A WEEK AFTER his capture, Slug Wiseman appeared before Maryland’s Judge Hughes, late-50s. The spectators were silent as the bailiff called, “May the defendant please rise.”

Slug Wiseman stood with his attorney by his side. He was calm and his posture was very erect with his chest thrown out, as if a military commander had just given him an order. Impeccably dressed in a three-piece charcoal gray suit, his hair was neatly combed and his sea green eyes sparkled. He turned and stared at the spectators and they stared back. Then he faced the jury, his expression inscrutable.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Hughes asked.
“We have, your honor,” responded the foreman, glancing down at the piece of paper in her hand. A court attendant walked in front of the bench to the jury section and the foreman handed him the note. He then walked back and handed the judge the paper. The judge took time to adjust his glasses before reading it, and then he looked over at the defendant.

Although Slug Wiseman appeared to be rather stout, this was an illusion because his broad shoulders were muscled and his upper torso tapered to a reasonably slender waist. He could have tried out for Mr. Universe had it been possible to transplant another head onto his body prior to the preliminaries. Slug’s face looked as if some major geomorphologic process had shaped it. He was ugly, with an ugliness that had been extinct before centuries were measured in time; his was Stone-Age ugliness. His nearly anvil shaped head was topped by thick, straight hair that was almost totally gray. The right side of his scarred face resembled a portrayal of South America’s tectonic drift from Africa; the left side looked like a crumpled newspaper mistakenly left in a bowl of soup and then placed in a microwave.

The striker lowered his gun and with one hand, caught the grenade in mid-air, a perfect baseball catch! Without hesitation he threw it back, but it dropped into the pool a couple of yards from the guard. As she bent over the water, searching for it, it exploded in her face and blew her to bits.

A SWAT sharpshooter raised his submachine gun and aimed at one of the remaining guards, who was standing slightly apart from his colleagues.

Guided by the thin red laser beam from his sub-machine, the gunner first aimed at the guard’s groin, but changed his mind and raised the gun’s sights to the grenade dangling from a cord around the guard’s neck. The guard sensed danger; he stepped backward, trying to blend in with his comrades.

The guard’s eyes caught the laser’s beam and followed it. Just as he found the red spot on the grenade, the cop pulled the trigger. The explosion caused a quick chain reaction that engulfed the entire group.

The heavy five-in-one blast signaled an immediate cease-fire. The sight of a blasted guard initiating five simultaneous detonations and the shredded body parts that settled from the air to the ground, horrified everyone on the premises. For a second the fighters were struck dumb, as if they had no fundamental knowledge of a bullet’s destructive force.

Although the strikers moved their guns around like flashlights, not another shot was fired.

Three of Slug’s women guests fainted. The remaining guards were now slow to react, their glazed eyes refusing to focus. They dropped their guns and raised their hands above their heads.

The scale of the horrific explosion, the gravity of it, the magnitude of it deafened every ear. The once heavy noise from the helicopter engines could no longer be heard. The remnants that were Slug’s human shield panicked. They had been reduced to tremulous gibbering.

At the end of the fierce fight, 25 of the mansion guards were dead. The tactical unit counted five casualties. Six SWAT unit strikers marched toward Slug and dismantled his human shield.

Slug, still on his knees, kept his face averted. The other strikers remained alert while the guards who had surrendered were ordered to lie flat on their bellies, with their arms and legs spread. They were quickly disarmed and handcuffed. Five officers kept their guns pointed at Slug while three others chained his hands and feet, then pulled him upright.

The SWAT commander stepped forward and said, “Let me advise you of your rights.”

Slug towered over the commanding officer and as he looked down into his face, their eyes met. For a moment, the officer’s words seemed to choke him. It was as if he had been deprived of the power of speech. Slug’s solid form seemed to crush the officer’s resolve.

A few seconds later, however, he recovered and managed to continue in a husky voice, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can… can… can be…”

The officer paused again, his voice hoarse. Slug’s piercing gaze didn’t waver as the SWAT commanding officer struggled to swallow. Finally, he cleared his throat and managed to continue in a more distinct tone.

“You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, you will be provided one by the state. If you wish to make a statement, you may now do so.”

Chopper-3 skimmed the ground as Chopper-1 hovered with its searchlights illuminating Slug and the grizzly scene.

