street. In a small hallway closet which served as a pantry, we found several collapsible coolers. We didn’t have much to pack since most of us only had the clothes on our backs. A quick stop at the south mills mall in Paramus New Jersey would provide us with everything we would need.
Chapter one.
Posted: June 26, 2011 Filed under: Fiction., Uncategorized Leave a comment »Something feels wrong. Tonight as the train rockets through the night carrying me home, my novel just isn’t keeping my attention. The main character, detective MacEntire is about to walk into a trap set by the diabolical serial killer. Most nights I become so engrossed in my reading, my stop arrives without warning. I almost exclusively read action suspense novels. This particular author’s books are usually impossible to put down. Normally, I am riveted to the pages and have even missed my stop while reading. It is very unusual that I can’t concentrate on the words in front of me. The page keeps going out of focus and I keep reading the same line over and over again. It’s as if I were back in school trying to struggle through some onerous text which is being forced down our throats by the author/professor. My experience is such, that when a professor has written a text, not only is that book a terrible medium for learning, but it will be required reading in the class. Looking up from my book, I feel very uncomfortable, as if I’m being watched. For several days now a feeling of impending doom has loomed over me. Slowly I glance up. The man staring at me through dark eyes wears a rumpled blue railroad employee’s uniform. He stands about five ten with unkempt black hair, a scraggly mustache and olive complexion. He would be completely indiscernible, if not for the intensity of his glaring look. His eyes smolder with unbridled hate. I glance and our eyes meet for a moment before he quickly looks away. He gets up and lumbers past me moving to the distant end of the car behind where I am sitting. As he passes, I can feel his eyes boring into me and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
I draw comfort in my law enforcement issue Glock 9mm with its 16 rounds of hollow point ammunition. I use 147 grain subsonic jacketed hollow point bullets, chosen, due to the fact that their subsonic speed makes them less identifiable as gunshots. There is no loud crack, because, the bullet does not break the sound barrier. Because of their speed and the hollow point they are less likely to ricochet or pass through walls, making it a very safe round to carry. The down side is that the round is not accurate at any distance and may not pass through thick layered clothing. It will not pass through even the lowest rated ballistic vests. The most positive aspect of this round is that a small sound suppressor makes the gun completely silent. The bullet is almost completely impractical for defense or even target practice. Only one law enforcement group and almost no civilians use this ammo, making it very expensive and difficult to find. You may ask why I carry it. For the most part, because I can legally carry a 9mm and still feel the need for a bullet that is easily silenced.
I am on edge. That guy really shook me up. Do combat veterans experience this kind of paranoid flashback? The image of homeless veterans begging at busy intersections flashed in my head. Forcing such thoughts aside, I try to catalog who might be interested in me. Since leaving the agency I had become complacent. I chose New York because with its nine million inhabitants it would be relatively easy to disappear. There had been contact over the years. A few offers, but they seemed to lose interest. Shifting in my seat I adjust myself into a sideways position. I don’t see him. It was probably nothing. I’m just getting paranoid in my old age.
Reflecting on the contacts I’ve had over the years. I wonder if maybe I was going to be approached. I had been approached in the past. The agency keeps tabs on ex employees whom they deem worthy. When they need some ridiculous job accomplished, they approach with offers of cash. The United States government has some 40 odd intelligence agencies. Some are publicly acknowledged, some are known only to select few. Each of these agencies operates under specific guidelines and has certain responsibilities. For example the CIA spies on foreign countries. The NSA spies on Americans. This of course is a very loose explanation of what they do. Since Sep. 11 2001 the individual agencies have received broader, expanded powers (and budgets) and for the present makes a public effort at information sharing and cooperation. However, each of these agencies competes with the others for funding and information. They guard their information closely and do not share anything more than they feel they have to. They do not trust each other and for the most part they do not like each other. They compete ruthlessly on every level and are very jealous of each other. On occasion they feel they need information which exists outside their jurisdiction. Usually these information gathering endeavors are illegal for that agency to perform. Keep in mind that these little projects might actually be within the jurisdiction of another agency. Or the information desired might already be in the possession of another agency. Not that they would think twice about stealing it. On occasion someone may be abducted or even killed in the interest of national security. On those occasions ex employees or independent contractors are quietly employed.
Settling back into my seat, the pain returns. A forty-year-old man in a ninety- year- old body. My pain was not the result of any one event, rather a subtle and repetitive abuse. Refusing to become a slave to drugs I had held the pain at bay with a rigorous martial arts routine and yoga, which I have been slacking off as of late. Regulating my breathing and relaxing my body, I Appear to drift off to sleep. I study my surroundings through the slits of my eyelids. I assume that if I am really being watched it would be a team. For now I do nothing but stay alert. Finally, we arrive at my stop. There he is glaring at me from the back of the car. He does not get off. Maybe I look like someone he knows. I rack my brain. Is it possible I jostled him while running for the train? I put it out of my mind. There really is no reason for anyone to be coming after me. I’m out on disability and have let myself go. Technology has advanced by leaps and bounds; I have not kept up. Maybe I bumped into him boarding the train or taken his usual seat. But, maybe, it would be a good idea to start working out again.
Exiting the train, I step into the cold night. Pulling my coat tight as I cross the parking lot, I wonder about my sanity. I still park my car in out-of-the-way places hidden from view. I never take the same route twice and vary my arrival and departure times. I even alter my mode of travel from car to bus to train. There are no constants in my life. Not even friends. It’s a lonely life, maybe it’s finally affecting my sanity. Arriving at my car I push ideas of lunacy out of my head. You can drive yourself crazy thinking like that. Before opening the doors I walk around the car and look for footprints. Then I check for signs of entry. A few years back someone broke into my trunk and stole two cheap quarts of oil. I never understood that. Why risk jail or getting killed for two dollars worth of oil? I hope their engine seized. Nothing seems disturbed so I get in. I hesitate to start the car. Realizing that I’ve been holding my breath, gradually I turn the key until the car starts. The ride home is longer than usual. I double back several times and take undocumented dirt roads to ensure that I have no tail.
As I pull into my complex, I reconsider the advisability of townhouse living. There is only one road and every branch is a dead-end. With over a hundred units, this commuter’s community seemed an ideal way to blend in without being obvious. The idea of someone else doing all my exterior maintenance seemed ideal at the time. Summer pool access was a tremendous bonus. In retrospect a small cottage on a large defensible lot may have been a better idea. The main road of my development is like the trunk of a tree winding down a steep decline, with extensions of varying lengths branching off to the right and left. I live down the second to last branch all the way to the back. Between each branch of roadway is a small track of densely forested land. In the summer, I cannot see or hear the rows of townhouses above and behind mine. The houses are in three to eight block units, each unit being almost identical to its neighbor on the inside. Instead of driveways and garages we park in large unassigned lots adding to each cars anonymity. The vast majority of my neighbors commute to one of four large cities. The closest [Danbury] is twenty miles away and New York is the farthest at sixty miles. Weekends the neighbors all run around shopping and conducting all the personal business that they are unable to complete Monday through Friday due to their long commutes.
Tonight I park in the lot which services the row of townhomes directly behind mine. Navigating by the light of the moon I approach my home from the rear. Vines cascading from a tree fronted by thorn bushes create a small hollow from which I can observe my home without fear of being seen, even during daylight. I had considered the possibility of someone observing me but until now had dismissed it as paranoia. I think I will at least place a small hidden camera to ensure only I am using this space. Hidden cameras have come a long way, the one I will place is has a motion sensor, night vision, remote solar panels to power it during the day, lithium batteries, and a removable USB drive which can be downloaded to my PC. The entire system fits in my pocket. Watching the house for a few moments I am able to determine that there are no lights in the rear windows. Settling into the dense vegetation I watch through my oversized windows and glass slider leading to the kitchen. My first floor has only two rooms and a half bath. I can see almost the entire floor but observe no movement. It should be safe to enter the house. Upon entering the house I reach into the closet and turn off the alarm. After changing the alarm code I begin to relax. Upstairs I look around, nothing is out-of-place. Dragging out the ladder I pop the hatch and ascend into the attic pulling the ladder up behind me. When I first moved in it bothered me that I only had two sides of access and egress. The first thing I did was create two hidden hatches in the attic leading to the houses on either side. This way, if attacked, as long as I can make it to the attic I can escape through the neighbors’ house. I had meant to create a system of doors leading all the way to the end units of my block of townhouses. Now I was sorry that I never got around to it. Removing, boxes from in front of my escape hatches, I inspect the seals which I had placed on the seams. Nothing was disturbed. Opening each hatch I make sure they are not obstructed by anything in the neighboring attics. Satisfied, I replace the seals and lower the ladder descending to the second floor.
