| General Fiction posted June 4, 2022 |
  |
The good guys made to look bad.
Tucker: Double Crossed (Part-4)
by Ric Myworld
After recognizing something was seriously wrong, Tucker had sent T.D. to get Tammy Jo safely out of the building before things went sideways.
T.D. hurried over to get Tammy at the V.I.P. booth, as Tucker had requested. The look on his face showed a brain turmoiled with questions—most likely, calculating a full-tilt escape, without tipping off Farnsworth.
Tammy had earlier disclosed to Farnsworth her intentions to catch a ride home with T.D.—a good friend and neighbor—her agenda unbeknownst to him.
So, as Tammy caught sight of T.D., she leaned over and whispered in Farnsworth’s ear, explaining she didn’t feel well and needed to call it an evening.
Farnsworth motioned T.D. over, then instructed him to take the rest of the night off and drive Tammy home. He flashed his typical phony smile of appreciation and thanked his faithful employee for an excellent job on running the clock.
“Whew,” the pressure finally off, T.D. exhaled deeply and used his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
Then, he grabbed Tammy’s arm, about snatching her from her shoes. And as she struggled to regain her balance, her feet slipped and slapped like a drunken dancer on ice. Short-circuited brain signals skipped beats, unable to differentiate between a rhythmless Hustle and be-bopping Macarena.
T.D. never eased his grip and dragged her sharp left around the corner and down the immediate hallway, past the restrooms, maintenance shop, and toward the backdoors.
The twosome burst through the dimly lit exit, where in a startling blur, four masked men tackled them to the ground.
Around and ‘round, their bodies and arms were wrapped in duct tape just above the elbows, tight bands restricting any upper-body mobility.
Smothering black hoods yanked down over their heads with neck-stoving force blocked any outside light from seeping in.
The captors shoved their prey into the backseat of a Toyota SUV. Then they drove about an hour before pulling onto a rough gravelly road that twisted and turned, one pothole after another, for approximately 10 more minutes.
Once the vehicle had stopped, Tammy and T.D. were dragged out kicking and screaming and led into an old pole barn, then chained to an 8"x8" column.
Masks removed, they toiled in sweat to breathe, eyes and noses burning from the reek of ammonia and manure that radiated from parlayed, unclean stalls.
The abductors made no effort to hide their faces or cocky, evil grins, and cracked jokes with a punchline “Is it soup yet.”
Tammy noticed three 50-gallon barrels marked as containing HNO3, the abbreviation for Nitric acid. And as a science major in college, some measure of the following information was likely running through her thoughts.
Lye heated to 300 degrees liquifies a body to brown fluid in three hours, but not the bone. The process is known colloquially as making pozole, in reference to a traditional Mexican stew.
Hydrofluoric acid, as used for body disposal in the movie ‘Breaking Bad,’ will not dissolve a body. It will do a decent job on the bones, but not the flesh. It’s a comparatively weak acid.
Sulfuric acid will work on the whole body, but it takes about twelve days, and the fumes are unbearable.
Nitric acid is a strong acid and a powerful oxidizer. It will eventually dissolve flesh, ligaments, teeth, and bones without leaving a trace. Excluding microscopic residues, which can always be found.
The barrels’ labels sent a clear message. Terror on Tammy’s face exhibited her knowledge of the criminals’ intentions.
Meanwhile, back at the Trocadero, Tucker tried to slip out of the card game unseen. He bobbed and weaved through the exiting crowd; hoping, in some degree, the collage of colors would camouflage his movements.
Out the doors, and almost free, he sprinted across the landing, jumped off the jarring three-foot drop and made tracks for the fence line. Once safely across the road, he cut between an old warehouse and a dilapidated oak gardeners’ shed.
Then, smack! Two, 240-pound linebacker-types, dashing full throttle, flattened him with the crunching impact of a runaway bus. Headfirst, driven into the sharp-edged gravel, his skin shredded like a woodchipper chews limbs.
Tucker woke up, ankles duct-taped to the legs of a wooden chair, and tape torqued tightly just below chest high, layer after layer around him and the chair’s back.
Still dazed, and confused, gagging on an oily rag stuffed in his mouth, he shook his head trying to focus and regain his senses. Tape was stretched multiple times overlapping his mouth in front and the occipital bone at the base of his rear skull. Inevitably on fire with pain, his bloody wounds flushed in ground-hamburger degrees of scarlet and blush.
