Action Novel, Chapter One

The problem with this business is advertising. You cannot just call up your local paper and say “Yes Ma’am, I would like the ad to read: ‘Man with gun, will travel, 541-209-3423’ Oh, can I have that in bold, too?” Frankly, I have a feeling that conversation would not go quite so well, neither would the one with the local police.

Some say that a good street reputation is the key to success in this business. However, that would mean you also have a good reputation with members of law enforcement. A reputation like that is just not good for business either.

No, what you need is connections. You need to be known by a few high ups who preferably work for the same organization. Having one organization as a client is a way to ensure your survival. Otherwise, one client could ask you to take out another client. What do you do then? Do you piss off one client by not taking a job? Or, do you piss off the other client by taking out one of their men? You just don’t do it. Multiple clients can be problematic.

There are problems with having one client. First, they can dictate the payment. You have to assert yourself at first, demand more money, or they won’t respect you. Second, you can become associated with the organization. When others see you as a member of the organization, you become a target, you become a corpse. Third, clients die. That’s it, job’s over, no more money. And fourth, clients can become peaceful. If you take care of all of the client’s enemies, business is good, but you are no longer needed.

For a time, I thought I had problem number four: peace. Everyday I would check my voicemail for a coded message implying a capital opportunity. Instead I heard the same message. “You have no new messages. To change your voicemail options, press one. To review your account information press two. Para espanol, apretar cinco. To hear…” This became really annoying along with watching my bank balances dwindle.

Now, as usual for this time in the morning, I checked my voicemail. I remember thinking that if I heard the same disappointing message; I would run the phone over a couple dozen times and then use it for target practice. I put the phone up to my ear. “You have one new message.” But, instead of the promise of a job, what I heard was a promise of death. My skin got cold, my mouth dry and sour, and it felt like I was looking down a paper tube. Panic had struck.

“Have you read the paper?” The mechanically altered voice asked. “The News Sun, front page reads: Gunman Sought in Family Massacre – Sherriff Denies Families’ Mob Connection. They are dead and so are you, Mr. Morris.” The message ended and a new mechanical voice began “To delete this message press seven. To replay the message press eight.”

I regained control of my emotions. I took two deep breaths, just like my therapist told me to do. God, it kills me a little bit inside every time that woman is right. My vision returned to normal and my head stopped spinning. I know exactly what to do. I had prepared for this in the past. I just need to get out now, and then I can ask questions later. What matters at this moment is survival.

First thing first, I took the cell phone apart and removed the SIM card and stuck it in my wallet. This card stores all of the contacts and information on a cell phone as well giving the phone its phone number. You never know when you need to call in a favor or two, especially in a situation like this one. Then, I did just what I had wanted to do all along. I smashed the cell phone into tiny little bits with the heel of my shoe.

The level of threat was high here. Whoever had left that message had likely taken out one of the leaders of the Vicenzie Brothers’ gang, my proprietors. The Vicenzie Brothers were in no way a hard target. They are a low level gang related to the Italian Mafia. Their influence ran sporadically across Lake County, Illinois. I did jobs for them and they paid decently. I never had a problem with them. But, I guess it would be a bad idea to bounce a check with me. I couldn’t help but smile with that thought, better than a certified check. To the point, what made this guy or gal a threat is that he killed them to get to me. From whichever Vicenzie brother was killed this person had extracted vital information about me, specifically. He had extracted my name and phone number from a Vicenzie and then killed him. Only they knew this information. But that was all I would give the Vicenzies.

They could still find me, if they had triangulated my position from the cell phone towers. The phone number goes back to Burns, Oregon. So, that will be a dead end for them. Like I said, I had made plans in advance.

I had built this apartment like a fortress, just like a high level drug dealer would, but with more precision and finesse. You wouldn’t even know if I didn’t tell you. Behind each piece of drywall, under the floor boards, and attached to the ceiling lies two inches of armor steel and each window has a sliding armor plate hidden behind a bookcase or other piece of furniture. These precautions will only buy me a little time. I guess watching shows like the A-Team and MacGyver as a kid did me some good, or made me incredibly paranoid. I would have to talk to my therapist about that.