When I first moved in, I discovered that the second floor bathroom was not as deep as the rooms on either side by about three feet. The builder had created a space behind the bathroom as a kind of pipe room. The room was about nine feet deep, three feet wide and eight feet high. There was a twenty-eight inch gap in the beams supporting the back wall of the front bedroom closet. Additionally, the room was accessible through a plywood hatch in the attic. I created a panic room. The walls are insulated with flame retardant ballistic foam. The walls consist of quarter-inch steel sheets mounted to steel studs. The room sits directly between the two steel beams which support the house. I reinforced the floor between the steel beams with flame retardant materials. Once I was confident that, should the house burn down, my panic room would remain intact, I began to stock it with non-perishables. Paying only cash and utilizing several sources, I purchased enough state of the art surveillance equipment to keep an eye on the stairs, front and back door as well as the closet entrance. Just for good measure I also placed cameras in my attic and through the wall into the neighboring attics. A 30 inch flat panel color monitor displays the activity picked up by the cameras. The exterior cameras are recorded to a hard drive which then can be written to disk.
Playing back today’s recordings, I am confident that no one has been watching my house. Nothing has been disturbed in or out of the house. Satisfied, I undress to take my shower. Warm water melts the stress away. Exhausted I fall into bed not looking forward to the dreams today will inspire. In the morning I will wake sore and tired. Yet thankful that I do not remember dreams.
>Ch 7
Posted: June 19, 2011 Filed under: ch 7, love scene, xxx Leave a comment »>After a few minutes I left Psycho alone to do her thing. She was trying to backtrack who had been into my computer. Apparently, a trail is left as you serf the web. Every computer has a unique signature beginning with a series of numbers assigned in the factory called an IP address. My understanding is that you can change the IP address as is sometimes necessary when using wireless devices because more than one device can have the same or very similar IP addresses. However each motherboard is unique and once you latch on to an IP address and pick up the rest of the PC’s signature, the right programmer, with enough time and patience can follow a trail even when the IP address is frequently changed.
I went into the bedroom and stripped to my shorts. As I lay down the stress of the day washed over me and I fell into a deep sleep. A few hours later I was roused from my sleep by gentle fingertips sliding the length of my stomach. My cry of surprise is silenced by a warm mouth closing over mine. Our tongues grapple in a sordid dance. Aroused I reach out and find firm smooth skin. My hand glides up her side and across her breast feeling her ripe nipple beneath its touch. Pausing for a moment of exploration it continues its journey until it reaches the back of her head. Pulling her in close I breath in her essence. My right hand finds her moist and ready and she gasps as my fingers move for effect. Riding my hand she orgasms as our bodies roll across the sheets. On top of her I pin her to the bed and begin exploring her erogenous zones with my mouth. She gasps and moans as my tongue finds the hollow behind her ear. Hips grind into my thigh as my mouth travels the length of her neck, gently sucking and kissing. Frenzied her hand finds my member and tries to guide it in her. I resist with what is left of my mind. My whole body wants, no insists on entering her, but that would be over to quick. To make her mine I must work for it.
My mouth glides between her breasts and underneath teeth gently scraping skin. Taking her breast in my mouth, my tongue swirls around the nipple as I gently suck. Kissing her abdomen I feel her muscles tense and release under my touch. As my mouth reaches the crease of her thigh I leave small gentle hickeys. Taking her in my mouth my tongue probes deeply. Wrapping my head with her legs she begins to buck wildly and cry out. Suddenly she arches her back and collapses spent on the bed. Gliding my body along hers I enter her. Softly moaning she arches her hips towards me pulling me deeply into her. locking ankles behind me she rolls me over. Grasping my chest she squeezes digging her in nails as she rocks faster and faster until we both cry out with ecstasy and collapse back on the bed. She rolls over placing her back to me and pulls my arms around her. Spooning we drift off to sleep.
Morning comes, I wake to Psycho’s head on my chest. She stirs and looks up at me. “Damn, I’d forgotten how good you are Doc. Tell me again why nerds are so good in bed?” With a smile I respond “I don’t know you tell me after all, you are the computer geek.” Sitting up she smiles, “computer geek and nerd are not the same thing. In these days computer skills are cool. Being gorgeous is just a plus. Come on lets get showered and see if the kids are up. By the way I’m sorry about last night, you know how I get when I’m stressed. Marie had Jo to worry about, so you scored by default.” Feigning shock I teased, “so I was second or third choice?” “Come on doc, you know how I roll. I don’t regret last night. Do you?” “Hell last night was great, its been a while I’m glad I can still dance.” “Well don’t go getting all attached and all, last night was just stress release with an old friend.”
The shower was incredible, Psycho had installed one of those showers only seen in movies. We made love again surrounded by messaging shower heads. There had to be a hundred jets squirting water at us from every angle. Above us in the center of the shower stall was a shower head which cascaded water down on us. We used loofahs to scrub each other down with perfumed shower gel. After last night I didn’t think my sexuality could be in question.
I made it into the kitchen first. Looking through the cabinets I found some pancake mix which only required water. Locating a bowl I made the mix while the pan heated up. Horrified, I couldn’t find coffee or a pot. As psycho entered the room I went on the attack. “Where’s the coffee, what kind of person has no coffee in the house?” Psycho looked me up and down. “The coffee is in my office. That’s where I spend most of my time. I have a mini fridge and small freezer, and a coffee press on a hotplate. Since there are so many of us why don’t I run next door and borrow my neighbor’s percolator.” Appeased I settled in to make the pancakes while Psycho went about the business of making coffee.
>Chapter 6
Posted: June 15, 2011 Filed under: found, psycho's lair Leave a comment »>“Let’s grab some barbeque and head back to my place. We can talk privately there,” stated Psycho. Psycho lived on the top floor of a six story red brick apartment building at Pelham Parkway and Bronx River Road. The apartment overlooks the Bronx Botanical Gardens and you can just see down into the Bison exhibit at the Bronx Zoo which is on the south side of Pelham parkway. “Nice place” I say glancing around the spartan apartment. The front door opens into a dining area which flows into the oversized living room. A large window encompassed the entire far wall. The glass was tinted just dark enough that you can see out but not in even. On the left, as soon as you stepped into the apartment, is a small kitchen. It is about eight feet deep and nine feet wide. The cabinets are functional and probably original. The appliances modern but simple. The only furniture so far is a threadbare couch and small table with four chairs tucked in.
Marie and Jo take a seat on the couch, Jo is shaken by today’s events and is not looking so good. “Why don’t you show me around?” I asked. Psycho looks uncomfortable, she obviously doesn’t get much company. Tuning she walked down a short hall with two doors. She opens the door on the left and beckons. It is a small room about eight by nine feet with a twin bed and small dresser. The closet takes up the far wall. Turning to me, her chest presses up against me. My breath catches in my chest and my heart rate quickens. Running her finger behind my ear, she leans in an in a throaty whisper, she says “the bed isn’t even broken in yet.” I stiffen and a reply catches in my throat. Gently placing her hand on my chest she propels me back into the hallway.
As the blood returns to my brain, she spins me around, “now this is my playroom.” The room opposite the bedroom is meant to be the master bedroom. Instead she has a fifty inch flat panel LED monitor hanging on the wall. A PC tower sits on a stand along with a cable box, printer, scanner, and surround sound system. To the side on wheels is a small work station with a keyboard. The desk chair is designed with elastic ropes instead of a seat or backrest. In the center of the room is a comfortable looking recliner with speakers built into it. On the far wall is a bowflex exercise machine. Finally in the corner a heavy bag hangs from a reinforced section of ceiling.
“What do you think? I built the cable box myself, it gets all the channels.” she purrs with emphasis on the word all. Suddenly she is uncomfortably close, swallowing I find myself unable to speak. Abruptly, she sprints across the room and delivers a roundhouse to the heavy bag. “This is where I kick back and relax. I use the TV as my monitor. I can hack into just about anything and I tapped into a fiber optic phone line across the street and set up a secure wireless network which I can use for a half mile in any direction. I have a backup hardwired DSL network off the buildings main phone line. I don’t think it could ever be traced back here.” I nod my head suitably impressed. “So you can hack into Homeland Security and speed date, and watch a movie all at once without anyone knowing where you are and it doesn’t cost you a dime.” I tease. “Hey it’s the American way!” She replied knowing it would annoy me. I don’t mind her stealing services, but I don’t think its morally the thing to do and America was founded by people who earned their way. No free handouts in 1776.”
I was beginning to feel concerned about Debbie. “Can you hack into Jacobi’s computers and check on Debbie? I’m worried about her.” Psycho picked up the tv remote, turned the set on and changed to input to PC. Wheeling her small workstation in front of the tv, she explains, “my keyboard is wireless, as soon as everything finishes loading we’ll get started. I created my own operating system, since no one else uses it, my PC is immune to viruses and most hackers. I have to adapt other programs but I need some compatibility in order to hack into other computer systems.” In no time at all she was clicking away at her keyboard. I left her to her work and went to look for Marie and Jo.
I found Marie sitting on the couch. Jo’s head in her lap. As I entered the room, Marie brought her finger to her lips in the universal quite sign. “She’s had a long day. You know that stuff takes a lot out of a person.” I nodded, ” All in all I’d say she handled the day pretty well. How long have you known her? How much do you know about her?” I am becoming paranoid, justifiably so I might add. “I mean can she be trusted and can she handle herself. Things look like they might get dicey.” Marie stiffened visibly. “You have no right to butt in doc. No right. She could have killed you at the bar. She had the drop on you. But she didn’t.” “You have a point,” I replied, “but If they want to question me the way they did Debbie, then she had me right were she wanted me.” “Then why did she call me?” “She wanted to make sure she had the right guy.” From behind me Psycho says, “why don’t I run a check on her. We can track her all the way back to birth if she’s legit. But first why don’t I bring you up to speed on Debbie first.
