The Biscuit Team

By Ron Howson

Some pastimes can be deadly. Who knew?
After a life of being steeped in violence, who wouldn't want to relax, have a little down time, maybe even enjoy life a little, and take up a hobby? What's the problem, and what's wrong with having a hobby? Nothing, right? You've earned it.
No, nothing at all is wrong with it, until your hobby crosses paths with someone that has a hobby of killing, kidnapping, and MK Ultra style Mind Control. Other than that, hobbies are a good thing. After all, how much golf were you thinking you were going to play?
Someone wants control, and they are taking control of the minds of man. Our characters are thrown into it. "Nothing to it," they thought. "Just a simple little project. We'll be back on the golf course in no time."
As they enter the dark side of an industry gone out of control, the big question isn’t so much who is behind it all, the question becomes, “How in the world do we get out of this mess?” and getting out of it alive wouldn't be bad either.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Howson
• Release date: Aug 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463629659

Book preview

Chapter One

Where are you?

I'm right here.

And where is that?

In the red room.

The red room. Good. And who is in the yellow room?

I am.

I thought you were in the red room.

I am in the red room.

What’s in the green room.

Me. I'm in the green room.

And who is in the white room?

I don’t know. I can’t go in the white room.

Why can’t you go in the white room?

Something bad is in there. I’m not allowed to go in there.

Why can’t you go in there?

Because it is dangerous. It might get out. They’ll get mad at me if I go in there.

What is in the white room?

I...I think it’s me.

Worse than death?

Most people might not think about it, but there are things worse than death. Not living at all could be one of them. There are millions of them; tiny little light bulbs scattered across the globe that just never did get turned on.

Living a life that's not your own, without even knowing, is one of those things worse than death as well. There are lots of them.

A truck gets hijacked, and ends up going down a road that it was never supposed to go down. The truck doesn't know. It just keeps on driving.

What about people? What happens when they get hijacked? It does happen. Yes, there are things worse than death - much worse.

We're not talking about Zombies. We're not talking about Vampires. We're not talking about Possession. We're not talking about any make-believe nonsense.

Sometimes, it is just the little things you notice that can keep you alive in this line of work, and what you don’t notice can very quickly get you dead...or worse.

Retired Admiral John Harding was stooped over, looking at one of the four dead bodies lying in his front yard, waiting for what there was of his team to arrive.

He was coming home late that night, looking forward to an evening without the family, just sitting and watching whatever he wanted on the television, putting his feet up with a snifter of brandy in a quiet house. He was finally going to have a little time to himself and some much needed time to think.

As he was driving up, he guzzled most of his last water bottle, then felt the bruises on his arms and ribs from sparing earlier that evening with Sam Mason.  Sam and the Admiral were working a minor Counter Insurgency project. Getting to the gym had become a ritual for them for years.

In the beginning, the project was really more of what Sam and the Admiral would consider a pastime or hobby. There is only so much golf you can play. As they gradually immersed themselves in it, they began to see that this secret little project carried more importance than they initially thought. Much more.

It was natural for Harding, this project. With all those years in the Navy, all those years in Naval Intelligence, coming and running the investigation was an easy decision for him to make when he was approached. Retirement did not suit him. In fact, after looking forward to retirement for so long, he was surprised to discover how much he missed the action.

Sam and John Harding had sparred together for years, but tonight they both got some good wallops in.  He had an idea that he would feel those bruises for a good long while this time.  It was one of those nights where they held nothing back, and by the time they were done, a crowd of people had gathered to watch. 

Sam, being black, had his crowd taunting the Admiral, while the Admiral had his cheerleaders. It was all in fun, but if you didn’t know them, you certainly might not think it.

They were practicing some techniques used during World War II that taught our soldiers in the shortest time possible how to fight and kill in hand-to-hand combat.  Based on fight or flight, it combined the natural flight movements into a weapon.  It was one move, one kill - very effective.  That was the idea back then, and it is an idea that has only been improved upon; get the men ready fast and kill the enemy.

