The Teddy Bear Conspiracy

NOVELS

INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUITY

LEADER OF THE LOSERS

DESTINY

ABSENT WITHOUT LEAVE (AWOL)

DEADLY DECEPTIONS

THOMPSON’S BOUNTY

THE AMERIAD

THE TEDDY BEAR CONSPIRACY

NOVELLAS

BETWEEN A LAUGH AND A SCREAM

ALL ROADS LEAD TO PINE BUSH

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

DARKENED PASSAGES

POETRY

LICENSE TO QUILL

SHORT STORIES

BURIED MEMORIES

NONFICTION

NEO REVOLUTIONARY MESSAGES

THE TEDDY BEAR CONSPIRACY-TITLE PAGE

The character and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright 2013 © Duane Gundrum

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission of the copyright holder.

PROLOGUE

San Francisco is known for its vicissitudes in weather, going from nice, comfortable heat to Monsoon-like storms that sweep in across the Bay and disappear almost as soon as they appear.  Today was no different.

If you were a tourist looking for a place to visit in San Francisco and were led to one of the city’s piers, you’d probably find yourself drawn to the spectacles of Pier 39, with its crowded walkways, street musicians and all around, all year long, festival atmosphere.  You might even find yourself wandering to one of the numerous numbered piers, known for fine cuisine and dining, each with a life and feel of its own.  Most likely, you wouldn’t find yourself at Pier 96, a southeastern peninsula sporting derelict ships being scrapped and a somewhat impressive recycling center.  Being located southwest of most of the known attractions of San Francisco with Candlestick Park located still quite some distance away, one would not be surprised to find no tourists, or pretty much anyone, frequenting Pier 96.

Which is why it was so odd that there was so much activity happening on the deck of a barge that was undergoing scrapping on the east coast nearest the pier.  It was night, so none of the scrappers were present, yet people were scurrying back and forth on the surface of the vessel, most of them slowly making their way to the stern, where Daniel Burke clutched a .357 Magnum revolver in his bloody right hand, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for a way out of his current situation.

We know you're back there, said a voice that rose above the ocean's waters lapping against the barge's intake fender.  Don’t make this harder than it has to be.

Come on! said another voice.  We’re all friends here!  This doesn’t have to go down like this!

Burke knew what they were doing.  They were trying to get him to reveal his position as they moved closer to him, trying to reach a spot for a clean shot.  They knew they had the advantage.  It was only a matter of time before more of their people arrived to assist them.  And then it would be over.  Burke was alone, and their training told them he was a man about to die.

Burke wiped blood from his hand onto his shirt.  The wound was from a bullet that nicked his hand when they first turned on him.  Everything had been calm only moments before.

Wiping his eyes with his shirt to ease the burning sensation his sweat was causing, blood smeared all over his face.

This just wasn't his day.

Creeping low on the deck, he crawled his way to the stern.  The ramp to the dock was on the other side of the ship, but that was where the other men were hiding.  His only hope was to find protection on this side of the ship.  Fortunately, because the barge was going through the process of disassembly before complete scuttling, there was a lot of equipment scattered across the deck, making for lots of places to slip into or hide behind.

He made it to the railing and realized it was quite a drop to the water below.  He considered jumping but realized he wouldn't make it far before they turned their guns on him and ended his escape.  There was just too much distance he’d have to traverse through the water before he’d be out of their sights.

Several rows of cargo boxes were lined up on the deck.  He didn't know whether the boxes were to be loaded or whether they were waiting to be off loaded, but he did know that they would offer as good a shelter as anything else he could see on the ship.

Gunfire erupted behind him and simultaneously a large chunk of wood ripped away from the box near his head.  Whirling around, Burke saw one of the men standing in the open.  The man's gun was still smoking, hot from the round he just fired.

Burke aimed his gun at the man and fired.  The man took the round in the stomach and fell backwards.  A second round from the Magnum ripped into his head and knocked him into a cargo box, blood splattering everywhere.

Come on, Burke! screamed the voice from somewhere on the other side of the ship.  It doesn't have to go down this way!

Leaning against a large cargo box, Burke listened for everything he could hear.  At first, he concentrated on the sound of ocean water as it lashed against the barge.  Focusing intently on that sound,  he waited for the sound of anything that didn't fit in with the ocean's rhythmic pattern.

