No Title Yet Part 1 - Murder of a Chechen Rebel
This is a snapshot of a fictional story written daily on my Facebook status, 160 characters at a time - two or three status updates a day. Each paragraph constitutes one Facebook status update. It is still ongoing and it is written without edit.
The news of Yamadayev death reached Grozny 2 hours after his lifeless body was discovered by an unfortunate runner about to leave her apartment for a morning run. Azimov spilled his coffee on his lap when suddenly his monitor was lit up by an avalanche of news about the assissination of yet another chechnyan opposition leader. "блин", he swore on his empty cup. "I need to wake Pedro up" and started making a call..
Pedro sat on his bed, shirtless, digesting the bad news he received a moment ago. The breeze from Rio Guayas cool the humid night air of Guayaquil. Pedro always sleep early whenever he is staying in his mother's house, a simple two stories on the hill with a view to the river; The wooden floor creaked noisily especially at night and it always wakes her up. Well, no more sleep tonight.
Processing a terminated client takes 6 to 8 hours in case of murder or unnatural deaths and it should be done immediately. There were assets to be moved around, recorded tapes to be heard and last will to be executed and usually that involves some sort of revenge to be taken. The clients of "Caretaker International" always suspected that they were not going to die of old age and they usually listed some names.
"Pedrito, come sit with me", a call from outside the room. Catalina de las marias de las mercedes laid out verde asado and coffee with milk neatly on the checkered red table; the 80 year old knew her son's favorite breakfast well. "Are you travelling today?", she knew from her son's tired eyes that something was up. "Quito". "How long is it going to be this time?". "I will be back before your birthday". Three weeks.
The roar from Jaibiru 3300 engine dominated Malecon 2000 marina in this early dusk. There were little activities among the yachts anchored in the harbor. "Good, no fools on the way", Pedro observed approvingly. Pavarotti ripped "Vincerooo!" while he pull the throttle to full power to take off speed of 130 km/h and let the graceful bird soar. He set the heading to 35.2° north - 265 KM to go.
Settling at 2000 meters cruising altitude, Pedro let the auto pilot took over. It would be another 80 minutes before he had to land. The vista outside his cockpit was breathtaking with the hills, rivers and forests of interior Ecuador quickly passing under. He had remembered to arrange a gift delivery for mamita in 20 days just in case he would not survive these assignments. One never know.
Thursday morning, San Francisco de Quito, a city in the clouds. Madrinas lined up in La Marin market with red, orange, yellow plastic plates filled with the day's produce laid on the ground over black plastic sheets. The market was crowded and filled with art of bargaining being performed. Pedro was looking for a familiar face and found her grinning at his sight. "buenos dias patroncito", Maria from Otavalo cheered.
This Secoya Indian grandmother was fond of the hulking middle age man in front of her. "I have fresh beregena just from today. Would you be interested?". "Oh excellent, exactly what I need.". A no would have prolonged the conversation. "Caserito, come then to pick them up on Gabriel Garcia Moreno this afternoon. The blue door after Simon Bolivar on the left.". "The location changed again", Pedro thought and left.
The sweets of Cohiba perfumed the veranda overlooking a small garden inside the grand house. The two old friends relaxed out enjoying pleasant warm of winter sun, finest Cognac on their hands. Fine plates strewn across the table between them, meal fit for kings. A dark hair beauty checked upon the men, "Is everything fine?", "It has been splendid my dear", Rómulo responded. He grinned at Pedro, "Miss Venezuela 2007".
"Next time please stop by for pleasure. I'll show you around". "I have been busy for the past year". "I notice. Do you still go around shooting people?". Pedro smiled, "why do you think I gave you the items list? Hobby?". "Perhaps you've grown fat and comfortable". "Fat, yes, but definitely not comfortable"."What keeps you going?". "I'm really good at it and this world needs good killer"."True. Less damage".