Even though they were both retired, they still studied the moves, dissecting them and analyzing them, practicing them over and over, each move and counter move. Then they would put it to practice, and that’s when the hurt begins.

He pulled along the dark street lined with manicured lawns and quiet middle-class show toward his home.  Most homes had two and three car garages, and the houses were set far enough back in the sprawling yards that visitors would usually pull all the way into the driveway near the front door.  This is why he noticed these vehicles parked in the street.

They were not at his house, nor were they even in front of it.  They were just close to it, and more, they were not really close to the walkways of any other house.  Two normal looking vehicles, one a van, one a sedan, parked on his street.

It’s the little things that can make the difference. You just have to notice them and ask yourself, Why?

He reached to his waist and clicked off the safety of his pistol, then decided to pull it all the way out, checking to make sure a round was chambered, and then put it back.  Then he reached into the console and pocketed two more magazines, just in case.

There was no real reason to be alarmed, no specific intelligence, and no real reason for concern, but it is better to be ready than sorry, and he had learned the hard way over the years, you could be very, very sorry in such a very short time.

He pulled up and turned into his drive and decided not to open the garage and pull in.  It would be too cluttered.  He wanted room to move.  It would be easy to copy the garage door code.  Any two-bit criminal could do that. 

It isn’t hard to get past the home security either, if you are a pro or even semi-pro, and he had been considering an upgrade. But that was one of those things that just got put off again and again.

He almost always pulled straight into the garage.  If someone had been watching for any length of time, they would know that was the usual routine.  So it would be best not to do his usual and get them off their plan as much as possible, provided there was a plan and he was not merely being paranoid.

All the way home, he had been hydrating, and he had put away three bottles of water at the gym and three more in the car. Now, he needed to go - badly. Normally, he would have pulled into the garage and dashed straight to the bathroom right to the side of the laundry. He would have been in and started his business before the garage door even finished closing.

He pulled up near the front entrance and got out, pausing for a moment, trying to detect any movement inside or around the house, listening to the clicking sound of the metal on his car from the temperature change.

He went to the side of the stoop, picked up a garden hose and began watering the flowerbed on each side of the entrance, giving him an opportunity to look into the windows, the sound of the water running making his need of the bathroom much more urgent.

A light set on a sensor spilled though the hallway and partly lit up some of the rooms.  He tried to read the shadows that might be in the wrong place or that were now moving.  He looked at the door of the bathroom in the hall. He studied one elongated shadow that crept up a wall; a figure of a man holding something in his hands.

Is that a rifle? he thought. In my house. Someone is actually in my house? The anger from the insult began to well up inside of him at the thought.

Sam and Harding called it their Spidey senses, and they both had honed those senses over the years. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck. It makes you feel uncomfortable, watched, or waited for. You can’t put your finger on it, but everyone has it. The ones who don’t pay attention often regret it.

Trying to envision in his mind what it could be that cast the shadow, he thought, A rifle like that is the wrong weapon in a house. Not a long barrel like that one. They need a short barrel or a pistol.

He stood, running the water, the sound playing havoc on his bladder. Could be someone, he thought, studying the shadow watching for any slightest movement, even from breathing.

No. No. That’s nothing, he concluded. That’s John Junior’s new trophy standing next to the lamp. 

Not seeing anything alarming, he considered doing his business right there in the flower bed, but decided against it and walked to the flowerbed in the center of the lawn and began running the hose over it.

As the water ran, he discretely looked the vehicles on the street over to see if there was anything unusual about them he could notice, feeling slightly foolish over his acting on suspicion. 

A window on the van was open about two inches.  Again, it was a low-crime area and not something too unusual in this neighborhood, but collectively, it was something else to notice. Then, he went back to the house and watered the flowers in the front again, looking into the windows as inconspicuously as possible.

He put the hose away and slowly strolled down to the end of the drive and got the mail. If there is someone here, I’m going to bore them into action, he thought. But I really gotta go.

He stood and pretended to look through the mail while, really, looking down toward the two vehicles and considered walking over to the hedge for some quick relief.

