DECKER: Episode Four (An Adaptation)

In episodes one, two, and three, we found Decker neck-deep in the mud, faced with the tension of decoding a most dangerous briefcase. Now, in episode four, experience the hottest episode yet, a mix of thrills, wit, and intrigue at the highest level. So, kick back and enjoy another literary adaptation of DECKER. While you’re at it, show @timheidecker, @greggturkington, and @m_proksch some Twitter love and help support DECKER. That’s an order, soldier.

DECKER: Episode Four (An Adaptation)

Decker hesitates like a blonde Hamlet, finally grabs a folder from the briefcase and takes a seat. He flips open the folder, tries to unravel the hideous plan laid out before him.

“Decker,” President Davidson says, just hoping for the speechless Decker to come forth and explain the nature of the danger. “What does it say?”

And the ice cracks.

“One of these plans,” Decker says, “is a plan for them to blow up the World Trade—The Super Bowl—next week.” Decker shuts his eyes: the cheers, the chants. There are cultural lines that cannot be crossed, traditions that separate real men from pigskin—and these scumbags are not gonna piss on America’s pigskin. Not while Decker’s in town.

“The Super Bowl?,” President Davidson says, flabbergasted. “America’s greatest institution.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Decker snaps back. He’s fed up with Davidson’s drizzling stream of rhetoric. “I got ninety grand on the Cowboys.”

And Davidson’s sweaty lips flow to a mud-eating smirk. “I’m rooting for the Washington Redskins, myself.” He flashes Decker a quick thumbs up.

“Of course you would,” Decker says. “The only reason you like football is for all the gridlock. You’re just obsessed with bureaucracy at the highest level.”

All of a sudden, Agent Kington, face still bobbing like on the video phone, says: “I don’t like to just, uh, parrot your opinions, but in this case you’re right.”

Decker ignores Kington, analyzes the contents of a particular document from the case. Foreign scrawl fills the page, a myriad of languages Decker knows by heart. “But the plan that really worries me is this one,” he says, giving full attention to a target etched in blood and an ominous skull and crossbones drawn in the blackest marker with the deadliest intent.

“W-w-what else does it say?” President Davidson says. He’s noticeably worried, can’t stop squirming in his seat like a juiced-up schoolboy.

“They want to blow up Central Park with a nuclear bomb,” Decker says. “Today.”

“Today?!” President Davidson says, stunned.

“I better head to Manhattan to stop the attack,” Decker says, his eyes already angling to a squint, his patented sign of dedication, intensity, and single-mindedness.

“W-w-w-wait, Decker,” President Davidson says. “M-m-maybe it’s too late. Maybe, maybe we should just surrender.” The president’s panic buttons are on red alert, a million deadly possibilities race through the jungle of his grey hair. “Kingston, what do you think?”

Kington says, “I’m gonna disagree with you.”

“Now, for once,” Decker says, “I’m gonna agree with that nerd.” And Decker’s eyes are slits of pure vengeance, shut tight as if he’s entered a trance. “Mr. President, let me be clear. We do not negotiate with terrorists and we do not surrender. Do you understand me?”

“Got it, Decker,” President Davidson says, puppy-dogging his gaze to his lap.

But Decker’s not through. Not by a long shot. “Now I can stop this plot,” he says. “I can end this madness right now if you give me the tools to go out there and fight these terrorists the  way I know how.”

“Got it, Decker.”

“Call my copter.”

“Yes, sir,” President Davidson says, trembling. Sweaty fingers pick up the phone and make the call. “We’d like Mr. Decker’s copter on the White House lawn immediately.”

“That’s the first smartest thing you’ve done all day,” Decker says.

“Yes, yes. On the White House lawn.” President Davidson hangs up, looks up to wish Decker the best of luck. But he’s alone in the room. Decker’s gone like a ghost who was never there. And a slight wind hits the American flag Davidson keeps beside his desk. It stirs his heart like a football barreling straight to the soul.

Before Decker’s copter hits the White House grass, our man in black is missing in action. The air force captain manning the beast pokes his head out and orders his pilot to kill the engine. We listen as those humming blades slow and stop. But there’s another sound, distant but voracious, heavy and revving. It’s the sound of a motorcycle gunning out onto the lonely highway. And the captain shakes his head, smiles. He gives a salute to the wind, to the sound of a born warrior riding off to fight freedom so we can live. He salutes Decker.

We zip from Washington D.C. to Central Park. Decker’s hog hits country roads, burns gas so fast cops can’t stop him, won’t stop him. He passes bicyclists, RVs, sports cars, and keeps chugging.

