Chapter 19

When my girlfriends arrive at work, I call them all into a meeting with Paul, in the conference room. Paul sits beside me as the girls sit across from us. Carol is the last one to enter the room. As she does, she says, “This looks dreary. Are we in trouble?”

I reply, “No, I am. Close the door, please. This is a bit secretive.”

Carol closes the door and joins her sisters across from me.

“I know I said I wouldn’t put any of you at risk when dealing with the rapists, but I need your help. I would do it myself, but the chances of success are far better if it is two of you.”

Talking over each other, they are all excited to help, and in some fashion, they each ask what they can do to help.

“Please, I get what you are all saying, but can you please talk one at a time.”

They nod their heads, and I continue, “It is almost over, but we need Jen’s help.”

Jennifer, Jen for short, was a friend from Jr. high. She was the first of our friends to be raped and blackmailed. She was the girl who got me started trying to figure out who is behind the extortion and rape. When Ashanti and Debora, two more of our friends, tried to help her, against my advice, they too were raped. We still see them at school, but we never get to talk to them, not even to say hi. They are entirely under the control of the jocks.

They kept pushing Jen to do more and more until she was kicked out of her parents’ house. Now she lives with Mr. Couture and has no reprieve from the abuse.

“I need two volunteers. One of you to hand Jen a note and the other to skip a class and talk with her in the girl’s bathroom.”

Dahlia asks, “What do you need us to tell her?”

“It is probably better if I only tell the one to talk with her. I trust you girls, but the fewer people to know, the better.”

Carol pipes up, “What did I tell you about calling us girls?”

“Sorry, we have more important things to discuss at the moment. I will try to do better.”

“She and I were never friends. Nobody would expect me to slip her a note. I guess I’ll take that job,” volunteers Carol.

Looking sad, Moira says, “Jen and I were best friends. If anybody can convince her to help you, it is me.”

“Dahlia, Kim, will you excuse us?” I say. Then I wait for them to leave before I continue, “This has to happen tomorrow. Carol, can you slip her the note before school and make sure she reads it.”

“That doesn’t give me much time. Can we finish the ride a bit early so I will have the time?”

“Not a problem.”

I hand her a note which reads:

Ten minutes after the second period starts, be in the east wing 2nd floor bathroom.

Tell no one.

“Would you mind giving us some time with Moira?”

Carol takes the note and leaves. Then Paul pulls out his file. We were able to find the original plans of the house from the initial building permits. From them, we drew up floor plans, as you would see at a realtor’s. Each floor is printed on 17 x 11 inch paper, so it can be folded and hidden in one of her school binders.

Paul unfolds the floor plans and lays them out in front of Moira, saying, “This is the house Jen lives in. They are old plans, so we need her to show us what has changed and label the rooms. We also need to know things like where she isn’t allowed to go, where the security room is, and where there might be any safes or blackmail materials. Anything you can get from her.”

Moira complains, “She isn’t going to want to do this. If they find out, they will hurt her.”

Answering her plea, I tell her, “It will only be a few days before she is free. This is crucial. If we can’t get her to do this, the ringleaders may all go free. If that happens, they will just start it up again. Either way, we are pulling the plug soon.”

It is another two hours that Paul and I grill Moira, so she has everything down. She only has one chance at this and a limited amount of time. We end up letting her write most of it out on a small pad that she can take with her. Little notes to help instruct her on things like which information to focus on first in case her time is cut short. In her defence, we do pump her full of a lot of information, including contingency plans, if somebody interrupts them.

When we are finished, I begin to wonder if we have the wrong girl for this. Her nerves are shot, and she looks like she wants to cry. If she can’t keep it together, she will be found out.

Since I am ahead of schedule on most of my work projects, I take Moira home. I owe her some me time, and she needs help calming down, so I figured that cuddling up with her and watching a little TV would do us both some good.

The next morning, I lead the cycling team and make sure we are at school a good ten minutes earlier than usual. It gives Carol plenty of time to drop Jen the note. Since I don’t have a first-period class, I head for the library and start my University work. I have been neglecting it lately and need to catch up. Just before the period starts, through the library window, I see Carol walking down the hall, giving me a thumbs-up, indicating that she did her job.

I show up to class early for the second period. I don’t want anybody thinking Jen is sneaking out of class to meet me. At lunch, Moira is late. I’m sitting impatiently, waiting. It is Dahlia’s turn to sit next to me, but she has left the spot vacant for Moira.