“I was able to hack into the hospital computer and security cams. Debbie is in intensive care. I can monitor all the machines that she is hooked to. According to her nursing notes, she has stabilized. All her fingers are broken, as are two of her ribs. She has electrical burns on her breasts and vagina. There is bruising on her chest, probably from CPR. They are hopeful that there is no brain damage. Someone fucked her up. There is hospital security posted on the floor. I checked the security cams and the only uniformed presence was at the nursing station talking to the nurse. There is a camera in her room and I will continue to monitor that in case they come back. I also logged into the precinct computers and we are wanted for questioning. The have no security footage of us but they do have a composite sketch made from eyewitnesses. A car was sent to the house and discovered the family upstairs. The cops haven’t entered the report on that yet.” Psycho was completely composed as she gave her report. Marie’s expression was blank and Jo whimpered as the description was given.
Psycho’s report was followed by a few moments of uncomfortable silence. “OK angels, (my idea of a joke, Charlie’s Angels was a 1980′s TV program with in which three beautiful detectives work for the mysterious Charlie, taking their direction from Bosley, Charlie’s representative.) It’s getting late. Tonight, we’ll stay here. Tomorrow I need to get that bag from Marie’s place and I’d like to check on my place. Psycho do you mind if we stay the night?”
“OK Marie and Jo will sleep here, I’ll stay in my office and Doc can have my room since he’s the only dude and may need privacy.” I tried to argue that I don’t need privacy and the floor would be fine.
After obtaining the necessary linens, Psycho and I left Marie and Jo alone. “Doc come into my office for a moment.” I followed her and she closed the door behind us. “Someone was at my job today after we left. One of my associates Emailed me. I ran my name through a few programs and someone has been digging around. I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to your house. Let me show you something.” She tapped the Keyboard a few times and she was in my PC browsing my files.
“Hey how would you like me to do that to you?” “I’m sorry doc I should have asked. First let me show you something. You see this cache? Someone, has entered your computer and is watching everything you do, they can access everything. They may even be aware of us right now. Let’s look at your video logs. They had been deleted but I was able to restore most of them.” As we watched, a man dressed as a landscaper in blue jeans and a work shirt, wearing leather gloves and a baseball cap pulled down low, approached my rear door. Sliding some thin tool into the door frame he had the door open in seconds. Two more similarly dressed individuals slid out of the tree line and entered with him. They proceeded to toss the house. They even seemed to know where the panic room was but did not seem to enter it. They hadn’t set off the alarm. I felt the cold clutch of fear in my stomach. “Who are they, what are they looking for and what do they want with me?” I whispered my eyes locked on the screen. Glancing at the counter I realized that this had all taken place not more than an hour ago.
“How did you find Marie’s job?” psycho asked. “I googled it,” I replied. “Then we probably shouldn’t go there either. Did you google my job as well, or Debbie’s?” She asked. “No, Marie was familiar with your job as well as Debbie’s house.” I replied. “Interesting I wonder why she was so into me, I mean I understand her obsession with Debbie, but why did she know so much about me?”,Psycho asked. “Come on don’t be paranoid, she grew up in the Bronx, and you guys all got together a few times, she was always the one who wanted to keep in touch. Until I found my place upstate, we talked all the time. Let’s focus on finding out who these people are and why they are after me and possibly the rest of you.”
>Chapter 5
Posted: June 13, 2011 Filed under: bronx, pelham, torture Leave a comment »> Pelham Parkway is a bucolic neighborhood with tree lined streets. The neighborhood is largely Italian. Many of the older residents grow grapes on the small plots of land surrounding their houses. Yes, there are single family homes in the Bronx. Every year around Columbus day the old men harvest grapes and make old world wine using ancient wooden presses. Rumors of mafia control keep out most criminals and crime is almost nonexistent. Debbie rents a first floor apartment in a small house on Astor Place. Like most houses in Pelham Parkway, Debbie’s house is a small well maintained brick house. I was pleased to see bars on the windows to keep out the riffraff and a security system. It appeared nobody was home. “Hey Marie, do you know where she works?” “No we don’t talk at all anymore. It was quite a scene when we split up. I didn’t take it too well. However psycho keeps track of all of us.” “So lets go see psycho.” Psycho, whose real name was Jacqueline Onassis, worked in a office building on Fordham Road which housed many of the hospital’s non medical offices. Jacqueline was named after the famous Kennedy, Jackie Onassis-Kennedy. Her parents found out that you didn’t have to give a child the parents last name on the birth certificate. They decided that their daughter should bear the name of a powerful, intelligent, beloved American. She hated the name. The nickname psycho was picked up in Marine Corps boot camp where she strived to outdo even the drill instructors at the art of war. In the Bronx, Pelham Parkway turns into Fordham Road as it passes under the Bronx River Parkway. It was easy enough to catch a bus which carried us to the shopping district located near the intersection of Fordham Road and the Grand Concourse. Psycho’s workplace was in a large tan building of approximate 25 to 30 stories. Not big by New York standards, but enormous by Bronx standards. Security in the lobby wouldn’t let us in. So we waited while he called upstairs for Psycho to come down. “Doc, Hey what’s up, long time no see.” Psycho came bounding off the elevator arms wide sweeping me off the floor in a wild embrace. “Boy you got fat. What brings you down from your country livin. If that townhouse can be called country living.” Now that spooked me. You could find out all sorts of stuff from the world wide web but that I live in a townhouse, in the country? I’m going to have to talk to her about that. “Lets do lunch.” Over lunch I filled her in on my week up until today. “Was that you in the Sty?” “I don’t know what you are talking about.” “It was you, look girls he’s blushing, he never could lie. It’s ok doc it’s cute.” “Anyway, how did you find out about it, it didn’t make the news?” I asked. “I’m hooked into everything and watch for just those types of events.” “Have you kept up on Debbie? We are concerned about her because Marie also had an incident.” “After her and Marie split she got her daughter back. The pudgy little thing is eleven years old. A few weeks ago she and some dude began shacking up in Pelham Parkway. I checked him out, they went to the same high school and must have been an item there were a lot of pictures of them together. She is a stay at home mom. Her old man works as a custodian at Jacoby Medical Center. “How do you know this stuff?” “Don’t worry about it. Here’s a secure phone, my number is programmed into it. Go try again, if she isn’t home, get in and make sure she is alright. She’s almost always home. She seems to enjoy the whole suzy homemaker thing. If you hurry the brat will still be in school when you get there and you can speak to her in private.” Back on the bus, I was in favor of walking but I was overruled by the rest of the group. The bus let us off on the corner of Williamsbridge Rd and Pelham Parkway. It is a short walk back to Astor Place. Walking around the house we try all the windows. The bars are secure and there are no signs of forced entry. A set of stairs leads to the second floor. Marie gets my attention and motions me up. The door is open. Removing our guns from their holsters, Marie motions left and slowly heads that way hugging the wall. Nodding my head I turn right gliding along the wall eyes scanning the rooms. Realizing that I am holding my breath I force myself to breathe. Turning into a small bedroom I am confronted by three bodies face down on the bed. An adult and two small children. Keeping an eye on them I slowly close the door and lock it. I continue checking the room, closet and under the bed. Rolling over the children first I discover that they are bound, gagged and sedated but alive. Rolling over the adult I discover a heavyset white woman in her late thirties. Also bound, gagged and sedated. Leaving the room I quickly the sweep of my half of the house. I discover Marie at a door leading down a set of stairs. Taking opposite sides we cautiously ease down the stairs. On our left is a large open family room with a 50 inch lcd tv on one wall and a piano on the other. The rest of the room is littered with a futon and a variety of toys probably belonging to the children bound and gagged upstairs. The stairs are against the rear wall of Debbie’s apartment. Under the stairs, someone had cut a whole through the wallboard. Senses on high alert I crawled through the whole and into a closet. The door was slightly ajar. Through the doorway I could see a bed dresser and two other doors both slightly open just enough that a slim person could slide through. Moving to the side I beckon Marie through the wall. Entering the bedroom we repeat the drill from upstairs. The first door leads to a small bathroom. The shower is running full blast. “We’re too late,” moans Marie. She is standing in the doorway, features frozen in grief. Pushing past her I see Debbie tied to a wooden kitchen chair She is in the only other room in the apartment. The room is roughly 12 by 15 with a stove, refrigerator and cabinets against the left wall and the rest of the room a combined dining- living room. All the blinds are drawn the only light coming from a halogen bulb placed uncomfortably close to Debbie’s head. An electric chord runs from the nearest wall outlet to a light fixture containing a broken bulb. Debbie is nude and her hair appears damp, she must have been in the shower when the intruder grabbed her. I checked her neck for a pulse. She had no pulse, I looked at her fingers to check for dependant lividity. When a person dies the blood pools in the lowest points of the body. If dependant lividity is not present and she is still warm, then we can start cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Her fingers are hanging in unnatural positions and are purple and swollen. Next, I look at the bottoms of her feet. No lividity is present. We have to move fast. “Marie find car keys and tell Jo to get in here. We had left Jo outside to be our lookout. Cutting her bindings I pull her to the floor and lay her flat. When I start