We arrive at Central Park, zero four hundred hours, military time. Decker’s face is sweat-slicked, but he’s not tired, can’t stop. This is the fuel that makes his inner bomb tick. He ditches his helmet, and slaps on his patented black shades. It’s go time, baby.

Decker scans the crowd, his lightning-quick Langley mind like a viper reaching to bite. He sees a kite flittering in the sky. An American family holding their child. A jogger rushes past. A man on his cell phone. “Terrorists gotta be around here somewhere,” he says, feels his stomach clench. But he rails against fear, keeps searching. A young couple sitting side by side. A man takes a drink of bottled water. Decker’s pulse quickens.

And then his eyes betray him. A man in white stands over a trash can. Not any man, but a man Decker thought he knew. His Afghanistan warrior of peace… His friend. Decker sees Abdul.

Abdul mutters to himself, cursing America as his hands fumble with a silver contraption, wire-rigged with a button on top. While Decker can’t make out what Abdul’s saying, he does notice Abdul is about to drop that wire-rigged contraption—that bomb—into the can.  

Decker sprints across Central Park, his mind muddled with the memories of when he last met Abdul in that desert clearing. Decker remembers clearly the promise he made on that fateful day: “Abdul, thank you very much for your help in securing me this very important secret document… and therefore I’m grateful and the country salutes you—but let me just tell you, this is going to make our country safer and, in turn, we’re going to help you provide freedom, safety, and security for your own country, because that’s what America has promised you. That’s what America is going to deliver no matter who the president is.” And Abdul’s seemingly sincere response, “My pleasure.”

Can’t trust a liar, Decker thinks. Can’t trust anyone. “Abdul!” he yells.

“No, Decker,” Abdul says, spite froths out his mouth.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Decker says, coming in close, trying to assess the situation. The only thing he sees is that bomb and he hears it tick. He doesn’t have much time.

Abdul switches to his mother tongue, says, ” You can’t stop me. It’s Allah’s will.”

“Allan’s will?” Decker thinks. “How can it be you?” he says. “I thought you were on our side.”

And this nails Abdul’s rage to rise. “Yes, I tricked you! I tricked your president. And not only will you and the city of New York be killed, but the Decker name will be ruined. Everyone will know that you destroyed America.”

“Well there’s one thing you didn’t count on,” Decker says, his fists suddenly assuming the grip of an eagle ready to pounce.

“What?” Abdul says.

“Is that I never let America down.” And Decker strikes with furious strength. He dives, thunders a Navy Seals military chop to Abdul’s shoulders. Abdul loses his balance and Decker leaps on top of him, boars his weight into him. But the bomb is clenched in Abdul’s hand. Decker feels Abdul push against his weight, but with two eagle-talon hands of steel, Decker karate chops the bomb out of Abdul’s grip, watches it tumble to the grass. But in that second of distraction, Abdul wraps his traitorous hands around Decker’s neck and squeezes. Decker feels his breath stop.

But he can’t give up. Won’t die. Won’t ever die. Suddenly, Decker summons an otherworldly strength and swings both arms into Abdul’s elbows, breaking the choke. “Aaaaahhhhhhh!” Decker yells. And the tables turn. “Die, you piece of shit,” Decker says, wrapping his own meaty hands around Abdul’s neck. He gives the traitor a taste of his own medicine, and shuts off Abdul’s windpipe. The scream of freedom Decker released moments ago climaxes like a hurricane as he squeezes harder and harder until the gurgling Abdul stops breathing. And dies.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The bomb beckons—it’s gonna blow. ” Oh, shit,” Decker says. “The bomb. We gotta get it airborne.” Decker leaps off Abdul’s corpse. The beeping quickens. There is no time. Decker scoops up the bomb and sprints into the open park. He spins with the grace of an Olympic athlete, his body dancing in circles, winding up and up and up to launch the bomb far away from the American people. The wind whips around him with each spin, and suddenly, like lightning shooting out of his arm, he releases the bomb into the air and watches it soar like a football out past the end zone, past the bleachers, and up over New York city.

BOOM! The bomb explodes in the air. Decker watches the flames dance and blossom like a poppy field of red, white, and blue fireworks on the Fourth of July. He’s out of breath, but it doesn’t matter, for in his mind, those deadly flames signify freedom and redemption. He did it. And the world is once again safe. The game will go on.

And as that bomb rains down brittle ash, Decker envisions the American flag and what it stands for. He gives Old Glory a nod and heads back to his hog. He revs it and hits the highway. It feels good. It really does.

To Be Continued…