Slug made no move to resist arrest, yet he was enveloped in chains, dragged to the helicopter and thrown inside. He was then directed to sit between two heavily armed officers. A third faced him and a fourth sat directly behind him. The helicopter quickly darted away, heading for the Maryland Central Prison.

A few minutes later, several police vans and ambulances arrived at the mansion. The three unconscious women were given emergency treatment before being taken to the hospital. The cuffed guards were placed in police vans. As the vehicle with the prisoners disappeared down the long driveway, a second police unit arrived to search and contain the mansion.

What happens next? Find out in Chapter Two.

Chopper-1 opened fire on the guards. One guard dropped to the ground, temporarily evading the onslaught. Then a bullet penetrated the guard’s throat, severing his jugular vein. He fell first to his knees and then flat on his face with a gurgling noise. He died almost instantly, gasping for air.

The RPG-guard reloaded a second rocket. He turned and aimed his weapon at Chopper-1. Before the RPB-guard could act a bullet shot away his entire lower jaw. He spread his arms wide, as if asking for the Lord’s final blessing. He remained standing only briefly, the roof of his mouth dripping blood, looking like a shoddy sculpture in a horror movie.

He could see a portion of his lower jaw lying directly in front of him and stretched his arms outward, as if he was trying to pick it up and reattach it. Then his hand moved toward one of his grenades. Another bullet penetrated his abdomen and his coiled guts shot outward like a hissing rattler. His exposed intestines now dangled from his mortally wounded body; he was paralysed and gasped for air.

Then mercifully, several bullets found their mark. His knees were shattered and both lower legs almost amputated. He crumpled to the lawn face up; his lifeless eyes open wide.

Slug Wiseman and his ladies were at one end of the pool. A female guard was a few yards apart from them. Her beautiful face was contorted with rage and she clenched a grenade in her fist. She was determined to take out the SWAT striker on the opposite side of the pool. She pulled the grenade pin and threw the weapon in the striker’s general direction.

Fan Question: What happens when the guard throws the grenade in the SWAT striker’s general direction?

The guard lowered her sub-machine gun and pointed it at the striker’s groin. “Tell your balls to swallow my bullets… and fuck the dust goodbye!” she screamed as she pulled the trigger.

Her magazine, too, was empty. She hurled her gun to the ground and the two charged at each other, screaming at the top of their lungs. Their bodies met and both were sent sprawling to the ground. In their scuffle, the guard managed to detonate herself and pieces of bloody flesh flew in all directions.

Chopper-1 and Chopper-2 returned to the scene. One of the guards dashed into an outlying building and returned holding a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG); he took careful aim.

“Chopper one, two… back off!” the SWAT commander yelled into a mouthpiece.

“Holy shit! R-P-GEEEEEE!” shouted the gunman in Chopper-2.

“Fucking shit! Split, split, do you copy?” yelled the gunner in Chopper-1. “Move, move, move!”

Chopper-1 and Chopper-2 began their retreat, trying to dodge the RPG’s charge but the guard stood astride the rocket-propelled grenade and fired the missile. Chopper-2 shattered in mid-air as a massive ball of flame lit up the night sky.

Find out what happens next in Chapter One: Part 3

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS! Step back and put your hands above your heads. One false move and you’re dead!”

It was Saint Valentine’s Day, 1996, and dusk had arrived by the time Slug Wiseman, mid-40s, returned to his fortified compound in Hillcrest Heights, Maryland. He’d been in town, having dinner with a few friends. Still dressed in his navy blue suit, Slug and the ladies were relaxing around the pool when the loud, threatening command disrupted their conversation.

Then, total silence. Slug could hear a furtive movement. Although he’d paid thirty heavily armed guards to constantly patrol the grounds, someone had obviously invaded his property. He wondered how, and more importantly, why.

Slug’s guards came around the corner en masse. All were armed with Uzi sub-machine guns and had grenades dangling about their upper torsos. They were also equipped with headsets. They wore black T-shirts and black jeans, black belts with knives and pistols, and black leather boots. Although it was difficult to tell one sex from the other, there were 15 muscular, vicious-looking males and 15 equally muscular females.

A rustling noise was heard in nearby shrubbery and the guards stopped, straining to pinpoint the location of the intruders. No one was visible. After another minute or two of silence, the leader gave the all-clear signal and they resumed their patrol. Suddenly another, more distinct sound was heard. The guards halted a second time, alert, with their fingers on the triggers of their Uzis.

