The Longest Day

[Alex]

Casa Loma, M.S. Headquarters, Toronto. November 1996.​

Maverick Smith, Commander of the Maroon Shirts and the second-in-command of Bianca Wright herself had finally received the information that he was waiting the last few days for. The Maroon Shirt courier had dropped off the package at his desk not five minutes again. Of course, Smith needed to make sure that the information was what the NPoC was looking for. Bringing false or useless information to Ms. Bright was out of the question.​

The man, sitting at his large wooden desk and dressed in a maroon colored uniform and service tunic with the red and white arm-band of the Party wrapped around his left arm, would open the thick folder given to him. Smith would go through each piece of information slowly, looking at every detail, assuring that this information was accurate and that they would not act falsely. The courier standing before him grew nervous the longer his Commander took. A good dozen high resolution pictures, showing both Jean Charest and Preston Manning, leaders of the Reform and Progressive Conservative parties meeting and discussing House of Commons politics. Following the pictures was a very large booklet of papers. Finishing examining the information, Smith stood and gave the paramilitary courier a simple nod.​

The young man, no more than twenty years-old extended his right arm from his neck into the air with a straightened hand. “Hail Wright!”​

Smith returned the salute. “Hail Wright!” With that the courier turned heel and made his way out of Smith’s office. His footsteps echoed off the polished wooden floors and bounced off the bookshelves that lined the entire walls of the room. No more than ten seconds later the young man would reach the double doors of the room and closed them behind him, creaking as they moved.​

Smith would order his desk: putting away his laptop, papers, pens, and pushing in his chair before grabbing his overcoat that hung on its backrest. He was quite the neat-freak and always enjoyed returning to things in complete order. Wearing his paramilitary maroon colored uniform, black overcoat, gloves, and the folder in his hands, the Commander would make his way through the Casa Loma.​

It’s near century old halls were lined with the flag of the Party and the once buzzing grounds of the castle had grown quiet since Bianca Wright purchased the castle from its previous museum owners for more than a hundred million dollars. It was a very steep price, but the seven story castle provided more than enough room to be considered the headquarters of the Maroon Shirts, a hundred of them alone living on the groups permanently - guarding it from the in and the out.​

Their Commander would make it to the enormous pillar-held entrance that led onto the front terrace and out onto the gardens. Maverick Smith’s vehicle, a silver 1996 Suzuki X-90, would be waiting for him in front of the terrace. Tossing the folder in the passenger seat, the Commander would hop over into the driver’s seat.​

The Commander’s Silver 1996 Suzuki X-90​

One bad thing about the Casa Loma was the distance between it and Ms. Wright’s home, it was nearly an hour away through the city streets of downtown and coastal Toronto. The Commander drove through The Annex, Chinatown, down to the Entertainment District before following the coastal Gardiner Expressway and Queen Elizabeth Way for a good half hour before finally reaching Oakville and the neighborhood where the Wright Mansion was located.​

The mansion, for good reasons, was blockaded by a large stone fence and metal gate. Two Maroon Shirts would approach Smith’s car as he pulled up to the gate. While none of them wore weapons that could be seen, it was mandatory that all Maroon Shirts have a concealed pistol with them.​

“Commander Smith!” The Maroon Shirt who had approached the driver’s seat would acknowledge. Saluting in public was prohibited. “I will notify Miss Wright of your arrival, Sir.” With that the second Maroon Shirt would type in a code into the keypad located beside the gate and a loud clack could be heard as the metal unlocked itself and opened, beaconing him into the mansion’s yard.​

Smith would station his X-90 in front of the main wooden and glass doors before exiting with the files and entering the mansion.​

