Crime, Thrillers & Mystery / Patriotic Illusions
Prologue:
Mercy, Mercy
Washington D.C.
1992
The old man retrieved his cell phone as it vibrated within the breast pocket of his tailored Italian suit. With a look of concern, he flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Everything’s going as planned. Do I have the green light?”
The old man looked across his executive desk at the Senator of Virginia and the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. They both nodded.
“Yes, lieutenant, proceed with the mission.”
The old man hung up. He smiled at the men that sat across from him. This is going to work, he thought. He closed his eyes and all he could see were diamonds.
Sierra Leone, Africa
1992
Makeni
Zareb Yankui was padding through the thick vegetation as silent as his small feet would allow him, one hand clutching a spear with a fire-hardened tip and the other carefully parting a way through the foliage. He was hunting—at least trying to, only nine years of age, by far too young to be recognized as anything but his mother’s faithful servant. Oh but he could hunt! And today was the day he’d prove it. He thought of how he’d be celebrated for his kill; praised by the elders, envied by his best friend Kegi, and adored by the girls –
Poppoppoppoppop . . . poppop . . . pop . . . pop.
Gunfire erupted. Zareb threw himself to the ground, his arms instinctively coming up to cover his head, cursing under his breath. The gunfire, he knew, was from the RUF. He hated the Revolutionary United Front rebels that inhabited his village and waged war against the government for control of the mines. The diamond mines.
Just as soon as the gunfire started, it ended, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to hang in the air like a thick swarm of mosquitoes that swarmed around the sweaty mine workers.
Then the silence was pierced as blood-curling screams arose. Death screams, Zareb’s mother called them. The rebels were shooting in the village. It wasn’t unusual, but it never happened in Makeni, maybe Mile 91, but never Makeni. But it just did. Zareb was sure of it. And he was also sure that his mother, Niaomi was there, watching his younger brother.
He pushed himself up from the ground, threw his spear into some shrubs and ran back towards the village, where a pillar of smoke now climbed toward the red pulsating sun.
Fire! His mind screamed danger. He never heard of the RUF setting anything upon fire. Of course, everything he heard came from his older sister Dafina, never from the elders. The elders thought it best for the children to remain ignorant.
The skin on his feet was shredded as he ran over rocks, falling to the earth ripping the cloth of his pants. The pants his mother had just sewn him. He cursed some more, wondering how he’d explain to his mother that he ruined his new pants.
He pushed himself off the ground once more—blood seeping from the cuts and scrapes on his knees—and continued towards the village.
Poppoppoppoppoppop . . . poppoppoppop . . . poppop.
More gunfire. This time Zareb didn’t throw himself to the ground. He kept running. He was too scared to stop, his legs fueled by pure fear and adrenalin. Got to get home, he thought, sweat cascading down the high plane of his forehead and plunging off the bridge of his nose and point of his chin. All the while, the gunfire continued as though it knew no end.
He ran. Ran as fast as he two bloody feet could carry him. He ran for what seemed like an eternity to him. He passed birds taking baths in puddles of water. He passed the village well. He ran. But he didn’t see anyone. Strange. Zareb stopped, his chest heaving, and looked around, too busy to know that the gunfire had ceased to exist once more. There was no one in sight. He could see his village from where he was standing, but it seemed as if everyone just disappeared. He saw wooden toys scattered on the ground. He saw a black suitcase looked expensive and clean. Too clean to belong to anyone in the village. He could see abandoned baskets of crops.
He ran. Ran as if death was chasing him.
He reached the village and stopped. There was a military truck lying on its side like an injured elephant. Everyone in the village clustered around the military truck, some talking, some pointing, everyone with a mix of fear and anxiety plastered on their faces.
His mother was at the center of the crowd, having recognized her because she was the tallest of all the women within the village at five feet and eight inches. He could also see a convoy of army trucks leaving, creating a dust trail. Leaving fast, too, he thought, heading north towards Kabala. At first he thought that they were the RUF, but as he looked more closely, he observed that they weren’t dressed in camouflage as the RUF, but were dressed in all black.
He raced towards the crowd, pushing his way through, all the while screaming his mother’s name. The elders who he’d thought had “disappeared” looked at him, their expressions softening, thanking God that no children had gotten hurt.
