Going Postal, part 2

"Hmm, stocks are down again." Frank mused as he folded the Financial
Times over his knee.

The awkward silence was broken by James' pager going off.

"Frank, the letter is moving, it must have been picked up from the
dead drop. Looks like our informant was right."

Frank cracked his knuckles. While they had a letter and knew about the
Postman, they had no way of getting the letter to him. They knew the
black-postal-service existed, it was just a matter of finding an in.
It didn't take long to find a criminal and Frank worked him over
despite James' protests until they got what they wanted.

"Okay, keep a trace going. I'm going to follow." Frank said, taking up
his briefcase.

Frank hailed a taxi, got in and handed the driver a wad of bills. "Follow this signal." He said, handing over a GPS device from his briefcase.

The taxi followed for ten minutes but then the signal suddenly disappeared. The Streets we packed in the midst of a powerful traffic jam and there was no way out. He had to get to the target now and find out what had happened.

Frank grabbed the PDA which and looked at blip that pulsed to indicate the last known position of the signal then got out of the car.

"Jeez man, get back in! You ain't getting nowhere in a jam like this."| The driver drawled out of his window.

Frank ignored him, looked up and then looked at the PDA again, he had a plan. Climbing on top of the car, he angled himself just right, pulled out his cruise-missile pen and aimed it. If he couldn't drive there, he'd rocket there!

He tripple clicked the nub at the back the pen shot into life, pulling him into the air, he shot off from the taxi roof, leaving a scorch mark behind him as he flew upwards, over a skyscraper. Frank then angled the pen downwards, seeing in the distance a car pulled into a non-descript garage. That must be the place. Of course, he couldn't grab the pen forever - it was a missile after all. Arrival would not be pretty if he didn't let go.

He steered himself over the phone cable that lead down towards the garage and let go, letting the pen, without his weight, zoom off towards the door as he fell. He opened his briefcase, his papers of stock reports and copy of the Financial Times billowing out around him and caught the briefcase on the phone cable, sliding himself down it like a zip line towards the garage. As he approached, the pen hit, detonating and blowing the door wide open, the force of the explosion cushioning his approach so that he landed in front of the garage almost perfectly.

Suddenly, a thug leapt out of the smouldering doorway, a metal pipe in his hand.

"You're pay for this!" He yelled, bringing his arm back to clobber Frank as he charged towards him.

Frank ducked as the metal bar swung over his head and then jumped as it swung again towards his legs, jumping over it. In mid air, he caught a fluttering paper, on of his stock reports and crammed it into the thugs face, blinding him. As he landed, he brought his fist down un the thugs head.

"Stocks may go down!" Frank yelled, before finishing the thugs off with an uppercut, "As well as up!"

As the man collapsed behind him, Frank adjusted his tie and opened his briefcase as the sill intact copy of the Financial Times landed in it softly. Feeling composed, he strode into the garage.

Inside, it was clearly more than a garage. This was the place, the sorting office. A man laid tied up and beaten in the corner and Frank quickly tried to untie him, pulling a gag of the mans face.

"Who are you? Where is the Postman?"

"I-I'm a reporter, I stumbled upon this place during an investigation and they captured me."

"Don't worry, I'm here to take care of this. Quick, run, get out of here."

The reporter nodded his painfully swollen head and began running when a shot rung out and the man collapsd in a pool of blood.

From somewhere at the back of the sorting office, a voice emanated.

"Now that's what I call ex-press-male. Mwahahaha! So, you think you have what it takes to take on the postal service, Winchester? Come and get me!"

Frank ran towards the voice but quickly dived behind a mailbag as several shots came his way.

"Postman! I have no quarrel with you, tell me where he is and I'll leave. I just want the Origamist!"

"No quarrel? Look at the destruction you've caused? The letters you've ruined! I'll make you pay for this insult!"

Gunfire scattered in his direction but then Frank heard the unmistakable sound of an empty clip clicking in place.

"Lucky for you, hey? Any more holes in the letters and they'd be unsendable."

"What have I done! Nooooooo!" yelled the voice, which was suddenyl given a face as the Postman leapt from behind some mailbags and punched Frank square in the face.

"You want a delivery? Well I've got a delievery for you - FIST CLASS!" The postman yelled as he laid into him.

The fight wasn't going well for Frank, he'd been caught offguard and he scrabbled for something, anything to give him an edge and the Postman dove on top of him and closed his hands around Frank's neck.

Everything began fading to black.

He's deadly serious about his work, Frank...


Frank felt his fingers grasp something, he got hold of it and looked at it. It was a rubber stamp: "Fragile - handle with care"

He knew what to do. He slammed the rubber stamp against his forehead and the Postman stopped in his tracks. Frank pulled himself to his feet, spitting blood.

"What's the matter? Lost your nerve?"

"You need to be handled with care, I-I can't... Can we talk about this?"

"Handle this!" Frank yelled as he began pummelling the Postman, further and further back into the room until with his final blow, he punched the Postman in the face and sent up flying down a mail chute.

He blew cooly on his knuckles and stared at the chute. "You just got franked."

He flipped out a mobile and dialled a number. "Get a team down here and tear this place apart. We don't leave until we find out where the Origamist is."

The End

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