As soon as Moira sits down, I ask her, “Was the paperwork filled out?”

“No, she still has it.”

I look at her in disappointment. She knows if Jen gets caught with it, our plan is blown, and Jen is in shit.

Moira explains, “We were interrupted. Just like you said, we made plans to meet in the janitor’s closet if there was a problem. Only thing is, I got there, and she didn’t show until just before the bell. We didn’t have time to fill it out. She took the papers and ran, including my notepad. By then, the lunch bell rang, and I didn’t want anybody to see us leaving the closet together, so I waited 5 minutes before I left. She did say that she would find a way to give it to us.”

I reassure her, “I suppose there was nothing else you could do.”

At the end of lunch, I walk Moira to her class and kiss her before heading back to my university studies in the library.

As per my usual routine, I head to my locker before the bell rings for the next class to avoid the rush of students between classes. I turn the corner to see a bunch of jocks trying to get into my locker. Before they notice me, I calmly ask, “What are you boys doing?”

One of them continues trying to crack my padlock. I notice dents and other scuff marks on the locker that weren’t there before, so they have been at it for a while. The other five all brandish knives from pockets and other hidden places. The first to come at me swings wild. As I dodge, the blade passes by, and I grab the arm with the knife. I then step forward, bringing my other arm around his neck and pivot my hips in a judo type throw.

With the first assailant at my feet and his knife hand firmly in my control, I stomp on his throat, snapping his Adam’s apple and pushing it into his esophagus. I don’t feel the spine snap, so there is a chance that he might live.

Doing the throw turned me, so my back is to my attackers. Thankfully, I have enough time to turn around before the next one is close enough to attack. He too swings wildly.

It is a good thing these guys don’t know what they are doing. A Canadian gangster will attack with a series of quick stabs. If you know what you are doing, it is easy to defend, but they will cut up your arms and leave a lot of damage. Knowing how to fight, you will live, but will need some stitches.

An American Gangster lowers the attacking hand and attacks the lower part of your belly with upward thrusts, using a series of quick stabs like the Canadian. The difference is, American prisons are a lot more violent than their Canadian counterparts. Americans have learnt to collect magazines. If a prisoner thinks they are going to be shivved, they tape magazines around their belly for armour. The lower stab coming up gets under this armour. It also works to get around bulletproof vests.

The second time the fool tries to stab me, I parry his hand with an open hand, then as his hand and knife pass, my same hand wraps over his, so he doesn’t drop the knife. Once his arm is hyperextended, I punch him in the elbow with my free hand while keeping his arm straight with my gripping hand. This busts his elbow, leaving his forearm limp. Having no resistance from his arm, grasping his knife hand, I turn his arm then stab him in the throat with the knife still in his hand.

The next two are intelligent enough to attack me at the same time. Donkey kicking the one causes me to dodge the other, but I still parry the slash with an open hand on his forearm. This redirects his slash. Instead of going straight across where I would have been, it causes his slash’s momentum to shift, forcing his hand and knife down and into his leg. The blade had enough momentum to go in deep and will be tough to pull out. It is no matter because the knife severs the femoral artery and has likely gone deep enough to cut the femoral vein. There is a copious quantity of blood pulsing out of his leg. The shock will keep him out of the fight. In less than a minute, he will run out of blood. Blood chokes kill much faster than an air choke. In a little over two minutes, there will be no saving him.

Unfortunately, I was too focused on my killing the one attacker as I donkey kicked the other. The boy I donkey kicked slashed my leg, but I was wearing jeans so the blade didn’t get as deep as it could have. Thankfully, it looks mostly superficial, I think it only cutting soft tissue and not hitting any arteries. It is difficult to tell without ripping my pant leg open to look, especially since my body has dumped endorphins, deadening the pain I would otherwise feel. Turning to face him, he slashes at me again. This time he cuts through my shirt and leaves a shallow cut just over my navel. At the same time, I hit him in the eye from the side with a crane fist. My fingers slip behind the eye, popping it out.

Remaining are two attackers and one boy trying to open my locker. I bet you are wondering where my bodyguard is. Since I proved my capabilities to go on our little spec ops missions, they have grown lax in protecting me, opting instead to protect my girls and employees. The screaming from the boy with no eye and the one that is bleeding out will surely attract at least one, but not in time to save the one missing an eye. Both his hands are holding his eye socket, but there is a gap between them. I flatten my hand and stab his throat with my fingers’ tips, breaking his Adam’s apple. Like stomping on it with the foot, this pushes pieces into the esophagus, causing him to choke on his blood.

