Tucker – The Resurrection (Part 8)

When we last chronicled Samuel Tucker and Daniel Farnsworth’s endeavors: Daniel, presumed dead, had jumped into a blitz of automatic gun fire, and plummeted, crashing his bullet-riddled parachute onto ocean-front, Collins Avenue, the heart of Millionaires’ Row, in Miami, Florida. Tucker decided against the risky, death-defying, 300-ft. skydive attempt, and optioned to hide atop the Fontainebleau Hotel, as cartel henchmen swarmed the premises to kill him. Neither’s choice encouraged longevity.

The front door swung open with such force its knob stuck in the adjoining wall.

Five intruders rushed in and unleashed sharp, explosive rat-a-tat-tats of machinegun fire, ripping the living room apart. Flying fragments of glass, foam, feathers, and wood, among other things, resembled an interstellar vision of magnified cosmic dust under lights.

Armed with additional semi-automatic .45 caliber handguns—altered by extended magazines and, 3D-printed auto sears or Glock switches—the tiny pieces of plastic enabled the ordinary pistols to fire 30-rounds in just over 2-seconds.   

Room by room the intruders sifted and searched. Another flurry of rapidly discharged blasts rung out dismantling furniture and walls like a weedwhacker shreds grass.

Tucker dove headfirst out the master bedroom’s window—hit, rolled, and bounced to his feet—his bare-naked piggies met the freezing ground running, fast as his legs could carry him.

Shooters perched and took aim: firing indiscriminately from several windows. Tucker swerved and zig-zagged dodging the hail of bullets that sparked and danced off the street behind.   

The winter storm warning had forecast two feet of snow. Windy and cold north of Chicago, the icy mix blew like confetti from a fan, covering the grass, and had started sticking to sidewalks and roadways.

Tucker’s lungs most likely aflame: burning with every breath. Vehicles raced around corners from multiple locations. His limited options lessening with every tick of his watch.

He had left his Sig Sauer .45 sitting in the open, on top of his dresser—a Smith-Wesson .38 hung in his pants pocket on the bed post—leaving him unarmed and at the mercy of his pursuers.  

In an apparent panic, he raced down the street in raggedy-flannel pajama bottoms. A skip, hop, and a stagger, sharp rocks jabbed and sliced his tender exposed feet. Without his sporadic gate and, the hatchet men’s piss-poor marksmanship, he might as well have been yelling shoot me and put me out of my misery, please.

Coming from north and south, two black Suburbans screeched to a halt at the four-way stop. Doors flew open, six shooters jumped from each and scattered in eager urgency, running in all directions.

The large SUVs turned up the street toward Tucker. He flopped to the ground, rolled beneath the shrubs, and twisted behind to lie against the neighbor’s house. His face and mouth full of spider webs. Bugs clung in his hair. He sputtered and spat a dirtball of sputum, brushed both hands through his curly locks, and wiped his eyes enough to see.

Then, he lay perfectly still—silent, all but whistling gasps for breath—trusting the would-be-assailants hadn’t glimpsed the moving bushes and zeroed in on his whereabouts.

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The elite operatives canvassed the neighborhood for what seemed an eternity. Tucker’s energy and focus dwindled. He lay wet, chilled, and stiffened as he drifted-off into outer realms of oblivion. Hypothermia setting-in—making sudden death imminent.

Tucker woke to two navy-blue suits staring down at him. A skinny shrimp in high-water trousers stood with his pistol in hand. And some lard-butt Neanderthal with bulldog jaws kept nudging him with his foot.

Tucker wiped his blurry eyes and tried to make out the somewhat clownish-twosome’s identities. One more jab from lard butt would warrant swift action, like twisting his foot and knee off at the joints.

“Uh, Mr. Samuel Tucker,” fat butt spoke, “I’m detective Armbruster and this here’s my partner, Sal Monardo.”

Tucker strained and grunted but couldn’t sit up on his own.

He wondered how the gumshoes could have known his name. Though, glad they’d found him before the stalkers overloaded with munitions.

Detective stick-legged Monardo grabbed Tucker’s left arm, and buffalo blob took hold of the other, in unison they hoisted him to his feet. The officers steadied and guided as he wobbled and swayed all the way to the police cruiser’s backseat.

