SPLINTER GROUP (standard:Satire, 2139 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Jan 18 2005	Views/Reads: 3904/2372	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
There was only so much people (his people) could take. Only so much abuse. Only so much deliberate discrimination. Only so much disregard and snide remarks. Well, they would take no more. It was time to strike back.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Bogard went first, shinnying down the rope with ease.  He hit the floor
and rolled behind a nearby desk.  He watched as the others did the 
same, their training coming to the fore as they landed without a sound. 
He looked towards the door. 

The guard hadn't even stirred. 

Now, the tricky part, he thought.  He signaled to Wineburg, who was
crouched across from him in the shadow of a cubicle.  She nodded and 
took the pistol from her holster, using the edge of a chair to steady 
the barrel. 

He felt the muscles in his belly tighten in anticipation.  Wineburg was
the best shot the team had, that's why he had chosen her for this part. 
 But he hadn't envisioned her having to shoot through glass to reach 
the target. 

He looked at the security guard and felt a stab of pity for the guy. 
Poor slob, he thought.  Doesn't even know what's going to hit him. He 
didn't want to be doing this, but they left him with no choice. 

He was ambushed by the memory of an incident that had happened a few
weeks ago.  Just one incident among many, but indicative of the 
treatment he and his kind received on a regular basis. 

It was a Friday.  He'd had a hard week and was looking forward to a
relaxing weekend.  As he trudged home, his tired feet pulsing to the 
beat of his steps, he felt a sudden inclination.  He could really kill 
a beer.  He was passing a bar as he had the thought; a nice, 
respectable looking place, done-up to look like an old English pub; 
complete with painted shutters and a studded oak door.  He stopped 
outside.  It was a bit more upmarket than the places he was usually 
forced to frequent.  The price list next to the door was frighteningly 
impressive.  He went in before he could talk himself out of it. 

It was pleasantly cool inside.  A welcome reprieve from the summer heat
that was ravaging the city.  He went to the bar and pulled up a stool.  
The barman had his back to him, pouring a measure of whisky into a 
glass. 

“Be right with you, sir,” the barman said.  He was massively round, the
skin of his neck bulging over the tight collar of his white shirt.  
Bogard was reminded of a nature programme he'd watched about tropical 
birds.  How the males of some species would puff out their chests to 
show a red flash of plumage.  The barman's neck had the same crimson 
hue.  The same expansive ballooning. 

“Now, what can I get...” the barman trailed off and stood motionless
watching Bogard. 

Bogard put a crisp twenty on the counter.  “I'll have a beer, please,
and one for yourself.” 

The man put the glass of whisky down and shook his head.  “No. No. No.
Get out of here.” 

Bogard swiveled on the stool to look behind him.  There was no one
there.  “You talking to me?” he asked. 

“You bet I'm talking to you, mister.  Get out of my goddam pub.” 

He'd met hostility and intolerance before, but never such open,
undisguised aggression. “Now wait just a minute,” Bogard said, “I' m 
here for a drink.”  He waved the money in front of him, “My money's as 
good as the next man's!” 

“I don't want your money.  This is a family establishment and we don't
want your kind of business.” 

Bogard couldn't believe what he was hearing.  He felt an almost
irresistible urge to reach over and smack the man.  To punch him on the 
nose and watch the shock waves ripple through the blubber like a 
tsunami.  “You can't do this.  You can't throw me out just because -” 

“- I can do what I goddam like,” interrupted the man.  “Now get out
before I call the cops.” 

Bogard got up from the stool with as much dignity as he could muster. 
He turned and looked around the room.  Eyes peered hesitantly in his 
direction and then dipped with shame as he passed.  What was the use? 
he thought.  The barman had the law on his side.  The cards were 
stacked against Bogard. 

As he pushed his way out the door he thought of the group and the
upcoming job.  You'll be next, he vowed.  You'll regret the day you 
ever turned me away. 

Bogard felt his resolve quicken.  He was doing the right thing.  They
needed to be taught a lesson. 

Wineburg pulled the trigger.  There was a muffled spurt, not much louder
than a champagne cork popping from a bottle.  Then a sharp tinkling as 
the dart pierced the glass. 

They moved quick and low towards the door, letting Wineburg go first,
covering with the pistol.  The guard lay slumped on the floor, the 
tranquilizer dart still in his neck. 

“Good shooting,” Bogard said.  “Curtis, make sure he's okay.” 