A jogger was rounding the corner; a neighbor he knew.  Hi John, he called out.  Getting some work done on the house, are you? and continued jogging.

John didn’t answer. He waved and continued looking at the mail as if nothing unusual were going on.  No, he was not getting work done on his house.  But someone was apparently doing work on it anyway.

He casually pulled his cell phone out and hit the speed dial for Sam.

 John! I thought you’d be busy rubbing ointment on by now. I sure am. How ya feelin’, old man? Sam asked.

Trolls.  My house, John replied in a low voice so as not to be heard.  It was what they called insurgents now between themselves.  Trolls and minions, sometimes imps.

Whoa. Really? That was fast. On our way, Sam said.  How many?

Don’t know.  Two vehicles, green sedan and a white van.  Chryslers, he said.

John.  I’m heading out the door. Are you safe? Sam asked.

On the front lawn. Not sure. He heard the side door of the van slide open and said, Show time. Gotta go, and put the phone away.

He stood looking through the mail a little longer, wondering what he might have done on this little secret and relatively insignificant project he started that would trigger some attention. He could see two men coming toward him from the van.

At the same time, he heard a faint familiar creak that made the hair on his neck stand up even more. It was the spring on the side screen door of his house that he had always wanted to fix, happy now that he hadn’t.

Too far away to jump in his car, pretending not to notice or pay attention to the two men coming toward him, he casually strolled toward his house, still looking down at the mail as if it were something important, but really looking at the two men who were now crouching in the dark at the side of the garage.

Yes, he thought.  Didn’t do the usual, and it threw them off their plan.  They had been watching.  Now they have to improvise, and he continued to walk past the garage.  Now they are practically in the open, right where I want ‘em. Bastards were probably even inside using my bathroom.

He could hear the shuffle of the two men behind him on the street beginning to pick up pace.  He wanted to time it so they wouldn’t reach him before he dealt with the two by the garage. He picked up his pace.

As he walked by, they came out at him.  He could see the glint of a hypodermic needle one of them had in his hand, and knew the other would try to grab him first and hold him so he could be injected.  It was reaction, muscle memory from years of training and practicing, and years of actual combat that came into play.

He tossed the mail into the face of the first man who was grabbing toward him and he parried, spinning him around while grabbing him by the head.  At the same time, trying his best not to pee his pants, he kicked back toward the second man while breaking the neck of the first.

The second man bounced off the garage and came toward him again, and Harding did the same to him.  He could hear the two running behind him and heard the unmistakable sound of the receiver of a weapon being slid back. 

He spun around with his own weapon and dropped them both on his lawn. Not knowing if more were in his house, he could not hold it any longer and stood in full light from the porch, aimed at the flower bed and relieved himself.

Harding looked them over for a few minutes before Sam and his crew rounded the corner and flew up the driveway, weapons drawn. He realized just how quickly this could have happened. If he weren’t armed and if he weren’t prepared, if he hadn’t taken notice of those two vehicles, he would probably have been gone, and all those people now showing up to help would be after the fact, that is, if they showed up at all.

He watched all the activity as more vehicles pulled up. The building was entered and cleared, and all the lights in the neighboring houses started to come on. If this were to happen to any of them, Harding thought, Nobody would even have known, and they would be gone; sufferers of whatever horrors awaited them.

Sam eventually walked up and asked, You alright?

I’m alright.  You got here quick, he said.

Well, I didn’t want you to have all the fun, Sam told him looking down at one of the bodies.  Do you know them?

Nope, Harding replied.  Just more trolls. At my house, Sam. They were actually at my house.

Sam rolled one of them over and muttered more to himself than to John, Who do you suppose these were?

You should take a look at this, a man excitedly said behind them, pointing toward the van.

His name was Steve, and other than Sam, he was the only person there John Harding knew the name of because he looked so much like John Harding Junior.  They followed him to the van and looked through the side door.

Electroconvulsive equipment, John, Sam said.  And lookie here.  Lots of drugs and straps, and what’s this? Part of a script? He picked up a piece of paper and read it. Domino.