Zareb reached the center and gasped. A foul odor hit him instantly, assaulted his nostrils and made him dry-heave. There was blood. Too much blood. Zareb had only seen that much blood when his father gutted a fresh kill. An RUF rebel lie there in the dirt—at least what was left of him—his legs lying several feet away. Zareb’s eyes focused back on the upper half of the dead rebel, his chest riddled with bullet holes, and his intestines snaked from his abdomen and lay on the ground in a heap. He tried to scream but his mouth wouldn’t work. He tried to move away, tried to get away from the hellish scene before his eyes. Wished he didn’t see what he had just seen. But he was frozen.
His mother pulled Zareb to her side, pressing her eldest son’s face to her stomach, shielding him from the horror that lay on the other side of the military Jeep—two other dead men.
There was a commotion outside of the crowd and Zareb turned to see what it was about. Some of the women and children were pointing at a black suitcase that lay on the ground beside his neighbor’s home. What was it? Clutching her son, Niaomi turned around, heard an explosion, and then she saw nothing.
A man stood on a hill about five miles north of Makeni holding a pair of binoculars, smiling to himself. The three suitcase bomb detonated simultaneously and blew the whole village of Makeni to hell, along with its 183 inhabitants. He watched as the monstrous ball of flames engulfed the town and the mushroom cloud rose to meet the heavens like an angel of death.
He slid his binoculars into one of many pockets of his pants and pulled his cell phone from his chest pocket. He punched in a series of numbers and waited until a connection was made.
“Hello?”
Lieutenant Colonel Johnson didn’t hesitate upon answering because he knew the scrambler in his cell phone was state of the art. “Mission complete.”
There was a pause on the other end. “So I take it there were no casualties?”
“This is war. There are always casualties.” Johnson said calmly as he thought about the RUF rebel who managed to kill a few of his men and destroy one of the trucks before his men cut him down with their M16’s.
The man on the other end seemed to mull Johnson’s response over then spoke in his fragile voice. “Okay, Lt. Colonel, good job. Bring your men and the ‘package’ home and I’ll see to it that you get paid.”
“Thank you, sir.” He said as he severed the connection and placed the phone back in his pocket. He turned back to the destruction as he opened another one of his pockets and removed a handful of diamonds. Was it worth it? He thought. Yes, it was.
He took his time getting back in his jeep. He and his men were safe, at least for the time being. Now, all he had to do was get back to the States.
Detroit, Michigan
Three days later
It was six o’clock in the morning and Abdul – Rahim didn’t open up until eight, but he just had to get out of the house. His stomach growled as he opened the door to his jewelry shop. He was hungry. Starving was more like it. His wife was in the hospital and God Allah knew that he couldn’t cook. So, Abdul had to settle for a lousy breakfast bar. He muttered a string of obscenities as he thought about the skimpy bar. He was a certified jeweler and had been for more than fifteen years. And he’d had his shop for fourteen. His shop was located in the city of Detroit, so when he first opened his jewelry store, he had so many break-ins, that he almost closed up and moved elsewhere. But no, he stayed. He had recently installed one of the best security systems money could buy, but you could never be careful, that’s why he carried a gun. Hell, it wasn’t hard to get. He’d bought it from a friend for a couple hundred bucks. It was a Walther P22, perfect for protection, or so he was told.
When he entered the store, the bell rang that was positioned over the door, emitting a melodic jingle that caused him to slightly bob his head and momentarily forget his hungriness. He flipped on the light switch and revealed a man that was causally sitting in a chair that was along the wall to his right. The man was dressed in all black, a gun resting in his lap. It was a Sig Sauer 9mm. He knew this only because his friend—yes the same one who he’d purchased his gun from—had one. He reached for his own gun that was nestled in the small of his back.
“It’s no use,” the man spoke in a calm voice. “I emptied it last night. Relax. Why don’t you sit down so we can talk?” He said, gesturing towards the chair on the other side of the room with his gun.
Abdul pressed the button on the grip and released the magazine. Sure enough, the clip was empty. Shocked and confused, he obeyed.
“What do you want?” he said after he was seated, his voice barely above a whisper. The man had scared the shit out of him, but he tried to remain calm, not wanting to give the man a reason to pull the trigger. He now thought that staying at home and attempting to make breakfast wasn’t such a bad idea – better than staring at a stranger holding a gun.
“I’m just here because I need you to do me a small favor. See, the thing is, you can’t refuse. ’Cause if you do . . . you get the idea. So, just be smart and you’ll live. Understand?”
Rahim shook his head vigorously.
“Good.” The man reached in his pocket and removed an envelope. He stood up and walked over to one of the many glass showcases inside the shop and spilled out the contents. Diamonds.