Wright mansion. Oakville, Toronto, Ontario. November 1996.​

Closing the doors behind him, the Commander would step into the entryway of the mansion. It was an extraordinary hall who’s architecture and style would represent that of the entire house both inside and outside. The floor was a polished marble finished off to a high sheen that showed off the beauty and grain of the stone. On each side of him stood four large but simple white pillars that held up the hall’s tray ceiling, small circular lights had been built inside the ceiling and lit up the hall. To the man’s left were two archways that lead into the waiting room and a third further down which lead to the mansion’s dining room. To his right were two more archways, one leading to the building’s kitchen and the other to one of the three mansion’s living-rooms. At the very end of the hall was an opening which led to the mansion’s main sitting room and after that were glass doors that lead to the back gardens. But one’s attention may be more prone to focusing on the piece of art that stood in the middle of the hall: a bronze muscular and nude man standing upon a rock and holding a lit torch - Prometheus the Titan, the supposed creator of humanity.​

The mansion’s butler, Alexander Keening, would be the first to approach him. The man would offer Smith a slight bow of his head. “It’s good to see you again, Commander.” He would begin. “Miss Wright has been awaiting your arrival. She’s eating lunch in the kitchen.”​

Smith would nod. “Thank you, Keening.” The Commander would slip off his shows and step off of the welcome rug and unto the marble. The stone was slightly slippery from its polish but the man reached the kitchen without breaking a hip or twisting an ankle.​

The kitchen was just as spectacular as the rest of the mansion. The floor was made of polished light colored wood, the wall a warm shade of yellowish beige, and its ceiling was one large tray. Closest to the entrance of the room sat a thick wooden table, eight heavy leather chairs surrounded it and a large brown chandelier with electrical candles hung over it. Behind the table were two white wooden and polished marble islands, one in the center of the kitchen with leather stools to sit on, and one closer to the counters of appliances with small leather chairs and three small chandeliers hanging over it. Bianca Wright was seated at the last island, a plate in front of her and a book in her hand.​

Maverick would approach her and salute. “Hail, my Leader!”​

“Good afternoon, Commander.” Wright would respond as she used her chopsticks to dip her sushi in soy sauce before placing the food in her mouth. The woman would then place a bookmark into her book and close it, placing it on the island. “So, what’s this information that you’ve collected for me?”​

“It’s as we feared.” He would sigh, handing her the folder which she would quickly begin to dissect. “Preston Manning and Jean Charest have been discussing House of Commons politics. They’re planning to form an alliance and take the Loyal Opposition position from us. If they go through with this they’ll have nearly twice the amount of seats compared to us. Destroying our momentum and our status.”​

The short-haired blonde nodded. “We must take care of this problem immediately. Any more information?”​

“The packet inside is everything that I and our people were able to collect on the Reform and Progressive Conservative parties… mostly the Reform. Through my personal opinion I believe there are two ways to go about this: we could use the information inside to push a media war against the Reform party creating controversies against them. Or we could use the fact that Manning is carrying the entire momentum of his party on his back and that no other member of the party seems to fully believe Manning’s beliefs against them. If… Manning were to be removed from the picture, it would be unlikely that the Reform Party would be able to vote in a new leader and in turn would dissolve, its seats running to other parties within the Commons.”​

Wright would quickly read through the pages. “Most of these controversial beliefs relate to his thoughts of immigrants and other ‘right-winged beliefs’,’ she would shake her head, ‘using this information would most likely just give the old-timer more momentum in the next election.”​

The Commander would straighten himself. “So that only leaves the option to--”​

“Remove Manning from the picture.” She finished his sentence. “If Manning was removed, especially in public, it would put Charest in his place and hopefully allow us to grab some of the Reform Party’s seats.” The woman would return to finishing her lunch. “Don’t worry, Commander Smith, I’ll contact my more… underground people and we’ll figure something out. Just make sure our people are ready.”​

Smith saluted. “To Victory!” With that he left.​

 

[Alex]

Oasis Aqualounge, Adult Entertainment, Toronto. December 1996.
​

It always surprised her how much money talked. It was an extremely useful tool to get plans rolling and to secure powerful friends in high places. Luckily for her, the Wright family had far more money than they would ever know what to do with and with her father’s death, most of it was left to her. With the news that she had received from her people relating to two of the major parties and their attempts of stealing the Party’s Loyal Opposition, Bianca had decided to make various calls and transfer loads of money to various contacts. If there was any way that she would remain in the position she was within the Commons and the Senate is if she took drastic measures.