chest compressions I notice the burn marks on her chest. The bastards had used the broken lightbulb to burn her. She had obviously been tortured. Marie found a set of car keys and pulled a beat up ford escort to the front door. Jo and I pulled Debbie into the back seat continuing CPR while Marie broke the laws of physics to get use to Jacoby hospital (one of the best trauma centers in the world and only a few blocks away) in record time. Throwing Debbie on a Gurney just inside the Emergency Room door we yelled for help. I kneeled above her on the stretcher desperately continuing CPR as Marie and Jo sprinted into the ER pulling the stretcher. Immediately we were surrounded by doctors and nurses who pulled her into a nearby room and frantically began lifesaving measures. During the kaos we slipped out of the ER before security had a chance to find us. “We have to go back to the house.” ” No way Doc, it’s to hot back there.” “There was a family tied up in one of the bedrooms upstairs. We can see what information they can give us. Call Psycho on the phone that she gave us. Let her know what’s happened, see if she can do something about the security cameras at the hospital. Maybe she can come up with some ideas.” “Back up Doc, what family? What the hell are you talking about? You didn’t tell us about anyone being in the house.” “There was a woman and two children upstairs tied and unconscious in a bedroom. I didn’t tell you at first because we were trying to be quite and then when we got downstairs things were happening to fast.” “Ok, ok, lets head back while I call psycho, Jo will stay by a front window and let us know if anyone shows up while we interrogate the family.” When we arrived at the house psycho was outside and handed each of us wallets containing a small gold badge and photo ID identifying us as CIA. Marie’s Identification card stated she was FBI. “I deleted the security data base for the time you spent in the ER. Everything is on computer now so it wasn’t a problem. I made up these ID’s with a friends help. We can say we are from the government when we rescue the family. We will claim that our visit is a matter of national security. The Central Intelligence Agency identifications will reinforce the need to keep our visit quite once the real police arrive. We entered the house the same way we did on our last visit. Jo went immediately to the front window to watch the street. She had a portable police band radio which had been produced by psycho. As we entered the bedroom they were now awake. The woman’s eyes widened with fear as we entered the room. Marie flashed her FBI identification card and said, “FBI are you OK?” The woman visibly relaxed as she nodded. She didn’t question us because she wanted to believe. As we untied her and the kids, Marie stressed the need for quite. “These are agents Jones and Smith from the Central Intelligence Agency. We are working with the department of homeland security. We were never here. We found your neighbor a little while ago and had to transport her to the hospital. The police will probably be by to question you. We are tracking some dangerous people and they must not find out we questioned you. Do you understand?” She slowly nodded. “Now Jones and Smith are going to take the children to another room while you tell me what happened here. Marie questioned the woman while we talked to the kids. Mom had been making lunch when someone knocked on the side door. Assuming it was a neighbor she had the children open the door. Two men pushed in carrying handguns and a tool box. They were white and spoke with Croatian accents. The mom was sure they were Croatian Because a lot of Croatian immigrants had been moving into the neighborhood. She didn’t like them. The gunmen herded the children and her into the front bedroom where they questioned them about Debbie. The wanted to know all aspects of her life especially when the husband and child came home. Then they injected the three of them with something which put them to sleep. At this point the mom collapsed into Marie’s arms crying hysterically and thanking us her angels for finding her. We gave strict instructions for her to take in Debbie’s daughter. Then she was to wait for Debbie’s husband to come home. She was then to go the Jacoby with Debbie’s family and her children. She should let the doctors know what happened so they may run tests on her. We told her to insist on blood work and assured her that we would be able to see the results and it would help us capture these bad men. We further instructed her to call the 45th precinct detective squad and ask for detective Milton. All this information was provided by psycho who had been monitoring Debbie through the computer and had found out that Milton was the detective who had caught Debbie’s case. Providing these instructions had calmed the family down and provided us with a greater sense of legitimacy
Leaving the house, I was the first to speak. “I’m starved, lets go get something to eat.” “That’s why you are so fat, all you think about is eating.” said psycho. Giving her a lecherous smile I said. “That’s not the only thing I think about.” Before I saw it, her fist hit the back of my arm just below the shoulder rendering it temporarily useless. “Ouch that hurt, what did you do that for?” “Doc stop crying, you shouldn’t have said that.” I was going to argue but decided to drop it instead.
>Chapter 4, The Team
Posted: June 10, 2011 Filed under: bar, ch 4, company, glock, team, village Leave a comment »> Time to look up the twins. In our team everyone had nicknames. The twins were a deadly pair of women who were completely inseparable, best friends and lovers. We called them the twins because of their ability to anticipate each other’s thoughts and movements. They were both about five nine and exceptionally beautiful. But that is where the resemblance ended. Debbie is smooth almond skinned brunette, who could pass for any number of Mediterranean or Caribbean peoples. Elegant, willowy with classic beauty she turns the heads of both sexes as she glides through a room. She speaks a multitude of languages and is amazing with edged instruments.
Maria is the “butch” in the relationship, a mix of masculine confidence with a feminine manner. Classy, sophisticated, independent, intelligent, tough, complemented by a face whose beauty partially lies in its lack of compromise. She prefers to dress in masculine styles, but is stunning dressed in formal evening wear. In addition, a lifetime of dance and martial arts has produced a firm elegant body. Muscular without losing its feminine curves and a sniper of unparalleled skill. Maria and Debbie had been an item for as long as I could remember. Somehow they had survived the purge of homosexuals initiated by most government agencies under the don’t ask don’t tell protocols. As far as I know they left government service for the same reason I did, shortly after I departed.
Since the team broke up Maria had taken to bartending in an establishment on Christopher St. in the east village. Debbie bounced from receptionist to secretarial job and so on. I lost track at some point and really have no idea where to begin. So I headed to the East Village. The yellow pages only listed one bar on Christopher Street. It was called Sixty Nine Bar and Grill and was located on the corner of Christopher Street and Allan Avenue. Not the most creative name for a bar, but, whatever works.
The bus stopped across the street from a fast food restaurant. I went inside and managed to slide into the restroom as a patron was leaving. Most businesses in New York City will not let even patrons use the restrooms. People are slobs and most business owners just don’t want to clean up the mess or risk the fines from the health department. In the not so nice neighborhoods, unlocked bathrooms become shooting galleries for junkies and places of business for dealers and hookers. The bathroom reeks of urine and cheap disinfectant. Above the sink is a mirror of polished steel. I use it to straighten myself out as best I can. The clothes which I had earlier obtained at the gym left me looking like one of the cities legion of homeless. At least I look better than I did a little while ago.
The village is striking a contrast to the rest of the city. Situated in one of the original neighborhoods of New York City, Greenwich Village is Bordered by Broadway, the Hudson River, Houston Street and 14th Street. The short narrow streets run at angles with cobblestone alleys branching off them. It is very easy to become disorientated or lost. The historic streets are populated with restored dwellings some dating back before the revolutionary war. Cozy, inviting Cafe’s and second hand stores dot streets and intersections. Christopher street is the longest street in the village, most recently, known as the east coast epicenter of the gay rights movement. I am surprised to find that it is predominantly a gentrified residential block with just the one bar as its lone commercial establishment.
The Sixty Nine Bar encompassed the first floor of a four story walk up. The facade is wood paneled with a light blue hue which shows the natural grain of the wood. Large windows tinted just enough to prevent pedestrians from looking in. At the door stands a large woman. By large I don’t mean fat. She’s about six foot tall and wearing low heals. Her form fitting outfit accentuates her curves but does nothing to hide her broad shoulders. She has large well manicured hands, one of which she firmly places on my chest. I find myself looking for an adam’s apple. “No Bathroom” she states in a husky baritone. “I need to speak to Marie the Bartender.” I respond. “Who the hell are you?” She demands crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m her brother, doc. I really need to speak to her.” Rolling her eyes, she says “stay here.” Opening the door just enough to squeeze through, she disappears inside.
Moments later she reappears. Looking me up and down with obvious distaste, she motions for me to follow her inside. The bar is bright and airy. Nothing like the poorly lit bars of my youth. The furniture is modern functional and couches line the red brick back wall. The bar is the usual height and made of highly polished brushed steel. No stools line the bar front. Maria is no where to be seen and the bar is empty.
Beginning to feel uneasy, I turn to my escort. I am greeted by the barrel of a Ruger .357 revolver with a six cylinder barrel. I don’t think, Years ago I trained for this, my right hand grabs the gun by the cylinder. If the cylinder can’t turn, most revolvers won’t fire. My left hand comes up forcing her arm in and up. Turning my body, I slip under her arm, propel her forward and twist her arm down then up behind her back. With a shout the gun clatters to the ground. Grabbing for her chin, I miss. She spins around attempting a roundhouse kick. High heels disrupt her balance and she falls back striking her head on the edge of a table, knocking her momentarily senseless.
