30(S3E4)- Shaky

30

(Season 3 Episode 4)

Shaky

The truck was called a ‘people mover’ by the Army soldiers who it would carry from destination to destination.  The generals and other officers in charge of the war in Afghanistan called them ‘personnel transports’.  No matter what you called them, they were not comfortable to be in.

The Army however, did not build things with comfort in mind.

They were big trucks.  The back end had a camouflage canopy over it and two benches on either side of the back.  It could hold twenty soldiers on the benches, ten per side, and another eleven on the floor in a pinch.

Charles Napier sat at the back end of the right side bench.  He bounced up and down as the truck rolled over the rocky terrain and watched the dust from behind them fade away into the darkness.

He looked across from him and saw a slightly shorter man, his helmet off as he rubbed his bald scalp. The man was pure muscle and broad shouldered, giving him the look of a bouncer at a local bar.

“I fucking hate these things,” Napier said to the man across from him.

The man looked up at him with a stoic face.

“I said, I fucking hate these things.” Napier yelled louder to the man across from him.

“I heard you the first time.” The man said in a gruff and quiet tone.

Napier scowled.  “Well then, why the fuck didn’t you answer me when I spoke?  What kind of mother fucker doesn’t speak when spoken to?”

The man’s eyes narrowed.  “This kind of mother fucker.”

Napier’s scowl turned to a grin.  “I think I am beginning to like you.”

The man shook his head.  “Should I care?”

“I’m Charlie Napier.”  Charlie said, ignoring his comment.

The man considered him, then answered.  “Scott.  Scott Jefferies.”

“So do you know what all this bullshit, secrecy is about?”  Napier asked.

Scott shook his head.  “Can’t say that I do.  Just said I had been reassigned and gave me the rendezvous point.”

Napier nodded.  “I got the same bullshit too.  Can’t say that I’m not happy for the new assignment, I hated my platoon.”

Scott cocked his head.  “Why?”

“They were fucking pussies.” Napier answered.

“Pussies?” Scott asked, about to regret it.

“We were on assignment and raiding this supposed terrorist hideout.  One of my supposed platoon members goes upstairs and somehow manages to get disarmed and taken as a human shield.”  Napier explained.

Scott waited as if expecting more.

Napier shrugged.  “I guess the terrorist hiding behind him over estimated my sense of team.  Fucking shot through the guy into the terrorists.  Next thing I know, those officer humping M.P.’S show up and I am on a bus to nowhere.”

Scott nodded.  “Sounds about the same.”

Charles looked inquisitive.  “So you did something wrong too?”

“I broke seven of my commanding officer’s teeth.” Scott replied.  “Honestly, I think everyone on this bus was arrested by the military police.”

The truck came to a halt.  Two soldiers came over and opened the back.  “Everybody out!”

The soldiers in the back poured out and the two in men directed the soldiers into what seemed to be an old building of some sort in the middle of absolutely nowhere.  The soldiers piled in and found a large room with a dirt floor and four rows of five uncomfortable looking metal chairs.

“Just once, I want to be ushered into a room of lazy boys.”  Napier said with a frown.

Scott grunted back at him in agreement.

“You are a quite mother fucker aren’t you?”  Napier said, turning toward him.

Scott frowned back.  “I don’t waste words on bullshit.”  He replied and walked over to take a seat.

Napier scoffed at him.  “You just did, asshole.”

They two took two seats in the front row next to each other as the rest of the twenty men sat down to wait.  Charles became visibly bored and upset.

“Are they trying to starve us to death?” He said, receiving a couple of snickers from the other men.

Finally someone entered.  He was six feet tall and skinny.  His body had almost no fat, but he was not overly muscular.  He had the build of a swimmer.  He entered with bright blue eyes and blonde hair.  He was smoking a cigarette and his hands were shaking violently.

“Do you know why you are here?” He asked the group.

Most shook their heads, Napier chuckled.

The shaky man’s eyes narrowed on Napier but he ignored the laugh.  “You are here because of two important factors.  The first is, you are all terrible soldiers.  You are selfish, reckless, and disobedient.  All of you have had a major policy or law violation during your service of the American government.  The second factor, and most important, is despite your personal and procedural faults, you are all exception murderers.  You are all part of the one percent of the human race that are natural born killers.”

The man continued to explain.  “Most who commit the offenses you people have committed get shipped to a tank for the rest of your natural born lives, but because you do what you do so well, you are going to get a second chance to serve your country.  There are a lot of things out here that need to be done that under the normal codes of conduct, the Army can’t do.  We, on the other hand, can.  From this point on, you are all K.I.A on file.  Your names will be changed to one word call signs and as far as the world exists, you won’t.  You will do and kill who we need killed without question, and in return, I will give you the freedom to do so in any way you see fit.”

