Tales of the SHB, Volume 1: Apprehension
(a fiction by Cella)
Somewhere in the Midwestern United States
August 29, 2004
15:24 Hours
A loud crack was heard as the dark man slapped young Private Brett Parker across the face yet again. The sting was fierce; he tasted blood in his mouth.
“WHO IS HE?” the dark man yelled.
“Who is who? I don't know what you're talking about!”
“You're a terrible liar, junior.” He grabbed the back of his collar and pulled hard, revealing the hood of his heather- grey pullover. “I'm talking about this!”
“My sweater? You're roughing me up because of my SWEATER?”
“It's AUGUST, if you haven't noticed. And shouldn't you be on-base at Pendleton?”
“I'm not AWOL, if that's what you think. I was granted three-days' leave.”
“Leave for what?”
“Personal business that's none of your business.”
Dark Man paced and huffed. “I've had about enough of this. We know about the SHB. We've had both of you under surveillance ever since this so-called 'tour' started. Is this NOT your brother, Private Parker?”
He showed Brett a number of grainy black-and-white photographs of a tall, young man warmly wrapped, head and all, in a dark hooded sweater. He had a microphone in his hand – a couple pictures looked like he was using it. Brett instantly recognized who it was.
“Yes, that's Clay Aiken. I'm the famous CLAY AIKEN'S brother, for pete's sake.”
“You'd better get your money back from that acting coach, Plebe. We've known about the SHB for quite some time now and we suspect you and Aiken are a part of it. We found it interesting that wherever he was, somehow our operations went mysteriously awry.”
Brett looked up then craned his neck behind him to look at the two well-dressed goons in the cold, dusty room. “You guys have watched Zoolander one-too-many times. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”
“Actually, kid – I have to admit that it's brilliant. He's never in one place for more than a day or two. He has 'people' constantly surrounding him. He's never without at least one bodyguard. Seems a bit of overkill, don't you think? All that manpower just for a bunch of crazy women?”
“I wouldn't know,” he rather somberly replied.
He slowly paced around Brett. “Yeah. Must be hard for you, never being out of his shadow. Must keep you up at night sometimes. All the attention. All the money. All the women.”
“I'm too busy with my own life now. And believe me, he has his own set of problems that I wouldn't want in a million years. I don't envy him one bit.”
“Smart move, though, going into The Corps,” Dark Man continued. “You can blend in with the rest of the grunts. Nobody knows you're related to someone famous. You just might become a big man again, now that your father's gone.”
“You son of a...” Brett tried to lunge at him, but the goons were too fast.
“I think I hit a nerve there, Private. As much as I'd enjoy continuing this conversation about your father, my superiors need answers. Our Recon discovered your group in Dayton yesterday and we had a tip that Fort Wayne would be next.”
“You had a tip? What, you checked the tour schedule at Clay's website?”
“Our Recon also informed us that you weren't on base, but here in Fort Wayne! You have Basic Training to finish. Short of your Mama dyin', boy, you have no reason to be off-base at this time.”
Brett's face turned even redder with outrage. He gnashed his teeth and swore under his breath as he tried to wrest himself away from the goons' tight grip.
“You know YOU shouldn't go around without one of your brother's 'people,' either,” he continued. “Maybe if you had another week of Basic under your belt, you would've known that.” He looked at the goons and flicked his neck. Suddenly, Brett's arms were pulled behind the metal chair. Dark Man leaned in close.
“I want the names of your superiors and I want details of your assignment.”
“I don't know what you're talking about!”
The demand grew louder and more impatient. “WHO are your superiors at the SHB and WHAT is your assignment in Fort Wayne?”
“My Commander in Chief is George W. Bush and my 'assignment' is to be back with my unit when my leave is over.”
Dark Man hurled his hand at Brett's face once more. “WHO IS THE HEAD OF THE SECRET HOODIE BRIGADE?!?”
“Well, it's certainly not my brother!” Brett screamed back. “He's too busy being Barry-freaking-Manilow and Mother Theresa all rolled into one to be some goddamn spy!” He spit blood at the floor. “This is crazy. You guys are crazy! You're beating me up, and maybe you'll even KILL me because you think I'm part of some covert group? Where the HELL do you get your information from, In Touch Weekly?!? I'd be laughing more if my jaw didn't hurt like a bastard.”
The Dark Man grew quiet. He crossed his arms and slowly paced a few moments, then stared back at Brett.
“We're not getting anywhere here. I guess I'll have to send you to The Doc.” He looked at the goons. “Get him out of here.”
One goon shoved a rag into Brett's mouth, then each of them roughly grabbed an arm, jerked him out of his chair and dragged him down a dim, dingy hallway. The heavy, nondescript door at the end led into an alley, where a heavily-tinted black Suburban waited. Just as one of them reached for the doorhandle, the goons both heard a noise. A small rush came by each of their ears. Neither had time to react after they realized there were darts in their necks. Potent tranquilizer quickly coursed through them. Both soon lay in heaps on the ground.
It all happened so fast, Brett wasn't sure what was going on. Two tall people appeared, covered top-to-toe in black. They shoved the goons aside, then grabbed and dragged Brett to the other end of the alley. Once around a corner, they thrust him into the open back of a plain white utility van. The thinner of the two followed him into the back of the van while the very large one shut the doors and raced into the driver's seat.
“Get us out of here!” the thin one yelled to his partner. The engine roared to life. Brett and the thin one fell against each other as the van sped out of the area. The thin one's large, pale hand lowered his black hood and peeled the woolen headmask from his face. He quickly ran his fingers several times through his flattened auburn hair.
Brett removed the bloody rag from his mouth. “Thanks, bro. I owe you one.”
“YES YOU DO,” Clay replied, frustrated. “I'll feel a lot better once I know you're back on base. I knew I pulled you into this too soon, dammit.”
“Stop worrying about me, Mom, and worry about yourself. They've been watching both of us. They KNEW to be in Ft. Wayne. Besides, you know you needed my...expertise.”
“Well, Lord knows we wouldn't have ID'd the mole without you on the Squad.”
“She took the bait?”
“She took it like a speckled trout to a pheasant tail nymph,” he chuckled.
Brett grew serious. “You're gonna need to lay low for a while until their trail grows cold.”
“You just watch your back better next time! We can't always drop soundcheck and Without You auditions to come rescue your bony butt. Anyway, we'll have that trail cold soon enough with apprehension of our target tonight.” Clay looked at his wristwatch and sighed. “Damn, this puts me behind. Ryan's gonna want a full explanation of this when we get back to HQ and John still has to frost my tips.” He looked up toward the driver. “J-Man, are we all set for Operation French Tart?”
“Aye, Commander. Everything's in place. Cherie won't know what hit her. She'll be in SHB custody by the time you start singing Where Streets Have No Name tonight.”
“You're the best, J-Man.” Clay pulled something out of his front hoodie pocket.
Brett's eyes went wide. “I thought you gave those things up!”
Clay bit off then spit out the tip. “I said I gave up the DOUBLE Coronas.” He stared at the short cigar in disgust. “God, I feel like a woman smoking these damn Petit Coronas.”
Brett rolled his eyes. “Mom should've never let you watch all those A-Team reruns.”
“Let him have his moment, scrub,” J-Man interjected.
Clay turned on his torch lighter and got the expensive Habana Corona lit. With the cigar securely set between his teeth, he smiled big at Brett.
“God, not again. DON'T say it, bro.”
Clay took in a long draw then removed the cigar from his mouth. He savored the fine tobacco flavor as he slowly and completely exhaled. He directed a wry smile right at his little brother.
“I love it when a plan comes together!”
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~Posted 3.7.2005~
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