"How's your lady?". "She still hates me". "Where is she?". "Brazzaville, with MSF". "Incredible". "How about you? I see that you've climbed the peak. The last one was a semifinalist, wash't she?", Pedro chuckled. "I met her in Caracas, in a charity ball last July. I couldn't take my eyes off her". "I can see why". A pager buzzed. "It's ready. WBA-324, parked 2 blocks away". "Thanks. It's time to go".
Centro historico, the cultural heart of Quito, was filled with sense of anticipation for the incoming holy week. School kids were streaming through from the three nearby churches after their misa and choir practices, 3 hours before sundown. School bags, pony tails, delightful squeals all mixed with throng of tourists and laymen filling up the streets. A joyous day.
Pedro strolled two blocks and turn left. He spotted a striking new Citroen C3 and recognized its tail number. Except that there is a youth inside tinkering with the steering wheel. "Hey, that's my car!", he shouted and the youth looked back, startled. He started to give chase while the youth frantically tried to start the car. Then a sense of dread filled him. He had seen this before.
He stopped mid stride and threw himself to a school of 6th graders, shouting to shocked onlookers, "get down !!!". The blast started as a flicker of bright light, then angry sound of explosion roared in, followed by shock waves that skip your heartbeat carrying bits and pieces of burning molten twisted metal fiercely flying across ;searing any flesh in the way, piercing walls and shattering windows to pieces.
Two best girlfriends stood inside Iglesia San Francisco, admiring the fine details of gold leaf interior, lovingly imagined since 1514; one in oversized purple "I love Quito" t-shirt purchased yesterday. A distinct boom rattled the commoners and the two instinctively ran toward the sound outside the church. An all too familiar ominous cloud hover a block and half away; panicked crowds ran away from one direction.
They exchanged quick looks and sprinted against the outpouring masses; screech from car alarms filled the air - crying fear and pain mingled with wailing of infants - pandemonium. Staff Sgt. Jo Turner and Spc. Cheryl Ivanov of Oregon Army National Guard, combat medics veterans with three tours in Mosul, abandoned their well deserved vacation and arrived on the scene in a flash. Cheryl gasped, "oh lord".
"Arrggh", Pedro tried to stand up, supporting his frame with his right hand, except it was too weak and he fell back to the cracked smooth stoned street, on his face. His left hand held his bleeding ear, his eardrum pierced by the intensity of the explosion. He tried to focus but the blood from his cut forehead kept dripping and he was having the worst headache possible. His body was decorated with small projectiles
Cheryl scanned the surrounding carnage and took command. "Anybody speak English!!". Somebody responded and she continued, "Please translate for me."If you are not hurt, I need you". "I need seven people to take care of the Children. Bring them to the shade and somebody please get water!". "I need five more to set up a perimeter around this place and do not allow people to cross until police and ambulance arrive".
"Follow that lady", she pointed at Jo, "and she will tell you what to do with the children.". "I'm a doctor", somebody shouted. "Great, doctor. Help me set up a triage here". Cheryl continued organizing the makeshift rescue team to maximize the golden fifteen minutes after an initial bomb explosion in which the survivability was the highest. In a chaotic situation, a leader is needed and the one here is she.
Four ambulancia were rushing through the old town and a truck of grupo de operacion y rescate broke all speed limits in Quito to reach the scene within 15 minutes. The big guns had arrived. The extent of the damage have surprised even the veterans as they had never seen anything like this in the city over the past thirty years. Blood trickled through the stone pavements, mangled cars and bodies littered the streets.
What the rescue team saw was also the sight of a man in Armani suit helping a goth punk to walk - step by painful step, a priest carrying a little girl with a dirty hair, a grandma comforting a pale looking highschooler - keeping him from falling into shock, a young nun in her black habit and white cornette administering last rite to a dying man; the sight of common people each other in their grief. Humanity.
"Send all available ambulances and prepare the hospitals, immediately", Captain Piero of grupo de operacion y rescate radioed back to his HQ calmly. "Please confirm", the replied back. "Roger, this is a priority one emergency. This must go to the minister immediately". "Anything else?". "Please send dispatch to 13th Infantry Brigade for their medics. The hospitals will have to deal with combat injuries"."Affirmative"
Pedro opened his eyes to the light green ceiling of Carlos Andrade Marini Hospital - in a small room - alone . Only whispers from the soft wind through an opened window were heard. He felt the strained of the day and groaned as he woke up and tentatively walked to a bottle of water put on a small white wooden table at the corner of the room. He drank the water greedily until there was no more and return to bed.
