A View To a Kill

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A View To a Kill
(Chapter One)

by Rose Arcana

1985

Warren Cucurullo ducked down an alley and hid behind a dumpster. He heard the high pitched squeals of the group of women who had been chasing him die away. Warren was certain they had been fooled by his quick manuevering. "I sure will miss this," he thought to himself with a sigh and thought briefly of Missing Persons.
It was only after the women were gone and a police siren sounded nearby that he realized his current situation. A dark alleyway in the middle of Manhatten was no place for lone man. "Especially," he said out loud, looking down at his pink angora sweater and black leather pants, "dressed like this." Warren emerged from his hiding place and dusted himself off. A car pulled up to one side of the alley and he was sure the women had returned. However, when he looked in the direction of the car he realized he was gravely mistaken. A black limousine stretched before him, blocking that exit. The doors opened, and a number of men dressed in secret service outfits appeared.

Warren looked around. It seemed the men who were rapidly approaching were headed for him. A quick glance at the other side of the alley proved to distress him even more; another limousine was now blocking that exit as well. As the men edged nearer, Warren could feel the beads of cold sweat sliding down his forehead. He scanned his surroundings and was struck instantly with an idea. A thin, metal ladder hung from a trellis. Above it was an open window.
The men started running as Warren shimmied up the ladder and to his getaway. As he reached the window he looked down and saw that the number of men had grown dramatically in number. Several were yelling, "Get 'IM!" while others were speaking into the receivers on their lapels. Guns were visible as they pursued their target, and Warren wondered briefly through his tumult why they did not firing at him. He decided it was probably best not to hang around to find out, so he bolted through the window.

Warren found himself in the middle of a dingy bedroom. A drunken Latino man threw a sheet over the young woman in his bed and arose. He started yelling Spanish obscenities at the guitarist and broke for his bedside table. Warren had seen enough movies to know exactly what drunken Latino men kept in their bedside tables. He darted out of the room just as the men in black climbed through the window. HE was out of the apartment when he heard a gunshot and then a heavy thump.

He ran out of the building, the group of men fast at his heels. Warren shot down a well lit, heavily populated street and instantly the men disappeared. He collapsed on a bench and let the preceding events sink in. He could think of absolutely no reason why a government agency (he had no doubt that that was exactly who it was) was after him. Sure, he had cheated on his taxes a bit like every other American, but he had never knew the IRS Gestapo to be so persistent. And the question that haunted him most of all was, why did they suddenly cease their pursuit? He was chewing over several possibilities when one of the two limousines pulled up in front of him. The doors opened, and two rough looking men came out. They seemed surprised when Warren began to run frantically, almost as though they had expected him to give up. They quickly returned to the limousine. As he rounded corners and flew across streets, the limousine followed. He found himself within a sea of people, slowing his escape drastically. He used the cover of humanity to conceal himself as he shot into a nightclub. He shoved his way through the door and into the lobby. After staring out the window in a frightened frenzy, he watched the limo continue down the street. He leaned against the door and let his labored breathing come back to a normal rate. Only then did he glance around him and notice that everyone was staring directly at him.

It only took a moment to notice realize that all the people present were women, and a look at the bouncer proved to further demonstrate that this was a lesbian bar. The woman guarding the door was not looking at him in surprise as the others were, she was looking at him with suspicion. She pulled a walkie talkie from her back pocket and spoke into it softly. The person on the other end responded, and the bouncer looked Warren up and down. She approached him with long strides, and pulling up beside him grabbed his arm roughly.

"You don't belong here," she said in a husky voice.

"You know," he managed, barely able to control his shaking. "You're right. I thought this was Studio 54. I'm sure a lovely, um... gal like yourself could understand how I could make such a mistake. I'll just go and then everything will be..."

The woman wrenched his arm. "This way," she said, leading him into the nightclub. He thought about fighting her off, but decided against it. She was twice his height and more than twice his size. She dragged him through the club and instantly it was clear that they were headed for the curtained doorway at the other side of the room. Warren reluctantly let the woman push him through the doorway. Once he pushed the curtain away from his face he observed that the room was pitch black. It was as he took a step forward that he felt the blunt blow to the back of his head. The blackness of the room got darker and darker, and began to spin as Warren lost consciousness.