Just as I had practiced, I crawled along the floor to the windows avoiding the eyes of possible snipers. I reached behind random furniture, and slid the window armor into place. I stood up, confident in my immediate safety, and began my preparations.

Step one: intelligence. Know your enemy. I pulled open my laptop and accessed the camera system I had installed in the immediate area. Now that took some time dressed as a municipal engineer installing small button cameras and hiding wireless routers connected to other people’s energy utilities. If I ever retire from this business, I should work for ADT.

Immediately I noticed a van that was out of place. What amateurs, I thought, they always use a van. I could see a black male in a white t-shirt and red hat sitting behind the wheel looking around the area. I didn’t know if I was being paranoid or if this guy was here for a job. By the looks of it, he was probably sent as surveillance, not to engage me. He probably was going to tail me.

What I think their game plan must be is to make the call and scare me into running. Then they would trace the cell phone and set up surveillance in the area. That seems to be where they are at now. After that, they will follow me, maybe get into a fender bender with me, at which point I stop my car instead of calling attention to myself by fleeing the scene of an accident. Then they draw a gun and… Pop! Mitch is dead.

They could also be planning an abduction and then kill me later in some remote area. Vans are great for that.

I continued looking around on the cameras. There were a few people who I didn’t recognize, but nothing that is too suspicious. But paranoia can be your best friend in a situation like this. Also having friends in low places can help. I don’t mean underworld low, I mean like the bar downstairs. I grabbed my landline and called downstairs to the bartender.

“Michaels Pub,” answered the sweet voice of Maxine, my favorite bartender with a perfect heart shaped butt in tight jeans.

“Hey Maxi, it’s Mitch, I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Okay, are there any tourists in the bar, anyone you have never seen before?”

“Yeah, there’s this.”

“Stop there,” I interrupted “is Kurt there, can he cover for you while you go in the back?”

“Yeah, is everything alright?” She asked.

“No, but these guys shouldn’t hear you talking about them, so get Kurt to watch the bar and talk to me on the line in back.”

“Okay.” She held her hand over the receiver of the phone as she yelled “Kurt! Watch the bar, I gotta take this!”

“She put the phone on hold and picked up a minute later.”

“Okay Mitch, now tell me what kind of shady shit is going on.” Maxi scolded me in her not so endearing mother-like tone.

“Listen, I don’t know how, but I pissed some people off. I don’t even know who. Now just tell me about this guy in the bar.”

“So this guy in the bar is some sort of lunatic who wants to kill you?”

As calm as possible I told Maxi “He’s probably not a lunatic, I would prefer it if he was. Just tell me about him, what he looks like, what he said, what he’s drinking.”

“Well, he came in here about ten minutes ago, said he was meeting someone. He ordered one beer and has barely drank any of it. He’s a lousy tipper too.”

“What does he look like, what’s he wearing, did you see a gun?”

“A gun?” Maxi exhaled.

“Just tell me”

“Well, he’s a black guy. He looks kinda gangster. His type really don’t come in here, you know, not his type of place.”

“What is he wearing?” I drilled her.

“He has one of those black nylon looking things on his head.”

“A do-rag,” I interrupted.

“Yeah, it’s one of those.” She continued. “He’s got baggy jeans and a blue t-shirt too”

“Thanks, hon. I’ll be going out your back door soon, okay.”

“Yeah, but what should I do?”

“Bartend,” I replied flatly and hung up.

I checked my camera in the stairwell, and I couldn’t see anyone there. I scanned all of my cameras one last time, and then I turned off my laptop and stuffed it in its bag.
I then grabbed what I dub my Oh-Shit Bag ready with all the essentials for me to run and leave everything behind. I hate having to move, but I won’t go far. I need to know who did this and why. I also need to contact the Vicenzies. There will be some money in this. There is always money to be made in war.

