THE HIT BACK SERIES (Order From Chaos)

Chapter Six

Chapter six

                          “Revenge is a confession of pain.”—Latin Proverb.
  
                                                                                             {Couple months back}
His fingers tap-danced over the keyboard with rhythmic clickety-clack. His lips danced along in syncronity as he mouthed the lyrics of the music blasting through the headphones, while his gaze stayed level on the screens from across him.
This is what living life was to him. No partying or glitz nor paparazzi; just seating and swiveling around behind computers’ monitors. Afterall, it was the one thing this cruel world spared him. It was the Sun his world revolves about.
He averted his gaze from the monitors’ screens in time, to noticed the silent beep of his cellphone, which he grabbed off the table with a clean sweep of his hand.
There’s a minute hesitation from him as he glanced at the glowing screen, that displayed an ‘Anonymous’ caller ID.
He disregarded the whisper of the tiny voice in his head, that which begged and pressed him not to answer the call, bringing the cell ever-gently to his ear, as if it was an egg, after a press on the answer button.
“Good morning, Mr. Mingh.” The voice on the phone was splintery and with the resonance of over fifty voices speaking all at once.
The dread of suffering from acousma was tantamount before he eventually managed to speak into the phone in a feathery, light tone. “Hey, may I know who I’m on with?”
“That won’t be necessary for now, I think.”
It was apparently a female voice and the caller hadn’t bother to use a scrambler, he thought as his mind brightened, with every reasonable hunch urging him to get off the phone as soon as possible.
“Then I guess having this conversation might as well not be necessary.” He said firmly, his thumb digging at the red button than he intended.
In a minute, he was again bobbing his head vigorously to the beat of the music as if to shake off every fragment of the disturbing thoughts of the last couple minutes. In another, he was again typing in commands into the computers before him.
And that even was short-lived, as the monitors across him twitched, and came back on in a split second with a message in block typeface, crawling right through their screens almost simultaneously.
“‘Mingh, I insist it’s necessary that we’ve this conversation.’” It takes every atom of strength in him to mouthed those words out loud.
The effect of which fills his gut with the vile feeling of dread. It takes grit to tucked in his shirttail now soaked through with his own sweat. And something even more, if there exist anything as such in the world, to get his butt off his seat.
It doesn’t take all the knowledge in the world to know right in this dicey situation that danger was imminent. And yet, he couldn’t move a limb, not to talk of putting up a good fight, which was definitely a shame.
Get a grip on yourself, he said silently to himself, in a bid to register this upon his subconscious mind. After which, he took a step, then a second and a double-time strides toward a set of drawers.
In no time, he was down scouring the drawers, shuffling through gadgets and neat piles of clothes in seek of that one thing, that could only assure his safety. He had kept it there all this while never thinking he would need a use of it. And now it seemed the time was closer than ever.
Wrapping his long, thin fingers around a familiar cold metal, he knew just then, that the choice was his to make; to see this through and live thereafter, or die out here, like the flame of a burning candle.
In that same breath, his worst fear was brought to manifest, with the alarum blaring out deafeningly at the same time the helical Xenon flashtubes beaconed their red flashes.
Along came the silky-smooth computer voice, announcing over the intercom. “’Intruder alert! The building has been breached!’”
At that, his grip slackened on the handle of his Magnum firearm. Beads of sweat trickled down the sides of his face. And worse, it was hard steadying the fast-beating cadence of his heart, which seemed on the verge of burning out anytime soon.
To safety then it seemed, he thought, pivoting on his heels and setting his sight on the backdoor exit to his left. But before he could come through with any action, he knew already it was game over.
He watched in a mix of terror and shock with eyes the size of a saucer, as every air ducts in the room snapped open, letting in the free passage of an unknown gas.
A gasp escaped his lips as the first wave hit him. Followed suit by a fit of coughing as he choked on the gas, now filling out through every inch of the room. And finally, the drooping of his eyelids, brought about by the violent tug of sleep on him.
However, he was flooded with relief upon knowing right on the spot what this meant. He’d been gassed, that was veritably a fact. Not with a harmful gas, but a soporific one, which practically meant; he’d live and not die after all these was over.
His eyes sealed shut, and without much of a fight, he embraced the darkness that beckoned on to him, toppling off his feet to the wooden floorboard with a loud thud.
{Present day}
President Kim Jong-Ju looked away from his hands knotted together on the shimmery, polished desk, and squarely at the camera, held by the lens man few paces away.
It seemed so strange he was seating here in his office, focusing his gaze on the Teleprompter. Funny that he was about to carry this out at long last. And galling, that he’d strip himself of his pride and over-inflated ego; knowing it was this or something even far worse.
So he began, each words coming out of a puckered lip. “It’s with heart laden with grief that I’m delivering this speech. And with conscience clear as day, that I commiserate with our American friends for their loss at Syria. Also, I hereby come out strongly to openly oppose the rumors that’ve been spreading like wildfire of late; that the DPRK was responsible for the missile attack on the United states military base in Raqqa, Syria.”
He sucked in his puffed cheeks and continued. “Though, the Americans have every reasons to believe we did so. Today, I’ll change the views of the world and out the truth in the interest of all and sundry. To come straight, the North Korea had a nuclear test conducted on the very day the United States military base was struck with a stereotype of the North’s Hwasong 15 missile. But I say to the world that the operation was shut down mid-way to the launch, which made it seemingly impossible for us to strike the base at Raqqa.”
Huffing, he added glibly. “I’m willing and ready to support my claims with concrete evidences, that will shake the conviction of the Americans and that of the world as a whole.”
“Also, I’ll like to make it known to the world that none of our nuclear arsenals are compromised, which made it an absolute doubt for our weapons to be used in such grossly act.”
There was a silence that lasted for a minute or so before he later added. “On a final note, now that we share a common enemy, the people of the North are pledging their support to the Americans and people of the world in uncovering the schemes of our enemy.”
That said, he was up on his feet as if puppeteered by an unseen force, and out of the office’s eastern door in a stiff, brisk walk.

The door opens to an ampler and Spartan laid-up room, where the General and five other men of his cabinet sat waiting expectantly.
“How’s that?” He asked, obviously annoyed.
“It’s fab!” Answered the General, who like the other men in the circle had seen the broadcast of the Airtime right from that room.
“It should do some convincing.” Said the man with a clipped moustache, who happened to be his Chief of Staff.
“It better do.” Was the President’s only remark, before he walked out of the room.