They looked through the van for identification of any kind, knowing it would be unlikely the bodies would have any.

Looks like they had ideas for you, John.  You were going to get a little mental health treatment.  A little Electro Convulsive Therapy, E.C.T for free.  Don’t they know? You’re already on the Government plan, Sam joked.

Joke as they might, Sam and the Admiral knew how serious this was. Although this one operation was a failure, this would not be the end of it, and that was something they would have to prepare for.

Chapter Two

Detectives Bryant and Stevens, two D.C. homicide detectives, were also having a late night. They were on their way back to the station after a gruesome discovery of bodies when the traffic came over their radio about the shooting at Harding’s and they listened as the sirens sounded and then turned off around them.

Oh, hell. What do you think? Should we take a look? Stevens asked, sitting in the dim light of the dash instruments and computer, holding his cup of stale coffee. We’re only about ten blocks away.

Bryant let out a sigh, and said, Well, it’s going to hit our desk in the morning anyway. Maybe we should take a look before the scene gets too messed up.

Yah. But let’s just take a look though. I’m getting pretty tired, Stevens said.

Me too. Me too, Bryant said. And this coffee just isn’t doing it for me.

They approached the scene, the flashing lights and yellow tape, the people milling around, and the reflective nightwear of the officials on the scene lit up in their headlights.

There was a small group of curious neighbors standing outside the caution tape, and a Homeland Security van parked off to the side. Police were either standing or pacing slightly, staying slightly back from the action, and the two detectives saw the jackets with Homeland Security stenciled on their backs.

Oh hell. What are these assholes doing here? Stevens asked.

Maybe we should just get out of here before we waste more of our time, Bryant said.

But it was too late to get out of there. An officer recognized them and walked up to the car. Detectives, he said. We got four dead up at the house.

What is Homeland doing here? Bryant asked.

Hell, I don’t know, he mumbled. You know them. Don’t tell us much. We’re just tape jockeys now, he said, referring to chore of stringing up the caution tape before being sidelined.

Bryant sat in the patrol car , surveying the scene before asking, Who was here first?

I guess Homeland was here before us. I don’t how they got the call first, he said.

No, I mean which of our guys were here first? Bryant asked.

The officer pointed and said, He was. Benning. Up on the porch.

Benning. So he’s running the show? Bryant asked.

No. It’s not us. It’s them, Homeland, the officer told him.

Bryant was old school. He made a career of studying patterns and solving crimes with knowledge gained from that study. It allowed him insight into the future, if there was a pattern and if it continued. He was seeing a pattern now, and it was one he didn’t care for.

Yah right. Not us, he said with some disgust, and repeated, Not us.

That was the pattern he was seeing. The not us pattern of today’s secret policing. If not us, then who? he would think. As the police got sidelined more and more and made increasingly irrelevant, there was less and less accountability. Not us, would be the death of police work, because more and more, there was never an actual Us, because it was all so secret and scattered through various departments.

Well, we’re here. Should we do this? Stevens asked.

Bryant looked at the officer by his car and said, He took the call. Just make sure you guys get all the evidence. I’ll see you tomorrow, and they drove away.

John Harding and Sam Mason sat in the den while the house was swept for listening devices. As the evening went on, the adrenaline level lowered, and they became more relaxed and more comfortable with the people surrounding them.

Each room was gone through, every closet, every cabinet, the basement and the attic. Soon, the small army of government agents would leave. They would be leaving a few behind to keep watch on the house from outside and keep some others behind while the locks and security system were changed and reset.

At the Admiral’s request, a smaller army had been sent to check on his wife and son who were visiting relatives, and he was waiting for word back that they were alright.

What the hell did we do? Sam asked.

You mean, the project? Hell, Sam, I don't know. But it looks like we hit a nerve, doesn't it, the Admiral replied.

Big nerve. Yup, big nerve. This is no small response, Sam said.

Well. So much for my quiet night at home, the Admiral said.

Yup. Me too, Sam replied.

