Jubilee's Insidious Operation

Cherry Jubilee pushed the half used cigarette into the ashtray, causing smoke to rise and dissipate into the air. Leaving behind the faint smell of polluted, yet tasty, chemicals throughout the air. Jubilee’s office was momentarily silent as she continued to push the cigarette into the ashtray, allowing ample time for the whirring machinery to fill the absent noise. Outside the office, machinery lifted, moved and separated cherries into different collections used for different purposes.

The office was quite cramped, with a large wooden desk positioned directly in the center of the small room and multiple filing cabinets pushed against the back wall, behind Jubilee. Official and unofficial papers had been haphazardly crammed into the cabinets until they were no longer able to close properly. Jubilee had obviously made an effort to give the room an aesthetic appeal by placing potted plants near the entrance and placing formerly elegant chairs on both sides of the desk. Though, the leather of the chairs had become frayed and faded, with the material creasing at the slightest touch. The entire room was tattered and used; the yellow wallpaper were grimy and peeling from exposure to cigarettes, the desk itself had burn marks from when Jubilee would miss the ashtray; the ceiling was barely visible through the thick smoke cloud wafting above them.

Unlike the smoke filled room, the area around the machinery was filled with pleasantly sour air, even though the odor of the machines suggested something sinister. Above the machines was a catwalk with several workers surveying the worksite, assuring everything ran smoothly and as planned. A few swaggered along the catwalk while others leaned against the railings. Occasionally one of them would fumble inside their pockets in order to fish out a cheap cigarette from their crumpled packets. Despite the cherry factory supposedly generating three-hundred jobs for the honest workmen, the warehouse was surprisingly bare; the odd person would periodically fumble with a control pad and leave.

Jubilee’s former cigarette was now nothing more than a bud sticking from a pile of ash and tobacco. She collected the glass of strong apple cider on her desk, the ice inside the glass made a rhythmic tapping noise when she sipped. She leaned back in her feebly padded chair and waited for her visitor to speak. Goodwill Buckle, the newly appointed errand boy for a street gang, tugged at his unfastened tie before speaking, “The Street Devils want to call on a favour.”

The white, buttoned business shirt and black dress pants Buckley sported would be more suited to a white collar business man than a back alley thug. Though, his hair wasn’t exactly the example of neat; his short, dishevelled hair was tangled in every which way; the streaks of brown hair clambered over each other. However, his pointed face was carefully washed and cleaned, excluding the hair tracing his sharp jawline. His small nose struggled under the smell of cigarettes and sour cherries, while his brown eyes only suffered from the burning smoke.

A small cough came from Jubilee as she sipped her apple cider, which was specially brought in from the Apple family brewery. It was the type of cough that meant she was either doubtful of the negotiators terms, or she was choking on warm liquor which she was not yet accustomed to. Buckley hoped for the latter.

Once Jubilee regained her composure, she placed the liquor glass back onto the table, perhaps with more much force than she wanted as

some cider spilled onto the desk. Buckley found a sudden great interest in the wall behind Jubilee as the glass connected with the desk, “Mr. Buckle-

Purely from habit, Buckley corrected Jubilee, “Buckley is fine.” Though, a sudden realisation of who he interrupted washed over him, and he wished he could melt into the seat and disappear.

Jubilee furrowed her brow and leant forward in her seat, assuming a more intimidating figure, “Mr. Buckle” she said, with more force this time, “I will give you a favour.”

Buckley knew Jubilee had not yet finished, though she would not continue without intervention. It was a simple tactic used to make errand boys feel comfortable, “What do you want in return?” Buckley kept his gaze fixated on a stained splotch behind Jubilee as he asked her.

Jubilee pushed off the desk and fell back into her chair, where she then swiped a cigarette packet from the desk. The cigarettes were a cheap brand which read “Hoxton’s Buds”. Jubilee bumped the bottom of the packet on the edge of the desk and out popped a crudely made cigarette, to which Jubilee wasted no time in resting between her lips, “Mr. Buckle.” She started, “Does your gang have any history with drugs, or drug trafficking of any kind?”