His captors didn’t tarry long. The front gates of the shack were swung closed, chained, and locked behind them. Then, they vaulted into a blue Beamer, quickly merged into the old casino’s outgoing traffic, and sped away. Tucker sat just out of view, hidden in darkness, invisible to the leaving passer-by patrons.
There were plenty of quarter-inch cracks in the gates to allow Tucker good vision of the Trocadero and its landscape. Droves of black Chevy Tahoes, Suburbans, and SWAT armored-rescue vehicles raced in and parked bumper to bumper, encircling the club.
All 56 FBI field offices have special weapons and tactics units, commonly referred to as, SWAT teams. The FBI is a domestic law enforcement agency, counter terrorism, and security service whose main duties are to contain and arrest. The CIA has no law enforcement function, officially focused on overseas intelligence gathering. And the DEA is a single-mission agency charged with enforcing drug laws.
The three organizations don’t normally work together. But clearly, logoed vehicles from all three surrounded the building.
Positioned behind engine blocks for protection, some 60 government agents propped rifles on the vehicle’s hoods and took aim.
Two Lenco Bearcat G-3s carried 12 agents each, and two Bearcat X-3 Fire Cats had five agents inside and 10 more stood on foot ramps holding the grip bars. Armored Bearcats stationed strategically at all four corners, 52 additional agents armed and ready.
The special agents swiftly scattered and ripped out every window and door frame. Then, they converged in unison from behind two shielded officers into every opening, on the command of: “Ready . . . set . . . Go!”
Tucker watched and listened throughout the night. Six warzone rat-tat-tat hours of heavy machinegun fire, flashbangs, blaring grenades, and blazing puffs of smoke. Then all fell eerily quiet.
Soon after sunrise, media-network vans and journalists swarmed the premises. The sheriff’s department set up a soapbox with three microphone stands and public-address speakers pedestaled on tripods.
It wasn’t long before the sheriff gave a detailed nature of the operation. Then, he introduced Governor Benjamin Bebo Boggs who stepped up and began his speech.
“Hello citizens, viewing on every major network. Tonight, our country reaped the rewards of three-long years of tracking down and dismantling a division of CJNG. The Jalisco New Generation Cartel—second only to the Sinaloa Cartel in size and power.
“The Mexican Government considers CJNG, users of high-tech drones and rocket-propelled grenades known to have brought down Mexican military helicopters, the most brutally violent, heavily militarized, technically capable, dangerous, and ever-expanding criminal organization in North and South America, and Mexico.
“This morning, I’m honored to introduce to you the man who has overseen the enterprise of bringing them down. Special agent, Daniel Farnsworth IV.”
Tucker watching all the action from the cracks, his eyes widened larger than the abominable snowman’s. Undoubtedly, the biggest criminal in Northern America, the dirty-fox Farnsworth, was now handed a free all-access pass to the hen house.
His empire’s keys to free rein of pace and direction. Thanks to Governor Boggs’s praise and blind eyes. Farnsworth hoisted upon the throne, the new ruling worldwide king of crime and drug distribution.
Farnsworth stepped up to the microphone, cleared his throat and spoke. “Hello, everyone. Last night, the Jalisco New Generation Cartel managed to blast open the Trocadero’s safe and steal 40-million dollars in cash and reclaimed 120 kilos of pure cocaine; previously confiscated from them and scheduled to be turned over to the DEA this morning.
“However, the cartel suffered many casualties in our six-hour battle, virtually eliminating this area’s group. And have no fear, I will not stop until all cash and drugs are recovered. You have my promise . . . all guilty parties will be brought to justice.
“An all-points bulletin has been issued for Samuel Tucker, Tammy Jo Turner, and T.D. McCann. These three fugitives should be considered armed and dangerous.
“We have abundant information they possess intricate cartel specifics and have worked with them for some time. Stay tuned to your local stations for future updates. Thank you.”
Tucker sat in shock and disbelief. In a magical feat, Farnsworth had robbed his own safe right before everyone's eyes and killed his opposition. A deceptive and ruthless thief . . . now, admired as a hero. And the heavily insured contents of his safe would soon double his take. Jackpot: all the money, drugs, and a damaged establishment rebuilt to better than ever.
