Chapter 20 - Quietus #2
“Don’t calculate; look at me,” he demanded. “Where do you think my weak point is on my body, and don’t say my junk.”
“Knees?”
“No, midsection. Yes, my core is solid,” he said. But if you come at me full force and throw your weight into my midsection, you will throw me off balance. Once I am down, you can either take me out or subdue me with a well-placed blow to the head.”
“Or I can shoot you in the knee and watch you cry,” she told him.
Mustang watched her face. “True, but if you are in a situation where you don’t want to fire the weapon, then what?”
“Knock your big ass out.”
“How?”
“Aim for your weak spot using my body weight,” she said, offering a sheepish grin.
He shook his head. “You’re just playing at being cute. Let’s work.”
Mustang took off at a slow jog, Helen on his heels.
They ran a quarter of a mile up the back side of the property, and he stopped.
Using his hand signals, he told her to wait behind a bale of hay.
She didn’t know where the hay bale had come from, but he must have ordered it for them to play war games.
Suddenly, she heard a clicking sound. His voice, low and menacing, called her name.
“Helen...sweet Helen, where are you? I’m coming to find you,” he whispered menacingly.
The hairs on her neck stood up. The fun little game was taking a turn.
Her fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.
On her feet, she began to back up, thinking she could make it back to the homestead where she could lie in wait for him.
The sound of his feet picking up the pace meant he was running.
He knew where she was hiding because he had told her to wait there.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
Throwing caution to the wind, she got to her feet.
Sprinting at top speed, she came from behind the hay bale, running towards him, the weapon prepared.
She fired off three rounds, center mass of his chest, knowing the paint balls would hurt.
They may have hurt, but they weren’t slowing him down.
That much man coming at her full speed had her heart racing, but she didn’t slow her speed, which also surprised him by the look on his face.
Quickly, she changed her angle of approach.
His size didn’t allow him the maneuverability to change the trajectory he was on.
Helen, now at an angle, picked up more speed and charged at Mustang.
She used the entire one hundred and twenty-five pounds, launching her body at him, hitting him in his side and knocking the man off his feet.
She tucked her body, rolling across him, bounding to her feet, and firing two more shots, one into his upper thigh, the other to his calf where his boot stopped.
“Ouch!” he yelled.
“Target neutralized,” she said, winking at him.
“Yeah, target is also hurt,” Mustang mewled. “Did I say ouch?”
“Yeah, you did. On your feet, Trooper,” Helen called out, taking off at a trot towards the house.
Her mouth was dry. In her chest, the rapid beating of her heart couldn’t seem to slow down.
She didn’t look back but could hear him running behind her.
She made it to the office building they had been working on, and she tucked, rolled, and came up alongside the building as if there were combatants on the other side. Mustang arrived and slid up beside her.
“On my count,” she called out as he’d taught her the previous weekend. “Three, two, and move.”
In unison, they moved around the building; she fired high on the target, and he fired low. Satisfied, she stood still looking at her handy work. Her heart rate began to ease off.
“Helen, what do you know that I’m not seeing?” he asked, suddenly feeling a sense of wariness.
“It’s been too quiet,” she replied. “That fax machine hasn’t gone off in nearly two months. That is eerie. Bad men don’t like quiet.”
“You think something is being planned?”
She turned to face him. He was a very handsome man and very rugged. Everything about her husband quickened her heartbeat. However, what she loved most about him was the quiet trust he placed in her instincts. Mustang trusted her.
“Not so much as planned, but openings are available, and out there, a small-time hood is looking to move to a new neighborhood; it is only a matter of time,” she said.
“Speaking of time, our wedding is in two weeks,” he said. “Do you have everything you need?”
She asked, “Pretty much. And Oscar, as the best man and at your bachelor party, does he have everything he needs?”
“Party, at the hotel,” he said. “Apple is working with him, but he did let me know there will be no topless women because, and I quote, ‘Aunt Helen ain’t about that bullshit.’”
“Man, I like that kid,” she said, smiling at him.
He paused. “You look concerned.”
“I am.”
“Any reason why?”
“I asked for this training with you because in my gut, I can feel the wrongness waking up and peeking at me through a half-closed curtain,” she said.
“Even Apple said something is off, and it’s not just Kurtzwilde selling off buildings and closing up shop.
Swallowtail is also quiet, along with Hornworm.
Junkies need a fix. They can’t relinquish that kind of debauchery and funding. There will be a play.”
“A play?”
“Yeah, to take me out of the game, more than likely, and to start up again. The seraphim are quiet as well. I haven’t met them or know who they are, which may work in my favor,” she said, “but it feels off, and something is coming.”
“Let’s hope not,” he said softly, “since we’re getting married.”
“Yep, in two weeks,” she repeated.
She followed him to the workshop to put away the paintball guns.
Much of her weaponry had been purchased, and Slow and Cherry had come for a visit the previous weekend, bringing many of the wedding gifts that had arrived at Mark and Ruth’s.
They didn’t bring the kids, allowing the four adults to go out for a nice dinner and enjoy the night away.
The following two weeks went smoothly with last-minute bits and pieces being put into play, including finalized menus and seating arrangements.
On Thursday, June 12th, Helen loaded a substantial number of items into her personal vehicle, including things she didn’t want to forget, and drove them to her home in Kentucky, just to make sure the wedding dress was at least in the right place, along with the luggage for the honeymoon.
She took Cherry to lunch and made it home at the same time her husband arrived.
“Tomorrow, we head to the hotel to get checked in,” he said. “I’m pretty excited about this whole thing. Did you say all The Directions accepted the invite?”
“Yes, and all the Archangels, Jesús, and the Stray Bullets table,” she said. “Still, I feel off.”