Buckley scratched at the morning whiskers under his chin as he thought about the question, he hadn’t been in the group for very long and hardly knew its history, “No, as far as I know.”

“Me neither, horrendous stuff.” Jubilee said as she dismissed the idea of drugs, “Never have, and never will.” As she finished, she collected the silver lighter on her desk and placed it underneath the cigarette. A spark started underneath the cigarette but the flame failed, “I need you to transport guns.” Another spark, and another failure, “In fact, I need you to transport them here.”

Jerking at his tie again Buckley thought about the deal, “I’m not sure if the guys will want to-

“I need you to transport guns.” Jubilee reiterated, this time Buckley caught her stare, and found it difficult to return to the splotch on the wall. A few moments passed and the whirring noise of machinery filled the air again before Jubilee spoke, “A shipment will arrive this afternoon and I need you to collect it.”

“Wouldn’t you be able to send one of your cronies to collect your guns?” Buckley protested.

Another spark and finally a small flame started, Jubilee pulled the lighter underneath her cigarette and the paper and tobacco was alight within moments. The lighter was then cast onto the table which caught Buckley’s attention. Buckley noticed a faint engraving on the side of the silver lighter, he tried turning his head to read it more clearly but was called to attention by Jubilee, “Do you want this favour or not?” After she spoke, Jubilee huffed a large breathe of smoke and released the contents of her lungs into the already contaminated, yet comforting air of the office.

“All right, I’ll do it.” Buckley said as he raised his hands in a joking surrender, “Where and when do you want me to pick it up?”

The chill from the wind swept over Buckley again, prompting him to, again, rub his hands together to create warmth. He was told to wait at the docks until a pink, metal crate with the logo, “Hoxton’s Buds” was stored on the shipyard. Supposedly it was meant to arrive near the south side of the dock, but no specific time was given. Instead he was told to wait until the crate arrived, and Buckley was forced to wait for three hours in the night breeze, with no sign of freighters from the south side.

Buckley had ascended an idle crane in order to gain a vantage point over the shipyard and any drowsiness he felt dispersed when he looked over the cranes railing. While the dock’s lights were attractive, Buckley paid no attention to them and leant against a metal wall beside the ladder, listening for the sound of docking freighters.

He silently cursed Jubilee for having him wait in the chilling cold. The sound of another freighter horn announced in the shipyard, causing Buckley to slowly move to inspect the source of the noise; the sudden rush of blood to his legs caused them to gradually thaw. The freighter sounded weaker than the others, so Buckley spent a few moments inspecting the south side of the docks until he found the proverbial freighter.

Though, calling it a freighter would be an overstatement, the ship was barely larger than a simple speedboat, making it difficult to detect the colour and text written on the boat. However, despite its unexpected size and ambiguous colour, Buckley did not hesitate to rush down the idle crane, occasionally being reminded to slow his pace when he would miss a rung on the ladder.

The trip to the south side of the dock was met with no interruption, any workers that caught sight of Buckley shrugged him off and returned to their work, besides, security there was surprisingly weak. Buckley approached the speedboat and called out to the people securing the boat, “Hey!” he called as he waved to the people and moved closer. Buckley immediately shoved his hands into his trench-coat when he stopped waving; the blood in his fingertips had already receded into his palms. As Buckley pushed his hands into his coat, in his left pocket, he brushed against a metal flask filled with cheap scotch. In his right pocket, he brushed against the grip of his Colt 45 pistol, his forefinger landing on the trigger. It was a simple handgun which was given to him by a thug named Carlos as he was introduced to The Street Devils. They said it was sign of being accepted into the gang, but Buckley simply recognised it as a means of protection.

He continued to move forward at a steady pace. The people at the boat heard his call and acted like any gun smuggling criminal would. With hostility, “Arriba las manos!” a man called out.

