VENGEANCE IN RED
The second part of a new fiction tale by Nate Machado
(EPISODE ONE)
Angry. That was the only way to describe my current mood. Presently I was
sitting on board a Delta 767 passenger jet bound for Washington D.C.. Not
just twenty minutes ago, however; I was sitting center ice in the Fleet
Center watching the Seventh game of the Stanley Cup Finals. The Boston Bruins
versus the Chicago Blackhawks. It had been one hell of a game. The bloodiest,
most brutal toughest, most skilled contest anyone had seen on ice in years.
As you sat and watched in anticipation of every move, you could instinctively
tell that the game would go down in annals of hockey history as one of the
greatest ever played. And for a hockey fan like myself watching such a game
became almost a spiritual event in nature.
Going into the last two minutes, it was tied 3-3 and everyone in the building,
myself included, had been on the edge of their seats. As we all watched
and waited with baited breath, you could see and feel the momentum change
and shift to the Bruins. As the time slipped away, the Blackhawks goalie
was continually hammered with shot after blistering shot. Everyone knew
victory, and the first Stanley Cup in ten years, was within our grasp. It
was at that point that my beeper went off and I got the call.
Even though I was now freelance and no longer with the company, I still
had my own personal responsibility to respond to the summons. Needless to
say, as I begrudgingly left the game and stepped out into the cool Boston
night, waiting for my taxi to the airport, the Bruins scored with five seconds
left on the clock.
As the cab driver drove me to Logan Airport, he described the goal, in all
his annoying, thick -Irish accented exuberance, as the most perfect goal
he had ever seen. Apparently Cam Neely Jr. had received a pass across ice
from defenseman John LeClair and broke in alone down the right wing. With
one fluid, graceful motion, the ten time all-star and four time goal scoring
champion rifled a heated shot up into the right hand corner of the goal
past the Blackhawks goalie.
The cabbie repeated this vivid picture over and over on the never ending
drive to Logan. By the eighth time, I told him to shut up. Needless to say
I was becoming angrier and angrier as we drove and, upon arrival, he received
no tip. I had to be the most pissed-off man in the world at the moment;
so angry that I was seeing red. All I can say is that McCain had better
have one hell of a reason to call me down to Washington. Yes sir, one hell
of a reason.
Landing in Washington D.C. I quickly departed from the aircraft, having
no luggage to stand around for, and was met by two clean cut men wearing
dark suits. They both greeted me with a pleasant hello, but my only response
was a dead insulting silence. Their boss had yanked me away from one of
the best hockey games ever played...a Seventh Game, no less. Therefore,
I was not in a "happy happy joy joy" mood. Stepping into a waiting
limousine they proceeded to drive me to McCain's office which was housed
atop one of the city's many skyscrapers.
As was usually the case, the limo was decked out with the whole nine yards.
Wet bar, sunroof, TV, and a host of other very expensive accouterments.
Switching on the TV, I turned to the all sport channel and finally saw a
replay of the goal. It was just as the cabby had described it: the most
perfect you would ever see. For a brief moment, watching the replay had
caused my anger to jump up to another level. But as I continued to watch
the replay over and over again, I began to just cool off and enjoy the moment.
I hadn't stopped to realize that right now, at this very moment, the Boston
Bruins were the world champions.
And really, in the end, that was all that mattered.
As timed passed my anger began to subside, which for me was within my nature.
I had trouble staying angry at anyone for too long. Still, if McCain had
called me down here for some lame reason, I was going to have to kill him.
After all: fair is fair.
We drove for approximately twenty-five minutes before arriving at the Felger
and Foster building. Stepping out of the limo, I stopped and noticed how
cool and crisp the night air was and I was glad I had worn my trench coat.
The agents escorted me through the shining glass doors and to the elevator
at the back of the dimly lit lobby. Entering the elevator, one of the agents
pulled out a remote control device from under his jacket. Activating it,
a small concealed compartment opened just below the elevat or control panel.
Reaching in, the other agent pressed a red button marked "13"
and we began our ascension.
Looking downward and shaking my head, with a smile on my lips, I thought
about just how silly all this cloak and dagger shit can be.
The ride up to the thirteenth floor was brief and quiet, the elevator doors
automatically opening upon arrival. I knew the procedure from here. The
agents who escorted me would return to the lobby and wait for my meeting
to adjourn. After that, they would escort me to wherever I needed to go.
