Status: Finished

Genre: Thrillers



Status: Finished

Genre: Thrillers



Doctor Michael Barnes battles a worldwide black market ring that is taking their product---superior sperm---from his fertility clinic.
The ruthless gang kills to maintain the flow of billions of dollars into their off-shores.
Michael and his recruits, including his dynamic wife Fiona, counterattack to avail.
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Doctor Michael Barnes battles a worldwide black market ring that is taking their product---superior sperm---from his fertility clinic.
The ruthless gang kills to maintain the flow of billions of dollars into their off-shores.
Michael and his recruits, including his dynamic wife Fiona, counterattack to avail.

Chapter63 (v.1) - QUARRY TRAPPED

Author Chapter Note

Following a mindboggling chase, the quarry is trapped.
But check out the chase here.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 20, 2017

Reads: 54

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 20, 2017




A Serial

Nicholas Cochran

Chapter Sixty-Three


Although Pillory and Forbes were flying their copters flat out, they continued to fall behind the fleeting Rolls. The other three gunships were older as well as under-equipped, quickly causing them to fall behind as well.

“That dude has serious shit under that hood,” remarked Darnell to Elvis. The latter instantly agreed and asked, “how fast can your ship go, Darnell?”

“Never ran it flat out. I’ll give that a try right now and see what shows up. But I don’t think we’re goin’ to get much over a hundred and fifty, if that. That goddamned Rolls has to be goin’ an easy one sixty,” thinking for  moment, “but they have to make some turns and they’ll sure as shit have traffic, although from what I just saw down there, damned near everyone’ll pull over to let them go by. And say, Elvis, where the hell are they goin’ do you think?”

“No idea. But we’ll see when they turn. Could be goin’ straight to the city; across a bridge, even . . . but we’ll see damn soon.”

*  *  *

DeWitt Ransome received the call twenty minutes before. The order was to have the plane fueled, staffed, papers in order, engines revving, and a runway picked out.

He glanced at his Rolex. Before he could raise his eyes from the watch, he heard a screaming siren, unearthly thudding sounds, and the whine of a supercharged engine.

*  *  *

CHP Officer Lester Squire, the perennial champion of every CHP rally course, speed contest, and holder of the best lap time at Sonoma Raceway, never let his foot off the floor, even when he made the turn for the on-ramp to SFO.

There were still approximately sixty Hells Angels ahead of him—but not far ahead. At least twenty crashed while taking the on-ramp turn too fast onto 380. They and their bikes were still bouncing over ice plant, berms, concrete, and signage. 

The Rolls was barely in sight when Lester completed his expert drift onto eastbound 380. He was definitely close enough to watch as the Rolls made a ninety-degree right turn in the direction of the Employees Parking Lot B. where it began to bounce over earth, asphalt, signs, flowers, a hedge and several voles before smashing through the double strength chain link fence like it was tissue paper.

The closest bikers unwisely maintained their speed while they followed the route of the Rolls. Somewhere between all the impediments attacked and overcome by the Rolls, lay enough obstacles as well as complex difficulties to upend ninety-percent of the bikers.

Only Axel and four others successfully maintained both speed and balance, finally placing them on the flat smooth surface of the tarmac skirts for the runways of SFO.


Lester tightened his seat belt and wended his way—at speed—around, through, and over broken plants, bikes, and bodies. Following the last three bounces where his head slammed into the roof, he thought he was either paralyzed or a chiropractor’s three-year project. Nevertheless, he pressed on.

Once on flat tarmac, Lester floored it, and aimed for a business jet. The plane was large, a Gulfstream G 650. Lester could hear the roar of the engines as he approached.

By this time, the Angels were close to the plane. The Rolls drifted to a stop at the base of the steps leading up into the jet.

Two figures hopped out, yelled instructions about their luggage, and sprang to the stairs. Before they climbed three steps, two figures appeared on the top step of the airstairs.

Riddick Malcolm recognized them immediately.

“Who the hell are you?” Asked the boss. The two men reached into their belts as they replied. “We’re the brothers form Kosovo. You owe us money.”

The boss shot from the hip with astonishing accuracy. Before either brother could move out even one of their guns, they were pitching off either side of the stairs, dead before they crumpled onto the tarmac.

Malcolm stood in a stunned silence.

“C’mon Riddick, those gangs are at our heels."

“Right boss,” breathed Malcolm, “coming right up”

They took the stairs two at a time, and entered the plane.

The stairs retracted, the door closed, the engines roared, the Kososvo brothers lay inert. And then it happened.

* * *

 The taxis, Ubers, and Lyfts took the slower route to the tarmac, arriving moments before it happened. 

Following the cabbies came Fiona, Brett and Bill who had reached a hundred and eighty-three miles per hour in Bill’s 2007 Continental convertible before being forced to slow down to evade flying bodies, bikes as well as pieces of rubber and metal. 

