The Kasparov Agenda (Omega Ops Legion Book 1) (22 page)

“Well, what now?” an officer asked.

Sergeant Alden sighed. “Let’s call it in.”

***

Queens, NYPD, 117th Precinct

Oswalt Fletcher was seated at his desk, absorbed in his computer screen. He was quickly adapting to typing with one hand. He took no heed when detectives Henry Schucker and Roy Cameron approached his desk. “Hey, Oswalt, how’s the arm?” Henry asked.

“Fine.”

“When does the cast come off?”

Oswalt shrugged. “Couple weeks?” Oswalt still hadn’t bothered to make eye contact with either detective or cease typing.
Clack-clack-clack
went the keys.

Roy scratched his head. “Seem pretty busy there, Fletcher. What are you working on?”

“On work,” Oswalt stated flatly.

Henry glanced at Roy, then directed his attention back to Fletcher. “You okay, Oswalt?”

“I’m
fine.
” The rhythmic key clacking continued.
 

Henry wasn’t satisfied. He continued to press the subject. “Are you sure? The last few weeks you’ve kept to yourself mostly.”

“And by that he means you’re normally an annoying little git that doesn’t shut his mouth,” Roy added.

Oswalt stopped typing and scowled at the two of them. “I said I’m fine. Don’t you two have some work
you
should be doing?”

Roy thought for a moment. “I suppose...well, see you around then, I guess.”

The pair walked off. “Something’s eating him,” Henry muttered to Roy, once out of earshot. “I just don’t know what. He doesn’t seem to be himself.”

“What are you, his mother? You heard him, he said he’s fine,” Roy replied. “He’s probably just busy like he said and finds it difficult to cope with the stress. No need to read into it.”

Henry glanced back at Oswalt, who was once again furiously typing away with one hand. “Yeah—maybe...”

Captain Morring stormed out of his office. He was in his fifties, with grizzled hair and a stern demeanor. “Alright, listen up, people. We got a hell of a situation brewing.” All the officers turned their attention over to the captain. “First Bank’s been taken over. Possible robbery in progress, numerous hostages…”

Oswalt’s eyes went wide while listening to the captain’s briefing. Oswalt knew that the Solly brothers were planning to make a deposit at the First Bank today.
Were they caught up in the middle of this?
Maybe even involved with it?
Oswalt’s mind was racing as he contemplated possible scenarios.
 

“…I need all available units to get down there now. Form a perimeter around the bank and wait for further instructions.” On that note, officers began to make their way towards the doors. Captain Morring intercepted Roy and Henry before they could leave. “Not so fast, you two—I need a word.”

“What’s up, Captain?” Roy asked.

“You two are close with Kasparov, right? You keep in touch and whatnot?”

Roy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess... Where are you going with this?”

“I need you to get in contact with him. These guys holding up the bank—they got a hard-on for Kasparov, apparently. They requested a news station to give them a speaking platform. Kasparov’s gonna want to hear this. You two are going to make sure he does.”

“Well, it’s not like we keep tabs on him, but yeah, we can try to give him a ring,” Roy replied.

Captain Morring nodded. “Good. Now get the hell outta here.”

***

Henry and Roy pulled up in front of the bank. The street had been cordoned off, and several cruisers had formed a line in front of the building. Roy had already managed to contact Bruce by cell and advised him to tune-in to the news. News crews were set up by the bank, but were kept behind the police blockades. “Press was already here before the blockades were even set up!” one officer was telling another. “Goddamn vultures.”

Captain Morring had arrived on the scene. He stepped out of his car and glanced down at his watch. “Any minute now, people.” Right on cue, Tony Calzone opened the bank door—exactly fifteen minutes since his last encounter with the police. Morring approached him with a look of disgust on his face. “Tony Calzone...why am I not surprised to see you in the middle of this mess?”

“
Where
—
is my reporter
?” Tony was not in the mood to exchange pleasantries. Morring looked over to the news crew the department had arranged and beckoned them forward with a finger. Susan Oaks, a blonde news reporter in her thirties, approached with her cameraman.

“Make it quick, Ms. Oaks,” Morring whispered to the reporter. “I don’t want this joker on the air any longer than he needs to be.” Susan nodded in agreement, then took her place beside Tony.  She signalled her cameraman to start rolling.