The man sitting to Napier’s left, opposite Jefferies, raised his hand and asked.  “What if we refuse?”

The shaky man turned toward him and pulled his sidearm, placed to the man’s forward and put a single shot through his brain.  Blood and grey matter splashed onto the man sitting behind the victim as the man slumped and fell to the floor.

“I will explain this again, for those who weren’t listening, you no longer exist.  That means you are mine.  No one will miss you, no M.P.’s are going to storm in and take me away.  The only rule from now on is kill or be killed.  Any other questions?” He finished his tirade and everybody shook their head no.

Everybody except Napier.

“Yeah I got one,” Napier spoke up and everyone turned toward him, shocked.  “Do you shoot everyone who asks a question?”

Shaky walked over and put his side arm to Napier’s forehead.  Everyone in his vicinity scooted away from him.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Shaky asked, thumbing the hammer back on the gun.

Napier smiled.  “Because I belong here.”

Shaky smiled.  “I would have to say you do.”

The shaky man un-cocked the pistol and stepped back.  “You will all give your new names to Napalm and he will give you a room number.  This place used to be a hotel.  You will each have one bunk mate. Welcome to Rattlesnake.  My name is Shaky.  If you have questions, feel free to keep it to yourself.”

Each person got up and got in line and approached Napalm.  They would give him a one word name and he would give them a room number.  Scott was ahead of Charles and when he got there Napalm asked, “Name?”

Scott answered without hesitation.  “Stone.”

“Room 24.”  Napalm said.

Charles Napier stepped up, beaming at the idea of picking a new name before Napalm could even ask Napier said.  “Rockwell. My fucking name is Rockwell.”

“Room 24.”  Napalm said, frowning at him.

Rockwell walked past him and Stone turned, frowning having heard the assignment.  “Stay out of my way.”

Rockwell chuckled at Stone’s threat.  “Try again asshole, we are going to be best friends!”

Rockwell passed him and Stone shook his head.  “Not a chance.”

30(S3E3)- Macklin

 

29

(Season 3 Episode 3)

Macklin

“So what’s the story with this guy?” Joe Carlo said to Mikey Bocho as the two stood waiting by their Mercedes.

They were waiting at the airport to pick up a British man by the name of Macklin.  They had been waiting there for at least 30 minutes.  It usually paid to be early in the organized crime business and that was something they both knew and understood.

“He’s in deep with London,” Mikey, a short, fat, balding man, began to explain.  “He’s been in prison for the last decade or so.”

Joe was confused.  “So what the hell is he doing here?  Some kind of vacation?”

Mikey shook his head.  “Not even close, it’s some kind of revenge thing.  We are out here to help him kill a bunch of people.  Why do you think I told you to bring your gun?”

Joe chuckled.  “When ain’t it a good idea to bring our guns?”  His New York accent was heavy.

“Yeah, I suppose you got me on that one.”  Mikey grinned back, his New York accent bleeding through.

“So, what’s this guy avenging?”  Mikey continued to inquire.

Mikey shook his head again.  “No idea.  All I know is, we have to escort him for the next two weeks and keep him happy.  If he goes home happy, it will finalize a big deal with the London boys.”

Joe was a larger, broad-shouldered man.  He shrugged acceptingly and they continued to wait in silence.

Ten minutes later, Macklin separated himself and walked over to them.  Joe couldn’t help but look surprised at the supposed London bad ass.  Macklin only stood four-foot-nine.  He was thin as a rail and wore loose fitting clothes with a duster style jacket and pants that stopped three or four inches before his shoes.  The affect showed off his socks and made him look like he was preparing for a flood.

The British man had a buzz cut of brown hair and a rat face.  He walked with a slight forward hunch. He did not look like much with the exception of a word tattooed across his forehead, which Joe believed had to hurt like hell.

The word was “Wrath” in a normal straight-forward font.

“Oy,” Macklin said as he stopped in front of the two seasoned mobsters.  His teeth were broken and jagged, distorting his English accent.  “You the boys form New York?”

Joe and Mikey looked at each other, then Joe turned back to the little man with a grin.  “You have got to be kidding me.  You’re Macklin?”

Macklin cocked his head to the side and scowled.  “Why is this so hard to believe, sonny?”

Joe Looked down and fought down the laughter.  “Well, you… uh… I guess we thought you would be taller.”

Macklin considered his words then slowly pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  He pulled one out and lit it.  He took a deep drag, still thinking to himself.  He then gave Joe a hard look.  “Right, I Believe that respect has to be earned and I ain’t done nothin’ to gain that respect from you.”

Joe listened intently as Macklin took another long drag.  “Now normally, to earn that respect I would crush your bullocks then curb stomp your dumb Yank face.  Albeit stereotypical, I have found it is the quickest and most efficient way to earn respect.  I can’t do that however, cuase I need you two dumb wankers to help me.”

