Grab and Go

Grab and Go: Introduction

It was hot. Why was it always hot this early in the summer? For the post high school graduate Mitchell Wright, this was nothing new. His mentor had sent him to many hot places. Indonesia, Kenya, Palestine, it was all hot and at first he grew tired of the shit quickly. However, he became used to it, unlike his companions David Keesh and James Furlinski. These two, although close friends and same graduating classmates, had yet to meet the man masterminding the plans they were sent onto. They were to follow Mitchell's orders, and get payed for doing the job and not asking questions.

But what struck the two most compelling is why the three young men were sitting in a black and tinted SUV in the back of their recent stomping grounds of Figstown High, their high school, wearing formal clothes and ties with bags of improvised explosives slung around their backs and automatic weapons cooly sitting in their hands. The first thought as Mitchell pulled around the back was they were about to commit a not so uncommon tragedy of a school shooting, but the determined leader assured them it was nothing of the sorts. Summer was now in full swing, and no one but the front desk workers and a resource officer were inside, no doubt completing paperwork and biding time with bureaucratic work.

"Figstown..." David muttered, "I thought we were done with this place once I got my diploma." The calm 19 year old Mitchell was smoking a cigar, making sure no ashes fell on his pristine white color shirt and silver tie and black dress pants as he smoked the long tubing of paper and tobacco.

"It's only a one time visit, Dave," he said with authority etched in his voice, "once we set the explosives and find the evidence, you won't be seeing this place for a while. Maybe even never."

"Sorry boss," James piped up from the backseat, "I know not to ask questions but just this one time, do you mind explaining why I had to bring a fully loaded M4 and IED's to our old high school?" Mitchell sat back, unaffected by his companion's question. He pondered it for a moment in his head as David eagerly looked out the window, staring at the glass backdoor of the building. The front entrance was huge, lined with flowerbeds and clean benches, along with classrooms directly above on the second floor that extended sideways and inward. The complex system was shaped like a hexagon, only with more curves and fancy interior lining at the intersections. In the back, a large gymnasium, one of the largest in the county, stood towering over the back layers of classrooms and hallways. Nestled in between the gym and remaining school was a back door entrance that led to the locker rooms, where students would change and the offices of gym teaches were attached to the side.

This was the point of entry that they were going to make as soon as the employed hacker hijacked the camera systems and shut off any source of virtual security.

"Since we were best buds back in the day," Mitchell went on, "I don't see harm in telling you why we find ourselves here all of a sudden." With one final puff of his cigar, he carefully set it down in the ashtray and turned around in his driver seat to face the small and perplexed James, while Dave leaned in, his eyes still fixed on the doors, to hear the explanation.

"There's a gym teacher here you all might be familiar with. His name's Hassen." Immediately the eyebrows of both Dave and James went up. All three had him as their physical education teacher. Mitchell noticed and grinned to himself. "The bastard was in business with Tropical Suns, and he took out loans from the civilian branch. But he has a dirty way of doing it. He takes out a loan and defaults on it, pocketing the cash and leaving him with bad credit. BUT he uses a ton of different aliases, and he was sly about it to until he grew careless and used the same alias twice. He found out about his mistake though, and realized there's no possible way to run from Tropical, so he went to the feds and threatened to expose some of our underground dealings if we didn't leave him alone. He has some files locked away in that school in his gym office. Intel says its in a locker behind his desk after we combed some text messages to his friends and wife. Our job is to find that locker, bust it open, take the files. Then, we use these bad boys, " he patted the large black duffel bag slung around his shoulder identical to his two partners in crime, "to send a 'message' if you will."