Status: Finished

Genre: Thrillers



Status: Finished

Genre: Thrillers



"No good deed goes unpunished." Doctor Michael Barnes noticed this aphorism constantly invading his thoughts after he volunteered to be the interim Director of the Harry Hope Fertility Clinic.
Seems SuperSperm is donated in Mike's clinic and then sold on the black market for amazing sums---billions---by a murderous organization.
That's okay----maybe----but now the heat is coming closer to Mike, his wife Fiona, Puzzle-Master employee, Brett Houdinski and Fiona's PI, Bill Richardson.
What a hell of mess . . .but also a fun ride.
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"No good deed goes unpunished." Doctor Michael Barnes noticed this aphorism constantly invading his thoughts after he volunteered to be the interim Director of the Harry Hope Fertility Clinic.
Seems SuperSperm is donated in Mike's clinic and then sold on the black market for amazing sums---billions---by a murderous organization.
That's okay----maybe----but now the heat is coming closer to Mike, his wife Fiona, Puzzle-Master employee, Brett Houdinski and Fiona's PI, Bill Richardson.
What a hell of mess . . .but also a fun ride.

Chapter53 (v.1) - FULL-COURT PRESS

Author Chapter Note

The vast estate and mansion of the late Edward Wales is surrounded on all four sides. In the air, there are policehelicopters blasting out their favorite attack songs.
At the North Gate are a hundred members of the Whites First Brotherhood. They have come to kill and reclaim their armored personnel carrier from a troop of African Special Forces who occupy the Western boundary of the estate.
On the Eastern Front are two Police SWAT teams.
At the Southern Gate are Fiona, Brett, and Bill, attempting to serve a search warrant.
My oh my . . .

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 15, 2017

Reads: 82

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 15, 2017




A Serial

Nicholas Cochran

Chapter Fifty-Three



That’s it, Tom,” enthused Electra, “Just as I remembered it. The switch or button is way underneath there where my brothers stuck the cue. Let’s go.”

What? muttered Tom, “they’ll see us for sure.”

“Well, I don’t know; but we can raise it, look down, and if they’re somewhere else or down another floor, we can sneak up on them.”

“Or,” began Tom, “we open the floor, look down, see Andy and Bart; who then shoot us.”

“Maybe,” replied Electra, “but, what the hey; nothing ventured, eh?”

Tom breathed deeply. “You are amazing. Well, lead on. What the hell, I might as well be shot here as anywhere. At least we’ll be together when we die.” His low laugh was almost macabre.

“Great.” Ellie ran across the room, grabbing a cue on her way, dropped to her knees to plunge the cue under the correct bookshelf. Her first strike was perfect.

The floor rose in silence. The two lovers approached the opening where they looked down. They didn’t see anyone on the landing below, but they did hear the barely audible voices of the Electra’s brothers as well as an unfamiliar sound.

Ellie and Tom looked at each other with equal surprise and curiosity.

“Okay, Big Boy; let’s go.” Electra was four steps down the staircase before Tom recovered enough of his senses to follow her.

*  *  *

Riddick continued his plea to waste Max. “Yes, boss, “give me the tools and I will do the job.’” This was one of Malcolm’s favorite Churchill quotes. Winnie was a good egg in Malcolm’s rheumy eyes. “Yeah, boss. Then we can get on with our discuc . . .”

The sounds of male voices came through the monitors of the security camera screens.

All turned to see Bart and Andy opening the last door existing between them and the door to the nerve center of the organization.

“What the Christ are they doing, here, boss? What the hell; is this, goddamned family reunion week?

"First their dumbass father and now his pricks of sons; his ‘showpieces’ to prospective clients; to whet their appetite for spending seven mill for a vial to get a Bart or an Andy; Christ, Max, you have certainly tainted the gene pool with these Aces.

"Goddamned wonder we sell anything using these two bozos as advertisements. Too bad we have to waste Bubb. His sperm is the best—ever—by far. And doc Brand has tweaked it to a place way off the charts.

“No; we have to send out these dummies, despite their top ten university educations; and grad work. Well, as I also said; some people are book-smart and haven’t a clue; some are street-smart, and then there’s some with both; like Electra.”

Her name just slipped out. The boss was silent.

Bart and Andy reached the last door where an iris recognition system waited to check them.

Before switching on the security device Max Wales, sane and now very sober, asked, while pointing, “What’s that?”

Malcolm and the boss wheeled around to look at the monitors covering the streets bordering the hedge-boundaries of the estate.

Along the western boundary of the estate, a military vehicle stopped on the dirt next to the hedge.


Bill and his passengers rolled up alongside the hedge bordering the Wales estate on the south side, next to the main gate and two guard pillboxes, resembling the German numbers overlooking Omaha Beach on D-Day.

Bill spoke. “What do you two think about just going up the drive and stopping outside the front door—as opposed to getting out here and hoofing it? After we either blast or bullshit our way past the two guards—or more—inside those goddamned fortified pillboxes they call ‘shacks’.”

Both were silent for a few moments. Bill continued, “Me; well, you know me, ‘Ona; right up to the front door and inside to look around.”

“Bill, I don’t think that would be good; the three of us more or less barging in,” cautioned Fiona, “they could have guards; certainly servants who would alert the family. What about you Brett?”

“I’m convinced those guys—those people—put at least a billion into protecting this place. I mean, they have a multi-billion dollar gig going on around the world. They’d be nuts not to fortify the bejesus out of it; don’t you think?”