"I can't sleep". "Come squeeze to my bed". Cheryl tip toed slowly over to the next bed - there were 12 other beds in this ward - fully occupied by exhausted and overstressed people. "you OK?". "I'm supposed to be fine". "Don't be too hard on yourself". They continued to whisper for another hour until their tiredness overwhelmed them - sleeping next to each other - holding hands -like in a slumber party 12 years back.
Tania sob quietly in the waiting room on the surgery wing of this white place. Her eyes puffed, her favorite make up were undone and she could not find her bag. She didn't care. Her husband sat next to her - no words - dazed looking beyond the walls. Their baby had been in surgery for more time they can bear. She wished it had been a bad dream. She was angry, felt guilty and hopeless - and in bad need for a miracle.
Candles flickered valiantly in Iglesia La Compañia, trying to stave off the darkness of night. Here and in the surrounding churches were packed by grieving parents, sisters, brothers, friends, husbands, and wives - they streamed in and out throughout the night, looking for solace after a terrifying afternoon. Armed guards cordoned the old town. Rings of yellow tape line barricaded the spot, "DO NOT CROSS".
The phone woke Pedro. "Pedrito, I have been trying to call you!"."Sorry mamita."."Did you hear what happened?"."Yes, last night on the news. I was in Cumbayá", he lied. "I was really worried. Alisa called yesterday. She heard the news. She asked if I am OK and you". Oh, fucking BBC, they are everywhere, Pedro grumbled. "I thought she'd be happier if I was dead", Pedro coldly replied. The separation had been hard.
Pedro finished the conversation and left the room. He had to figure out what happened yesterday. The incident yesterday went beyond the usual individual assassination technique. It used too much explosives and the damages attract too much attention - not considering collateral damage. He never felt so grateful for a young thief - who unfortunately triggered the car bomb while trying to steal the car.
He traversed the length of the grand hospital, which was still hectic trying to deal with a code red situation (A disaster has occurred and casualties are inbound; hospital disaster plan in effect); he wanted to find the doctor that fixed him up yesterday and thanked him. He had his left ear stuff with cotton ball dipped in a syrup of antibiotics to heal the pierced "myrinx". It would take a couple of days.
"Pedrito, come sit with me", a call from outside the room. Catalina de las marias de las mercedes laid out verde asado and coffee with milk neatly on the checkered red table; the 80 year old knew her son's favorite breakfast well. "Are you travelling today?", she knew from her son's tired eyes that something was up. "Quito". "How long is it going to be this time?". "I will be back before your birthday". Three weeks.
The roar from Jaibiru 3300 engine dominated Malecon 2000 marina in this early dusk. There were little activities among the yachts anchored in the harbor. "Good, no fools on the way", Pedro observed approvingly. Pavarotti ripped "Vincerooo!" while he pull the throttle to full power to take off speed of 130 km/h and let the graceful bird soar. He set the heading to 35.2° north - 265 KM to go.
Settling at 2000 meters cruising altitude, Pedro let the auto pilot took over. It would be another 80 minutes before he had to land. The vista outside his cockpit was breathtaking with the hills, rivers and forests of interior Ecuador quickly passing under. He had remembered to arrange a gift delivery for mamita in 20 days just in case he would not survive these assignments. One never know.
Thursday morning, San Francisco de Quito, a city in the clouds. Madrinas lined up in La Marin market with red, orange, yellow plastic plates filled with the day's produce laid on the ground over black plastic sheets. The market was crowded and filled with art of bargaining being performed. Pedro was looking for a familiar face and found her grinning at his sight. "buenos dias patroncito", Maria from Otavalo cheered.