They were relegated to a position behind the mass of vehicles making the turn for the on-ramp to 380 and could never get through or around any of them until they hit the airfield asphalt. 

Bill was shaken by this latest driving nightmare and he popped open the glove box to take out a flask. He offered a drink to his two bug-eyed passengers but hearing no yeses, he swallowed half the flask in one go while he eased the Bentley up behind the fringes of the gathering masses.

* * *

When I understood the message from Brett, I ran to my car.

Bill Naylor, Stephanie, Dave Groggins, Naomi Ellison, and Jerry Burns asked to come along.

I don’t know why, or rather how they knew that there was a sense of an ending to all that had both terrified and energized them. But they did and of course, I agreed.

We all piled into the Mercedes S500 and shot through the parking lot and onto the street. Despite the hour, it was as though some hand was pushing the car in all the right directions to reach the southbound freeway in record time. As we were passing the Cesar Chavez off-ramp, Fiona called to tell us all that the airport was the target. The fugitives were trying to escape in a private jet; a big one; a Gulfstream G650.

“Okay honey, on our way.”

I disconnected and floored it.

* * *

The Gulfstream began to taxi. The engine noise increased. Axel was still a hundred yards from the whistling jet. Officer Lester cursed as he urged his car to a higher speed.

Ransome gave a wry condescending smile in the direction of the approaching ruffians. His co-pilot, Andrew Sylvester, along with his crew, were anticipating the finer offerings of Sao Paulo.

Ransome turned the nose of the plane away from the approaching hordes preparing to pick up speed Job one; get on and off a runway, and shoot up into the sky. 

Then it happened.

* * *

Observers miles away thought a fireworks factory exploded. 

Between the undulating strains of the Flight of the Valkyries, glimmering plumes of white phosphorous napalm shot up hundreds of feet in every direction of the blazing blue sky. Billowing balls of greasy orangey-red fire catapulted up after the streaking phosphorous curls. Dense columns of impenetrable black smoke rumbled after the flames and feathers of phosphorous. 

Almost immediately after Sergeant Darnell Pillory, of the San Francisco Police Department Flying Squad dropped the canisters of incendiary gasoline gel, a gigantic flaming wall of enraged burning napalm circled the Gulfstream.

Lester and a few Angels avoided direct hits from the bursting explosives but found themselves captives within the ring of a ferocious conflagration.

Several contingents of airport police appeared along with Lieutenant Baker’s SWAT teams. They joined up with the arriving police forces and ambulances from every surrounding jurisdiction. The ranks of the CHP continued to swell while bikers, Lyfts, cabs, and Ubers rumbled onto the scene.

Every arrival at the locus of this Danteesque mise en scene grabbed anything available to try and tamp out a narrow corridor through the Stygian wall of hellish fire that would allow them to venture inside the flaming circle and approach the trapped plane.

* * *

Riddick Malcolm felt a hundred pound weight drop to the bottom of his stomach. The boss erupted in convulsions of flying spittle.

“Can’t we just drive through this? Goddamn it Ransomeget in here and explainNow.” The boss strode toward the cockpit, meeting Ransome near Row Two.

“I’m very sorry, but I can’t go through  walls of fire.”

By this time, Pillory—now simply showing off—dropped several more canisters behind the first wall of flame making it more than a little dangerous to try to drive a plane full of fuel anywhere near either blistering barrier.

Orders blasted through the plane’s intercom from the Airport Police as well as the Tower.

“That second row of napalm means that a passage through both walls of fire as well as that area between them would severely risk blowing up the plane."

“Well, let’s do it.” screamed the boss. Malcolm sat in sullen silence.

By now the co-pilot, Andrew Sylvester, joined Ransome to tell him that the plane was heating up at an alarming rate.

“Also, sir, the plane has been impounded. They say they’ll shoot us—blow us up—if we attempt any movement of the plane or try any maneuver, even a simple readjustment of our position. The two SWAT teams are on hand now. The officers have been ordered  to shoot to kill. I have no idea why, but that’s on the intercom; come and listen yourself.”

“No, no; it’s okay; it’s  a bust.,” turning to the boss, “I have to agree to obey or they will assault the aircraft as well as try everything to damage it beyond repair; or a least beyond any capability to fly it to Sao Paulo.”

The boss remained silent, standing in front of Ransome while a seething rage mounted to an uncontrollable fury that flooded cast down eyes.

Abruptly, the boss turned and walked briskly back to join Malcolm.

“Riddick. The game is up. He can’t get us through these rings of fire; the walls of flames are too thick and too high. Plus, the goddamned plane is heating up and could explode. Christ. And everyone out there has orders to shoot to kill if we make any attempt to run for it.”

The boss sighed heavily before sitting down to look out the window at the frightening orange-black sentinels that were pinning them to the ground where they would be imprisoned for life.

End of Chapter Sixty-Three

© Copyright 2017 Nicholas Cochran. All rights reserved.

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