I draw my glock and aim it at her as I retrieve her .357. Damn I’m out of breath. In the trash behind the bar is some plastic string ( the kind they use to tie bundles of paper with). I use this to tie my new friend to a chair. Grabbing a pint I pour myself a beer and wait for her to become lucid.
Looking around I gather tools. Near the register I find a corkscrew and ice pick. In a small closet behind the bar is a small toolkit with two screwdrivers, pliers, a hammer and an assortment of devices for hanging pictures. I could use these “tools” to find out why the bitch pulled a gun on me and where is Marie.
Remembering the bag I took from the gangsters, I decide to do an inventory. Using a bar towel I wipe down each of the handguns as I remove the magazines and cycled the slide. I am not familiar with these weapons. All identifying marks have been filed off so I am not even sure ast to there make or model. One is a 22 and the others are nine millimeters like my glock. The mac 10′s magazine was jammed and I was having difficulty removing it from the firearm. That’s probably why I didn’t hear the door open or the footsteps.
The knife slid under my chin as a silky voice whispered in my ear. The was no mistaking Marie’s voice. Keeping my voice low and calm, I said it’s me doc. I just need to talk. “Why all the hardware if all you want to do is talk?” “I kind of found it, it’s not mine. I would never buy crap like this anyway. You know that.” “People change.” “Marie I need to talk and may need your help.” “Put the guns in the bag and slide them behind you down the bar.” I did as instructed. I could hear her pick up the bag and place it on the floor somewhere behind me. “Turn around, SLOWLY!”
I turned around. “It is you, I couldn’t believe it when Josephine called.” She walked over to my friend and cut the ropes. “Jo this is Doc, Doc this is Jo. I told you to keep an eye on him, not get yourself beat up.” Jo replied that Marie had sounded nervous so she had decided to take precautions. “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.” Jo paled, “I I I was just looking out for you.” She stuttered visibly shaken. I looked at her and back at Marie. No, it can’t be. “Are you two …… an item?” Marie and Jo looked at each other. Finally, Marie turned to me “we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks. I could feel the blood drain from my face. “what, how, who, how could this be?” I was in shock. “Debbie went back to her mothers, we’ll talk later.” I suddenly felt very uncomfortable.
“So Doc what brings you here? What do you need?” “Why can’t this just be a social call” I asked. “All this time we barely hear from you and you want me to believe this is a social call?” “We need to talk privately.” Indicating Jo with a wave of her hand, Marie said, “she’s cool, she knows.” “What are you nuts? How could you jeopardize yourself like that?” “I had a small incident a few weeks ago at my old apartment. I wound up killing a few people.” “What happened?” “I had been followed a few times and one night they tried to grab me.” I quickly related my tale describing my assailants as best as I could.
“We should probably check on Debbie and if you know where psycho is we may want to give her a call.” Our team was a four person team. Psycho was our tech support guru. In our former field tech support went way beyond fixing broken computors. She was responsible for maintaining all electronic gear. In addition when we needed to by pass a security system or hack into a computer system, she was our go to person. All of our “fake” ID cards and official papers were actually real. Psycho would hack into official systems obtain whatever documents we needed and then delete any evidence of our having ever existed. The papers would be delivered to a mailboxes USA address. Once we picked up our stuff, the mailbox account would be erased and a burglary would occur during which security tapes would disappear. There would be no record.
Half Latin and half Persian she could read and write not only Spanish but arabic and Farsi as well. During our down time she effected an incredibly sexy belly dance which relieved men and some women of their intellectual prowess. Constant training hardened her body without completely robbing her of her feminine appeal. The day I met psycho she had just completed a triathalon. Her head was shaved, she was wearing marine corps issue sweats. She was intense and reminded me of the main character in GI Jane, a movie about a woman who becomes the first female navy seal. I found her more intimidating than attractive. She was abrupt, distrustful and left me with the impression that she didn’t like me or men in general. Later we became inseparable hanging out in clubs, drinking dancing and fighting. Well I mostly watched psycho drink, dance and fight. When she fought it was like watching a Jackie chan movie. She used some weird Brazilian fighting form that was as much a dance as a martial art.
According to Marie, Debbie was living with her high school sweetheart (yes a man) in the Pelham Parkway section of the Bronx. Psycho was working in data entry at St Barnabas Hospital in the Arthur Avenue or little Italy section of the Bronx. Tomorrow we will head to the Bronx and look up our old comrades in arms.
>Chapter 3
Posted: June 8, 2011 Filed under: bodies, chapter 3, cia, danger, dead, fight, kill Leave a comment »> The pain wakes me. Every breath is agony. Slowly I roll out of bed and into the cat and dog position. Exhaling, I drop my head and tail arching my back. Inhaling, I slowly raise my head and tail letting my abdomen drop. My spine is on fire. The pain is excruciating; sweat builds at my hairline. Easing into a yoga routine, the pain begins to subside. An hour passes and I’m finally ready to start my day. My stretching continues in the shower as steam fills the room. In the kitchen I decided I needed a substantial breakfast. I had a lot to do and besides after last night, I deserve a good meal. Combining eggs with sausage peppers, onions, and mozzarella I create a delicious omelet as good as any fine dining establishment. It was delicious.
As I enjoyed my meal I went over the events of the previous night. Searches of the bodies had turned up nothing, some cash. Today I’ll go to New York City and do some research. The first stop will be the Bronx department of motor vehicle. For a fee and with the proper forms I should be able to get a complete history of the Car. A few dollars to a corrupt clerk and I will have the entire data base printed and in my possession. Fortunately, I had the where-with-all to write down the license tag and vehicle identification numbers. On the train ride down I’ll look through the cell phones and see what I can learn from them
A visit to the department of motor vehicle does very little to improve my mood. The tags come back to an elderly African American man in Bed-Sty. The vehicle identification number is registered to a summer camp in western Pennsylvania. Neither car nor the tags have been reported stolen. At the New York public library, a quick Internet search of the summer camp reveals no web site. The yellow pages contain a phone number and rural route number. I decide to head to Bed-Sty.
An hour later I’m stepping out of the train onto a dimly lit subway platform. An unidentifiable odor mixed with urine assaults my olfactory senses. Blinking to clear my vision I head to the turnstile nearest the exit. A group of youths in grossly oversized clothes, pants sagging, crotches at their knees, loiter near the vacant token booth. I guess it’s not safe to keep the token booth open. The leader puffs up his chest. Hardens his face. His eyes are cold and hard. He appears to be no more than 16 years old. Sneering he looks me up and down. Wa-Sup, Officer? His boys break out into forced laughter. They high five each other. I glare a challenge at him. In this neighborhood a glare is often returned with gunfire. Turning to the stairs, I feel their eyes on me and I listen for them to follow. Clean circles high on the wall mark the former positions of the security cameras. No doubt stolen and traded for drugs or alcohol.
According to my Bus guide and subway map, I was only about one block from the address on the vehicle registration. No one appears to be following me. The streets were deserted. It was like emerging above ground after the apocalypse. Boarded up brownstones, burned out businesses decorated with graffiti. Sidewalks twisted and broken. The street a maze of potholes. The address was a dilapidated brownstone encased in bars even the front porch was barred. Wrought iron grates covered the windows. The house resembled a prison more than a safe haven. The doorbell was mounted on an iron doorframe dented and scarred by pry marks. Ringing the bell a disembodied voice rasps, “who’s there?”
I look up and down the block. the houses are attached.
“Go to the corner, alley runs down the middle.”
As I walk to the corner I can feel someone or some group watching me. The hairs on my neck stand on end. There are six attached brownstones to the corner. Turning right I see the alley entrance.
A narrow path roughly one car width wide is sandwiched between overgrown, weed chocked backyards. Running the length of block the path is bordered by decrepit fences. Each yard, separated by a three-foot fence, was roughly the width of the corresponding house and approximately eight to ten feet deep. Most yards had small garages taking up most of the free space. The garages were in various stages of ruin. It had the feel of a ghost town abandoned by man. The sixth yard was surprisingly manicured lawn bordered by tulips and guarded by rose bushes intertwined in the fence almost concealing the razor wire twisted above the fence. The yard terminates at the back of a run down structure missing its door and most of its roof. Inside sits a 1989 caprice classic sitting awkwardly on rims. The hood is up revealing a collection of trash and old clothes and blankets where the engine used to be.
Turning into what was once the garage, the smell of the unwashed invades my nostrils. The trunk suddenly creaks open spilling out an apparition of rags swinging a meat cleaver. “What the fuck you want?’ It screeches at me. I asked him: “you Rommell?” Staring at me with bloodshot eyes, he charged without warning. The meat cleaver came down. Dancing right, I pivoted and pushed the blow aside with my left forearm. Simultaneously, I grabbed his wrist with my right hand pulling him off balance, freeing my left elbow to smash into his face crushing his nose.
Pivoting on my left heel, I cocked my right knee and pushed my right heel into his side. The knife clattered to the ground, he sprawled clutching his face with one hand and his side with the other. Sobbing as he struggled to catch his breath, I hammered him with questions. “What happened to the license plates?” “Sold em to Tyrone” he gasped. “Dude wanted the tags from an unmarked police car. I figured this car was close enough.” He curled into the fetal position shielding his head with his arm. I must have broken his ribs. He didn’t look so good. “Where’s Tyrone?” ” Hangs out with his boyz at the token booth when he ain’t selling.”