One of the two remaining attackers drops his knife, turns and runs. It is almost comical how he collides with the garbage can before he even sees it. Falling forward, he lands headfirst with all his weight behind it, knocking him out.

The last attacker stands there frozen in fear. I walk up to him and take his hand that has the knife. He starts to move too late, as I slip the knife between his ribs, into the centre of his heart.

Turning to the boy at my locker, I move forward just as he opens it, and my locker’s contents spill onto him. He has no clue what he is looking for. I see the folded floor plans sitting on the stack of books and things on the floor.

Grabbing the kid’s throat, I ask, “Unless you want to end up like your friends, I would be quick in telling me where Jen is.”

He stutters, “Iiin tthe bboys bbathrroom,” while pointing with his left hand, trying to distract me.

He may be scared, but the little sneak thinks he can stab me without me noticing. Thankfully he is a righty, and I have my left hand free. He slowly pulls the knife from his pocket and opens it with his thumb. We are standing close enough that when I redirect his stab, The knife lands in his gut, not mine.

Stabbing up into the gut doesn’t do enough damage for me. I get a better grip on his hand then reef it in a semicircular motion using the skin as my fulcrum. This tears up his bowls, releasing the contents of his stomach and intestines. Even after hours of surgery, there is no way they can adequately clean his insides and put them back together. It will get infected, and he will have major digestive issues for the rest of his life, and that is only because we are close enough to the hospital that he will live.

As I head for the boy’s bathroom, I see Kurt, one of the bodyguards on my spec ops team, running down the hall towards me. I let him know, “They are raping Jen in the bathroom.” He beats me there and kicks open the door. He doesn’t give me enough time to warn him that they are carrying knives.

When I get in the bathroom, Kurt has a knife in his arm. Jen is naked and has a baseball bat shoved up her ass. There are blood and shit all over her lower body. Two of the boys lay half-naked, dead on the floor. Kurt holds another by the neck as he lifts the boy off the floor and throws him into the remaining jock.

As the remaining boys pick themselves up, Kurt is yelling at them, “GET YOUR FUCKING ASSES IN THAT STALL, NOW.” They scurry like a couple rats.

While Kurt haul them out one at a time, zap strapping them and putting them in another stall, I check on Jen. She appears conscious but is staring off into space as though she isn’t all there. Nothing I say or do can get her attention. That is when I hear the other students’ screams as the blood and bodies are discovered in the hall. Almost as soon as the screaming starts, Jane is yelling for everybody to get back in their classrooms.

I have no clue what to do for Jen, so I stick my head out the door and shout, “JANE, GET IN HERE, NOW. LET THE OTHER BODYGUARDS DO CROWD CONTROL.” As she comes my way, the other bodyguards show up, and she directs them to keep the crime scene clear.

As she approaches, I say, “I have no clue what to do for Jen. I was hoping you could come up with something.”

Jane goes to ask what I mean but stops in her tracks as she enters the bathroom. She only pauses for a moment, then she is in action, Removing the ball-gag from Jen’s mouth. That is when I notice all the pins stuck in her tits, including a bunch that go through the nipple.

I realize I left the floor plans in the hall, with the jock bleeding right there. Quickly I race back to my locker. Thankfully, the jock fell the other way, and only a corner of the floor plans are soaked in blood. They are readable, and as long as she didn’t say anything, the jocks still don’t know what she gave me.

Thankfully, the scene is too gruesome, so no students are peeking out their classes’ doors. I scoop up the plans and hand them to the closest bodyguard, telling him to put them in the SUV.

As he is leaving, Mr. Durrant shows up. He starts to storm towards me through the carnage when he is stopped from behind by Victor, another one of my spec ops team/bodyguards.

Victor explains, “You do not want to be walking through the crime scene. We have already radioed for the police. They are on their way.”

“Did you call the ambulance too,” I ask.

“Yes, but they will refuse to come in until the police give the all-clear.”

“Get them in here ASAP. Jen needs help, bad. You can let the RCMP know that we have three detainees, two in the bathroom. And, you might want to strap this one before he wakes up,” I say as I point to the idiot that tripped over the garbage.

Victor talks on his radio, then looks at Mr. Durrant and says, “Why are you just standing there? Go, get the shop first aid kits and bring the shop teachers. Aren’t they supposed to be trained in first aid?”