Curtis approached the guard and removed the dart.  He took off one of
the thin rubber gloves he wore and felt for a pulse.  “Good steady 
beat.  He'll be fine, although I wouldn't want the sore head he's going 
to have in the morning.” 

Bogard took the gun from the guard's holster and tucked it into his
waistband.  He nodded.  “Okay. This is the final push, team.  Let's get 
to the conference room.” 

They jogged down the hall, their feet sinking into the plush carpet.  At
the far-end, there was a set of doors with a sign hanging from the 
handle.  It read: “Quiet please, meeting in progress”. 

They stopped and took up their positions.  Bogard lifted the infrared
goggles and pointed to the door, “Ready?” he whispered. 

Everyone nodded. 

He took a step forward and kicked the door hard.  The lock gave way with
a splintered crack and they poured into the conference room. There was 
half a dozen people seated around the conference table.  The man at the 
head of the table, sipping from a mug, sprayed coffee in a cetacean 
flourish.  Several of them tried to rise to their feet, only to be 
motioned back down by Wineburg and her pistol. 

“Sorry to interrupt your late-night meeting,” said Bogard.  “But we have
some pressing business.” 

The man at the head of the table wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his
jacket.  “What the hell's going on.  Are you crazy? Security will be 
here any minute.” 

“I'm afraid not,” said Bogard.  “We've taken care of that.” 

The man paled and looked around the room for help.  “L-Look.  We don't
keep any money here.  It's just an administrative centre for the Bank.” 


“This isn't about money, Mr Hattersleigh.  It is Mr Hattersleigh, isn't
it?  Chairman of Bradbury Bank plc?” 

“Oh, Christ!” said the man.  “I have a wife and kids.  Please don't hurt
me.  They'll pay anything you want.” 

Bogard took a seat and put his feet up on the conference table.  “You've
got us all wrong.  I told you, it isn't about money.” 

“Then what is it about.” 

“Respect, Mr Hattersleigh.  Respect.  All of us here represent a
minority.  A minority which your bank has been discriminating against 
for years now.” 

He got up and began pacing the room.  “We used to be respected members
of the community.  Valued and respected citizens.  Well, we're still 
citizens, still slaving away for people like you.  But now the respect 
is gone.  Tolerance is gone!” 

He stood next to Hattersleigh and took the gun from his waistband. 
Someone let out a small scream as he placed the barrel to 
Hattersleigh's head. 

“Mr Hattersleigh, let me ask you a question.  Do you want to live?”
Hattersleigh stuttered, unable to get the words out, before nodding 
briskly. 

“Good, because you'd be little use to us dead.”  He turned to Curtis,
“The files please.” 

Curtis reached into his knapsack and produced six folders, placing one
in front of each of the board members. 

“Take a look inside,” said Bogard.  “You'll see photographs of your
families, your homes, your holiday apartments.  Even your mistress, Mr 
Hattersleigh.  We know everything.  All the dirt.” 

Hattersleigh groaned.  The temperature in the room seemed to dip as the
board member's blood ran cold. 

“We are everywhere, ladies and gentlemen.  We work with you.  We police
your streets.  We are your customers.  Your family.  Your friends.  If 
you want to live in this world then you better start showing us some 
respect.” 

Bogard put the gun back in his waistband.  “Now.  Here's what we want
you to do...” 

* 

They sat around the television in Bogard's house, each of them in
various stages of repose. They had shed their masks and combats long 
ago, burning them in the back yard in an old steel drum. 

Bogard cracked open another beer.  “Turn it up, it's about to start,” he
said. 

The newscaster had the synthetic look of a wax dummy.  His shirt and tie
clashed horribly, setting-off a strobe effect on the screen. 

“The chairman of Bradbury plc, along with five directors of the bank,
had a lucky escape last night.  Armed men broke into the bank's 
headquarters, overpowering a security guard and storming a strategy 
meeting. 

“The Chairman, Derek Hattersleigh, declined to comment on the incident,
saying only that it was an aborted kidnap attempt and that police had 
matters firmly in hand.  No one was harmed in the incident. 

“On a separate note, Bradbury announced that it is to scrap it's no
smoking policy, controversially allowing their workers to smoke in the 
workplace.  The decision was slated by health watchdogs as ‘a step-back 
to the bad old days.'” 

Bogard leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette.  “A good
job,” he said.  “But we've only just begun.” 

THE END. 


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