And then he heard it.  It was the sound of shoes as they pressed against the deck floor, the sound increasing in volume as the person closed the distance towards him.  Seconds later, he heard the sound of other shoes, their sounds also increasing in volume as the sound-makers crept forward towards his position.  It was only a few seconds later before he could distinguish that there were three people moving towards him.

He checked the chamber of his revolver.  Two rounds left.  With how close the others were, there was no time to attempt a reload.  Somehow, he was going to have to finish the job with only two rounds.

Taking a deep breath, he peered around the corner of his box and waited for the first of the men to turn the corner.  He leveled the gun and aimed at the empty spot he imagined the first of them would eventually fill.

The first man to turn the corner had an assault rifle in his hands.  He swiveled the the weapon from side to side in front of him, ready to fire at anything.  Before he could see his enemy, Burke's revolver exploded before him, the heated projectile entering his skull.  He toppled over with a rather large hole in his head.

The second man heard the Magnum discharge, turned the corner himself and blindly fired his own assault rifle.  He sprayed bullets in all direction, hoping to get lucky with a random shot, but only managed to rip into a packing crate behind Burke.  Burke's revolver, however, turned on him before the mistake could be corrected, and he, too, was killed.

The third man saw both of his partners die and decided not to tempt fate a third time.  It was now one on one, and he knew enough about Burke to know he didn't want to face him alone.

Unfortunately, he didn't really have a choice.  As he turned to slip behind a cargo box, Burke charged at him.

The fleeing man's weapon fell from his hands as Burke crashed into him from behind and knocked him down.  Burke climbed on top of him and stuck the barrel of his weapon into his face, cocking back the hammer for the effect alone.

Burke didn’t bother to mention that the weapon was actually now out of bullets.  Who sent you? said Burke.

I'm not saying anything.  You’re going to kill me anyway.

Burke pushed in the hammer on the revolver.  You guys came to kill me.  I didn’t come here to kill you.

Screw you, said the man.  I’m not telling you anything.

Burke smiled for a brief second before he slammed the barrel of his revolver into the man's face.  Before the man could respond, Burke did it again, and blood gushed from the fresh wound.

What the hell— the man said as Burke slammed the revolver into the side of the man's head, causing the man to scream out in pain.

I don't have to kill you, said Burke.  Death is only one of many options available to me.

Traitor! said the man.  I don't have to explain anything to you!

For a second, Burke stared at the man.  That was all the time it took him to realize the man was serious.  You really mean that, don't you?  Why do you think I’m a traitor?

Deny it all you want, said the man, an air of disbelief to him. Burke ignored him and glanced at his watch.  Shouldn't there be back up units here by now?  Or were you people sent on this hit alone?

What's it matter to you, Traitor?

Burke thought to himself quickly.  This didn’t make any sense.  These guys were sent to kill him, but unlike most kills, there were details that just didn’t fit.

There's something else, said Burke.  How did you know my name?  Unless you're the next target, you shouldn't know my name.

The man was about to say something indecent but then Burke’s words hit.  His eyes opened wide.  He realized what Burke was getting at.  If he and his men were to kill Burke, steps would have to be made to insure the killers were never able to testify about the hit again.  There was only one sure way of doing that.

What were your instructions after you made the hit? said Burke.

Why should I tell you anything? said the man, still not planning to give any information away, especially to a traitor.

Burke lifted the man's head up off of the deck.  Quit the act!  This isn't some macho game we're playing here.  What were your instructions after you made the hit?

We were told to take the ship out into the water.  A team would meet us and dispose of your body.

Damn! he burst out, shocked.  It's the ship, isn't?

What are you talking about? said the man.

This ship has been decommissioned.  That means they tore out the engine first.  It’s not going anywhere.  The man just stared back at him, not sure anything he was hearing was making sense.

Burke stood up and glanced around the ship, realizing there was too much cargo on the deck for him to find what he was looking for.  Get off this ship now!  Before the man could respond or act, Burke leaped over the side of the ship and dived into the water below.