It took roughly a month before everything went through but having judges and prison guards and administrators within her pocket aided her in securing the parole of one of her old friends: Adrian Douglas, previously Private Adrian Douglas before being discharged and locked up in jail for the past few years. He was one of her old comrades-in-arms and he owed her a favor, two now that she was able to get him out of the pit they had him in all those years.

Bianca had the Maroon Shirts tail Douglas from the moment he left prison. She thought giving him the chance to visit his family and other friends before pinning him to a corner and pulling his strings was the least she could do. Two weeks after his release it seemed he calmed himself down and began to focus on the outside life once more. Wright was contacted not an hour and a half earlier before arriving at Douglas' current location in which she left for from her home immediately.

Bianca Wright’s Mercedes-Benz 500E.
​

The drive from her home to this Oasis Aqualounge was less than an hour but it felt much longer as the feeling of anxiety crept onto Bianca. The woman didn’t fear the meeting, nor the location, but she hadn’t seen Douglas since the incident nearly four years ago and that thought alone was enough to leave annoying feeling odd. But she avoided thinking about it, instead doing as she did when she was younger to attempt to pass the time: looking out of the window. Sadly, they were deep within the Greater Toronto Area and unless she suddenly enjoyed the look of brick buildings, there wasn’t much to look at.

The luxurious Mercedes-Benz drove up the Queen Elizabeth Way into Toronto itself, escorted by two G-Wagens, one in front and one behind to assure that no one would harass her let alone attempt any sort of road incident. Sadly, the Aqualounge was at the heart of the city and traffic did not favor them.

The three vehicles stationed themselves in the back road located beside the building, avoiding the main road. The driver of the 500E would exit and open Wright’s door. The woman would get out and step on the sidewalk, the noise of the vehicles from the main road rushed to her ears the moment she exited the cushioned vehicle and her boots crunched onto the snow. From the sidewalk she was able to look up at the old brick building and the sign that hung on its side: Oasis Adult Entertainment.

If Wright were to be caught inside such a place it would put her entire political career in jeopardy, but she had to risk it. If Douglas was still the man she knew then he would talk to no one else but her. Bianca’s driver would help her put on the thick black maxi coat that was hanging on his forearm. Following, she put on sunglasses and black leather gloves. Hopefully, within the dimly lit building, this would aid in avoiding being detected by those inside.

Stepping in through the side door the smell was relatively better than she had expected. Instead of the smell of sex and alcohol it smelled of steam and chlorine, though she shouldn’t have been too surprised, it was an aqua-based adult entertainment business. However, the decor was an insult to anyone with eyes: black and grey walls with black furniture and deep red leather - fucking disgusting.

No more than ten seconds of entering the building a woman approached her, carrying a debit machine and a board and pen. The fille de joie was dressed in a piece of golden leather ‘clothing’ that covered nothing but the holes of her lower body and a tight black shirt that pushed up the little she had to show. “Hello, Allo!” She addressed her. “Welcome to Oasis Aqualounge, Toronto’s best adult entertainment business. If you’re here with a man the entry fee is eighty-dollars, if you’re here alone women enter for only twenty.”

Bianca reached into her coat. “I’m here meeting a friend.” She told her simply, pulling out her wallet. “Could you point me to the bar?” Wright handed her a fifty-dollar bill and gestured for her to keep the change. With that hefty donation the woman quickly showed her to where she wanted to be.

The decoration for the bar was slightly better than that of the main entrance area in that the tables were a nice dark wood but it didn’t match the colors of the room at all… the women certainly must’ve been something to withstand such lack of taste. Nevertheless, she wasn’t here to re-decorate, she was her to locate Douglas. It wasn’t as difficult as she had suspected, the bar only holding half a dozen tables, four of them being booths, one of which Douglas and some hooker had claimed.

