This is only a single scene from my novel, "Honor", and is roughly the halfway point of the story. If not everything makes sense, that's okay. It's just an excerpt.
Here are a few things you ought to know:
1.) NM = Genetically engineered toxin
2.) Tong = Chinese-American version of the Mafia
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Los Angeles, California
The man hefted the toolbox impatiently as he made his way down the management office hallway of the Los Angeles airport. He was nervous. Despite the months of planning, coordinating, dreaming up plan Bs and contingencies, his palms were sweating and his heart was pounding. There were just so many things that could go wrong, so many variables. The consequence would be a lifetime in prison and the end of another dynasty. His dynasty.
Slowing, the man scanned the plaques mounted on the doors, displaying the names of the airport aristocracy and leadership. His heart sped up a notch and he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, as he halted in front of the office of the Airport Facilities Director. Eyes still screwed shut, he adjusted his jumpsuit, tightened his grip on the toolbox, and casually rapped on the door.
“Come in.”
The man opened the door and nodded at the Facilities Director sitting behind his desk., who looked up from his computer and smiled. “You here for the sprinkler system?”
“Yessir.”
The Facilities Director nodded and rested his hands on his bulging stomach. The man saw the buttons on his shirt strain from the movement. “That's good. The city sent you, right? The bastards up at the Department of Building and Safety called about a week ago and told me I was a week overdue for a sprinkler system check-up. Practically threatened to fine me.” He shook his head and laughed, standing up. “They're all paranoid. We've never had a fire here. What's a week past the best-by date? Know what I mean?”
The man smiled thinly and nodded. This would be easier than he thought. This Facilities Director would make the job velvet. He had no suspicions, no qualms, no thoughts of contacting higher-ups, or any need for messy cross-referencing. It had only taken a few phone calls and the Director was docilely jumping through their hoops.
“I know what you mean.”
“Well, let's get you started.” The Facilities Director edged passed the man and led him further down the hallway, turned right – waddling like an overstuffed bear – and stopped, jerking his thumb at a utility door marked “Heating and Pipe systems”.
“You've got the control valves in here and,” he gestured toward a door at the end of the hallway, “you can get into the vents through there if you need to check the actual piping.” He glanced around and then smiled at the man. “Good luck. Let me know when you're done.”
The man nodded.
As the Facilities Director rounded the corner and disappeared, the man set his toolbox down and slipped into the Heating and Pipe systems room. The director reminded him of a pig - with fat haunches and sagging jowls and beady, empty eyes that mirrored how little was going on behind them. The man hoped the director would be among the first to die if NM had to be released.
Little pig, little pig let me in...
The man located the sprinkler system control valves – a massive tangle of iron red pipes and meters and tanks – slouching in the corner. Grasping two black wheels which controlled the pressure, he turned the system off, left the room, and picked up the toolbox. His anxiousness was beginning to wear off. He was in. With any luck, he'd install the Distributor and give the signal without interruption. The airport would be his within the hour.
Check and mate.
He opened the door at the end of the hall and climbed the short set of stairs leading to a narrow vent passageway. Grunting, the man heaved himself into the vent, toolbox first, and tugged a fat bodied flashlight from his belt. The vent air was cold and dry and he licked his lips as he shone the light around the cramped enclosure, searching for the sprinkler pipe. The only sound penetrating his aluminum cage was a low hum, droning in his ears like a chorus of monks, giving him a feeling of solitude and exile. Banished to a lofty confine. He found the pipe running along the corner of the vent and followed it with his eyes until it disappeared into the shadows untouched by his beam of light. Letting out a sigh, the man moved toward the first sprinkler nub in the line, opened his toolbox, and pulled out a hacksaw.
The man sawed the pipe down the middle, just before the nub, moved a foot back down the line, and sawed again. The foot long length of pipe clattered to the vent floor with an echoing crash and the man winced, half expecting the Facilities Director to come clomping up the steps, suspicions finally aroused. He waited. No one came. He exhaled loudly. Carefully, the man reached back into the toolbox, rotating his entire torso, and brought out a pressurized tank the size of his thigh with a hook-up nozzle on the end. It was the NM Distributor. As soon as the tank was activated, it would shove the gas through the pipeline, down every sprinkler nub in the airport and into the lungs of the travelers, tourists, hostages. It would mist the building. Transform it into some labyrinthine, modernized, steamy jungle. The man smiled as he nestled the Distributor carefully in between the foot long gap and attached it to the sawed off pipe. Still smiling – eager now – the man flicked the Distributor on. A blinking red light came to life and began pulsing eerily in the half-darkness, casting rose-colored shadows against the wall.
After he capped the open end of the pipe, the man pulled his toolbox back toward the staircase leading down to the airport, sliding himself along slowly. It was done. The only thing they had to do now was overpower the airport security, release their terms to the public, and wait for his offshore bank statement to spike.
All war is deception.
The man made his way down the staircase, opened the toolbox again and pulled out the bottom, revealing an M16 machine gun. Reverently, he lifted it out. He decided he wouldn't wait for the gas. He decided as he held the gun, power suddenly pulsating in his hands, that the Facilities Director would be the first to die anyway. The man would butcher the pig.
And the squealing would only make it better.
He pulled a radio out of his pocket and placed it to his ear.
“It's done, Yuan. Execute.”