******

Warren was conscious for moments before he actually opened his brown eyes. The throbbing in his head was almost unbearable and made it difficult for the guitarist to get his thoughts together. He glanced around at his surroundings and was reminded of his present situation. He had been thrown haphazardly into a limousine and was now draped across the seat. Two of the black suited men from before sat in the seats facing him. Up close they appeared much less threatening.
"Where the hell are you taking me?" he bid in his toughest Brooklyn accent. The men were not phased and stared at him for a moment before turning away. "Great. That's just fucking great. I guess this would be a bad time to mention the fact that I have to piss." The men looked at each other.
The one on the right spoke into his lapel. "Sir?" the man queried.
There was no response.
"Sir, he has to... urinate.... That might get messy, sir... But we would watch him... We caught him, didn't we.. No sir..."
Warren unzipped his leather pants and held his penis in his hands. "I'll piss all over you if you don't stop this fucking car!"
The man was frantic. "Colonel Hampton! He's threatening to urinate on us, sir... Yes, sir." He let go if his lapel and pushed a button on the door. The frightened tone had escaped from his voice. "Steve, stop the car somewhere, the faggot's got to piss." The car jerked to a stop. After a moment the door opened on he side opposite Warren. A man stood in the doorway with a gun pointed at the guitarist.
"Get out, " was all he said. Warren climbed out gingerly and looked around. HE absolutely in the middle of nowhere. He knew no place as barren as this around New York City and wondered quite how long he had been unconscious. "Over there." The man indicated an area behind the car. Warren crossed to the spot and started to relieve himself. The man approached form behind his shoulder.
"Hey, man, can I have some privacy?"
The man said nothing.
Warren had no idea where he would go but before he knew it he had knocked the gun from the man's grip and was running away frantically. The man scrambled to pick up his gun and spoke into his lapel hastily as he began to chase after Warren. He fired several shots that neatly missed the guitarist, just like orders had said. Scare the shit out of him, but don't kill him. The lean fugitive was swift, and his head start left him at a far advantage. He was getting away. Just when the agent thought Warren would not be apprehended, the limousine pulled up behind him, and Warren stopped dead, staring into the headlights.
He turned to his right and hastened across the barren landscape, praying the limousine wouldn't follow him off road. Soon he heard a great rumbling behind him. He turned and saw that a mammoth army truck had appeared on the road. He turned back around and focused on his running until he heard a distinct sound coming at him. Once again he glanced behind him. Two motorcycles flew at the fugitive, catching up with him quickly. The cycles maneuvered to get on both sides of him. One of the men on the bikes hit him soundly across the temple with an object Warren had no time to identify, while the other swept him methodically onto the back of his cycle.

******

The first thought that crossed Warren Cucurullo's mind when he regained consciousness was how repetitive this was becoming. "Chase me around, hit me on the head. The US government never has been known for it's creativity." He opened his eyes and lifted his head slowly from where it had been resting on his arms. The radiant lightbulb above him blinded him, and resting his elbows on the table in which he had been sat at, he rubbed his temples.
The room he occupied was small, no more than 10ft x 10ft. Three walls were stark white and the other an obvious two way mirror. It was clear he was being observed from behind the glass. Over time the silence and his situation made him seethe inwardly. With his head lowered to the table he said with great volume, "I know you can hear me! What the fuck do you want?"
There was no reply.
Warren stood, lifting the chair he had occupied over his head. "My lawyer will fucking screw you all up the asses if you don't let me out of here!" Warren slammed the chair against the mirror violently. It withstood the strong blows with ease.

Suddenly a voice boomed form behind the mirror. "Sit down, Mr. Cucurullo."
Warren paused with the chair held above his head. Slowly he lowered it and sat. The only door in the room opened. A middle-aged man in a severe suit entered carrying a thick file folder.

"Good evening, Mr. Cucurullo. Nice weather we're having, don't you think? I must say your little flight demonstration was quite impressive. You have created and passed a test in which we hadn't had in mind." The man sat down opposite Warren and dropped the folder onto the table. It flew open and Warren found himself more confused than ever. The first page, shining the glare of the naked lightbulb was an 8 x 10 photograph.
"Nicholi Vladimir Ammatova, born April 14, 1960, St. Petersburg, Russia."
Warren looked down at the photograph and then looked up to the man with recognition clear in his wide eyes.
"Nick Rhodes?" Warren managed.

"Welcome to the CIA, Mr. Cucurullo."