With the low lighting of the room, Wright removed her glasses and approached the table. In the middle of a conversation with the prostitute, Douglas was cut short mid-sentence as he recognized Wright, sighing in disappointment. The working girl felt the awkward vibe and left immediately, Bianca took her seat and Douglas straightened himself. Once alone, he spoke. “You really couldn’t give me a month before you came and picked at me, huh?”

“Two weeks is enough time.” The woman replied coldly. “The quicker we get this over with, the better it’ll be for the both of us. I get what I want from you and you get what you want from me. Peace and ease of the mind, enabling us to carry on with our lives and our duties.”

“Whatever.” He sipped away at his amber colored drink. “I should have expected you only pulled some strings to get me out for some fucking favor. No one ever does anything from the simple kindness of their hearts nowadays.”

“Right,” Wright gave him an ominous smile, “I imagine that whole ordeal with you turning a blind eye on that Somali boy was ‘out of the kindness of your heart’?”

There was a still silence for a few moments as the man in front of her stared off into the distance. It gave her time to examine what had changed about him since first meeting him in the Airborne Regiment. His eyes had formed various bags, he was far more skinny, and this beard of his had grown out of control and lost its color through the short years. Prison and Somalia changed him… for better or for worse was left to be discovered.

“Nearly three years, Bianca…” He started. “Three years in prison to ponder on everything that happened. I don’t like who I was and what I did - what we did. We betrayed our country, our values… Everything that was important to me was taken from me because of that night.” He looked into her eyes. “I know what you’re going to ask of me, Bianca. I don’t like the man that I was back then, I don’t like the things that I did… Please, don’t make me go back to that.”

If she didn’t need him so desperately she would have been moved by his words, truly. Wright leaned forward on the table, whispering. “We made a pact--”

“I know--”

“Listen.” She continued. “You owe them nothing. For a long time before the shit hit the fan in Somalia, we knew we were on our own. We promised to help each other, no matter what happened, no matter where we were - we’d be there for each other. I helped you get out of that shit-hole of a cell, helped you get your freedom again. Yes, it took some time and I’m sorry for that but now you’re going to turn your back on me?”

“What you’re going to be asking of me, Bianca, is not the same as what you did for me.”

“Maybe not. But a favor for a favor, right?”

“I’ve done enough damage to this country--”

At this moment, Bianca would slam her fist on the table, stopping the man mid-sentence but luckily didn’t attract too much attention. “Stop being a wanna-be fucking guru! We made a pact! You OWE me!” Douglas remained silent. “They trained us to fight, to bleed, to kill and to die. Threw us to the fucking wolves and when they were done with us they stabbed us in the goddamn back and tossed us all in a fucking cell! There's only one way that these high and mighty pricks will care about us and what we did and do for this country: we make them care. I need your help for that.”

“They didn’t stab us in the back… we tortured and killed that poor boy--”

“Oh, Jesus Christ are you serious? You’re seriously going to start turning a new leaf now? You want me to drive you down to the nearest church so you can become a Priest while you’re at it?” The woman shook her head in frustration. “We were ordered to defend the base and all its components. Those leeches were looting our depot, we were supposed to believe he was hiding in a fucking porta-potty looking for a kid? Please, get a grip. He was waiting for an opportunity to sneak in. That thief deserved everything that came to him.” Douglas didn’t seem to budge from his mental stance. “I’m trying to do this the nice way, Adrian. You know you don’t have a choice in the matter...”

Douglas gave off a long and loud sigh of defeat. “If I do this, you never contact me again - for any reason.”

“That we can agree on.” Bianca stood and put her glasses back on. “You’ll be contacted by Maverick Smith, he’s the Commander of the Maroon Shirts. He’ll give you all the information you’ll need relating to our deal. Get it done and you’ll never have to hear from me again. Are we in agreement?”