* * *



Planning an escape is one thing, but actually making one is another. I have time on my side, but the longer I wait, the more ready they will be They, whoever they are, probably have it narrowed down to the block. I don’t know if they know what I look like, but it always helps to look like someone else. I rolled over my options. I went to the bathroom.

I looked in the mirror. I thought about my childhood heroes, the A-Team and MacGyver. I asked myself, what would they do? I looked at my thinning dirty blonde hair. Then it hit me, my hair is thinning! I grabbed my beard trimmer and put it as low as it could go and shaved my head. Then I shaved the remains to the skin. I looked at my goatee and I thought I needed to go further. I trimmed up my goatee a little, and found some of that five minute beard dye. Just like the commercial, I brushed it in and washed it out. Bingo, I had a black beard. I did my eyebrows too. Then, I put on a black suit and tie and added some sunglasses. Now, I was all dressed up, but with nowhere to go.

The key to a good disguise is not necessarily the clothing, but the visual story you create. I originally looked like a regular working class kind of guy, a guy in his late twenties who probably worked at a factory or something. I was the tee-shirt and jeans type of guy. I looked like the type of guy you wouldn’t mind having a beer with after work. Now, I had created a new visual story. Now I look like a corporate salesman in his late thirties. Baldness has a way of aging people like that. Adding to my disguise will be my baggage and especially my laptop bag. However, I needed to bring some firepower with me.

I put my forty-five in a shoulder holster underneath my coat with an extra magazine in each coat pocket. That would work well, but not as a primary weapon. A bigger weapon would be needed, just in case.

I wrenched my AK-47 out from underneath the bed. The toughest weapon ever made; it is the weapon of choice of oppressive regimes all across the world. I had a magazine loaded and two spares attached to the butt stock. If anything could get me out of this alive it was my trusty AK-47. Although, the trick seemed to be getting the rifle out unseen.

I had an epiphany of sorts, I ran to the closet. I began throwing blankets and jackets on the floor until I found it. Gift wrap, I would gift wrap my rifle. To fire it, all I would have to do is rip the paper enough for my finger to grip the trigger. I thought I was so brilliant. Oh wait, I am.

Having made my disguise and gift wrapped a little surprise for my friends; I needed to make a little distraction. I hoped the van was still outside. I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

“Antioch Police, 911 Emergency, what is your emergency?” Asked the operator on the line.

In my best old man voice I mimicked “Yeah, there is some pervert in a van outside of my apartment.”

“Okay, what is the problem?”

“Well, I saw him touching himself and he has one of those big vans, and well, the school bus is due any minute…” I trailed off mumbling like my grandfather used to.

“I see, where is the van?”

“It’s at Lake Street and Victoria Street. He is a black man in a white van, the only white van around. I think I saw a handgun in his pocket too.” I lied. I knew this would really rile up the police.

“Yes sir, and what is your name?”

“Carlson, Matthew Carlson.”

“Thank you sir, I will have the police on their way.”

“No, thank you for getting rid of these perverts, ma’am.” I hung up the phone and congratulated myself.

“Matthew Carlson,” I chuckled to myself. He was one of my old math teachers from elementary school. I think I must have sounded just like him.

The police station is only a block away, so I knew they would be here soon. I wanted to stay and watch for more than just fun, but for intelligence reasons. I felt like a child watching an elementary school bully get yelled at by a teacher. I was going to enjoy the show. I slid open my window shield only about an inch.

The police began to arrive. Two cars came from Main Street to the East and one car came from the West on Lake Street. Their lights were going but no sirens could be heard. They arrived in silence. The car from the west turned right onto Victoria They set up a perfect high risk stop with the crossfire at the white van.

The two police cars got into a “V” shape, they opened their doors and took cover behind their cars. My plan worked perfect, until the third cop parked right in front of my car. This was a development I hadn’t planned for. I would have to go on foot.

I heard the police begin their stop, just according to textbook.

“Driver,” announced the policeman on the public address system. “Open your door”

I looked out my peephole. No one was in the stairwell. I opened the door and began my descent.

