Operation Clean-Sweep

Am I crazy? That's what everyone says. Even my so-called friends, if you can call them that. They've avoided me like the plague ever since I told them. Why? What did I tell them? I can't remember.

It might have something to do with my current predicament. Humph. Yup. I can hear the chorus of 'I told you so's' as I strain to see...wherever it is I am. Can't see much in the dark. Just a faint crack of light seeping in a tiny window. A basement window, I think. I'd go check it out, but I can't move. For some reason, I feel like laughing. Seriously. Maybe they're right. I must be losing it. My head is throbbing. My senses are coming back, accompanied by a threshold of crescendoing pain. Not just my head. All of me. Where am I? How'd I get here? I squeeze my eyes to try and clear the brain-fog. What did I tell my friends? Why can't I remember? Why I am I tied to an old chair...in a dark basement...feeling like I've been run over by a truck?

My heartbeat spikes. Vague memories are all I've got. Something's goin' down and I'm the only one who can stop it. That much I remember. But who, what, why, when, where and how are a tad elusive at the moment.

The pain is leveling off. I strain at the cords binding my arms behind the chair, but they're not yielding. All I have to go on is the sense that I have to get out of here before whoever worked me over and put me here comes back. What then, I don't know. One step at a time. Hopefully I can remember, but first things first.

I try rocking the chair. It's an old wooden office chair, from what I can tell. One those solid, indestructible oak ones. Great. Wait. I wonder. I try to stand. Hard to do when your ankles are strapped to the legs of what you're sitting in, but I manage to kinda lean forward. I've seen them do this in the movies. Maybe I...if I can just...straighten at bit more...all right, here goes.

I throw myself backwards onto the back legs.

After nearly blacking out from pain, I realize all I succeeded in doing is fly backwards and end up laying sideways on the dirty, cold cement floor. Ouch. Sheesh. Hang on. Feels a bit looser. Can I...oh ya. One leg is free. I use my liberated foot to kick the other free and somehow manage to get back onto my feet. I hesitate to try again. That made a lot of noise. The last thing I need is for someone to come in here now. I begin to realize that I've probably been drugged. That would explain the brain-fog, and the urge to giggle uncontrollably. Man, what did they give me?

A light clicks on, illuminating the outline of a doorway. Oh snap. Did they hear me? Are they coming in now? Who are they? Never mind that. Concentrate. The door handle is rattling. They're coming in!

Footsteps approach as my holding-cell is flooded with light from the adjoining room. There's two, I think. I'm sitting again, head down. Gotta pretend and hope they don't notice my feet are untied.

They stop in front of me. "He's still out cold."

"I was sure I heard something."

"Just your imagination. Kid's not goin' anywhere."

They turn to leave, still talking. Their voices are rough. I'm no expert on such things, but they don't sound like management type, if I can put it that way.

"How long we keep him here anyway?

Ya, I'd like to know that too.

"As long as we're told, idiot. We keep him out of sight until it's over."

"Relax. Just asking. We can't let him go. What're we gonna do with him after...?

The door closes before I can hear the answer. My mind wants answers, but my heart is spiking. Whatever's going on, they're still making up their minds what to do with me, but I don't plan on being around when they do.

I stand again, and drop hard once more. Can't help the noise, but it worked. The chair shattered. I claw my way free and scramble to my feet. I hear cursing from the other room. I glance around but there's no other exit, so I grab a piece of chair, a leg, and dash for the side of the door just as it opens. Pressed against the wall, I wait for the two thugs to enter and bash one on the back of the head. Thank God for solid oak. The guys hits the deck before the other one knows what's happening. By the time he turns around, my makeshift club connects with his face. He goes down hard, probably with a broken jaw, or nose, or both. I don't care. I don't wait to examine the damage or offer medical assistance.

It's time to go. I dash into the next room, ready to take on anybody else who tries to stop me. The adrenalin rush subdues the pain and the residual effects of whatever drug they pumped into me.

It's just a cluttered storage room with a desk and a couple of chairs - and a phone! I reach for it, but who do I call? I can't remember much. What do I say? I lift the receiver, but there's no dial tone, so the whole idea is moot. I should've known by the layer of dust on the old rotary antique that it wouldn't work. Just my luck.

I need information! I look about for clues. The desk. What're those papers strewn on it? Is there anything here? Nothing! Nuts.

I glance back toward the two guys lying comatose where they dropped. Maybe they've got something on them. I go back and search their pockets. I pull a wallet from both and check their names. Cliff Wilkins and Orvis Brown. Humph. Cliff has a cell phone in his shirt pocket. I take it and turn it on. Recent calls. Here's a number that has called Cliff a lot. I exhale deeply and press the speed dial. Why not?

The line rings at the other end. Someone picks up. "City Hall. Mayor's office. How may I help you?"

Whoa. This is interesting. I gotta answer. "Um, hello," I make my voice lower. "I'd like to speak with the mayor please."

"Who do I say is calling?" The receptionist isn't suspicious, Just doing her job. "It's uh," I have to glance at the wallet ID again, "Cliff... Cliff Wilkins."

The line clicks on hold. I can imagine the woman relaying the message through the intercom. Suddenly the line goes live again. "I told you never to call me here, unless it was an emergency." The voice was hoarse with subdued rage. No doubt trying to keep from being overheard by his secretary. "Well, you fool, what's so important that you risk calling me here?" the mayor demanded.

I notice a scrap of paper sticking out of Cliff's back pocket where his wallet was. I grab it as I try to think of what to say. There's just a line scribbled on it, but as my eyes take it in, I suddenly have a memory flash.

"Well, speak up man."

The harsh tone jolts me back. "The kid escaped," I blurt, using my thug voice. Really? That's all I could think of.

"You idiot. I told you to keep him there until I decided what to do with him. How much does he know?"

Well, I know a lot more already. "You mean," I lift the scrap of paper closer and read, " about project clean-sweep?"

"Of course, what else would I be talking about. That kid knows something. When he naively called to tell me about the plans he overheard of what was going to happen in his neighborhood, he had no idea I was involved. Or does he? How did he get away? How long ago?" The mayor furiously barked one question after another without waiting for an answer. "I don't care what you have to do. Find him."

"And then what?" I finally had space to insert a question. The answer chilled me to my bones.

"Finish him off. He's too much of a liability. We can't afford to let him get to the media. If he does, all I've been working for will be at risk. I've got a few of the editors in my pocket, but not all of them." There was a moment of weighted silence. "I don't have to spell it out for you if this sideways, do I? We all go to jail - that includes you two idiots. For a very long time." The voice was barely above a hoarse whisper - whether from rage or just because he didn't want anyone to overhear. Probably both. "If you don't get this under control, I'll finish you off myself. Do you understand?"

Then I did something I probably shouldn't have. Maybe it was the residual effects of the drugs. I dropped the fake voice and replied in my own. "Well, Mr. Mayor. That does explain a lot of things. Oh, bye-the-way, this is all being recorded," I lied, and hung up.