In defeat the man nodded. “...Yeah…”

And with the recruitment of their trigger-man, Bianca returned home.

 

[Alex]

Saltlik Restaurant A Rare Steakhouse and the Rooftop Used by the Shooter. Calgary, Alberta, January, 1997.
​

It had been nearly three weeks since the meeting between Adrian and Bianca. Since then, the man had shaved his beard, cut his hair, and moved to Calgary finding himself an occupation as a plumber to cover up the real reason for him to be in the city. For the past week he had been working at a construction site, assuring that the pipes and other plumbing such as water supply, sanitation, and heating systems were properly installed and in working order. It was the perfect cover as he had worked as a plumber before joining the military and who would ever give a plumber a second look?

Adrian Douglas stood before the table in his small bachelor apartment. A duffel bag, a large but thin black blanket, and various plumbing tools stood on its wooden surface. He walked over to his couch, removing the sitting pillows to reveal a compartment storing various sized items. One by one, the man would remove these items and place them perfectly onto the black blanket. The first was an M1 rifle fully loaded with a thirty-round magazine of .30 carbine ammunition, the second a WK180-C semi-automatic rifle with a five-round magazine of .223 Remington ammunition, the third a Benelli M2 shotgun with six rounds of 12 gauge ammunition, the fourth an FN P90 personal defense weapon with a fifty round FN 5.7x28mm ammunition, the fifth and final firearm was a P239 pistol with a ten round magazine of 9x19mm Parabellum ammunition. With all of them on the blanket, Adrian would roll the blanket around them, concealing the firearms from anyone attempting to search the bag. The blanket would be placed on top of various boxes of ammunition and on top of the blanket itself, the man would dump his various plumbing tools to conceal it the best he could.

Before he left the apartment, he used a metal trash bin to burn various documents and identifications of himself: his driver’s license, birth certificate, health card, and everything else that he could get his hands on. When the documents had burned to his satisfaction he poured a cup of water into the bin and began cleaning his entire apartment inside and out - removing any fingerprints or any other biological identification that he could think of. It wouldn’t prevent the authorities from identifying who he was, but it would slow them down at the very least. Having a face without a name helped far more than having a face and a name. If everything went to plan, it would buy him a few more hours to get out of the city and flee north.

It was ten in the morning by the time Adrien left his apartment. Dressed in his construction and plumbing outfit, alongside his winter clothing his identity was easily obscured by any average passerby who were too preoccupied by their daily lives to take a good look at him. Over his shoulder hung the heavy duffel bag.

It took some fifteen minutes before the public transport light train would finally arrive at the nearest corner to his apartment. Paying in physical change he would take his seat by a window, staring out of it until his stop was reached. The train would come to a halt on Seventh Avenue, South West, no more than two blocks from his planned destination. The Calgary Tower stood as a titan among the many skyscrapers of downtown Calgary and it stood before him as he walked down the street. The man would eventually walk past a restaurant by the name of Saltlik Restaurant: A Rare Steakhouse. He paused for a moment, looking inside he would eventually spot two men among the many who were dining. Preston Manning and Jean Charest. Before causing any suspicion, he would carry on with his walk to the neighboring building: Le Germain Hotel.

It wasn’t the largest of buildings, but it would be the easiest to get into and certainly the least crowded midday rush in downtown Calgary. Entering the building via its windowed double doors, he usually would have been greeted by a receptionist at the front desk, but it was lunch hour and the desk sat empty and so he continued deeper into the building. Using the elevator, he would cover his face from the camera as he pressed the button for the top floor.