Tyrone must have been the big mouth at the subway station. I tossed Rommel a roll of bills that I had taken from my friends in the caprice. He snatched it hungrily. I could hear him mumbling threats as I walked away.
Leaving the alley I notice a midnight blue Lincoln Navigator slowly cruising up the block. The windows are completely blackened by limo tint. Quite an expensive car for this neighborhood. My antenna is up and my whole body tingles with anticipation. Senses on alert I head for the subway. The Lincoln makes a wide U-turn at the end of the block and slowly heads back towards my position. Quickening my pace I scan ahead for sources of cover and concealment. The street offers little. Building entrances are shuttered or gated. Telephone poles and fire hydrants offer only inadequate cover. I quicken my pace trying not to look obvious. The subway is my best source of cover. Running would be a death sentence. I mumble a prayer that the truck is some kind of police surveillance vehicle and not gangbangers or affiliated with my friends from last night. I did not relish killing them. I had been out of the game long enough to have nagging doubts as to my actions of the previous night. What if it was just an innocent misunderstanding? What if I was not who they where looking for? I brush these doubts out of my mind. Such thoughts will only distract me from my current situation.
As it approaches me the Lincoln slows and the passenger window glides down. Instinctively I drop and roll to my right. I come up kneeling against a telephone pole nine millimeter in my right hand. A gun barrel appears. Flame erupts from the end as bullets explode from the barrel. The pavement splinters where I had been standing only moments before. Adrenalin rushes and the sound of my heart beating shuts out all other noise as time slows to a crawl. The space around the Lincoln blurs and the car grows sharper in focus.
Ignoring the shooter, I fix my sights on the driver. A young light skin Hispanic, no more than 16 years old, black cap, bad skin, I can only see his profile through the open window. Zeroing in on his left eyebrow I unleash two rounds as the driver accelerates. The Lincoln veers hard to the right and accelerates right into the subway entrance. The engine continues to roar as the vehicle wedges itself securely in the mouth of the subway station. As I run toward the vehicle, it’s hatchback slowly begins to open accompanied by flashing lights and warning beep. Bodies roll out of the tailgate.
Aiming for body mass the glock continues to bark. Losing count of rounds I combat load placing a fresh magazine containing fifteen smith and Wesson full metal jacket hollow points. They drop, amazingly none have suffered fatal hits. The first one is clutching his crotch screaming blood oozing between his fingers. The other two are curled in the fetal position holding their legs. One crying the other yelling “shut up”. Holding my glock in my left hand I keep one eye on the back of the van as I pat them down. I quickly recover 3 handguns, small inexpensive automatics. In addition they each carried box cutters, rolls of cash, and a variety of drug paraphernalia. I pocket the cash and guns.
Cautiously climbing into the rear of the Lincoln, I approach the driver. The interior reeks of marijuana, the driver is held in place by his seatbelt. Slowly sliding my hand across his neck I locate the adams apple and check for a carotid pulse. No pulse, death is more obvious by the mix of blood and brain matter coating my hand as I withdraw it. Reaching across I turn off the engine. My heart stops as I hear the click of hammer striking empty chamber. Swinging my arm right it strikes a Mac 10 aimed at my head. The passenger is alive wedged up under the glove box. Ripping the gun from his outstretched hand I say, “you must be Tyrone.” “I’ll be right back, don’t move.” In the back seat is a duffel bag. Dumping the contents, I unload my newly acquired guns and place them in the duffel. For a moment I stop, everything is quiet; I’m amazed at the absence of approaching police sirens.
Returning to the vehicle interior I check on Tyrone. His face streaked with tears and blood, he stares defiantly at me. The windshield is spider webbed. Kicking it out creates an alternate escape route down the subway entrance. Outside my friends are still in place. Not so tough anymore. Among the drug paraphernalia was a pair of hemostats. Great little tools used by surgeons to hold needle and thread when giving stitches, they can also be used, in and emergency to clamp off arteries. Marijuana abusers use hemostats to hold their “roaches”, small ends of marijuana cigarettes. Reaching into each of their wounds I recover my spent rounds while interrogating them.
Three white dudes with foreign accents had come into the neighborhood to buy guns. They returned looking for license plates from an unmarked police car. They never saw them again. As I dragged them back to the Lincoln they swore and cried. One repeated over and over, “you dead man, you dead.” I secured their wrists best I could with their belts. Reaching under the truck I sank my knife into the gas tank. Gas poured out and ran down the stairs. Collecting in at a drainpipe clogged with litter. I climbed back through the Lincoln. Sliding through the windshield and down the hood I ran into the subway. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs I pushed a full trash can towards the stairs lit it on fire.
Running round the corner I jumped the turnstile and stepped onto the platform. A train was pulling in. I stepped on. As we exited the station an explosion rocked the station engulfing the train in smoke and debris. The motorman must have panicked because we rocketed through the next two stations. We didn’t slow until we caught up to the train in front of us. Forcing myself to keep pace with my fellow commuters, I exited the subway and looked around for a Manhattan bound bus.
The other passengers recoiled from me and I realized that I must smell and look horrible, I need a place to shower and change. Among the best deals in New York City are the public gymnasiums. For less than a hundred dollars a year you receive virtually unlimited access to pools exercise equipment and most importantly, showers. The bus I was on would pass within a few blocks of the Asser Levy Recreation Center. Originally a public bath, it is one of the oldest gymnasiums in Manhattan. The Parks Department supervisor who runs the place has been there forever and occasionally allows the homeless in to bath. Crossing my fingers for luck I get off the bus at 23rd
Street and head east towards the gym. My luck holds and the kindly parks workers not only allow me to use the shower but direct me to the lost and found, where I obtain an almost presentable set of exercise clothes which pass the smell test. As the lukewarm water of the shower washes the filth of my morning from my body. I think about what my next move should be.
>Chapter Two
Posted: June 6, 2011 Filed under: chapter 2, fight, glock, leatherman, survival Leave a comment »>
Most likely I’m just being paranoid. She probably thought I was checking her out. Either way I need a closer look. Getting up I walk to the end of the car. As I approach her seat, she stares straight ahead. Her expression is one of stone. I consider taking the seat beside her. Glancing at her I complete a quick assessment. Five nine, unkempt straw curls cascading past her shoulders (A tremendous liability in a fight), crystal blue eyes set in an extremely fair face, tan waist length leather jacket, Blue jeans. Stocky, powerfully built without an ounce of fat. Overall she is very attractive. I remember her. She was leaning against a building facade several blocks from Grand Central. She had given me the once over with her eyes. I had fantasized that she was interested. I am beginning to regret the extra thirty pounds I’ve packed on. She seems to be alone; I don’t see anyone else. My stop is next. Pausing at the train’s door, I watch her step onto the platform, blending easily into the crowd. Should I slip back onto the train? The doors slam closed behind me, removing that option. Only one way to know for sure that she is following me. This stop is a perfect stop both for an ambush and to lose a tail. Across from the platform is a two-block retail area. Immediately behind the stores is a well lit parking area. The other side of the lot is a dark wooded area with a fast river flowing through it. The river would mask any noises if I have to act and the contrast between the light and dark will conceal me if I need to disappear. However, the shadows backed by bright incandescent lights create pools of darkness which readily conceal stalkers. I think back to the woman killed by her ex-husband in this very parking lot. She sat dead in her car for several days until her family found her. He had stalked her from the train station remaining in the shadows until she opened her car door. She may have never even seen her killer. If not for his DNA retrieved from a speck of his dried saliva, he may never have been caught. I will be extra vigilant. Crossing the street I observe movement half a block away, shadowing me. It’s the woman from the train. At the corner marking the end of the strip mall, I turn left into the parking lot. Pretending to look for my car I follow a zig zag pattern across the lot. There she is, doing the same. Now I’m on a poorly lit cement sidewalk, on my left dark woods and the river. To my right, angle parked cars exhibitions of the wealth evidence throughout North Salem, New York. The other side of the street is lined with drab commercial buildings, their driveways lost in shadow. For a moment I consider slipping into the shadows and taking her. Too risky, some other commuter or resident may stumble across us. To reach my car I have to travel almost half a mile and cross a wooden footbridge. My car is hidden in a grove of trees off the road. As I approach the bridge, I glance left watching for movement. Bingo, at the center of the bridge I stop and watch the water rush by. There she is, still alone. Maybe I’m wrong. Or maybe I am being shadowed. Why? What should I do? Once we cross the bridge, I could take her and see what she can tell me. I am filled with doubt. Maintaining a fitness routine has not been a priority as of late. I’m terribly out of shape and she’s probably at the top of her game. I can’t let her get my license plate number. My options appear to be abduct, kill her or try and lose her. Reaching the edge of the woods I slip into the shadows. The ground is damp. My shoes sink in making sucking noises as I move. The Nike’s soak through, ice daggers penetrate my feet. Thank god, the car. Shit! Just visible in the shadows a dark sedan idles. Standard Government Issue Caprice, dual exhaust, corvette engine, police package. Now what? My new friend from the train appears and walks directly over to the caprice. Creeping closer I realize I’ve got problems. The driver lights up a cigarette. My heart sinks; there are three of them including my friend from the train. Not good, this just sucks. If only I still carried my Barretta with the silencer. It’s doing me no good locked up