Saturday, January 7, 2012


Ken, at that moment, was in Franklin’s office. The excuse was to take care of boring shit, but the real reason was to transmit the video to the Sheriff. Hearing the old man call for Franklin, Ken sent out the go-code to move in and then went out to meet the man.

“Someone call for me?” Ken said, and the old man gave Ken the once-over.

“You sounded different on the phone.” The old man’s eyes gave Ken no sense of relief.

"You don’t sound like a doe-eyed teenager.” Ken said, “You don’t hear me crying about it.”

Ken approached the old man. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get the late-comers some beer and brats, and then we can talk business.”

The old man followed Ken, Mark and Pedro into Franklin’s office while the others maintained their loose watch about the hanger. The old man’s bodyguards, in particular, stayed close to their boss and his plane.

“Now, before we get into the details, let’s review what’s on the table. Y’know, just so we’re all on the same page.” Ken said.

Pedro said, “Los Zetas offers to originate fresh product from its manufacturing assets, and to ensure its delivery into the United States and Canada, whereupon it will be distributed to our partners.”

Mark said, “The Hell’s Angels offers to provide security through North America, in conjunction with our partners. We will pro-actively deal with threats to our collective interests, and distribute in the United States.”

The old man said, “We will handle Canadian distribution exclusively, and administer financing issues in conjunction with Zetas counterparts.”

Just then, one of the bodyguards entered the room. The men outside arose in a confused and panicked manner, tipping Ken off that he soon would need to drop this charade.

“We’re getting hit, Franklin.” The old man glared at Ken. “I’ve got it covered.” Ken said, opening a draw in the desk, “I assumed that something like this could happen, and planned for it.”

Mark, Pedro and the old man all looked at him in disbelief. Meanwhile, Ken drew a pair of concealed pistols into his hands.

“And what, Franklin, are you going to do about it?” Mark said, curious.

Ken drew down on them. “This!” Ken opened fire, catching the three of them—and the bodyguard—by surprise.

Mark and the bodyguard caught bullets in their throats and dropped to the floor, blood spraying from their necks. Pedro took two in the chest and fell over in a heap. The old man leaped for Ken, but slumped on the desk after taking four in the face and chest; he slid to the floor, smearing blood and viscera as he slid down.

The door to the office flew open as Ken dropped his empty pistols to the floor, and he ducked under the desk when they dumped the magazines in their carbines into it. A couple of round nicked him, but nothing serious came of it. Ken waited for the shooting to stop, then stood and chucked a chair at them before they could reload. That gave him the opening to close with them, knife in hand, and cut them up. He got one of them right away, slashing open his neck and then stabbing him in the face to end that man’s life.

The other bodyguard dropped his rifle and engaged Ken empty-handed, tossing Ken back across the room, and then drew his pistol. Ken landed on the cooling corpse of his foe’s former boss, and then got back under the desk just as the bodyguard fired upon him again. Ken quickly moved from side to side, knowing that the desk wouldn’t provide effective cover anymore, and pulled his back-up gun out of its holster. Then Ken laid down, shot the bodyguard in the ankle and waited for the man to hit the floor; once Ken lined up a shot with the man’s skull, he put his last two through that big brain pan and ended that engagement. Six dead bad guys, and only a couple of flesh wounds.

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