Joe’s hard brow twisted with anger.  “You got a lot of nerve, you fucking limey-”

Mikey grabbed his arm to stop him.  Macklin just smiled and drew another long breath of cancerous smoke into his lung and stared up at the big Italian.  “So, here’s what I’m going to do.  You found Thomas Marren?”

Mikey fielded the question, still trying to keep Joe calm.  “Yeah we got the address.”

Macklin smiled at him showing his shark teeth.  “Good, let’s go there and earn me some respect, eh?”

Mikey raised an eyebrow.  “Right now?  You just got off the plane.”

Macklin’s scowl returned.  “Why the fuck do you think I’m here?  To get a God damned hot dog?  To see a fucking Yankee game?  I have four people to kill in fourteen days.  So let’s get on with it, eh?”

Macklin then picked his duffle back up opened the backseat door to the Mercedes and tossed it in before getting in a shutting the door.

“I don’t like him.”  Joe growled.

“And I do?” Mikey shot back.  “Let’s just get through this.”

They both got into the car, Mikey behind the wheel and Joe in the passenger side.  They headed up town.  The drive was long and Joe couldn’t help but prod the smaller Englishman.  Macklin just smiled to himself and kept quiet.  At a quarter to five they pulled up to the suburban two story colonial belonging to the family of Thomas Marren.

“There it is,” said Mikey.  “Thomas’s house.”

Macklin nodded.  “Alright, be back in a tick.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mikey cut in.  “We have to wait and plan, we can’t just go in there and start killing people!”

Macklin pulled a half empty bottle of whiskey then placed a rag into the top of the bottle.  “Couldn’t agree more, that’s why you blokes are staying here.”

Mikey frowned.  “Are you nuts?  You ain’t even got a gun!”

Mackin smiled and opened his door.  “Don’t need one, mate.”

Macklin got out and ambled across the street, pulling his lighter out and flicking it open.  As he closed in on the house he could see the family eating dinner through the front window.  They were all happy and smiling.  Macklin had no guilt for what he was about to do.

Thomas Marren did not get a happy dinner.  Marren had taken all that from Macklin.

Macklin couldn’t help but think of Carrie.

He struck the igniter on the zippo and the flame washed out and over the rag.  Macklin then took one step and hurled the bottle through the window.  The wife screamed as the glass broke and the bottle hit the dinner table, dead center.  The bottle shattered and the rag acted as the fuse catching to the alcohol and exploding over the table.

The wife got the worst as the fire washed over her.  She screamed.  Marren’s teenage son, who looked way too much like Justin Beiber, stumbled backward and then stared in shock.  Marren at least had his wits about him, tearing down a curtain and tackling his screaming burning wife.

While this was going on, Macklin very calmly walked to the house, stepped through the house’s broken window and strode to the table.  The Marren’s had been eating steak with potatoes and broccoli.  Steak knives were everywhere on the table.

Macklin grasped a fork.

Marren had just finished putting out his wife.  She was whimpering.  The room itself was starting to fill with smoke as the Molotov cocktail had caught a chair and part of the table on fire.  Marren turned, completely confused as he felt a dark presence behind him.

When he turned, Macklin drove the fork into Marren’s throat.  The blunt weapon had struck Marren’s carotid artery and collapsed his wind pipe.  Blood oozed out around the serving utensils.  Marren gagged and started to fall when Macklin grabbed his collar.

“Do you see my head?!” Macklin screamed at Marren.  “Her name was Carrie, you fuckin’ bastard!  I am the black fucking death for all you bastards!”

Marren faded out and Macklin seemed to curb his emotions.  He dropped Marren to the floor and straightened himself as the fire started to engulf the room.  He pulled out his smokes and lit up then turned to see the boy standing there, mouth open, in complete shock.

Macklin took a long drag on his smoke as if considering the boy then he spoke, “We all get what we deserve, sonny, even me.”

Macklin then stepped back out the window and calmly walked across the lawn.  Neighbors had come out and were staring.  Someone must have called 911 because sirens could be heard in the distance.

Macklin opened the door and slid into the backseat.  Mikey didn’t wait for a signal, he peeled out and sped away from the house.

“Are you fucking nuts?!” Mikey screamed.  “Everyone in the fucking neighborhood saw you!”

“The other three are still in Cleveland, right?”  Macklin ignored his panic.

Mikey shook his head trying to calm himself.  Macklin didn’t wait for a response.  “Alright, take me to Cleveland then, sonny.”

The car was uncomfortably silent for a couple of minutes then he turned to Joe, who was silent in the front seat.  “I got your respect now, Yank?”

Joe shook his head.  “Mister, you officially scare the shit out of me.”

Macklin took a long drag on his smoke, then shrugged.  “Same thing, sonny, same thing.”