Sam pulled out his phone and was about to call his wife to let her know he had been tied up.

You know, Sam, I’m just thinking, we’d better send someone over to your house, too, John told him. I’m guessing, if they knew my family was out, they probably know you’re working with me too.

Sam held his phone back and asked, Should I tell her before or after they get there? Causing them both to put on a wicked smile when they realized they had another opportunity to clown his wife that they could take advantage of.

After. For sure, after, Harding said.

The trouble you get me in, John, he chuckled. She is going to be maaad! Wait ‘till she sees you.

Me? What, you’re going to snitch on me? John asked.

Of course I am. You killed them, not me. You think I’m going to put up with the wrath of Vanna myself? Hell no. I’m not only gonna snitch on you, it’s all going on you, pal, he chuckled again. Every damned bit of it.

The Admiral pictured the sequence through in his mind with a smile. Vanna would certainly be angry. Men would show up at Alvina’s house, Vanna to only her best of friends, and she would unleash a whirlwind of swearwords at them.

She would most likely chase them through the house as they cleared it. Little Sam would be watching, probably enjoying the show. He smiled more as he thought, She’s probably going to assault at least a couple of them.

Sam knew what would happen, too. After she was done abusing the government agents, single-handedly conquering the small well-trained army and noisily expelling the armed invaders from her domain, she would make a call to Sam, and eventually call Admiral Harding’s wife.

That’s when the real fury would be unleashed. They would team up and Sam and John would have the wrath of God crash down upon them. Together, Sam and John both knew, although they had engaged in battle in more countries than they could recall and numerous islands to boot, their two wives were undefeatable.

You traitor, John said, laughing.

You think she’ll use the broom this time? Sam asked.

I hope so. More fun. What about Mary? What do you think she’ll do? Harding asked.

Guess we’ll know soon enough, Sam answered.

The Admiral walked over and spoke to one of the agents and came back. Should be just a few minutes, he said, sitting back down.

Arrested for assault with a deadly broom, Sam mumbled, chuckling.

They both grinned, imagining the commotion. Damn. I wish I could see that. Harding said. We should install closed-circuit cameras around our houses. We’re missing a lot of entertainment. Maybe one of them will have body cam on.

Well, John got up and moved toward the cabinet. I was going to crack this bottle of brandy tonight. Not quite what I had in mind, but how about it?

I suppose, he answered.

Nice evening. What say we move to the back yard? the Admiral suggested.

Might as well get used to it. Both of us. You want to build your dog house or just buy one, he chuckled. I’m thinking I’d get one off E-Bay, but I’d like comforts like heating and air conditioning.

Harding grabbed a couple of snifters and the bottle and they strolled out toward the yard. Out of habit, they instinctively checked both corners of the house, looked around at the sky, scanned the back fence and hedges, and took a seat at the patio table. They both pulled out their cell phones and placed them in front of themselves, waiting for the inevitable.

Sam’s rang first. He nodded at Harding with a smirk and pressed the speaker phone, Hello, sweetie, he said.

Don’t you sweetie me! What kind of retirement is this? Vanna could be heard across the yard and probably into the neighbor’s house.

John nearly shot brandy out his nose, swallowed a bit down his windpipe, and started coughing and laughing at the same time.

Is that…is that you, John? Are you laughing? she yelled at him. You better not be laughing. You two were supposed to be retired. I just had the Gestapo bust into my home. You owe me a new broom!

John and Sam broke out in a roar of laughter.

You two have been trouble since the day we met you. I don’t know why we put up with you all these years. You wait ‘till I talk to your wife, John. See how much you’ll be laughing then. she continued, and added for punch, Retirement, my butt!

Sam eventually caught his breath enough to speak. You okay, baby? he asked.

Yah. I’m fine. But John owes me a new broom. You hear that, John? she yelled. What was that all about? What kind of trouble are you two in now?

Oh, just a little kerfuffle over here at John and Mary’s. Everything is okay, though, Sam told her.

Kerfuffle? Kerfuffle? she shot back. Last time you used the word ‘kerfuffle’, you were invading Grenada. Kerfuffle my butt. What are you two up to?