The hallways of the hotel were relatively easy to navigate, the door to the roof being at the very end of it. Usually this floor would have been packed with construction workers as the place was under renovations, but again as it was lunch hour they were all on break and the floor was empty. Reaching the roof, Adrian would reach into his duffel bag and pull out a large lock which he would use to barricade the door behind him, denying anyone access to the roof. Once that was completed he positioned himself at the corner of the roof which overlooked the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

The man emptied the duffel bag of its contents, pushing the plumbing tools aside to open up the blanket. He put the pistol inside his belt, hung the P90 over his shoulder, readied the M2 shotgun as his get-away weapon, and rested the two rifles on the roof’s edge. It took some ten minutes before the door to the restaurant opened and Preston Manning exited out of the building, accompanied by two bodyguards. The trio stood on the sidewalk for a few moments, most likely waiting for a vehicle, as the door opened once more and another man would exit - Jean Charest who would begin speaking with Manning. They both had a smile on their faces.

The main target was Preston Manning, he had to go at any and all costs. Grabbing the WK180-C rifle, he aimed its barrel down to the old man. There was a deep, percussive thud, and Manning’s chest leapt forward, his arms flailing after, his knees buckling. Douglas could not see his face but he knew... there wasn't any pain there. The man turned around but could not locate the man who had shot him even after four more bullets pierced into his chest. But even before he hit the ground they could hear the distant crack, the echo like a jet engine trailing after it, repeating itself over the rooftops and echoing from the skyscrapers, not quite drowned out as the citizens of Calgary screamed in terror.

Quickly tossing aside the rifle, Douglas would take hold of the M1 Garand and continue firing below. But now, the bodyguards had taken Charest and Manning’s body into cover, denying him a good shot. The man stood from the cover that the rooftop’s ledge had given him. With a better angle, he continued firing towards them. He wasn’t sure what he hit as screams of pain reached his ears but he fired off nearly the entire magazine before the bodyguards could even locate where the rounds were coming from.

One of them fired back, two bullets from his pistol ricocheting off of the roof’s railing and a third hit his right arm, digging itself inside his flesh. He fell back, taking cover, his soldier’s instincts kicking in. He reached for the duffel bag, finding nothing to air him except for a large wire stripping tool. Ripping the sleeve from his right arm he used the tool and dug inside the wound to eventually locate the bullet and rip it out. Once the bullet was out he would tie the ripped sleeve over the wound to slow the bleeding.

Standing up, he would grab the M2 shotgun before running to the rooftop door. Countless sirens could be heard echoing across the city, closing in on the location of the shooting, his escape plan had been delayed by the bullet. He quickly broke the lock with the stock of his shotgun and rushed inside the hallway of the hotel. Running down the tight passageway he would take the stairs instead of the elevator this time.

But he wasn’t the only one that got that idea. As he rushed down the stairs he could hear the ground floor door bust open, the chatter of police echoing up to him. Shotgun in hand, he leaned over the railing and waited for them to appear. From his count there were four in total. He only opened fire once the last appeared, preventing the others from retreating back into cover. Douglas’s ears rang as the sound of the shotgun blast had nowhere to escape, the ringing blocked out all other sounds, even the shots following.

It took all six rounds of the firearm to take them out. The veteran dropped the shotgun, falling down the stairwell, as he grabbed the P90 that hung over his shoulder. It took only seconds before he reached the hotel’s ground floor and its reception area. Two more police officers were waiting for him here and he didn’t hesitate to gun them down. He shot the first in the head before the second knew the soldier was even there, ducking his head to avoid the counter shot from the other police officer, he sprayed half a dozen bullets into him.

Perhaps it was childish to think that he would escape from this, but he had hoped so, he had hoped he could finally live some sort of life… but alas, it was not meant to be. When he reached the streets outside, the sirens blasted and citizens continued to scream. Countless police vehicles had surrounded the hotel - there was no escape.

“Put the weapons down!” Shouted an officer, but Adrien paid no attention. It wasn’t until it was ordered a second time that it registered.

Putting his hands up he cooperated, slowly lifting the PN90 from his shoulders using the leather strap. Bending, he’d place the firearm on the street. While the police may have planned to arrest and bring him in Douglas had a Plan B had escape not been possible.

The man quickly reached behind him, pulling out the P239 pistol from his belt. The soldier took a deep breath before placing it against his temple and pulling the trigger.