This Secoya Indian grandmother was fond of the hulking middle age man in front of her. "I have fresh beregena just from today. Would you be interested?". "Oh excellent, exactly what I need.". A no would have prolonged the conversation. "Caserito, come then to pick them up on Gabriel Garcia Moreno this afternoon. The blue door after Simon Bolivar on the left.". "The location changed again", Pedro thought and left.
The sweets of Cohiba perfumed the veranda overlooking a small garden inside the grand house. The two old friends relaxed out enjoying pleasant warm of winter sun, finest Cognac on their hands. Fine plates strewn across the table between them, meal fit for kings. A dark hair beauty checked upon the men, "Is everything fine?", "It has been splendid my dear", Rómulo responded. He grinned at Pedro, "Miss Venezuela 2007".
"Next time please stop by for pleasure. I'll show you around". "I have been busy for the past year". "I notice. Do you still go around shooting people?". Pedro smiled, "why do you think I gave you the items list? Hobby?". "Perhaps you've grown fat and comfortable". "Fat, yes, but definitely not comfortable"."What keeps you going?". "I'm really good at it and this world needs good killer"."True. Less damage".
"How's your lady?". "She still hates me". "Where is she?". "Brazzaville, with MSF". "Incredible". "How about you? I see that you've climbed the peak. The last one was a semifinalist, wash't she?", Pedro chuckled. "I met her in Caracas, in a charity ball last July. I couldn't take my eyes off her". "I can see why". A pager buzzed. "It's ready. WBA-324, parked 2 blocks away". "Thanks. It's time to go".
Centro historico, the cultural heart of Quito, was filled with sense of anticipation for the incoming holy week. School kids were streaming through from the three nearby churches after their misa and choir practices, 3 hours before sundown. School bags, pony tails, delightful squeals all mixed with throng of tourists and laymen filling up the streets. A joyous day.
Pedro strolled two blocks and turn left. He spotted a striking new Citroen C3 and recognized its tail number. Except that there is a youth inside tinkering with the steering wheel. "Hey, that's my car!", he shouted and the youth looked back, startled. He started to give chase while the youth frantically tried to start the car. Then a sense of dread filled him. He had seen this before.
He stopped mid stride and threw himself to a school of 6th graders, shouting to shocked onlookers, "get down !!!". The blast started as a flicker of bright light, then angry sound of explosion roared in, followed by shock waves that skip your heartbeat carrying bits and pieces of burning molten twisted metal fiercely flying across ;searing any flesh in the way, piercing walls and shattering windows to pieces.
Two best girlfriends stood inside Iglesia San Francisco, admiring the fine details of gold leaf interior, lovingly imagined since 1514; one in oversized purple "I love Quito" t-shirt purchased yesterday. A distinct boom rattled the commoners and the two instinctively ran toward the sound outside the church. An all too familiar ominous cloud hover a block and half away; panicked crowds ran away from one direction.
They exchanged quick looks and sprinted against the outpouring masses; screech from car alarms filled the air - crying fear and pain mingled with wailing of infants - pandemonium. Staff Sgt. Jo Turner and Spc. Cheryl Ivanov of Oregon Army National Guard, combat medics veterans with three tours in Mosul, abandoned their well deserved vacation and arrived on the scene in a flash. Cheryl gasped, "oh lord".
"Arrggh", Pedro tried to stand up, supporting his frame with his right hand, except it was too weak and he fell back to the cracked smooth stoned street, on his face. His left hand held his bleeding ear, his eardrum pierced by the intensity of the explosion. He tried to focus but the blood from his cut forehead kept dripping and he was having the worst headache possible. His body was decorated with small projectiles
Cheryl scanned the surrounding carnage and took command. "Anybody speak English!!". Somebody responded and she continued, "Please translate for me."If you are not hurt, I need you". "I need seven people to take care of the Children. Bring them to the shade and somebody please get water!". "I need five more to set up a perimeter around this place and do not allow people to cross until police and ambulance arrive".