Sam pretended to cover his phone with his hand as if to block out the sound and said, Damn, that woman has a good memory.

I know, Harding agreed. Mary’s the same way. Can’t get away with anything, he said, as he watched two people walk into his den and start checking cabinets.

I heard that! I’m gonna…John, I swear to God…don’t you make me come down there.

Just a little disagreement down here at John and Mary’s, Vanna. It’s all settled now, Sam told her.

Uh huh. Uh huh. Settled, is it? That’s why I’m looking out my window and there’s two, no, three…four unmarked cars! A little disagreement? Settled? Right, she scoffed, Sam, you know you’re going to have to tell me. So let’s hear it.

You know, John said, With all the money we spend on intelligence, all the interrogation techniques, there is just nothing more effective than Vanna and Mary.

You’re right Admiral. We should hire them. Vanna, do you want a job with the Pentagon? Sam asked.

Yah right. So…? she asked and waited.

Sam knew she would find out anyway. So did John. So he just said it. Well, there was a little shootout at John and Mary’s.

Oh my. A shootout! John, are you alright? and before he could answer she added, Sam, you weren’t there, right? You weren’t there. Tell me you weren’t there getting shot at!

No. Sam wasn’t here, Vanna. We don’t know all the details, but yah, we had a little gun play here, the Admiral explained.

There was silence on the other end for a moment before Vanna spoke again. This time, she sounded as if she was choking back a tear. Oh, John. I’m so glad you didn’t get hurt. I don’t know what I’d do.

No. I’m fine, Harding said. The other guys, not so much.

They waited for it, Sam and John. It was about to come, and they looked at each other, smiling in anticipation. They waited for what they knew would come. Vanna, with a heart of gold and a compassion and love without compare was about to force her emotions below the surface and fire back in a way that had entertained both John and Sam for decades.

Come it did. Sam, where were you when John was being shot at? How could you let that happen? Getting shot at all by himself?

They both roared again in laughter. Yah, Sam. What the hell? the admiral could barely get out.

Sam shrugged his shoulders and lifted his arms in defense. But, but…

Don’t you give me no buts. I don’t want to hear any buts from you, Sam Mason. You’re not gonna let that happen. No, no. What if John had gotten shot like before? What then? Think about that, Sam Mason. What’s Mary going to do then?

John poured himself and Sam another glass and put his feet up on a chair, listening to Sam nervously dodge and stammer, mostly in jest, but not entirely.

Together, they had navigated every ocean in the world. They had been through five full blown conflicts. They navigated through war zones, distant ports, and many a dangerous river and waterway. But they both agreed, navigating Vanna and Mary was by far the most difficult.

Sam eventually kicked his feet up as well, and they both entertained themselves with Vanna, making for an evening that Retired Admiral John Harding found far more entertaining than the movie he planned on watching.

Eventually Sam and Vanna were saying their goodbyes. John, she said. Thank God you didn’t get hurt.

Didn’t get hurt, he said.

Love you and Mary so much, she said. I don’t know what I’d do.

Love you and Little Sam, too, Vanna. Get a good night sleep and don’t worry. Big Sam will be home soon.

The phone clicked off. Sam and John quietly swirled the brandy around and watched through the light as it cascaded down the sides of the glass.

I figure she’s marching and stomping around the house right about now, Sam said.

Yup, John answered.

Thinking about what she’s gonna say to Mary.

Yup.

About ten minutes of talking to her.

About that.

Then you’re gonna get your call.

John got up. Well. Gives us time for a cigar.

He went to the den and came back with a couple of good ones, handed one to Sam and put the cutter down in front of him.

Harding watched Sam tap himself on the forehead and wondered if Sam had developed some nervous disorder. He’d watched him do it several times now, and was planning on talking to him about it at the right time. Head injuries can occur in their line of work, and too often, they just aren't remembered.

Sam picked up the cutter and twirled it around before clipping the end off. He lit the cigar, and said, We’re assholes.