Story of the Month contest entry
After recognizing something was seriously wrong, Tucker had sent T.D. to get Tammy Jo safely out of the building before things went sideways.
T.D. hurried over to get Tammy at the V.I.P. booth, as Tucker had requested. The look on his face showed a brain turmoiled with questions—most likely, calculating a full-tilt escape, without tipping off Farnsworth.
Tammy had earlier disclosed to Farnsworth her intentions to catch a ride home with T.D.—a good friend and neighbor—her agenda unbeknownst to him.
So, as Tammy caught sight of T.D., she leaned over and whispered in Farnsworth’s ear, explaining she didn’t feel well and needed to call it an evening.
Farnsworth motioned T.D. over, then instructed him to take the rest of the night off and drive Tammy home. He flashed his typical phony smile of appreciation and thanked his faithful employee for an excellent job on running the clock.
“Whew,” the pressure finally off, T.D. exhaled deeply and used his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
Then, he grabbed Tammy’s arm, about snatching her from her shoes. And as she struggled to regain her balance, her feet slipped and slapped like a drunken dancer on ice. Short-circuited brain signals skipped beats, unable to differentiate between a rhythmless Hustle and be-bopping Macarena.
T.D. never eased his grip and dragged her sharp left around the corner and down the immediate hallway, past the restrooms, maintenance shop, and toward the backdoors.
The twosome burst through the dimly lit exit, where in a startling blur, four masked men tackled them to the ground.
Around and ‘round, their bodies and arms were wrapped in duct tape just above the elbows, tight bands restricting any upper-body mobility.
Smothering black hoods yanked down over their heads with neck-stoving force blocked any outside light from seeping in.
The captors shoved their prey into the backseat of a Toyota SUV. Then they drove about an hour before pulling onto a rough gravelly road that twisted and turned, one pothole after another, for approximately 10 more minutes.
Once the vehicle had stopped, Tammy and T.D. were dragged out kicking and screaming and led into an old pole barn, then chained to an 8"x8" column.
Masks removed, they toiled in sweat to breathe, eyes and noses burning from the reek of ammonia and manure that radiated from parlayed, unclean stalls.
The abductors made no effort to hide their faces or cocky, evil grins, and cracked jokes with a punchline “Is it soup yet.”
Tammy noticed three 50-gallon barrels marked as containing HNO3, the abbreviation for Nitric acid. And as a science major in college, some measure of the following information was likely running through her thoughts.
Lye heated to 300 degrees liquifies a body to brown fluid in three hours, but not the bone. The process is known colloquially as making pozole, in reference to a traditional Mexican stew.
Hydrofluoric acid, as used for body disposal in the movie ‘Breaking Bad,’ will not dissolve a body. It will do a decent job on the bones, but not the flesh. It’s a comparatively weak acid.
Sulfuric acid will work on the whole body, but it takes about twelve days, and the fumes are unbearable.
Nitric acid is a strong acid and a powerful oxidizer. It will eventually dissolve flesh, ligaments, teeth, and bones without leaving a trace. Excluding microscopic residues, which can always be found.
The barrels’ labels sent a clear message. Terror on Tammy’s face exhibited her knowledge of the criminals’ intentions.
Meanwhile, back at the Trocadero, Tucker tried to slip out of the card game unseen. He bobbed and weaved through the exiting crowd; hoping, in some degree, the collage of colors would camouflage his movements.
Out the doors, and almost free, he sprinted across the landing, jumped off the jarring three-foot drop and made tracks for the fence line. Once safely across the road, he cut between an old warehouse and a dilapidated oak gardeners’ shed.
Then, smack! Two, 240-pound linebacker-types, dashing full throttle, flattened him with the crunching impact of a runaway bus. Headfirst, driven into the sharp-edged gravel, his skin shredded like a woodchipper chews limbs.
Tucker woke up, ankles duct-taped to the legs of a wooden chair, and tape torqued tightly just below chest high, layer after layer around him and the chair’s back.
Still dazed, and confused, gagging on an oily rag stuffed in his mouth, he shook his head trying to focus and regain his senses. Tape was stretched multiple times overlapping his mouth in front and the occipital bone at the base of his rear skull. Inevitably on fire with pain, his bloody wounds flushed in ground-hamburger degrees of scarlet and blush.