Despite not understanding their language, Buckley felt the aggression in his voice, especially since he now had two assault rifles pointed in his direction. His hand tightened on his gun, the grip digging into his palms and the metal of the trigger warming to his touch. However, Buckley quickly numbered his odds, let go of the weapon and forced his hands out of his pockets and above his head. His pace continued until he was several feet from the man who called out to him, “Are you the ones with the guns?” Buckley asked as he stopped. Soon, he felt rather ridiculous for asking that question; of course they had guns, they were pointed at him right now, “Jubilee sent me to-

“Jubilee!” the same voice called out with an immense amount of force. Suddenly, Buckley felt as if he had, somehow, insulted a member of the opposite party and suddenly the firearm cradled in his pocket seemed much more welcoming. Possibilities of his escape, capture or death started to fly through his head and the world around him started to spin; Buckley’s legs tensed as he prepared to flee, his hands slowly started to move to his pockets and the favour from Jubilee seemed worthless.

Just as Buckley motioned to snatch the pistol from his coat and retreat backwards, an imposing voice called out, “Is that Jubilee’s amigo here for weapons?” It was a deep voice with a heavy Spanish accent. A few moments passed before an equally heavy Spaniard stepped off of the boat, two duffel bags clasped in his arms, and the vessel rocking slightly as it was alleviated of his weight.

Buckley stepped towards the stout man, his hands still kept above his head, but still ready to reach for his gun. Once he was a few feet from the man with the duffle bags, which Buckley assumed to be holding the weapons, he was able to get a decent look at the trader. He had series of tattoos along his greasy arms, though, all of them were decorated with dull colours ranging from black to light grey, except for a particular tattoo positioned below his left shoulder. A red heart with the text, ‘Mama’ written on the foreground. His hair, or what remained of his thinning hair was gelled backwards into thin lines. His facial hair, however, was thick with colour and viscosity. It was only a simple goatee, but it was definitely the man’s key feature, beside his smug smile. His curved, oily face looked jolly and kind, as if he was the favourite uncle to many happy nieces and nephews.

The pointed barrels and threatening glares started to unnerve Buckley, but he still kept his cool by trying to imagine he was not one trigger pull from death, “I am, yes.” Buckley replied as the wind’s chill assaulted his palms; he instinctively motioned to shove his hands into his pockets, but the multitude of firearms pointed at him advised against that.

A few moments of silence passed before either party spoke again, “Well? What you waiting for American?” The question jolted Buckley into action, causing him to move faster than he anticipated which startled the armed men slightly; the fingers on their triggers becoming tenser as they pushed against the chilled metal.

Buckley, now within reach of the Spaniard, prepared for the weight of the bags and extended his arms towards the Spaniard, “Thank you… uh, Mr…?” Buckley asked as the bags fell into his arms, they initially tested his balance as he started to strain, but he managed to withstand the bags weight.

As Buckley started to tuck the duffel bags underneath his arms, the Spaniard spoke, his voice still resembling the typical Spanish cartel member, “My name is not important.” Buckley, despite the severity of the situation, inwardly and simultaneously laughed and cringed at the comment. It reminded him of the cheap action thrillers he used to watch; the characters in the films seemed much more charming, exciting and predictable; while ‘Mr. Not Important’ only served to embarrass himself.

Without comment, Buckley fastened his grip on the bags and returned to his unimpressive car. The white paint had been victim to many harsh seasons, the engine was far overdue for maintenance, the frame of the car was already dilapidated, and an unmovable layer of grime had coated the trashed interior.

Despite how he managed to keep his cool in opposition of many guns and seemed ridiculously calm in the situation, Buckley couldn’t help but feel like his legs want to collapse from under him and the contents of his stomach want to leave. His hands shook uncontrollably as he constantly remembered that he was a trigger away from death, though, he tried to think nothing of it.

With both hands occupied by illegally imported firearms; Buckley fumbled about, trying to retrieve his rusted keys for his equally rusted car. A few moments were spent squirming underneath the weight of the bags while he tried, without succession, to pull the keys from his pocket. Finally, he decided to put the bags down, potentially with more force and less control than he anticipated. As the bags connected with the ground, causing a small cloud of dust to rise, the sound of distant crumpling gravel could be heard, even more clearly when the sound started to move closer and the direction of the ambient noise could be identified.