"Follow that lady", she pointed at Jo, "and she will tell you what to do with the children.". "I'm a doctor", somebody shouted. "Great, doctor. Help me set up a triage here". Cheryl continued organizing the makeshift rescue team to maximize the golden fifteen minutes after an initial bomb explosion in which the survivability was the highest. In a chaotic situation, a leader is needed and the one here is she.
Four ambulancia were rushing through the old town and a truck of grupo de operacion y rescate broke all speed limits in Quito to reach the scene within 15 minutes. The big guns had arrived. The extent of the damage have surprised even the veterans as they had never seen anything like this in the city over the past thirty years. Blood trickled through the stone pavements, mangled cars and bodies littered the streets.
What the rescue team saw was also the sight of a man in Armani suit helping a goth punk to walk - step by painful step, a priest carrying a little girl with a dirty hair, a grandma comforting a pale looking highschooler - keeping him from falling into shock, a young nun in her black habit and white cornette administering last rite to a dying man; the sight of common people each other in their grief. Humanity.
"Send all available ambulances and prepare the hospitals, immediately", Captain Piero of grupo de operacion y rescate radioed back to his HQ calmly. "Please confirm", the replied back. "Roger, this is a priority one emergency. This must go to the minister immediately". "Anything else?". "Please send dispatch to 13th Infantry Brigade for their medics. The hospitals will have to deal with combat injuries"."Affirmative"
Pedro opened his eyes to the light green ceiling of Carlos Andrade Marini Hospital - in a small room - alone . Only whispers from the soft wind through an opened window were heard. He felt the strained of the day and groaned as he woke up and tentatively walked to a bottle of water put on a small white wooden table at the corner of the room. He drank the water greedily until there was no more and return to bed.
"I can't sleep". "Come squeeze to my bed". Cheryl tip toed slowly over to the next bed - there were 12 other beds in this ward - fully occupied by exhausted and overstressed people. "you OK?". "I'm supposed to be fine". "Don't be too hard on yourself". They continued to whisper for another hour until their tiredness overwhelmed them - sleeping next to each other - holding hands -like in a slumber party 12 years back.
Tania sob quietly in the waiting room on the surgery wing of this white place. Her eyes puffed, her favorite make up were undone and she could not find her bag. She didn't care. Her husband sat next to her - no words - dazed looking beyond the walls. Their baby had been in surgery for more time they can bear. She wished it had been a bad dream. She was angry, felt guilty and hopeless - and in bad need for a miracle.
Candles flickered valiantly in Iglesia La Compañia, trying to stave off the darkness of night. Here and in the surrounding churches were packed by grieving parents, sisters, brothers, friends, husbands, and wives - they streamed in and out throughout the night, looking for solace after a terrifying afternoon. Armed guards cordoned the old town. Rings of yellow tape line barricaded the spot, "DO NOT CROSS".
The phone woke Pedro. "Pedrito, I have been trying to call you!"."Sorry mamita."."Did you hear what happened?"."Yes, last night on the news. I was in Cumbayá", he lied. "I was really worried. Alisa called yesterday. She heard the news. She asked if I am OK and you". Oh, fucking BBC, they are everywhere, Pedro grumbled. "I thought she'd be happier if I was dead", Pedro coldly replied. The separation had been hard.
Pedro finished the conversation and left the room. He had to figure out what happened yesterday. The incident yesterday went beyond the usual individual assassination technique. It used too much explosives and the damages attract too much attention - not considering collateral damage. He never felt so grateful for a young thief - who unfortunately triggered the car bomb while trying to steal the car.
He traversed the length of the grand hospital, which was still hectic trying to deal with a code red situation (A disaster has occurred and casualties are inbound; hospital disaster plan in effect); he wanted to find the doctor that fixed him up yesterday and thanked him. He had his left ear stuff with cotton ball dipped in a syrup of antibiotics to heal the pierced "myrinx". It would take a couple of days.
Labels: quito conspiracy
posted by Dody G. at 3:42 AM
2 Comments:
Where's part two?!?! I see a movie deal in the works :)
He..he..oops, hold on, that's Spielberg calling.
Part two is still being written - I wrote two or three Facebook updates a day.
Post a Comment
<< Home