I know, John said. Should have stayed retired. They don’t deserve this, Sam.

Just think if Mary and Little John would have been home, Sam added.

And Vanna and Little Sam. This is not going to happen, Sam. Not at our homes. Not to our families. But we stirred something up, didn’t we? Time we take this seriously and give ‘em hell, Harding said.

No mercy. Sam agreed. I guess we’re on the right track. No idea what, but the track of something, at least.

Chapter Three

A week later, another group of men sat in another van along a quiet wooded suburban street. They chose the spot for the low traffic volume and the partial seclusion afforded by the trees along the route to school. The hedge along the side of a yard would block any view from the nearest house. 

The target would be walking alone in this section of sidewalk, like he always did. Today, as long as nobody would see, would be the day they grabbed him.

The guns had been stolen from the cabinet of a friend days earlier and had not yet been reported as missing. Although two days had passed, they determined that this operation was still safe. The cabinet would not be checked, possibly for another three days, when the owners returned home from vacation.

It wasn't the kid they were about to grab that was the real target of this operation. The kid was just an expendable; a meaningless tool; another innocent and unfortunate casualty in an on-going and undeclared war. They watched him round the corner and walk toward them.

In a few minutes, if all went well, he would be in the van, injected with Flunitrazepam, better known as Rhohypnol, and known better yet on the streets as a roofie. He would not remember what happened to him this day, nor would he be able to recall the hour before, but in a matter of hours, he would be accused of committing mass murder at his school.

He wouldn't care, and he wouldn't defend himself, because he would already be dead.

If they only had more time to plan, he would have done it himself. Now, they will have to kill him after the shooting, and make it appear as self-inflicted - a suicide.

Although the people in this van are referred to as doctors, they were also soldiers; soldiers with special talents and doctors with special talents. They were a Behavioral Science Consultation Team, better known as a Biscuit Team. They were psychiatrists trained and engaged in a special kind of espionage.

They operated in secrecy all over the world by every Government in the world, these Biscuit Teams. They operated in secrecy because if the world knew of them, they would be viewed as something repulsive and hideous. They would be hunted down like evil monsters, the monsters they all, deep down, knew they really were.

It takes a special kind of person to do what they were about to do; a person who has no feelings, no compassion, no empathy, and no idea of the sanctity of the mind.  They are numb to such antiquated concepts as human rights, and had long become deaf to their own tortured conscience.

With no ideas that man is anything other than an animal - a programmable animal that they were superior to because they had found they could control a person, program a person, and drive them to do acts they would never otherwise consider, they go about their trade, unseen, and unnoticed as the trusted pillars of the community.

While the rest of the world is shocked and stunned at these things that happen, they slink and slither around the world, getting paid well to make it happen.

The world was filled with Pavlov’s dogs, and this Biscuit Team is their master. But Pavlov would never have dreamed of the advances they had made in controlling the minds of men. His dreams had been far, far surpassed, to the point of now being a nightmare.

The science, the drugs, the techniques, and the skills - skills they would have employed on this boy, were so effective that no man, woman, or child were safe any longer.

There was no target that could not be reached and there was no idea that could not be removed, changed, or installed. All it took was a little time.

The boy is coming, Singh Garg announced to the other three. Be ready, he said in his East Indian accent. Singh sat in the rear of the van watching through the darkened window as the target approached.

Trained in India, what was once the Biscuit Team Capital of the World, but now surpassed by the Americas and the Middle East, he was hired for projects in the United States. He was nearing the completion of those projects now.

The one thing remains that keeps him from returning home, the last target, Admiral John Harding, the father of the boy they were about to grab. Little John, that's what they called his son. But he was not so little, and neither was John Harding.

The front door of the van opened and the passenger got out and stepped onto the narrow sidewalk, blocking the boy just long enough for the two men in the back of the van to slide the door open and grab Little John. By the time he was muscled into the back of the van, the drug had been injected and was already coursing through his veins, and they were driving.