“Who’s that?” one whispered. He was sure he’d seen a shadowy figure scaling the high wall surrounding the mansion; however, all efforts to pierce the inky blackness failed. They could see nothing. Lights in the compound were mounted low to the ground to highlight portions of well-manicured lawn. A faint orange glow came from a fountain at one end of a long, narrow garden, illuminating the goldfish swimming in a nearby aquarium. The pale light from a pair of Oriental lanterns outlined a lacquered bench that had been fashioned from Indonesian hardwood. The armrests of its stylish blue, cast-iron frame were shaped like a lion’s head.

“I said drop your weapons!” the voice shouted, more firmly. The confused guards turned, searching for the location of the person who was issuing the command.
The heavy throb-throb of helicopter engines could be heard in the distance. Three Maryland police choppers flew into view. Once they had arrived, they hovered over the premises, their searchlights flashing quickly illuminating Slug Wiseman and his friends.

A police SWAT team clad in camouflaged fatigues materialised in the blinding glare. The stunned guards froze momentarily but quickly recovered and took aggressive combat stances, ready to fire.

Initially Slug thought the SWAT team’s invasion must be a practice skirmish but when the guns were pointed at human targets and both sides were primed and ready for action, he knew they meant business. This was for real.
Before Slug had a chance to react, his hands were pulled roughly behind him and he was restrained in handcuffs. Although terrified, his lady friends bravely formed a human shield around him, doing their best to protect him.

Why did his guards stand there like dummies? he asked himself, anger rising like bile in his throat. Why didn’t they react? They had been hired to protect him.

The SWAT team remained calm as tension mounted. Trigger fingers were beginning to twitch. Slug, still in the circle of light, fought to control his anger and the fear that began to creep up his spine. His mouth went dry and his breath came in short gasps. The women surrounding him trembled but they kept their places.

The SWAT team’s commander emerged from the shadows and shouted into the PA system, “Drop your weapons and step back! Keep your hands above your heads. If one of you makes a move, you are all dead!”

Four of Slug’s guards took aim and almost simultaneously fired at the speaker. The tactical unit returned fire. As the exchange became more intense, one of the female guards sprayed bullets in the direction of the three helicopters. Chopper-1 and Chopper-2 immediately pulled up and away; Chopper-3 continued to hover.

The female guards shot at Chopper-3 but their bullets bounced harmlessly off its aluminum skin. Although at first they were unaware that they had put themselves in the direct line of fire, they soon realised their danger and tried in vain to take cover. Large caliber bullets whined and thudded into their targets and blood shot upward like a fountain. The guards dropped to the ground but the gun continued to stutter as bullets rained about their bodies.

The tactical police unit closed in on the remaining mansion guards. One officer made a mistake and stepped into the open. Bullets immediately whined near his right ear. He tried to take cover but was hit in the neck and he dropped in mid-stride. The bullets from the sub-machine gun decapitated him. His body fell in one direction while his head rolled in another; streams of red spewing from both as his legs jerked spasmodically.

Three of the remaining guards tried to make their way through the hail of bullets, determined to get America’s most wanted criminal out of harm’s way. Searchlights followed their progress and by the time they reached Slug and got him to his feet, the battle was raging all about them. They were trapped. With no place to run, Slug dropped to his knees. The women surrounding him knelt, back to back, still trying to protect him.

Two SWAT sharpshooters took aim and fired; two more guards dropped.

A female guard came face to face with a SWAT striker when they met at a corner. Taking aim, their eyes blazing, both shot at point blank range. The striker’s bullet found its target and the guard recoiled but somehow, she remained standing. The striker, again, took aim and pulled the trigger; he heard a click. His magazine was empty. A trace of a smile softened the guard’s face. She chuckled but soon began to laugh aloud. Hissing and moving her lips to reveal uneven teeth, she advanced a few steps. Her gun was only inches from the striker’s face. He clenched his fists, breathing heavily. Both appeared to be oblivious to the rat-a-tat-tat of the machine guns in the background. Their private battle involved only the two of them. The guard lowered her sub-machine gun and pointed it at the striker’s groin.

“Tell your balls to swallow my bullets… and fuck the dust goodbye!” she screamed as she pulled the trigger.

Story continues every second day… Please revisit Story Archives!

Fan Question: Ouch! Oh boy! What do you think would happen next, between the SWAT striker and the Mansion guard?