The man walked over to the railing and glanced over the side, seeing that Burke was a sitting duck in the water.  A smile came to his face as he walked over to one of his downed partners and pulled the dead man's assault rifle from lifeless fingers.  He walked back over to the railing and took careful aim at Burke, knowing there was no way he could miss.  While Burke's actions didn't make sense, the killer wasn't about to complain.

Burke swam as fast as he could.  He realized he had to get as far away from the ship as possible.  Unlike the man still on deck, Burke knew what was going to happen next.  Still, when it happened, he was nearly overwhelmed by the heat of the explosion.

Keeping his senses intact, he dived under water and escaped the brunt of the explosion as the ship ripped into flames, roasting its only living passenger.  The vessel exploded outwards in a ball of flames, becoming nothing but a flaming chunk of debris.

The two men stood at the marina railing, watching the flames subside.  Neither one of them appeared to be too surprised by what he was seeing.

The taller of the two men wore a tan London Fog overcoat which had been tailored to fit his stocky frame.  His suit under the overcoat was just as impressive, giving off the air that he wouldn't look right unless he was always dressed in an expensive suit.  A cigarette was held in his hands in such a way that it looked distinguished, not like just a smoking, paper plant.  He took a drag from the cigarette.  I guess that takes care of that.

The other man wore a suit, but he didn't seem to belong in it.  There was a rugged look to him that suggested he would be much more comfortable in a denim jacket and jeans, stubble growing from a three day beard.  He turned to the taller man.  Sir, it is a shame it had to come t o this.

The man stared at him, an air of humor in his eyes.  Why's that?

The shorter man took a deep breath and let it out.  He was your friend, wasn't he?

The humor disappeared from his eyes.  In this business, there are no friends.  We do what we have to do.

The shorter man glanced out at the water again.  The flaming mass was starting to smoke, an indication that the fire had nowhere else to go but into the water.  Well, sir, what next?

The man put his cigarette out by squashing it into the railing, dropping the white filter to the ground.  We have a few loose ends left to tie up.

The man stared at him with surprise on his face.  But, sir, with Burke dead, there are no loose ends left.

The man in the London Fog overcoat reached into his coat and pulled out a revolver.  He aimed it at his subordinate and pulled the trigger.  The man fell back into the railing and died even before the second round entered his skull.  There are no loose ends now, said the man as he put his revolver back into its holster.

Reaching down to the dead body, he lifted it over the railing and dropped it into the water below.  The current grabbed the body and shoved it under the pier, keeping it from being found for the rest of the night.

Yes, my friend, in this business we do what we have to do.

Long after the explosion, Burke surfaced.  There was flaming debris all around him.  It took him a couple of seconds to orientate himself before he swam towards a far end of the dock.

The police would be arriving almost immediately, and he wanted to be as far away from the explosion as possible.  He didn't want to be listed as the only survivor of the explosion.

As far as anyone was concerned, he was dead.  After all, that was the plan.  Whoever set up the hit expected him to be killed or occupied long enough for the explosion to take place.  Either way, his death was expected. 

Because of that, he would allow himself to be dead.  It was amazing what dead men could do if they set their minds to it.

CHAPTER I:  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

Press conferences are a unique political animal, capable of traversing the avenues between extremes of peaceful and out of control circumstances.  Many times, they begin as cursory information exchanges, and then due to one question or another, they turn into hostile attack sessions, with queries figuratively as sharp as daggers and capable of doing so much more damage.  As a consequence, public affairs teams spend much of their time ascertaining the nuances of words, and the makeups of audiences, to determine just what words might sway a crowd, or what statements might result in positive results.

Sometimes, those preparations fall short.

On this particular day, the crowd was already becoming restless.  The people that made up the numbers were from the nation's largest news agencies, and each person wanted the story that was going to launch his or her career into the national spotlight.  Of the few who were already in the national spotlight, the desire was for that one story that promised never having to step down again.  Such expectations led to a feeding frenzy that was not much different than the scene of a lamb being sent into a coliseum of hungry, ravenous animals.  Only this time, the hungry animals were journalists and reporters, and the poor lamb was an overworked police commissioner being led to the slaughter by his subordinate staff.