“This is Susan Oaks, reporting live for channel one news.
Breaking news
: I am standing in front of the New York City First Bank, where—”

“Give me that mic, you dolt!” Tony snapped, snatching the microphone from Susan’s hand. “Listen up! This message here is for Bruce Kasparov. I know you’re watching…” Tony smiled malevolently. “You’d better be watching, or else every death inside this bank will be on your head. It’s this simple: you come to the bank, and you come inside alone. You hand yourself over to us, and all the hostages go free. Refuse to comply and they’re all dead. No one else can save them but you.” Tony stared darkly into the camera. “Do what you do best Bruce Kasparov, and play the hero. You have three hours.” Tony stretched out his hand and dropped the mic on the ground. The news crew and police stared in stunned silence as Tony walked back up the stairs and returned to the bank.

Roy Cameron watched it all unfold while having his cell phone to his ear. “You get all that?”

“Yeah. I got all that. I’ll take care of it.” Bruce hung up his phone. He, along with Varick and Santos were in the living room of Kasparov Manor. They had tuned-in to the broadcast after getting the heads up from Roy.

“Well, it looks like you’ve really pissed them off this time,” Varick muttered.

“What’s the plan here?” Santos asked.

Bruce shrugged. “Guess I get to play the hero.”

“Going in alone?”

“Seems that way.”

Varick stared at the television screen with his arms folded in front of him. “Tony was sounding pretty confident in front of that camera, and normally he’s a pushover. You know Scorcher’s waiting inside that bank, and we have no idea what else he has in store for you,” Varick warned.

Bruce nodded. “True. But I’m not expected for another three hours, so we have a little bit of prep time…”

***

Heavy footsteps approached first bank...

It was one hour before Bruce’s deadline. Police continued to keep a tight lock around the bank and SWAT teams were on standby, ready to be deployed. “What’s the move, Captain? My men and I are ready to storm the building. Just give the word.” There was a hint of irritation in SWAT Commander Carter’s tone. This wasn’t the first time he had requested to enter the bank.

Captain Morring shook his head. “No, not yet. Go in there now and it’ll be a blood bath.”

Carter spat on the ground in frustration. “We’re going to just sit on the sidelines and wait for Kasparov to show up?!” This is absurd—to put our faith in one man over an entire police force.”

“Maybe so. But right now, he’s our best chance at getting those hostages out alive.”

“Assuming he shows up…”

There was a sudden buzzing of talk amongst the officers. Something had drawn their attention. S
omebody was coming
. Oswalt Fletcher was among the officers on the scene. He stared. He couldn’t believe it. “It’s
him
…” W
ild, flaming-pink hair. A devilish smile. And a face worthy of a paper bag. His massive boots thumped down the sidewalk as he approached.
 

“Oh Christ,” Captain Morring muttered. “This is just what I need.” Scorcher stopped in his tracks once a slew of officers had their guns pointed at him.

Scorcher smiled. “Let me be the first to say that you’re all doing an outstanding job providing security for my bank. Keeping all the pesky hooligans off my premises!”

“Hands in the air!” an officer demanded.

Scorcher laughed. “Oh,
really
now. For those that don’t know who I am, shame—on—you. I’m actually good friends with the gentlemen holding up the bank. Scorcher’s the name, and I’m kind of a big deal. And if you haven’t noticed—” Scorcher puffed out his shoulders to let the rich purple fabric draped down his back billow out. “I have a new cape.”

“I
knew
something looked different about him...” Roy whispered to Henry.
 

“As much as I want to shoot the breeze with the friendly porcine here, I
do
have pressing business to attend to inside, so if you’ll excuse me...” But Carter had other plans. He and his SWAT team were quick to surround Scorcher, blocking his path up the bank steps. Several officers followed their lead.

“You’re going to rot in jail for the rest of your unholy life, Scorcher,” Carter threatened.