*  *  *

And how about that one,” asked Malcolm, pointing to the other side of the estate where two SWAT team vehicles pulled up on the grass flush with the hedge on the east side of the estate.

The boss immediately forgot about Max as well as his two sons who tapped their impatience on the thin carpet of the approach to the war room.

The boss strode to the far end of the room and flipped up five panel covers containing endless switches. The boss produced a key ring from under the black garment, inserted a different key into the top of each panel and turned back to enlighten the agog Max.

Riddick Malcolm helped install these panels of switches. He knew exactly what they were and what would happen when any switch was pressed down.


*  *  *

Merle Zarcon’s recent rise to leadership of the Whites First Brotherhood came as a result of hard work as well some nifty moves to replace the last leader, Rankin Turbwell.

When Merle received the call from his soldiers in California, he immediately excommunicated them from the Brotherhood.

His next move was to round up a hundred members, board corporate jets of some likeminded mining millionaires, and fly toCalifornia.

A convoy of Uber drivers carried the horrible hundred to the North Gate of the Wales estate. Once offloaded, the Brotherhood goons gathered round Merle while they checked and double-checked their arsenal. 

Their ordnance consisted of a curious assortment of weaponry with which to take out “the jungle bunnies” from some dipshit hole in Africa, take back their carrier, and keep the rental fee.

Merle’s reputation among the ranks of knuckle draggers was bolstered by the true fact that Merle was not one to sit about to discuss—or even mull—decisions to fit a crisis. He moved. Fast. This occasion was Merle’s style to its rotten core.

The Brothers of the Brotherhood were unclear about the location of their carrier. A few of the brighter lights were assigned the job of locating the carrier and, if possible, once they found the vehicle, they were charged with killing all the occupants.

He and his band of mentally challenged ruffians did discover their armed personnel carrier, camped on the west side of the Wales estate, around a wide corner and down about a half a mile or so.

*  *  *

While General Zulam Motombo stood outside the carrier, he tossed some of the fine sand next to the grass to learn the direction of the wind. He smiled.

Walking around to the front of the carrier, he yelled for his men to exit, bringing only their AK-47s with them for the moment.

*  *  *

Sweet Jesus, boss; what the bloody hell is that; are those?Christ, there has to be dozens of them.”

Riddick Malcolm pointed to the security screens covering the North Gate where Whites First members were jumping out of Uber rides and massing around the two pillboxes set there to guard the compound from the north. 

Each pillbox housed ten men. All were armed with AK-47s as well as RPGs. 

The pillbox itself housed a mechanism to raise a five-foot high triple-armored machine gun nest capable of dishing out so many rounds per second that Edward and Riddick never really managed to pin down a reliable measurement while they were installing them so many years ago. 

The nest held two gunners and revolved, giving the shooters a three hundred and sixty degree field of fire.

Both pillboxes at the North Gate completed the raising of the machine gun nests where the occupants were in full communication with every other armed area on the grounds as well as central command in the bunker.

*  *  *

At the same time as the Whites First reconnaissance party poked their noses around the northwest corner of the massive estate, Sergeant Pillory was in the air, riding a Police helicopter with one leg dangling out, six-guns hanging on either side of his fatigues, while wearing a Cavalry Stetson similar to that worn by Robert Duvall in “Apocalypse Now”.

“Flight of the Valkyries” blasted through speakers mounted on the sides of the copter, with the force of a thousand mighty winds.

Pillory intended to scare the shit out of the bastards and then take them out with his six-guns along with his two SWAT teams.

Two more PD copters protected Pillory’s flanks. They too, were using their mounted speakers for blasting out their favorite battle ditty. One was “I Will Survive”; the other, “Ain’t Misbehavin’”.


At the South Gate, all was calm.

An eerie Thursday afternoon in August refused to allow any movement of the air. The temperature was steady at ninety-four. All thee occupants hated to abandon the AC but someone had to do something.

“Well I think I should go, guys. It’s my warrant and I’m the one who will be serving it. And I’m the one who wrote it, as well. Won’t take a second. I’ll just go to one of these pillboxes and show the warrant. Should be good to go after that.

"Plus, how many women are gunned down around the Atherton area on any given Thursday afternoon in August? They could all be at Tahoe sipping Margaritas.”

“’Ona, this is your show,” agreed Bill.

Something gallant in Brett’s make-up forced him to add a remark.

“I’ll go with you, Fiona. I’ll pretend I’m a plainclothes cop assisting in the service of the warrant; and like that.”

“Well, if you two are going I‘m sure as hell not going to sit here on my ass while you two have all the fun. I’ll be the transportation provided by the Judge. The Bentley will do more than necessary to vouch for my creds.”

Both Fiona and Brett smiled when they thought of a Deputy from a Superior Court Judge dressing in baggy cargo pants, a teal polo shirt, and Birkenstocks.

Bill announced, “But we’ll drive up to the gate, all of us, and the all three of us can converge on the poor bastard; steamroller him.”

Fiona and Brett agreed. Bill eased the Bentley around the corner of the massive hedge and accelerated up to the gate, stopping with sounds of screeching rubber.

All three jumped out and approached the box on the right.

Whirring noises began from the interior of both pillboxes.

Round machine gun turrets rose out of the main structure.

Abruptly, the ambiance changed from a lazy hazy day of summer to a chilling situation with the cold finger of death tickling the necks of the three civilian soldiers.


End of Chapter Fifty-Three

© Copyright 2017 Nicholas Cochran. All rights reserved.


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