***
Yuan Wu stared at his radio as he sat in front of the airline ticket counter before the gates and baggage claim. The suit he wore was stiff and uncomfortable and hot, but he couldn't feel it anymore, the adrenaline pumping through his veins and buzzing in his ears had diverted his attention. The luggage at his feet called to him now. Smiling, Yuan lifted the radio to his mouth.
“Execute.”
Green light, my friends, lets blow the hell out of this place.
All throughout the airport, thirty Tong members were bending down to unzip their suitcases and heft out a gun. Yuan unzipped his carry-on, lifted his own gun out with shining eyes, his heart pounding, running his hands over the barrel and the clip with a religious touch. Wordlessly, he slipped a gas mask on and checked the ammunition. The woman sitting beside him opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again and started screaming. Down the airport halls, other screams erupted, followed by bursts of echoing gun fire. Yuan turned around, saw a pair of guards running toward him, alerted by the screaming woman, and opened fire. The two men jerked back, expressions confused, corsages of blood flowering across their starched white shirts and fell to the ground. Yuan moved passed them like a wraith. Floating, weightless. He saw five of the other Tong members gun down heroic civilians, guards, and escaping hostages fifty feet away.
Ashes, ashes, they all fall down.
Yuan's gun blazed as he made his way toward a security checkpoint. There were so many guards among the metal detectors he had to kneel so he had a wider sweep and so many bullets were spent, he had to replace his clip twice. As he replaced it the second time, a guard managed to creep up behind him and hit him hard upside the head with a telescoping baton. With a gasp, he fell forward, ears ringing, his eyes painted with stars, but twisted out of the way of another blow and swung his legs under the guard, sweeping the man's feet from under him. The guard tumbled over and landed among spent shells with a grunt. Yuan fumbled for his gun, swearing, and jammed in the loose clip. He kicked the man in the groin and fired once at his head.
Ignoring a strange gurgling sound coming from the guard, Yuan sprinted through the checkpoint, leaping over bloodied corpses and ran down a gate concourse. Above him, carried by the loudspeakers, he heard the Man's voice echo throughout the airport like some displeased deity. Yuan smiled. So they had taken over the surveillance area and had control of communications.
“Cease fire.”
The voice rang through the war zone like a muffler, silencing the chattering reports of the Tong's guns, punctuated every so often by an errant shot. Screams remained abundant, though. Yuan stopped and eyed the writing mass of bodies in the hallway, shouting, prostrated, running, sobbing, standing, running, his gun at the ready.
“Civilians, do not attempt to attack any of my men. The cease fire will not last for long. Also, do not attempt to escape, as all exits are either locked or being patrolled. You are being held hostage. And if your government complies, you will not be held hostage for long.”
The Man chuckled. The collective screams and shouts had faded and Yuan watched as the people in the hallway fell silent and stopped moving, eyes lifted upward. He smiled.
Worship.
“However, senators and presidents have always been reluctant to part with their money. That beside the point, we have set up a gassing system that will distribute gallons of a pressurized, genetically engineered version of the bubonic plague on every one of your heads if your government attempts to intervene on your behalf. For this to work smoothly and efficiently, you will be ordered to find the nearest gate and have a seat. This may take hours, it may take days. You will not be given food, access to bathrooms, or water. You will stay in the gates. Hopefully, this will be incentive for the government to take care of the situation swiftly. If you do not comply, you will be shot.” The man paused and the silence was interrupted for Yuan by a burst of gunfire and a scream in the distance. “You may have found that your cell phones are not functioning. A blackout web has been placed over the airport, which interrupts cell signals. Any other attempts to contact outside organizations will result in your death as well. I wish you all good luck. May Allah grant you obedience and safety.”
Yuan grinned wider. Allah. That was the crux. The Tong would never be suspected after the attack, because they were masquerading as Muslim extremists. They were a terrorist cell which didn't exist.
“May Allah” my ass.
He found the hostages in the hall staring at him and a few other Tong members scattered around the hallway. Yuan walked forward and motioned at the nearest gate – 2A. Horrified, a small group headed obediently for the gate chairs. They looked beaten and distressed, suits and first-class tickets accounting for nothing now. Yuan was the master, they were the subservients. The hierarchy had been chiseled in stone by the gun in his hand. One false move, they knew, and they would be on the floor, drowning in their own blood.
Survival of the the sheep-like.
There was an angry shout and five or six men surged out of the crowd, barreling toward Yuan, hunched down, faces twisted.
“Go to hell, you bastard!” one shrieked.
Yuan smirked and pulled the trigger.
The thumps of their bodies toppling over played in time to the spent bullet shells tinkling against of the ground. They twisted and writhed as Yuan swept his gun back and forth, mowing them down, jerking them up, pushing them back.
They were puppets.
The crowd looked on in horror, children screaming and sobbing again. Yuan marched forward, jamming a new clip into the gun, and adjusted his gas mask. He stepped over the bodies of the short-lived rebels, ignoring the pained expressions on their dying faces.
“Into the gates!” he roared.
They moved. They all moved. Into the gates and into the seats. They fought for seats like animals. Yuan had set the example. Nodding at the other Tong members in the gate concourse, he began patrolling the hallway, daring another attack. Slinking back and forth, probing his captives.
And no one moved. They all stared back, waiting.
Waiting.
If you have any comments/questions, go right ahead and PM me.