His captors didn’t tarry long. The front gates of the shack were swung closed, chained, and locked behind them. Then, they vaulted into a blue Beamer, quickly merged into the old casino’s outgoing traffic, and sped away. Tucker sat just out of view, hidden in darkness, invisible to the leaving passer-by patrons.
There were plenty of quarter-inch cracks in the gates to allow Tucker good vision of the Trocadero and its landscape. Droves of black Chevy Tahoes, Suburbans, and SWAT armored-rescue vehicles raced in and parked bumper to bumper, encircling the club.
All 56 FBI field offices have special weapons and tactics units, commonly referred to as, SWAT teams. The FBI is a domestic law enforcement agency, counter terrorism, and security service whose main duties are to contain and arrest. The CIA has no law enforcement function, officially focused on overseas intelligence gathering. And the DEA is a single-mission agency charged with enforcing drug laws.
The three organizations don’t normally work together. But clearly, logoed vehicles from all three surrounded the building.
Positioned behind engine blocks for protection, some 60 government agents propped rifles on the vehicle’s hoods and took aim.
Two Lenco Bearcat G-3s carried 12 agents each, and two Bearcat X-3 Fire Cats had five agents inside and 10 more stood on foot ramps holding the grip bars. Armored Bearcats stationed strategically at all four corners, 52 additional agents armed and ready.
The special agents swiftly scattered and ripped out every window and door frame. Then, they converged in unison from behind two shielded officers into every opening, on the command of: “Ready . . . set . . . Go!”
Tucker watched and listened throughout the night. Six warzone rat-tat-tat hours of heavy machinegun fire, flashbangs, blaring grenades, and blazing puffs of smoke. Then all fell eerily quiet.
Soon after sunrise, media-network vans and journalists swarmed the premises. The sheriff’s department set up a soapbox with three microphone stands and public-address speakers pedestaled on tripods.
It wasn’t long before the sheriff gave a detailed nature of the operation. Then, he introduced Governor Benjamin Bebo Boggs who stepped up and began his speech.
“Hello citizens, viewing on every major network. Tonight, our country reaped the rewards of three-long years of tracking down and dismantling a division of CJNG. The Jalisco New Generation Cartel—second only to the Sinaloa Cartel in size and power.
“The Mexican Government considers CJNG, users of high-tech drones and rocket-propelled grenades known to have brought down Mexican military helicopters, the most brutally violent, heavily militarized, technically capable, dangerous, and ever-expanding criminal organization in North and South America, and Mexico.
“This morning, I’m honored to introduce to you the man who has overseen the enterprise of bringing them down. Special agent, Daniel Farnsworth IV.”
Tucker watching all the action from the cracks, his eyes widened larger than the abominable snowman’s. Undoubtedly, the biggest criminal in Northern America, the dirty-fox Farnsworth, was now handed a free all-access pass to the hen house.
His empire’s keys to free rein of pace and direction. Thanks to Governor Boggs’s praise and blind eyes. Farnsworth hoisted upon the throne, the new ruling worldwide king of crime and drug distribution.
Farnsworth stepped up to the microphone, cleared his throat and spoke. “Hello, everyone. Last night, the Jalisco New Generation Cartel managed to blast open the Trocadero’s safe and steal 40-million dollars in cash and reclaimed 120 kilos of pure cocaine; previously confiscated from them and scheduled to be turned over to the DEA this morning.
“However, the cartel suffered many casualties in our six-hour battle, virtually eliminating this area’s group. And have no fear, I will not stop until all cash and drugs are recovered. You have my promise . . . all guilty parties will be brought to justice.
“An all-points bulletin has been issued for Samuel Tucker, Tammy Jo Turner, and T.D. McCann. These three fugitives should be considered armed and dangerous.
“We have abundant information they possess intricate cartel specifics and have worked with them for some time. Stay tuned to your local stations for future updates. Thank you.”
Tucker sat in shock and disbelief. In a magical feat, Farnsworth had robbed his own safe right before everyone's eyes and killed his opposition. A deceptive and ruthless thief . . . now, admired as a hero. And the heavily insured contents of his safe would soon double his take. Jackpot: all the money, drugs, and a damaged establishment rebuilt to better than ever.