“Driver step out of the vehicle, and put your hands above your head,” ordered the Officer. “I see the gun in your pants, do not reach for it, or we will shoot.” A shot rang out, heard over the loud speaker. Then it was followed by several more shots. Then it sounded like a war was starting in my street. I leaped down the steps, two at a time, baggage in hand. At the bottom of the stairwell, I ripped the wrapping from my assault rifle. I wasn’t going to let the police die. Criminals can kill criminals, but in my book, you don’t kill the good guys. I have never killed anyone I thought might be even remotely a good guy. I briefly wondered who these people were. Real organized criminals never engage the cops, not since the era of Al Capone. I burst through the door into the pub kitchen and dropped my bags there. Maxi was there huddling against the wall near the stove.

“Mitch?” She shrieked, probably terrified and unsure if it was me with my new look and all.

“Don’t move!” I instructed her as I crashed out the screen door into the alley. With my rifle up and at the ready, I stalked down the alley between the pub and internet café. I emerged onto Victoria Street behind the lone police officer. He was hunkered down behind his car calling for backup. It sounded like the fourth of July, except this was no party.

“Ten thirty-three, emergency, ten thirty-three, send everyone! They are on the roof, and up and down Lake Street heading in all directions. All subjects are black males, armed and dangerous. ten thirty-three” I decided to announce my presence from the end of the alley before he turned and shot me.

“Don’t shoot me, I’m here to help.”

“Ten four, all units en route to Lake and Victoria.” The dispatcher responded her voice obviously strained with tension, but controlled and professional she was doing her job.

He turned, saw my gun, and his eyes were wide. He began to point his gun in my direction. I quickly pointed my gun up and put my palm out like a crossing guard. “No! I’m a friend!” I shouted. “Where are they?”

“Over there and on the roof!” He pointed.

“Ask me to help defend you!” I yelled

“What?” The Officer questioned.

“Do it, ask me to help defend you!”

“Help, defend me, please!” The officer begged.

“Yes Sir!” I retorted. It’s a little known law, but one that can really help you out in a situation like this. If an officer of the law asks you for assistance, and you accept, you may act with full police powers. It is a really handy way to get your way out of a sticky legal situation. My lawyer told me this about a year ago. I would have to send him some flowers for that one.

I stood up about three feet from the building, rifle at the ready and gun trained skyward. I gritted my teeth and peeked out toward the building’s roof staring down my gun sights with my new found police powers. I saw movement and the silhouette of a gun barrel. I fired a small burst of legally justified lead and saw the shooter duck. I ran for the rear of the police car and took cover.

“Do you have anything with a little more firepower?” I yelled to the police officer over the gunfire. I could hear the sound of more approaching

“Yeah, a shotgun and AR-15 in the trunk, get it and toss them to me!” He popped the trunk and neatly attached to the lid was the shotgun and the AR-15 assault rifle with a scope. I tossed him the shotgun but I took hold of the AR-15. I could hear the sound of approaching sirens. This place would be crawling with cops in a minute. To the contrary, I think that is what I needed right now. There was an army out there trying to get me and maybe a blue shield is just what I need.

“Give me that!” The officer bellowed angrily.

“Believe me Officer, umm,” I looked at his name plate, “Dalton, I can shoot this better than you can.” I thought, after all, the Army Rangers don’t train just anyone. I sprayed a burst from my AK-47 toward the roof. Then I took the rifle and ran to the house across the street and motioned for the officer to follow. I sprayed another burst for the sniper as Dalton ran my way.

“Who the fuck are you anyway?” Dalton Demanded.

“Me? I am the complainant, Mr. Carlson.” I stated smugly. “Now, cover me with that while I take care of Mr. Happy up there.”

“Okay, got it.” Dalton confirmed.

I crawled on my belly under the bushes against the house. I had my AK-47 on my back and the AR-15 at the ready. I heard the gunfire and my hands began to shake and sweat started to bead down my face. For a moment, only a moment, I thought I was back in Baghdad. I could see the black cloth wrapped around the faces of the men I was fighting, the Mahdi Army of Muqtada Al Sadr. I could feel the midday heat of Baghdad through my body armor and helmet with sweat running down my face. I could hear their chants in my head.

“Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar.” I heard the militia men say in my head over and over again. “God is great, God is great.” I saw the man on the roof and for that one moment, he looked like a militia man. In my mind, he held an RPG, not a rifle.

I opened my mouth to yell “RPG!” But I caught myself. I inhaled quick and vigorously. Oxygen is the best medicine after all. The world came back into focus.

I centered my being. I made the rifle as an extension of my hand, as an extension of my will. I looked through the scope and saw the man pointing his rifle in my direction. He was looking for me. This time I did not see the black cloth masks of a militia man. He knew I had an assault rifle, but I don’t think he was counting on the scope. I lined up the crosshairs on his head. It was an easy shot. I concentrated on my breathing, and willed my finger to squeeze the trigger. The shot went off and I saw a mist of blood expelled into the air.

I looked around. Our general area was safe, it seemed. The sounds of gunfire were moving farther west down lake street. It sounded like a move and shoot battle between the cops and the gunmen. Then I remembered Maxi in the kitchen and the guy in the bar. What had happened to him?

I motioned for the cop to follow me. I ran across the street. As I passed the patrol car I threw the AR-15 back in the trunk and swung my AK-47 into the ready position. Looking down my barrel I stalked back down the alley. I hoped Maxi would be alright. I stood next to the screen door ready. I looked toward Officer Dalton. He had the shotgun ready.

“A friend of mine is in the kitchen. There was one of them in the bar. I want to make sure that the people in here are okay.”

“Got it,” the officer confirmed with the shotgun at the ready.

I threw open the screen door and swept from left to right. As I proceeded in, I saw Maxine. She was in the corner held by a black man who resembled the description of the guy from the bar, do-rag and all. He was trying to use her as a shield. He obviously was trying to hold her hostage.

“I want…”He started but I didn’t listen to more.

“Drop the weapon!” I ordered. He didn’t listen fast enough so I squeezed the trigger and the well aimed bullet passed by Maxine’s head and found it’s way into the hostage taker’s eye. Maxine was sprayed with blood and viscera but otherwise unharmed as he slumped to the ground. I was never trained to negotiate. It’s strange how it never gets to that point with me. I was trained to respond to a threat and neutralize it, not give it a hug and tell it how pretty it is. However, I could do that for Maxi. I ran to her side.

“Maxi, oh, I am so sorry, I’ll buy you a new shirt.” I said wiping the bad guy off of her and giving her a big hug. She stared at me, temporarily in shock. My humor barely registered.

Bursting from the Dalton’s radio came “All Units from Unit One, All Units from Unit One, situation is Adam Charlie, Adam Charlie, all-clear, all-clear.”

“Unit 52 copies, I am okay.” Replied Dalton as the other officers called in their situation reports. Dalton looked completely relieved.

Maxi started feeling better. I know this because she was crying. I would be worried if she didn’t cry.

“Why… Who… would do this?” She sobbed into my shoulder. Her green eyes shone through her gorgeous fiery hair as she looked up at me. Then I knew she was really going to be okay. She stopped crying and became furious. Her eyes were turning the color of her hair.

“You!” she accused. “You could have killed me!”

I let go of her and put my arms up defensively as she began to bat at my face.

“I didn’t… You’re alive… Stop it.” I grunted.

“Okay, Okay,” Interrupted Dalton. “Ma’am, I really need you to stop. Both of you need to come with me to the station for questioning in all of this.”

“What?” Asked Maxi, stunned again.

“Sir,” I began, and stepped forward. “I am afraid I cannot let you do that. My life is in danger and you would be interrupting a federal investigation.” I emphasized the point by putting my AK-47 at ready and pointing it in the general area of his nose. By reaction Dalton began to reach for his gun, but thought better of it.

“Umm,” stuttered Dalton suddenly nervous. “What federal investigation?”