Cameras focused on the platform located at the far end of the room.  Several higher ranking police officers stood before the crowd with their hands behind their backs.  Behind them was the podium where every camera was pointed, even though no one was presently standing behind it.

When the platform's side door opened to reveal several officials in suits, the reporters went wild, questions being thrown in the same breaths as accusations.  One of the officials glanced at the crowd for a moment before he was ushered to the podium.  Standing behind the microphone, he waited for the continuous shouting to cease before he began.  As a seasoned veteran, he knew the way the game played, and he savored every moment he had before it became necessary for him to speak.

I wish to thank each of you for attending this press conference, he said.  I understand there are many questions you wish to ask at this time.  Without further delay, why don't we begin?  He pointed at one of the reporters who was standing in the front row.

Commissioner, said the reporter, his fingers gripping a pencil against a note pad, one of the few note pads in the crowd.  Almost everyone was carrying a tape recorder or some type of high-tech microphone that transmitted signals almost as fast as they were delivered.  What has the police department done to combat the glass epidemic.

The commissioner coughed nervously before he spoke.  To begin with, it must be pointed out that the glass epidemic is a relatively new crisis.  To combat something we don't yet fully understand, we must take the necessary precautions to insure that we do understand it.

He pointed to another reporter, a young woman who held the microphone of a video camera in her hands.  Commissioner, it has been speculated that glass is just another variation of the old drug ice.  Is that true?

He thought to himself before answering.  I'm not a chemist, so I can't really answer that question.

There were a couple of chuckles from the audience.  The reporter who asked the question stared at the commissioner, not satisfied with his answer.  What about the composition of the new drug?

His eyes moved through the audience.  There was no getting around the question.  I'm sure everyone has been reading the reports put out by the local news media, he said.  From what we understand, glass is a crystallized substance.  The epidemic is so new that we are still unsure about its exact composition.

Denise Slaughter, a prominent blogger for Issues, a national affairs web log, managed to get his attention and asked the next question.  Why are we seeing such a limited distribution of a drug that appears to becoming extremely popular?

He nodded, figuring someone was eventually going to ask that question.  He obviously couldn’t explain how many conversations he’d had with his fellow staff about that particular issue itself.  As you already know, one of the primary characteristics of glass is its inability to be reconstructed by breaking down its core components and studying its structure, which was how ice originally gained its traction in the drug world.  Glass has resisted all attempts to analyze it, as it breaks down and loses cohesion when reduced to the molecular level.  Our chemists can comment further on that, but so far, our labs, and the numerous ones studying it across the country, have determined that it is irreproducible.

What is being done to combat the drug? said another reporter.

He took a deep breath and let it out.  Our police officers have been working long hours to combat this new drug.  A federal task force has formed to crack down on the gangs that are distributing the substance.  We are taking all steps to assure this does not become an epidemic.

One of the older reporters spoke out.  Sir, what does the federal government have to do with a local drug problem?

This is not a local drug problem, said the commissioner.  Glass is not something that just appeared overnight in San Francisco.  It came from somewhere else.  Federal resources have been dispatched to our area to investigate the situation.  This team will work with our local police forces to determine the extent of this epidemic.  Until then, we are on holding status.

There was an uproar from the audience upon hearing this.

You have to understand, said the commissioner.  There are things going on here that we can't understand.

Like what? said an unseen reporter.

The commissioner removed his glasses and wiped them down with a handkerchief.  It was obvious the job was starting to get to him.  If it wasn’t glass, it would have been something else.  Glass just seemed to be the latest dilemma to land on his desk.  To begin with, this drug is like nothing we've ever experienced before.  It outlasts the effects of ice, is cheaper than crack and is appearing everywhere.  This is something that has to be researched before we jump too far ahead of ourselves.

How much is this drug going for on the open market? said one of the reporters.

He shook his head.  I'm not at liberty to say at this time.

You stated that it was cheaper than crack, said the same reporter.  It shouldn't take much more to tell us an average range of prices.

I'm sorry, he said.  I cannot comment on that at this time.

What about the federal assistance? said the young, female reporter from earlier.  When will it arrive?

He glanced at the clock on the far end of the briefing room.  If everything is going as scheduled, it should be at the airport right now.