The jeweler’s eyes widened in surprise and hurriedly walked over to the glass showcase, Rahim’s curiosity getting the better of him. He pulled out a magnifying glass that was in his breast pocket. “Do you mind?”
The man smiled and revealed perfect white teeth. “Go ahead.” His voice was soft, Abdul noticed, not like the chilling monotone that he had spoke in just a while ago.
The jeweler held a diamond up to his eye and observed. “Wow.” He exclaimed. “They’re . . .”
“Conflict diamonds,” the man finished.
“No, I was going to say . . . Did you say conflict diamonds?”
“Yes, and I need your help . . .”
Minutes later, Lt. Col. Johnson left the jewelry shop and melted into the darkness.
Part I:
Burnt
Chapter One
Zimbabwe, Africa
2004
Harare International Airport
It was Sunday, a sweltering, humid evening in Zimbabwe. A Boeing 727 touched down gracefully, taxied down the airstrip, finally coming to a complete stop, before heading to the section reserved for military aircraft.
Without warning, Zimbabwean authorities stormed the plane and arrested the pilot, co-pilot, and 64 men seated in the passenger cabin.
Over a thousand yards away, a man lay on his stomach, watching through binoculars. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He got it and flipped it open. “The plane just got stormed by Zimbabwean police. Nick’s just been apprehended on the ground. Geoffrey got away, though. Mission failed.”
“The fucking mission didn’t even start yet. Shit.” The old man’s voice sounded even more fragile than usual.
“Sir?” Lt. Colonel Johnson asked.
“Mr. Carver doesn’t leave the airport. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I expect you home before morning.” The connection was broken.
Lieutenant Johnson replaced his cell phone in his pocket, chambered a 7.62 NATO round into his Dragunov SVD sniper assault rifle. He peered through his PSO-1 scope, made some adjustments and relaxed, lying prone under his tick suit. Then he slid his finger around the trigger. The authorities were escorting him to a nearby truck that would take him out of the open and to the airport. The truck was thirty meters away and closing. Maybe they were concerned about Mr. Carver being killed while in their custody. Probably trying to protect him from the average sniper. Well, Lieutenant Colonel Johnson wasn’t the average sniper. In fact, he was probably one of the best marksmen in the world, trained to kill by the Navy SEALS. He smiled. Piece of cake.
His breathing slowed as he centered his crosshairs on Carver’s chest. For a brief moment, he wondered if the man he was about to kill actually deserved to die. Did he? Johnson didn’t know. He was simply following orders. And his orders were to kill. He pushed away his thoughts and squeezed the trigger. The bullet exited the barrel at over one thousand and eight hundred miles per hour, tore a hole bigger than a golf ball in Nick’s chest, pierced his heart’s right atrium, shredded his pulmonary arteries, and exited his back. Mr. Carver didn’t feel a thing as he toppled to the ground face-first.
The mercenary didn’t take the time to admire his work. He threw back his tick suit and ran, leaving his assault rifle behind; no way he’d be able to get out of Zimbabwe with it.
Over three thousand feet away, the authorities swarmed around Mr. Nicholas Carver, his blood already staining the tarmac of Harare International Airport.
Washington D.C.,
United States of America
“Sir, we just received word; a plane of mercenaries was ceased by Zimbabwean authorities at Harare International Airport. A man named Mr. Nicholas Carver was killed while being taken into custody, by a sniper with a Dragunov SVD. The sniper eluded capture along with another man named Geoffrey Knight. The government of Zimbabwe believes that the mercenaries were on their way to assassinate Equatorial Guinea President Tabari. President Tabari is holding a press conference on his estate, already pointing fingers at the Pentagon and the White House. I hate to say it sir, but this is looking bad.”
“Get the director of Executive Outcomes on the phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
He waited impatiently until his phone ringed, then he picked it up.
“Hello?”
“What the fuck is going on?” the Senator demanded in a hushed tone.
“Just a minor screw up. Everything is under control.”
“Everything is not under control. You had better fix whatever it is and do it fast!”
“It’s being fixed, sir.”
The Senator didn’t respond. He hung up and furiously punched in some more numbers.
Once the old man hung up, he slipped his cell phone back into his pocket and breathed a sigh of relief. He was tired. His body hurt all over. He thought of himself as an old toy, that a child didn’t want anymore, and he was just sitting in the basement just waiting to be thrown away. But, he couldn’t just quit, abruptly dissolve into a state of nonexistence. There was work to be done. And if he liked it or not, he knew that someone was him. He took his cellular phone back out of his pocket and punched in some numbers.