“The phone on the wall, pick it up.” I ordered.

“Okay.” Dalton said calmly and smoothly. He had been trained for stuff like this. He must think I am beyond bonkers right now.

“Mitch what are you doing?” Maxi cried. I hoped that this whole situation wouldn’t scar her mind. I mean, god, some goon just held a gun to her head. Then I shot him. His body was still there. The drama between Dalton and I seemed to distract her from the fact that there was a body on the floor, just behind her, and she was covered in his blood spray.

“Maxi, you might as well hear this too. Officer, put the phone on speaker. Now dial this number: 1-888-854-2936.” I instructed. Officer Dalton dialed the number, sweat started to pour down his face and his hands began to shake. He was nervous.

The phone connected rang once and an automatic system picked. A brief pleasant musical note played then a mechanical sounding female voice identified itself. “Thank you for calling the Department of Homeland Security. Please enter your ten digit operative identification number followed by the pound key. If you do not have an operative identification number, press the star key.”

The blue clad officer looked at me quizzically but still sweating. I had a feeling he was nervous of the gun, but curious of the situation. He was definitely a good cop.

“Seven, nine, two, four, seven, zero, zero, zero, nine, eight,” I repeated. Dalton dialed the number and pressed pound.

“Thank you Mr. Morris. You are being connected to your case administrator.” The phone rang twice and a woman picked up.

“Department of Homeland Security International Investigations Unit, how may I help you?” The secretary greeted.

“Yeah,” I shouted to the phone, “I need to talk to Director Marcos.”

“I am sorry; Director Marcos is in a meeting.” She stated flatly.

“Look, I am one of her operatives. If you look, my call came in on the emergency operative line. Now, I am standing here with a rifle pointed at a cops head because he wants to bring me to the station for questioning. That would ruin the investigation and risk my life. Now put her on the phone or I will just kill him.” I threatened.

While we were waiting, Dalton looked at me, shook his head almost laughing, “Who are you?”

“Do you really want to die that bad? That is what this is all about, anyway.”

“Good point. Care to clue me in on what this lady will say?”

“No.”

“Okay”

The phone clicked.

“Yes, Mr. Morris?.” The Director spoke with a lispy Spanish accent.

“Eva, I am in a bit of a jam.” I begged the Director for help.

“Do you need money?” She asked me my duress code, standard procedure.

“India, Tango, Whiskey, eighty seven. But I am broke.” The first part is my response for ‘no, I am not being forced to say this.’ The second part is just the truth.

“What happened?”

“I received a threat this morning. Then, as I am trying to leave, I got ambushed and the local Cops showed up. None of the local Cops were hurt, but the town is a mess, and this cop wants to take me for questioning.”

“Is he right there with you?”

“Yeah, say hi.”

“Hi,” the officer grunted, but intrigued.

“Hello Officer,” greeted the lispy director. “Now what do you want with my operative?”

“Well, he killed two of the attackers with an assault rifle and he seemed to know more about this than anyone else. So, I asked him to come in for questioning and he shoves a gun in my face. Then he tells me to pick up the phone and dial this number, and, well, here we are.”

“I see.” The director chuckled. “Well, yes, he is one of mine and you will not take custody of him. You will not fingerprint him. You will not investigate him, his property, or his involvement for the sake of Homeland Security.”

“Well, okay, but what do I tell the Chief?”

“Write this phone number and code down. 1-888-854-2936, and then 7924700099, and then write this down: invisible sword”

“Okay, What do I do with this?”

“When you write your report you will write nothing but invisible sword. The code invisible sword will be known by your Police Chief only. It was a code put in place by the Department of Homeland Security, just after it was formed. He will recognize it and give you a year off with pay.”

“What?” Asked Dalton surprised.

“You won’t have to work much for the next year, but for the next year you will work for me. I look forward to meeting you. I will be there in twenty four hours. Mitch, you take care of him in the meantime.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I acquiesced in a mocking lisp and hung up. The bitch had done it to me again. Now, I had two people staring at me in shock.