“I can feel it too,” he said, about to say another thought when a sound made him freeze in his tracks.
The fax machine was going off in the office. Helen moved slowly, feeling wary, and arrived in the office. For some reason, Mustang followed behind, both staring at the machine. Instead of one sheet of paper, there were two.
Helen pulled both sheets, passing one to her husband. “This one is for you.”
Mustang grabbed the paper, feeling put upon by an unwanted relative asking for a hefty sum of money, as a loan. “The fuck?”
He read the sheet as did she. He looked at his wife. “We have 24 hours to find this girl and get her home. What do we need to roll out?”
“Vehicle is fueled, weapons ready,” she told him.
“And the wedding stuff?”
“Funny thing, I took everything to the house in Kentucky today, including our travel stuff for the honeymoon,” she told him.
“So, if we cut it close,” he started.
“We are in the pocket,” she replied. “Let’s move.”
“You drive. I track,” he said, reaching for the equipment issued to a Technician. His wife provided her credentials, and he went to work. First, he started with the missing girl.
Kylie Young, the rebellious daughter of a sitting U.S.
Senator for the state of Indiana, went off the radar at three this afternoon.
As of six p.m., concerns by the parents were noted since the girl’s cell phone was turned off and the AirPods in her bag had not moved from a food court in the mall. The AirTag was found, but not the girl.
“Thus far, no ransom demands have come in,” Mustang said. “This feels, staged, almost, accidental but now on purpose.”
“Huh?”
“They took her, not knowing who she was, but in taking her, they found out, so now it is a new mission or a game to whoever has her,” Mustang said. “It might not be politically motivated, but a potential gang bang opportunity, but one of the gang recognized her and is scared.”
“Scared won’t stop the worst one in the pack from fucking her,” Helen said. “What do you have?”
“Based on the time spread, three potential locations,” he said.
“Call them out,” she asked.
“One is out towards Lawrence, the other Clermont, the other Valley Mills,” he said.
“Clermont is out,” she said. “Lawrence is a no. Valley Mills it is to start.”
“If we are wrong, it could cost us time.”
“You keep working your magic. I will keep driving,” she said.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived in Valley Mills. Six buildings were possible. Mustang narrowed it to three, then down to one.
“Shit, that’s a squatting sight for the homeless and vagrants. I am not tucking and rolling,” she told him.
“Cranberry,” he said, using her handle, “we don’t know what we’re walking into. What is in the cache?”
“I brought the paintball guns as well as two nines with silencers,” she said smiling at him.
“Paintball high, weapons down low,” he said as they parked and geared up.
A loud scream came from the building on the upper floor. Helen’s eyes grew wide. She grabbed her weapons, but he grabbed her arm.
“Emotions stay outside. The Cranberry is going inside,” he cautioned. He patted her arm. “Let’s move.”
Another scream came forward as Mustang moved through the door, his weapon low.
A string of curse words came from his mouth as a body tackled him, wrestling him to the floor.
Helen raised the paintball gun, firing three in the man’s face, making him yell out.
From her pants, she pulled out four zip ties, binding his hands and ankles.
A piece of duct tape went over his mouth.
She reached for Mustang and helped him to his feet.
Helen placed two pats on his shoulder, as he had trained her to do when moving as a team, he understood the pats meant to get going, and just in those few seconds, he was on his feet and they were moving.
“Stairs, three o’clock,” he called out.
Another scream came, and Helen moved to the stairs, only to be kicked in the chest by a large boot, sending her tumbling.
She raised the paintball gun, firing three into the man’s crotch.
Mustang moved quickly, but not fast enough as a knife appeared, cutting him across the chin.
A right hook went into the guy’s face, taking him down, but when he landed, it was on Helen.
Mustang grabbed the man and pulled the dead weight off his wife. She pulled out more zip ties, binding him and taping his mouth as he tried to call out to people up the stairs.
“Weapons up,” Mustang said, feeling the blood drip from his chin.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Can’t touch it; move.”
He started up the stairs, hearing the girl scream again. They entered the room to find two men, tweaking, high out of their minds, cutting away her clothing.
“We should ask for a ransom,” the first one said.
“Naw, we should fuck her. Not often we get a clean sweet one like this,” the second man said.
“Look at these cute little tits. Just enough to fit in my mouth. Ouch!” he said, feeling the pain in the back of his head.
He turned to find Mustang pointing a weapon at him and a paintball gun at his friend.
Mustang silently shook his head no, letting the men know that any move would be the wrong one.
Helen moved quickly, using the zip ties to lock both men’s hands behind their backs. She pulled out her phone and pressed one.
“State your need,” the voice said.
“Located the package, four zipped tied and ready for pickup,” Helen said in the line. “Have them rally on my location. Where do we drop the package?”
“That was fast. Take her home,” the voice said. “Sending coordinates to Bloomington.”
“Cranberry out,” she said, reaching for the girl. “You’re safe. We’ll get you home.”
Her hands were bound and clothing ripped. The men had taken away small pieces of fabric like a sick game, tormenting the young woman. Mustang provided his jacket to cover her ragged clothing. In the background, they heard sirens.
“We need to move,” Mustang said, stepping over the men.
In the car, Helen sat in the back seat comforting the girl as they made the trek to Bloomington to take her anxious parents.
Arriving at the home, Helen walked her to the front door, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders, then rang the bell, and offered a nod to the worried Senator and crying mother.
“Who are you?” The Senator asked.
“I am The Cranberry,” she said. “I am the protector of the women and children of the state of Indiana. No harm came to her; some simple menacing, and she will need counseling.”
She said nothing more, and she returned the vehicle. A bandage covered Mustang’s chin, and he pointed to her face. A large bruise was on her cheek.
They both laughed. “Damned fax machine.”