“Hi,” he said.
“So I guess everything didn’t go as planned.”
The old man said nothing.
“I take that as a ‘no’.”
“Look, we need to go back and cover our tracks.”
“How far back?”
“Beginning with Sierra Leone. Lieutenant Kevin Johnson’s on his way as we speak. He’ll provide assistance.”
“And what about Kevin? Isn’t he a security breach?”
“He’s one of our best, ya know?”
“Yeah, but you know he needs to be put down.”
“After all this is finished, then we’ll worry about that. Just make sure no one can connect us to anything. No one.”
“Okay, done.”
“One more thing: Senator Harrison is starting to become a problem.” The old man said. He didn’t want to say what had to be done, but if he didn’t say it, he’d endanger himself and the others. “He also needs to be taken out of the equation before he takes us all out.”
“Okay. I’ll be in touch.” The Director of Central Intelligence severed the connection and the old man listened to the dial tone for a while before hanging up, contemplating the soon-to-be death of his dear old friend, Senator Phillip Harrison.
Venice, Italy
Murano
The man who called himself Aberto Vecchio walked out of the restaurant Da Tanduo. It was late, the skies dark with rain clouds. According to the local news, flooding was expected. So, as he looked around, seeing no in sight, concluded that everyone was preparing for the flood—routine for the month of November.
He rubbed his satisfied stomach, having truly enjoyed the tagliolini pasta in shrimp and zucchini sauce, and took a deep breath. After taking in the fresh air, he realized he’d drunk one too many cocktails, but decided he could make it back to the mainland safely. He was glad to be in Venice. Yet he wasn’t home. In fact, he didn’t have a home. He lived in many places. But maybe he could start a home in Venice. He was thinking of getting a home overlooking the Grand Canal or maybe one right on Murano, the glassmakers’ island.
He smiled at the thought of beginning anew, probably starting a family, getting a job, the whole works. After all, he was an Italian citizen. At least that’s what his passport said. Even living under a new identity and residing in a different country, he still checked for surveillance of any kind and swept his apartment for bugs. Even after twelve years. Even after Sierra Leone.
But ever since the incident in Zimbabwe, he’d been extra careful. He carried his Beretta on his person at almost all times. He even visited a bank in Zurich for ‘insurance’ purposes.
With all the precautions he’d taken, he knew that if ‘they’ wanted him dead, he’d be dead. He regretted ever becoming a mercenary. Should’ve just stayed in the SAS. Sometimes, when sitting in front of the TV drinking, he would wonder what he would’ve become if he hadn’t became what he was—a professional killer.
He walked towards the waterway where his small motorboat danced on the water. By the time he reached the waterway, his stomach started to cramp. With a sigh, he bent down to untie the knot that kept his boat from floating away, and then stopped when he heard footfalls. He stood up to turn around when he felt a slight prick in his side followed by a stinging sensation. Instantly, he reached for his gun.
He turned around and looked into the intelligent, sapphire eyes of his attacker, the gun aimed at the attacker’s chest. He knew those eyes. Aberto didn’t shoot. Instead, he just stood there. The man didn’t seem scared at all at the sight of his gun. Didn’t even flinch. Why?
He opened his mouth to speak but fell to the ground, his 9mm Beretta clattering on the pavement, went into cardiac arrest, his body convulsing with such a severity one could only know that death was the outcome and within seconds, his lifeless eyes looked towards the darkening sky.
Aberto Vecchio’s lifeless body was rolled into the water and slowly immersed itself, the waves and ripples seeming to wash the dead man out of existence. And in a way, he was. Aberto Vecchio never really existed. He suffered the fate that many more would soon meet.
Aberto’s killer retrieved a knife from a sheath on his leg, severed the small motorboat’s connection to land, and watched it slowly drift away. Being washed out of existence, how ironic, Kevin thought as he walked away.
Chapter Two
Washington D.C.
Kevin arrived at Dulles International Airport a little bit before two o’ clock. He debarked the plane and took in a lungful of air, looking around squinting with his right hand over his eyes. It was hot and humid, the air so thick, he felt as if he was moving under water, his motions slow and tedious.
Planes were barreling down runways accelerating to a speed that would suffice for liftoff and . . . zoom! They were off. He always enjoyed coming to the airport as a kid. His mother used to take him and let him look out the windows that overlooked the runway. He could barely contain his excitement as he watched the planes take off, destined for a place he could only imagine. He always thought that the passengers were rich and were going to an island below the equator or probably somewhere exciting like Paris, or Austrailia.