It was that quick and that easy. For Singh, it was the way it had happened hundreds of times before all over the world, including in America, and it went perfectly and as planned.  Still, it was the only thing that gave Singh a thrill, the only part of the job that presented any real danger. 

This was the most stimulating part.  They could be seen.  They could be caught.  The person could be armed.  He could be ready.  Somebody could alert the authorities. 

So many things could go wrong.  That’s what made this the most important part of any operation, the most dangerous part, and the most exciting part.

It is the part where someone disappears, and then, as if through an act of magic, they reappear as a new person with new intentions. They reappear a monster.

Everyone who ever knew the boy will say the same thing. They all do, every time it happens. I don’t understand. He seemed like he was such a nice boy, or some such meaningless nonsense.

Then, the work of the press begins. They would find someone who would say he always thought the kid was strange. Someone else would say how he kept to himself, was a loner, or seemed odd to them. Something seemed off, they would say.

Then, the focus would turn to inanimate objects - the guns. It would be all over the news on every channel and in every city, twenty four hours a day, until the next catastrophe magically and inexplicably happened.

The last Biscuit Team found out the hard way just how dangerous this part of an operation was.  But Singh Garg knew his business.  He had done this too many times to be that sloppy. No, that Biscuit Team had tried to grab Harding himself. It’s always better to be less direct at first.

Although he did not know all the details, he knew they were dead.  So now, since the Admiral might be prepared for another attempt, plan B was in play; go after the family.

It was a plan Singh Garg entirely objected to.

Although he was able to carry out this task, it was not truly his skillset. He could make the boy do it. That was his skillset. It is less direct. He could install commands that would drive the boy to go into his school and open fire. He could even have someone else do it, then make the boy believe it was he. But they lacked the time, and time is what it is all about.

For some reason, there was now some rush to get this done, and when you rush, bad things can happen. That’s why the other team was assigned. It was because Singh was completing work on another target. So they went after Harding without him - and blew it.

Although he could do what was being demanded, it was not his expertise. But, since he knew about it, he had to carry it out or most likely he would be eliminated. That is a distinct liability in his line of work. In fact, there was always the looming risk that he could be eliminated anyway. He would become another statistic in the already alarmingly high percentage of suicides among psychiatrists.

Singh stared down at the near lifeless eyes of the boy and was disappointed at the small adrenaline rush he'd gotten from this.  He'd become addicted to it.  He felt his heart rate slowing to normal and his muscles relaxing. 

It was all the life he ever felt anymore, the racing heart and excitement at the thought of danger of being caught, and he toyed with the idea of how he would have loved to be the one who went after Admiral Harding earlier. He would use a friend, another family member, or the car-repairman. There was always an entrance.

Retired Admiral John Harding, who was being considered for the next Head of Homeland Security, was certainly a High Priority.  Somebody had plans for him, somebody big, and they paid big.

The last Biscuit Team failed.  They were supposed to get him under control before his appointment, and this; having his son commit mass murder at his school, or at least appear that way, would kill any idea of that appointment.

They were supposed to grab the Admiral and program him to feel differently about certain things, and obey commands when the right stimulus was received.  It could be a word, a sound, a person’s voice, or even a picture or a taste. 

So many things could be used as the stimulus, but it would be in, and the memory of it sent deep into the back of his mind, just below his consciousness. 

He would not remember the experience, but he would follow the commands.  They all do.

Chapter Four

Admiral Harding was sitting at the edge of his seat, watching the abduction on a large screen at the front of the room. Yup. he said, jumping up, clapping his hands once and pointing at the screen. You went for it, you bastards! You went for it!

Two days earlier, an email sent to his son was discovered with a sub-program set to show up today.  They accessed it and found the announcements telling of how he was about to walk into his school and open fire; how he hated his schoolmates and teachers; how he was going in there to kill as many of them as he could. 

It would have placed a history of browsing radical sites, Muslim sites, and put a copy of the Anarchist’s Cookbook on his desktop, all timed to appear in the next hour.  So they were prepared. Every step, every motion his son’s decoy, Steve, would make today was being monitored. All roads and escape routes were covered.

A drone followed