T.D. hurried over to get Tammy at the V.I.P. booth, as Tucker had requested. The look on his face showed a brain turmoiled with questions—most likely, calculating a full-tilt escape, without tipping off Farnsworth.
Tammy had earlier disclosed to Farnsworth her intentions to catch a ride home with T.D.—a good friend and neighbor—her agenda unbeknownst to him.
So, as Tammy caught sight of T.D., she leaned over and whispered in Farnsworth’s ear, explaining she didn’t feel well and needed to call it an evening.
Farnsworth motioned T.D. over, then instructed him to take the rest of the night off and drive Tammy home. He flashed his typical phony smile of appreciation and thanked his faithful employee for an excellent job on running the clock.
“Whew,” the pressure finally off, T.D. exhaled deeply and used his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
Then, he grabbed Tammy’s arm, about snatching her from her shoes. And as she struggled to regain her balance, her feet slipped and slapped like a drunken dancer on ice. Short-circuited brain signals skipped beats, unable to differentiate between a rhythmless Hustle and be-bopping Macarena.
T.D. never eased his grip and dragged her sharp left around the corner and down the immediate hallway, past the restrooms, maintenance shop, and toward the backdoors.
The twosome burst through the dimly lit exit, where in a startling blur, four masked men tackled them to the ground.
Around and ‘round, their bodies and arms were wrapped in duct tape just above the elbows, tight bands restricting any upper-body mobility.
Smothering black hoods yanked down over their heads with neck-stoving force blocked any outside light from seeping in.
The captors shoved their prey into the backseat of a Toyota SUV. Then they drove about an hour before pulling onto a rough gravelly road that twisted and turned, one pothole after another, for approximately 10 more minutes.
Once the vehicle had stopped, Tammy and T.D. were dragged out kicking and screaming and led into an old pole barn, then chained to an 8"x8" column.
Masks removed, they toiled in sweat to breathe, eyes and noses burning from the reek of ammonia and manure that radiated from parlayed, unclean stalls.
The abductors made no effort to hide their faces or cocky, evil grins, and cracked jokes with a punchline “Is it soup yet.”
Tammy noticed three 50-gallon barrels marked as containing HNO3, the abbreviation for Nitric acid. And as a science major in college, some measure of the following information was likely running through her thoughts.
Lye heated to 300 degrees liquifies a body to brown fluid in three hours, but not the bone. The process is known colloquially as making pozole, in reference to a traditional Mexican stew.
Hydrofluoric acid, as used for body disposal in the movie ‘Breaking Bad,’ will not dissolve a body. It will do a decent job on the bones, but not the flesh. It’s a comparatively weak acid.
Sulfuric acid will work on the whole body, but it takes about twelve days, and the fumes are unbearable.
Nitric acid is a strong acid and a powerful oxidizer. It will eventually dissolve flesh, ligaments, teeth, and bones without leaving a trace. Excluding microscopic residues, which can always be found.
The barrels’ labels sent a clear message. Terror on Tammy’s face exhibited her knowledge of the criminals’ intentions.
Meanwhile, back at the Trocadero, Tucker tried to slip out of the card game unseen. He bobbed and weaved through the exiting crowd; hoping, in some degree, the collage of colors would camouflage his movements.
Out the doors, and almost free, he sprinted across the landing, jumped off the jarring three-foot drop and made tracks for the fence line. Once safely across the road, he cut between an old warehouse and a dilapidated oak gardeners’ shed.
Then, smack! Two, 240-pound linebacker-types, dashing full throttle, flattened him with the crunching impact of a runaway bus. Headfirst, driven into the sharp-edged gravel, his skin shredded like a woodchipper chews limbs.
Tucker woke up, ankles duct-taped to the legs of a wooden chair, and tape torqued tightly just below chest high, layer after layer around him and the chair’s back.
Still dazed, and confused, gagging on an oily rag stuffed in his mouth, he shook his head trying to focus and regain his senses. Tape was stretched multiple times overlapping his mouth in front and the occipital bone at the base of his rear skull. Inevitably on fire with pain, his bloody wounds flushed in ground-hamburger degrees of scarlet and blush.