Scorcher looked around at his captors, thoroughly amused. “You’re not going to arrest me. You’re not going to shoot me. Not here—not now. Not when I hold all the cards.” Carter refused to lower his gun. Scorcher smiled as he cautiously walked up to him, as if trying to get close to a deer without spooking it. Well over six feet, Scorcher towered over Carter and loomed directly in front of him. Slowly, he bent forward. The SWAT commander’s hand trembled as Scorcher pressed his forehead against the barrel of his gun. Beads of sweat trickled down Carter’s temple; he was now face to face with Scorcher and had his finger on the trigger. Oswalt was one of the officers behind Carter. He watched the standoff in anticipation. Part of Oswalt wanted Carter to pull that trigger.
More than anything.
T
o rid the world of this plague on society. But he could not come to terms with trading this scumbag’s miserable life for a bank full of hostages.

“Let him through.”

Carter turned and stared at Captain Morring.

“You heard what I said, now let him through!” Reluctantly, Carter lowered his gun and his team stepped aside. Scorcher smiled gleefully at the police as he marched past them and up the bank steps.

Scorcher pounded on the door. “Open up, it’s me!” There was a moment’s pause, then the door opened a crack for Tony to peer through. Scorcher was admitted inside and the door closed behind him.

Carter stood side by side with Morring, both men staring at the closed bank doors. “Who knows what’s going to happen to the hostages now that we let
him
in.”

“My immediate concern was what would happen to the hostages if we
didn’t
let him in,” Morring replied. He looked down at his watch, then walked towards his vehicle.
We’re running out of time.
 

***

“You decided to show up,” Hachiuma stated bluntly.

“I told you I’d be here,” Scorcher replied.

Hachiuma scowled. “You’re wearing a cape...”

“Snazzy, right? Attire fit for a king!” He raised his hands in the air, as if receiving praise and adulation from his imaginary subjects. Suddenly, he lowered his hands to his stomach. “Oh god, the amount of mental focus it took for me to put on the bravado out there. I need to sit down.”

“What’s the matter, Scorcher?” Tony asked.

“I drank too much at Lomez’s party. I didn’t even realize I could.” Scorcher screamed out while holding his stomach. “Oh, what fresh hell is this?!”

Hachiuma approached Scorcher. “Do you think this is funny?”

“No, really, I feel sick. I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Do you think this is a game?!”

Despite the pain his insides were feeling, Scorcher managed to put on a grin. “Ah yes, in the end, isn’t it all just a game? The wonderfully mordant game of life, in which we are all players.”

Hachiuma pressed his index finger against Scorcher’s skull and slowly lowered his arm. Scorcher followed Hachiuma’s finger downwards until he was kneeling on the ground.
“Shut.
Up.
”
 

“Alright, fine,” Scorcher muttered. “I’ll keep my gut-wrenching agony to myself...”

The minutes dragged by. The deadline for Bruce to surrender himself was approaching quickly. Inside the bank, things were getting restless. “God, someone shut this kid up!” Tony screamed, as he stormed away from the hostages. Scorcher was seated in a chair trying to keep his bearings and queasiness in check through sheer tyranny of will. Tony’s frustration marginally buoyed his sense of well-being.

“Poor Tony. Hostages giving you a hard time?”

“I thought the mom was bitchy... The kid’s even worse,” Tony snarled.

Scorcher stood up. “Show me...” He walked over to the mother-daughter duo Tony pointed out.  The mother appeared to be knocked unconscious; her arms were still wrapped around her six-year-old daughter. The little girl stared suspiciously at Scorcher as he bore down upon her. He worked his menacing face into a sneer and spoke in a low growl. “Are you causing
trouble
?”

The little girl sniffed at him. “You’re not scary.”

“What!?” Scorcher was taken aback and broke from character. He scratched his chin and leaned in. “Are you sure?”

“You look silly. Like a clown.”

“A clown?! How am I like a clown?”

“Who else has fluffy pink hair?”

“And the face?” Scorcher sneered at her, revealing his decaying yellow fangs.

“An ugly clown.”

Scorcher opened and closed his mouth, but no words came out. He sat down beside the girl. “You got a real mean streak, you know that, kid?”

“
You’re
the mean ones. You’re not letting anyone go home. I told Mommy we should go home, but she wanted to do errands...” A terrible sadness broached her face. “I don’t want to be here.”

Scorcher sighed. “You and me both, kid. I just want to take a nap and burn out this sickness inside me. Unfortunately, when you’re in a family, you get dragged around to boring places you don’t want to go, and you’re forced to do boring things you don’t want to do.” Scorcher eyed the unconscious mother. “What happened to your mom?”