and hidden under the insulation in the attic. I love that Barretta “I lost him! Yeah! I’m sure it’s his car. Who else would park like that?” Her voice was rough from not enough sleep and too many cigarettes. The driver was talking, his voice muffled by the car. How do I get them out of the car? My cell phone rings. My body pressing the earth muffled it. With one hand I ripped the battery of the back of the phone and shove it into my pocket. My breath comes in rapid gasps as my heart races. A string of profanity erupts from the car, followed by two large men. Frantically they look around gesturing excitedly. Inching backwards I am momentarily flooded with relief that they had been unable to determine my location. They separate and head into the woods. I have to take them out quickly and quietly. If they got my license plate, a short trip to motor vehicle gives them my residential life history, As well as marital status and a description of my other car. All I have on me, other than my Glock, is a Leatherman multipurpose tool, complete with a 2-inch knife. Hardly adequate but it will have to do. I have to act quickly. When they are farthest apart. Must draw them deeper into the trees and away from the road. My heart is racing; I force my thoughts to slow, then my breathing. As soon as my pulse returns to normal, I begin to move slowly, staying low and keeping to the shadows. I have always preferred darker clothes and it is paying off now. Afraid that the light reflecting off my glasses will give my position away, I remove them. Capture one; kill two what a great plan. My Leatherman will be useful in extracting the information I desire. Personally I prefer drugs. Much less messy and makes less noise. Oh well, improvise, adapt and overcome. I find the smoker first by his smell. When smokers sweat they exude a stale nicotine smell. Approaching him slowly from behind, I pounce as quickly and quietly as I can. My left hand grasps his chin lifting back and to the left. The Leatherman draws across. My hand warms with the sudden rush of blood and I hear a rush of air as the blade pierces the cricothyroid cartridge. Blood shoots in spurts from his carotid artery. Taking his weight on my knee I lower him slowly without a sound. Everything feels surreal; I feel as if I have left my body and am an impassioned observer. The sharp crack of a breaking twig jerks me back to reality. My friend from the train is only a few yards away outlined in the moonlight. Quickly patting down the body I discover a silenced automatic. It feels like a .380 maybe a Walther PPK. Releasing the safety, my task just became a lot easier. Bringing up the gun I level it at the girl and slip quietly in her direction. Turning slowly in my direction, she sees me and freezes. I squeeze off a round as I roll left. When I stop she is down. I’m running out of time. My final opponent barrels through the woods towards me. I don’t want to kill him. I need to question him. Why are they here? Flattening into the hollow of a rotting tree, I watch him approach. He drops to one knee and checks the girl for a pulse. Reaching into his pocket he draws out a cell phone. I can’t allow him to make a call. Attempting proper sight alignment, I take a slow breath, hold and squeeze. His wrist explodes. I bring down the barrel and place two rounds in his left knee and right thigh. He made no sound but instead drew his own gun as he fell. Mentally I count rounds. One, no more than three rounds left depending on magazine capacity. Most trained professionals carry one in the chamber and the size of the gun rules out a larger magazine. I take aim for his arm with the gun, his good arm. I find myself silently praying as a round grazes my ear. The Walther makes a popping noise. My vision is blurred and I realize I’m not wearing glasses. I can’t believe I’ve hit my targets. Adrenaline has a strange way of heightening the senses. Cursing loudly my quarry crashes through the underbrush towards the road. Colliding with trees, adrenaline carries him on a destroyed knee. Running I make a flying tackle just within the tree line. He’s in much better physical shape but I have the weight advantage and no bullets lodged in me. As he struggles to rise, I kick his knee dislocating it. Now he is legless. His good hand finds my glock. Shit, I forgot all about my gun. My right hand surges down forcing it back into its holster. Left hand grabs his neck depriving him of oxygen. I fall forward driving him downward. His neck takes the full weight of our fall. His eyes widen in terror as he tries to breathe. . Rolling off his now lifeless body, I lay there gasping for breath. Closing my eyes I will my pulse to slow. Slowly I drag myself to his prone shape. He is dead. I move as quickly and quietly as I can from body to body checking them for identification and weapons. By their accents they appear to be foreign born, Slavic? No car keys on any of them. The keys are in the ignition. I climb in through the drivers open window. Before doing anything else I open the interior light and remove the bulb. Then placing the car in reverse, I ease the car backwards deeper into the shadows. Getting out of the car I take the keys and slowly ease open the trunk. Good, no trunk light. Hoisting the bodies into the trunk took and eternity. Slumping on the ground with the rear of the car for support, my breath comes in ragged gasps. Glancing at my watch I realize that less than fifteen minutes have passed. Piles of leaves have blown to the edge of the tree line. Quickly kicking them around I hope to conceal signs of struggle and the copious amounts of blood pooling on the ground. First, I have to make the bodies disappear, then the car. Upstate New York was once dotted with mines. I decide to head to one in particular. It was a strip mine, straight down. The shaft is about a quarter mile across. No one knows how deep it goes, the mining company hit an underground lake, which flooded the whole, mine. Legend has it that the government looked into putting a missile silo under the lake. Navy divers were called in but never reached the bottom. The water is supposed to be ice cold. Several bodies are rumored to lie within the icy depths, but none have been recovered. I can definitely dump the bodies maybe even the car in a watery grave. Dragging myself into the driver’s seat I headed North West confident I would soon be rid of the bodies and maybe the car as well. Turning onto the dirt track leading to the mine I breath a sigh of relief. Through the trees a flicker of red catches my eye. Quickly I turn off the engine and allow the car to coast to the side of the road. Sliding out of the car I slowly creep toward the end of the road. The moon illuminates a car. The windows are fogged over. Just my luck, some Romeo out on a date with his woman. This is the only access to the mine. Time for plan B. Plan Bs never really exist. This time is no exception. On the way back to the car I wrack my brain. Where can I covertly dispose of these damn bodies without drawing any attention to myself? I quietly jog back to the car. This area is growing at an accelerated pace. The county has not been able to keep up with the huge influx of people. The resulting road improvement zones at every bottleneck have created scattered road closings across the county. I know just such a place. It is a section of roadway being widened. There are reservoirs on either side and it is closely bordered by densely wooded areas. Even better, it’s located just a short way down the road. As I approach the work zone I turn off my headlights. Pushing aside the traffic control devices which close the road to traffic, I proceed through the construction site until out of sight of the road. Rural areas rarely have security at their construction sights. However, I have to be careful, the reservoirs have their own police who patrol large areas of watershed. Perhaps, because of boredom and the need to feel like “real police” they tend to be much more zealous than the local police. When roadbeds are created, the road crews put down a kind of white rock. Then they grade it with a specialized machine and roll it with a “steam roller.” Keep in mind I know nothing about road construction except what I have observed on my own. Continuing deeper into the construction site. I stop the car when I reach a section where rock has been poured and graded but not rolled. This is the spot. Sweat pours off my body, my arms burn, muscles on fire as I dig three shallow graves. Finally, it’s done. After placing the bodies in the holes, I fill them back in. Service to my country has given me the opportunity to operate all types of machinery. Climbing up it takes me only a few seconds to figure out the basics of operating the “steam roller”. Using this piece of heavy equipment I flatten the area to look as much as possible like it did before. With any luck the road will be blacktopped in the morning. With the bodies disposed of, I must now get rid of the car. Briefly I flirt with the idea of burying the car. However, I’ve made enough noise and my luck can only last but so long. Driving past the local firehouse a sudden inspiration comes to me. The bureau of fire has a training facility in the middle of multi-purpose land. State land that is undeveloped and as close to being wilderness as you can get, and still be this close to New York City. A section of this land has been set aside for rehearsing car fires using real cars. Stopping the car in front of the gate I get out and examine the lock. Someone was too lazy to lock it. Or someone is here. Turning off the car’s lights, I slowly drive down the road. The facilities buildings soon appear out of the night, no lights on. I get out of the car and do a quick recon. No one appears to be around. Driving into the live burn area I park the car near several others in various stages of dismemberment. After removing the tags and registration sticker I wipe down the whole car in and out ensuring no fingerprints. The other cars in the staging area are filled with hay and old crating skids. Taking them from a nearby pile I fill the car with every flammable product I can find. If my luck holds the car will be burnt along with the others. Next stop the administration building. Several windows are wide open to vent the constant smell of smoke and combustibles. Inside I find myself in a room with a shower and laundry. I strip and dump my clothes in the wash. Feeling very vulnerable, I take a shower. On a shelf I notice a pile of towels. Wrapping myself in one I decide to explore my surroundings while my clothes wash and dry. I discover a pile of plastic trash bags on the bottom of a trash can. Taking stock of my loot I place the items recovered from the bodies and car in a bag. Behind the building is an old bicycle. Jackpot, I now have at least an initial means of returning to my car, which is located almost ten miles from here. It takes about an hour to wash my clothes and I take them still damp from the dryer. In a few hours it will be daylight and my car is still 10 miles away. Still, all in all, not a bad nights work. The bodies are gone, the car, hopefully, soon will be too, and my clothes will soon dry in the cool night air.