His captors didn’t tarry long. The front gates of the shack were swung closed, chained, and locked behind them. Then, they vaulted into a blue Beamer, quickly merged into the old casino’s outgoing traffic, and sped away. Tucker sat just out of view, hidden in darkness, invisible to the leaving passer-by patrons.
There were plenty of quarter-inch cracks in the gates to allow Tucker good vision of the Trocadero and its landscape. Droves of black Chevy Tahoes, Suburbans, and SWAT armored-rescue vehicles raced in and parked bumper to bumper, encircling the club.
All 56 FBI field offices have special weapons and tactics units, commonly referred to as, SWAT teams. The FBI is a domestic law enforcement agency, counter terrorism, and security service whose main duties are to contain and arrest. The CIA has no law enforcement function, officially focused on overseas intelligence gathering. And the DEA is a single-mission agency charged with enforcing drug laws.
The three organizations don’t normally work together. But clearly, logoed vehicles from all three surrounded the building.
Positioned behind engine blocks for protection, some 60 government agents propped rifles on the vehicle’s hoods and took aim.
Two Lenco Bearcat G-3s carried 12 agents each, and two Bearcat X-3 Fire Cats had five agents inside and 10 more stood on foot ramps holding the grip bars. Armored Bearcats stationed strategically at all four corners, 52 additional agents armed and ready.
The special agents swiftly scattered and ripped out every window and door frame. Then, they converged in unison from behind two shielded officers into every opening, on the command of: “Ready . . . set . . . Go!”
Tucker watched and listened throughout the night. Six warzone rat-tat-tat hours of heavy machinegun fire, flashbangs, blaring grenades, and blazing puffs of smoke. Then all fell eerily quiet.
Soon after sunrise, media-network vans and journalists swarmed the premises. The sheriff’s department set up a soapbox with three microphone stands and public-address speakers pedestaled on tripods.
It wasn’t long before the sheriff gave a detailed nature of the operation. Then, he introduced Governor Benjamin Bebo Boggs who stepped up and began his speech.
“Hello citizens, viewing on every major network. Tonight, our country reaped the rewards of three-long years of tracking down and dismantling a division of CJNG. The Jalisco New Generation Cartel—second only to the Sinaloa Cartel in size and power.
“The Mexican Government considers CJNG, users of high-tech drones and rocket-propelled grenades known to have brought down Mexican military helicopters, the most brutally violent, heavily militarized, technically capable, dangerous, and ever-expanding criminal organization in North and South America, and Mexico.
“This morning, I’m honored to introduce to you the man who has overseen the enterprise of bringing them down. Special agent, Daniel Farnsworth IV.”
Tucker watching all the action from the cracks, his eyes widened larger than the abominable snowman’s. Undoubtedly, the biggest criminal in Northern America, the dirty-fox Farnsworth, was now handed a free all-access pass to the hen house.
His empire’s keys to free rein of pace and direction. Thanks to Governor Boggs’s praise and blind eyes. Farnsworth hoisted upon the throne, the new ruling worldwide king of crime and drug distribution.
Farnsworth stepped up to the microphone, cleared his throat and spoke. “Hello, everyone. Last night, the Jalisco New Generation Cartel managed to blast open the Trocadero’s safe and steal 40-million dollars in cash and reclaimed 120 kilos of pure cocaine; previously confiscated from them and scheduled to be turned over to the DEA this morning.
“However, the cartel suffered many casualties in our six-hour battle, virtually eliminating this area’s group. And have no fear, I will not stop until all cash and drugs are recovered. You have my promise . . . all guilty parties will be brought to justice.
“An all-points bulletin has been issued for Samuel Tucker, Tammy Jo Turner, and T.D. McCann. These three fugitives should be considered armed and dangerous.
“We have abundant information they possess intricate cartel specifics and have worked with them for some time. Stay tuned to your local stations for future updates. Thank you.”
Tucker sat in shock and disbelief. In a magical feat, Farnsworth had robbed his own safe right before everyone's eyes and killed his opposition. A deceptive and ruthless thief . . . now, admired as a hero. And the heavily insured contents of his safe would soon double his take. Jackpot: all the money, drugs, and a damaged establishment rebuilt to better than ever.
 Recognized |
#2 June 2022 |
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