Without thinking, Buckley turned towards the moving sound and suddenly, he had a jabbing pain in the back of his head along with a sting along his hip as the keys found themselves between him and the ground. The next words Buckley heard was, “Get on the ground! This is the police!” followed by a thumping pain in his gut as the wind was forced out of him; the only sound filling his mind was a constant ringing as his head connected with the ground again. Then, there was a scraping pain against his face as he was pushed into the gravel. The dust invaded his nostrils and caked the left side of his face. Once Buckley realised the situation he was in, he started to react by thrashing, bashing and biting. Any possible tactic that could give him any leeway to escape, which happened to be freeing a single arm from his captor.

Now that he had a limb free, Buckley initially thought to retrieve the firearm from his pocket. Unfortunately, he was rejected of his weapon when his coat was pulled off while he was flailing on the ground; so he tried for an alternative. He tried reaching behind himself to strike his attacker, but, it was as if no one was forcing Buckley into the gravel since he couldn’t grasp the officer on top of him. Next, he tried crawling out from under the person on him, though, it proved useless and only scratched the palms of his hands as he desperately tried to escape, like that of a wild animal frantically fleeing from a poacher. Though, it proved helpful once he abandoned his fraught escape, collected a handful of gravel and dust, and aimlessly threw it behind himself. Luckily, the grit found its target, causing his captor to suddenly release their grip and attend to their clouded eyes.

Now that Buckley was free, he scuttled out from under the person now trying to hold him down and clean their eyes, but Buckley was already on both feet and the panging throughout his body was starting to numb, he then searched for his jacket.

However, his captor had somewhat recovered from the stinging in their eyes around the same time they saw Buckley identify the jacket and rush towards it. By the way their target ran towards the jacket with earnest determination, they knew that it was crucial to remove the clothing from them. So, they too ran towards the jacket discarded near the rusted car.

Buckley shoved his hands into the pocket with the pistol and immediately felt the rough grip land perfectly into his palms; while his pursuer grabbed onto Buckley’s wrists while they still fumbled inside the jacket’s pocket. They both tugged at each other, forward and back continuously; either seeming like they might succeed at one point, only to have the advantage lost after they were walloped across the face, in the stomach or directly in the crotch. Though, neither of them released their grip on the coat; repeating the same process for a few moments, back and forth.

Eventually, one of the floundering parties lost. It finally ended once two muffled, but still loud cracks were heard and a flashing light could be seen escaping the jacket pocket. Through the ringing pain in his ears and the numbness in his hands, Buckley felt the grip on his wrists loosen, prompting him to pull his hands away and step back while he inspected the officer. While this happened, the realisation of what had just unfolded started to occur to Buckley.

The officer, however, stayed at the ground; unmoved, just like their eyes, which seemed to stare into nothing. Their hands still gripped the jacket, but, with less intensity than before. Buckley feared the shots had been fired towards the officer, the surreal nature of their immobility, and the way their eyes appeared lifeless hinted at the worst. A few moments of silence passed and Buckley feared it was the worst. A multitude of thoughts passed through his mind, each regarding how he would dispose of the body; though, his fears were removed once the officer’s hands shot to their chest and started feeling around their torso as the life returned to their eyes.

Though, they weren’t given much time to inspect damages since the butt of the pistol came down hard onto their head, giving them the perfect chance to mimic a log falling onto the ground.

Without thinking, Buckley started to heave the unconscious officer to the trunk of their car, continually needing to rearrange the position of their limbs in the trunk when they looked strangely contorted or when they failed to stay in the trunk. From a quick inspection of the officer, he found that they were a female named Roseluck who was only accepted into the force a mere week ago, just like Buckley, but in a more insidious operation.

Buckley silently cursed at himself for almost being overpowered by a girl, more than once; he also cursed at himself when he found where the direction of the bullets had travelled; directly into his passenger door. Buckley heaved the cumbersome bags into the car and drove to Cherry Hill Ranch, breaking a significant amount of road traffic laws along the way.