United Airlines Flight 195 arrived in San Francisco and its passengers exited through Gate 82.  There was a large group of people waiting at the exit gate as passengers departed into the lobby area.  Sons and daughters, returning from weekend trips to divorced parents, reunited with the original parents.  Husbands and wives returned from business trips and were greeted by spouses and other family members.  A select group of people exited the plane and went into the lobby alone, no one there to greet them.  All in all, it was a typical scene at the airport.

One of these people to exit this flight was Cynthia Hardy.  Dressed in a casual business suit, corporate white shirt and black skirt, her eyes glanced back and forth, looking for a single sign of being recognized by anyone.  While she had been through many terminals before without being met by someone, this was one time when she expected to be met in the gate lobby.  At least that’s what she was told would happen when she arrived.

Moving through the lobby, she looked around.  There were many people seated on the single chairs, lonely eyes darting back and forth as if looking for some home to set them upon.  Several of them stared back at her, realizing she was looking at them with as much interest as they were giving her.  Their stares quickly moved onto other people.

Where’s the guy who is supposed to meet me? she thought to herself.  This was the first time she'd been stood up, and she didn't like it.  Well, that wasn’t completely true.  She’d been stood up several times in the past, especially when a date discovered she left chemist off of her dating profile, but this was the first time she’d been stood up by someone involving business.

As she walked through the gate lobby, she saw airport TSA officers converging on Gate 88.  Her interest peaking, she walked over to the main computer screen that listed all of the incoming flights.  Scanning the listings, she found one that caught her attention, a plane that had just come in from Houston, but had originated in Bogota.  It was about to arrive at Gate 198.  Looking around at the people who were waiting for the flight to arrive, she slipped into the crowd and waited with them.

The plane had already docked with the exit tunnel.  It was now only a matter of time before the doors opened and the plane off loaded its cargo of people.

Several minutes later, she realized the doors weren't going to open.  Something else was going on.  She realized what that something was when a team of police officers joined the TSA officers, rushed over to the exit tunnel doors and knocked on them.  Several seconds later, the doors opened from within and the officials entered.  The doors closed behind them.

Cynthia smiled to herself.  She realized what was going on.  The police officers had been sent by customs to check the plane because someone had spotted something out of the ordinary, or a dog had smelled something that shouldn't have been detected.  It was only a matter of time for the perpetrator, or perpetrators, now.

Realizing she was out of her element here, she walked back to where her plane had off loaded and looked for her wayward greeter.  Still, there was no one waiting for her.

Sighing to herself, she walked towards the lobby exit.  It was obvious that no one was going to meet her.

That was when she heard the first gunshot.  It was followed by two quick blasts and then there was silence.

People in the lobby with panic, and others who didn’t originally react reacted to their panic, people rushing back and forth.  When it came to gunfire, no one wanted to be on the receiving end, especially when no one knew what was going on.

As people ran by her, Cynthia stood in the center of the lobby and watched what was happening.  From her angle, she was in the middle of everything, able to see everything, but still unable to understand anything.  Within seconds, the entire lobby area was cleared of people, all people hugging the far walls, praying that this wouldn't be their last day.  With the speed that the lobby cleared, Cynthia wouldn’t have been criticized to describe it much like one of those westerns when the gunfighter shows up and pairs off against the sheriff, everyone else disappearing to the sidelines.

Cynthia stared at the entrance gate and noticed it was still closed from the other side.  There was no doubt on her mind that the gunfire had come from beyond the door.  Still, there was no telling exactly what had happened.

For someone like Cynthia, the uncertainty was unbearable.

The silence hung in the air like an anvil over an ant hill.  The muffled breathing of innocent people and the shuffling of panicky feet as they met ground friction could be heard throughout the lobby.  Yet, there was no sound from beyond the closed door.

Someone noticed Cynthia was still standing in the middle of the lobby.  He rushed over to her.  Miss, the police are apprehending someone.  It's not safe out here.

She turned to him, still amazed that this was going on around her.  It's okay, she said.  He stood before her, prepared to grab her and pull her to safety, even if he was forced to do it.  I understand what's going on, she said.  Thank you.

The man stared at her for a second before he decided there was nothing he could do for her.  She was one of those thrill-seekers, those adventurous types