>Chapter One, First Contact
Posted: June 5, 2011 Filed under: cia, danger, Fiction., flashback, followed, military Leave a comment »>
Something feels wrong. Tonight as the train rockets through the night carrying me home, my novel just isn’t keeping my attention. The main character, detective Macentire is about to walk into a trap set by the diabolical serial killer. Most nights I become so engrossed in my reading, my stop arrives without warning. I almost exclusively read action suspense novels. This particular author’s books are impossible to put down. Normally, I am riveted to the pages and have even missed my stop while reading. It is very unusual that I can’t concentrate on the words in front of me. The page keeps going out of focus and I keep reading the same line over and over again. It’s as if I were back in school trying to struggle through some onerous text which is being forced down our throats by the author/professor. My experience is such, that when a professor has written a text, not only is that book a terrible medium for learning, but it will be required reading in the class. Looking up from my book, I feel very uncomfortable, as if I’m being watched. For several days now a feeling of impending doom has loomed over me. Slowly I glance up. The man staring at me through dark eyes wears a rumpled blue railroad employee’s uniform. He stands about five ten with unkempt black hair, a scraggly mustache and olive complexion. He would be completely indiscernible, if not for the intensity of his glaring look. His eyes smolder with unbridled hate. I glance and our eyes meet for a moment before he quickly looks away. He gets up and lumbers past me moving to the distant end of the car behind where I am sitting. As he passes, I can feel his eyes boring into me and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
I am on edge. That guy really shook me up. Do combat veterans experience this kind of paranoid flashback? The image of homeless veterans begging at busy intersections flashed in my head. Forcing such thoughts aside, I try to catalog who might be interested in me. Since leaving the agency I had become complacent. I chose New York because with its nine million inhabitants it would be relatively easy to disappear. There had been contact over the years. A few offers, but they seemed to loose interest. Shifting in my seat I adjust myself into a sideways position. I don’t see him. It was probably nothing, I’m just getting paranoid in my old age.
Reflecting on the contacts I’ve had over the years. I wonder if maybe I was going to be approached. I had been approached in the past. The agency keeps tabs on ex employees whom they deem worthy. When they need some ridiculous job accomplished, they approach with offers of cash. The United States government has some 40 odd intelligence agencies. Some are publicly acknowledged, some are known only to select few. Each of these agencies operates under specific guidelines and has certain responsibilities. For example the CIA spies on foreign countries. The NSA spies on Americans. This of course is a very loose explanation of what they do. Since Sep. 11 2001 the individual agencies have received broader, expanded powers (and budgets) and for the present makes a public effort at information sharing and cooperation. However, each of these agencies competes with the others for funding and information. They guard their information closely and do not share anything more than they feel they have to. They do not trust each other and for the most part they do not like each other. They compete ruthlessly on every level and are very jealous of each other. On occasion they feel they need information which exists outside their jurisdiction. Usually these information gathering endeavors are illegal for that agency to perform. Keep in mind that these little projects might actually be within the jurisdiction of another agency. Or the information desired might already be in the possession of another agency. Not that they would think twice about stealing it. On occasion someone may be abducted or even killed in the interest of national security. On those occasions ex employees or independent contractors are quietly employed.
Settling back into my seat, the pain returns. A forty-year-old man in a ninety- year- old body. My pain was not the result of any one event, rather a subtle and repetitive abuse. Refusing to become a slave to drugs I had held the pain at bay with a rigorous martial arts routine and yoga, which I have been slacking off as of late. Regulating my breathing and relaxing my body, I Appear to drift off to sleep. I study my surroundings through the slits of my eyelids. I assume that if I am really being watched it would be a team. For now I do nothing but stay alert. Finally, we arrive at my stop. There he is glaring at me from the back of the car. He does not get off. Maybe I look like someone he knows. I rack my brain. Is it possible I jostled him while running for the train? I put it out of my mind. There really is no reason for anyone to be coming after me. I’m out on disability and have let myself go. Technology has advanced by leaps and bounds; I have not kept up. Maybe I bumped into him boarding the train or taken his usual seat. But, maybe, it would be a good idea to start working out again.
Exiting the train, I step into the cold night. Pulling my coat tight as I cross the parking lot, I wonder about my sanity. I still park my car in out of the way places hidden from view. I never take the same route twice and vary my arrival and departure times. I even alter my mode of travel from car to bus to train. There are no constants in my life. Not even friends. It’s a lonely life, maybe it’s finally affecting my sanity. Arriving at my car I push ideas of lunacy out of my head. You can drive yourself crazy thinking like that. Before opening the doors I walk around the car and look for footprints. Then I check for signs of entry. A few years back someone broke into my trunk and stole two cheap quarts of oil. I never understood that. Why risk jail or getting killed for two dollars worth of oil? I hope their engine seized. Nothing seems disturbed so I get in. I hesitate to start the car. Realizing that I’ve been holding my breath, gradually I turn the key until the car starts. The ride home is longer than usual. I double back several times and take undocumented dirt roads to ensure that I have no tail.
As I pull into my complex, I reconsider the advisability of townhouse living. There is only one road and every branch is a dead end. With over a hundred units, this commuter’s community seemed an ideal way to blend in without being obvious. The idea of someone else doing all my exterior maintenance seemed ideal at the time. Summer pool access was a tremendous bonus. In retrospect a small cottage on a large defensible lot may have been a better idea. The main road of my development is like the trunk of a tree winding down a steep decline, with extensions of varying lengths branching off to the right and left. I live down the second to last branch all the way to the back. Between each branch of roadway is a small track of densely forested land. In the summer, I cannot see or hear the rows of townhouses above and behind mine. The houses are in three to eight block units, each unit being almost identical to its neighbor on the inside. Instead of driveways and garages we park in large unassigned lots adding to each cars anonymity. The vast majority of my neighbors commute to one of four large cities. The closest [Danbury] is twenty miles away and New York is the farthest at sixty miles. Weekends the neighbors all run around shopping and conducting all the personal business that they are unable to complete Monday through Friday due to their long commutes.
Tonight I park in the lot which services the row of townhomes directly behind mine. Navigating by the light of the moon I approach my home from the rear. Vines cascading from a tree fronted by thorn bushes create a small hollow from which I can observe my home without fear of being seen, even during daylight. I had considered the possibility of someone observing me but until now had dismissed it as paranoia. I think I will at least place a small hidden camera to ensure only I am using this space. Hidden cameras have come a long way, the one I will place is has a motion sensor, night vision, remote solar panels to power it during the day, lithium batteries, and a removable USB drive which can be downloaded to my PC. The entire system fits in my pocket. Watching the house for a few moments I am able to determine that there are no lights in the rear windows. Settling into the dense vegetation I watch through my oversized windows and glass slider leading to the kitchen. My first floor has only two rooms and a half bath. I can see almost the entire floor but observe no movement. It should be safe to enter the house. Upon entering the house I reach into the closet and turn off the alarm. After changing the alarm code I begin to relax. Upstairs I look around, nothing is out of place. Dragging out the ladder I pop the hatch and ascend into the attic pulling the ladder up behind me. When I first moved in it bothered me that I only had two sides of access and egress. The first thing I did was create two hidden hatches in the attic leading to the houses on either side. This way, if attacked, as long as I can make it to the attic I can escape through the neighbors’ house. I had meant to create a system of doors leading all the way to the end units of my block of townhouses. Now I was sorry that I never got around to it. Removing, boxes from in front of my escape hatches, I inspect the seals which I had placed on the seams. Nothing was disturbed. Opening each hatch I make sure they are not obstructed by anything in the neighboring attics. Satisfied, I replace the seals and lower the ladder descending to the second floor.
When I first moved in, I discovered that the second floor bathroom was not as deep as the rooms on either side by about three feet. The builder had created a space behind the bathroom as a kind of pipe room. The room was about nine feet deep, three feet wide and eight feet high. There was a twenty eight inch gap in the beams supporting the back wall of the front bedroom closet. Additionally, the room was accessible through a plywood hatch in the attic. I created a panic room. The walls are insulated with flame retardant ballistic foam. The walls consist of quarter inch steel sheets mounted to steel studs. The room sits directly between the two steel beams which support the house. I reinforced the floor between the steel beams with flame retardant materials. Once I was confident that, should the house burn down, my panic room would remain intact, I began to stock it with non-perishables. Paying only cash and utilizing several sources, I purchased enough state of the art surveillance equipment to keep an eye on the stairs, front and back door as well as the closet entrance. Just for good measure I also placed cameras in my attic and through the wall into the neighboring attics. A 30 inch flat panel color monitor displays the activity picked up by the cameras. The exterior cameras are recorded to a hard drive which then can be written to disk.
Playing back today’s recordings, I am confident that no one has been watching my house. Nothing has been disturbed in or out of the house. Satisfied, I undress to take my shower. Warm water melts the stress away. Exhausted I fall into bed not looking forward to the dreams today will inspire. In the morning I will wake sore and tired. Yet thankful that I do not remember dreams.