I, on the other hand, would now have to walk down the ridiculously long
corridor that lay in front of me to the oak door at the end of it; leading
to McCain's office. Along the way, eight different hidden scanners wo uld
probe me for hidden weapons, listening devices, bombs, and would check my
DNA pattern to authenticate and confirm who I was.
God how I hated all this crap. It always made me feel like I was marching
to electric chair. Or that I was being forced to walk in some kind of ritualistic
death march. I came to refer to this whole procedure as the "rectal
exam" because, by the end of it, I always felt as if I'd been bent
over and screwed.
Stepping out of the elevator, I turned and looked back at the stone faced
agents who had escorted me. "Care for a little late night radiation
bombardment, fellas? It could be fun. I mean, who knows what knew and useful
appendages might grow when it's all said and done.."
My little joke got no reaction out of them. Quietly, the elevator door closed
and they returned to the lobby. Like all the other agents the company employed,
these two had no sense of humor about their work. One of the reasons I was
no longer a permanent member of the company. Turning to face down the long
corridor, I began my never ending journey, thinking about how much I hated
McCain's sense of dramatics.
Walking at a steady pace, I drew nearer to McCain's impending office door.
All the while I could feel the bombardment of each individual scanner upon
my body. Penetrating every pore. Poking and prodding me with who knows how
many different types of radiation. Jokingly referring to this procedure
as the 'rectal' exam' I always thought was an understatement. And , as was
usual, no one found it funny around here except me.
Reaching the end of my long journey, I stood gazing at the mammoth oak door
which led into McCain's office. Or as I called it "the tomb where ambitions
and dreams come to die". I stood debating whether or not I should makea
scene over being pulled out of the game.. But I realized it probably wouldn't
matter to a man like McCain. Nothing really ever bothered or fazed him.
So making a spectacle of myself in his office could just be a waste of time.
Reaching for the knob, I forcefully turned it and thrust myself into the
office. As always, there was McCain seated at his oak desk, wearing an expression
like he'd been waiting since the beginning of time for me to arrive.
With a smug expression I walked in and closed the door behind me with powerful
thrust. Removing my trench coat, I threw it on the back of the leather chair
in front of McCain's desk, plopping myself in the comfortable chair after
it. Nothing was said for a moment as McCain stared down into some all important
paper work. It gave me a brief moment to inspect his office, since I hadn't
seen the place in over eight months. My eyes encircled the room and I noticed
nothing had changed since my last visit to the "forrress of solitude".
There was still the huge window behind McCain's desk which gave him a grand
view of the city; complete with one way glass. To the right of his desk
was a wall full of medals and citations awarded to him by the FBI, CIA,
Congress, the White House, foreign countries, and other groups.who he had
helped or aided with his expertise. To the left was an oak entertainment
center complete with a high definition 45" TV, digital stereo, and
wet bar. I always thought I should pick up something like this for myself,
but it would probably clash with the purple bean bag chair I had in my living
room.
Right in the middle of the abyss was McCain's desk. Constructed of solid
oak, it was absolutely gorgeous. Simple in its construction, no lavish carvings
or moldings, it drew your eye to the center of the room, right into McCain's
cheeky face. Saying the desk was cormanding and had a presence was a shear
understatement. No one could ignore it when they entered the office. And
it spoke volunes about whom you were about to deal with. But, for me, none
of it meant much anymore. I'd seen it so often, and was well aware with
whom I was dealing with, the intimidation factor had long since wore off.
As for the man himself not much had changed. He was still large, weighing
in around 289 Ibs., towering in at around 6'1". A few more grey hairs
adorned his wrinkled head, and he kept them all in his customarily slicked
back style. He still had a chunky face with deep browm eyes, and a strange
rosy complextion for a man of such a stern and serious stature. However,
everything about him in the end spoke power, and he had always had some
of my respect, although never my loyalty. Tired of the silence I spoke first.
"Alright McCain, what did you drag me down here for now? And it better
be good, You dragged me away from one of the best hockey games in history,
so it had better not be just to say hello." McCain rose up from his
chair and sat at the edge of his desk, causing a low moaning creak to erupt
from it's aged exterior "Sorry 'bout that," he said with his stern
commanding voice. "I tried to wait till the last possible minute to
call you. I had hoped the game was going to be a rout and that you wouldn't
mind leaving. How was I supposed to know it would go down to the wire."
He smile d rather casually as if asking me for forgiveness.
TO BE CONTINUED
copyright 1996 Nate Machado
Please respect all registered trademarks and copyrights.
"Copyright Joseph M. McDonald 1995, 1996. All rights reserved."