Once inside, Tucker heard the door-locks click. The cops yanked off their caps, glanced at each other with evil grins and laughed. The driver spun and gave him a menacing glare.

Tucker’s instinctive perception and Hyperphantasia flashed a grim picture. Trapped by counterfeit cops, he realized his perilous situation. But now wasn’t the time to be overwhelmed with helplessness.  

The cop-car—possibly his chariot to hell—raced off opposite the police station and nearest hospitals’ direction, heightening Tucker’s concern. Under dire pressure, he needed to do something quick; but the questions were what, and how?

Thirty minutes later—his abductors turned off onto a narrow-graveled lane that wound back into the woods for the better part of a mile—and then, crunched to a stop outside an old log cabin.

Black-outfitted commandos filtered out of the trees and brush, weapons in hand, and surrounded the car. They relinquished any immediate opportunity to escape.

Two beastly-brutes opened the right-rear door and snatched Tucker’s muscled 270-pound frame from the Suburban like a limp ragdoll of little consequence. Tucker’s facial-expression widened in an “uh-oh, mode” advertising his butt-puckered sense of shock.

The not-so-welcoming entourage dragged Tucker up the dirt path to the ramshackle cabin’s front door. It squeaked as the guard pushed it open, engulfing the entrants with an onslaught of putrid decomposition.

The profuse, nauseating stench of rotten meat and flesh was unmistakable. Three once naked bodies lay mostly skeletonized against the back wall.

Flames from the fireplace flickered across the drawn and withered features strapped to a Rattan patio seat. An unrecognizable face, until he spoke.

His voice was deep, forceful, and as memorable as ever. Daniel Farnsworth’s fierce eyes, even in his weakened state, showed no signs of fear or desperation, as he said, “Hello, Mr. Tucker. Welcome to my new world.”

The Special Ops slammed Tucker to the floor, punched, kicked, and stomped him into unconsciousness.

He awoke facing Farnsworth. The pair duct-taped to matching wicker chairs. His face battered to a bloody pulp, thoughts jumbled, and without the foggiest idea of how long he’d been knocked out.

“Well, Tucker, hold your nose—looks like you’ve stepped in it again?”

Wheezy and gurgling blood, Tucker coughed and spat, clearing his throat to speak. “I thought you died Farnsworth?”

“Sounds like wishful thinking, Mr. Tucker.” Daniel’s evil grin blossomed into a bright, flashy smile.

“But—I watched with my own eyes . . . your parachute ripped to threads, a split-second before you smacked the Miami pavement on Collins Avenue.”

“I’m sure it appeared tragic. But we mustn’t forget, looks can be deceiving.” Daniel grinned and winked.

“Obviously . . . since, you’re not dead.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m very much alive. Yet possibly not for long if we don’t do something quick.”

“Nearing the ground . . . you dropped hard when your chute came apart.”

“Yes, harder than I liked. But luckily, a last-second gust blew me sideways; a lift that lessoned my fall at impact. And the delivery truck’s front-tire absorbed much of the shock as I bounced off and survived with minor bumps, bruises, and road-rash from sliding.”

“So, how did you get out from under the chute before the rescue squad arrived?”  

“My body slid on the asphalt, out from under the chute, and three-quarters past the truck’s 24 ft. boxbed. Without hesitation I crawled between traffic. Afraid if someone accelerated, I’d be smushed flatter than roadkill rabbit. Do you know what I’m talking about? The flat discs scraped from the road with a shovel, paper thin, that fly like a Frisbee when you fling ‘um.

Then, I scampered between sidewalk patrons and slipped inside the Chez Bon Bon coffee shop. I flopped in the center window-view-table seat and witnessed the action up close and personal.”

“So, how did you end up as a captive here?”

“Just like you partner. The cartel is cleaning up loose pieces. You and I, their biggest thorns?”

“Farnsworth, get this straight . . . we aren’t partners, and never have been.”

“Who put you in business, Tucker . . .?” Tucker’s mouth flew open, but he couldn’t say a word. “Now, use your magic and get us the hell out of here.”

“It might be easier said, than done—but I’m thinking.”

“Well, Tucker . . . I wouldn’t think too long.” Farnsworth’s cocky grin still glowing in the face of danger.  

Two sets of tires screeched to a halt outside, doors opened, slammed shut, and Spanish-speaking voices yelled obscenities.