Ever since he was a kid, his mother told him he’d be something special, make her proud, but looking down at his hands – the hands that were responsible for the deaths of many – as he stepped onto the tarmac and began making his way into the airport to collect his bags, he wondered if he’d turned into something special and would’ve made her proud.
He laughed out loud, other passengers giving him a nervous glance, probably thinking that he’d lost his mind. Special? His only specialty was killing people. He was a walking killing machine and his fellow operatives knew it. They named him the “Machine” after a stint in Albania where he killed a total of ten people and the moniker stuck, even after thirteen years.
He knew that his mother – if she were still alive – would not have been proud of him. For God’s sake, he traveled the world leaving trails of death. He grimaced as he remembered the mission that went terribly wrong in Munich.
He was sitting on a bench in the Altstadt, an old town in Munich, that attracted many tourists because of its grand avenues and large squares that reminded the natives of the glory of Bavaria’s monarchy, which later transformed into a Socialist regime, then a republic, and later the early years of the Third Reich. He was there waiting for a defector. It was a public place that guaranteed his safety and the safety of his team; his technician was parked a block away, doing surveillance; his friend who went by the field legend Stingray, was on the corner posed as a vendor that was happily selling frozen treats.
The defector arrived on time, although mumbling an apology for being late. The man seemed scared, visibly shaken, his eyes darting to and fro, sweat thick on his brow and dampening his underarms. Kevin smelled the fear and knew that something was wrong. The defector was too scared, as if he was scared of ruining his performance as if something depended on it. Something like his family.
The defector went by the name Volkmar. Kevin studied him, all the while slowly reaching behind his back for his Walther handgun. It was a 9mm and unfortunately, didn’t have a silencer.
“Do you mind?” Volkmar asked as he reached into his pocket and removed a lighter and cigarette.
“No, I don’t mind.”
“Da.” Volkmar lit the cigarette that now hung from his thin, cracked lips.
Kevin moved his lighting speed and he tore Volkmar’s shirt open revealing a wire taped to his hairy chest. A setup!
Volkmar’s eyes widened in surprise and he opened his mouth to protest, but Kevin took his gun nestled in the small of his back and fired two shots into the German’s chest.
Police sirens! It was ridiculous. A simple extraction just went bad and his body count was about to climb. He ran towards the police cars, squeezing off shots, people running, trampling, trying to get out of harm’s way. The first shot ricocheted off the hood of the leading police car. The second found its way through the windshield and tore through the passenger seat. The third tore through the police officer’s neck, bright red arterial blood erupting from the wound, showering the interior of the car.
The police officer slumped onto the steering wheel, his car veering onto the sidewalk and went through the window of a bakery. It was sheer madness! Kevin got into Belgium with the help of locals, from there, into Lille, Paris where a safe house was located. A couple days later, he flew out of Toulouse from a small airport back to the U.S. He remembered all too well . . .
Minutes later, Kevin was in the cockpit of his raven black Cadillac CTS-V, having purchased it recently, before going to Venice. Driving down Massachusetts Avenue, he moved a hand to the compartment that separated the driver’s seat and passenger seat and took out one of Brian McKnight’s. He slid it into the CD player and turned up the volume, allowing the music to wash over him as his stress and tension ebbed away.
The traffic light turned red and his released the accelerator and pressed the brakes, gradually coming to a stop as he caught a whiff of grease and salt from a restaurant nearby. His stomach growled as if on que, but he decided to wait until he put away his luggage, and then make his way to Kinkead’s in Foggy Bottom. Maybe he’d treat himself to lobster medallions with potato and Parmesan gnocchi, and bring back a doggy bag for his best friend, Buddy, his golden retriever.
He took the avenue all the way down to Dupont Circle, into the Dupont Circle Historic District, that served primarily as a residential district, developed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. He turned onto 19th Street and parked in front of his home, four houses off the right corner.
He had a large brick home that was complimented by its perfectly trimmed, green lawn. He cut the engine and sat in the car still listening to the radio. He loved Brian McKnight, only listening to soul R&B – not the crap that teenagers called ‘rap’.
Someone rapped on the passenger window. Automatically, his right hand left his side and reached under the seat for his Walther that was loaded with hydra shock bullets. Bulets that tore through flesh like it was tissue paper. He looked up and blushed, embarrassed. It was his neighbor, Janelle, with Buddy at her feet. She was his dog sitter, always keeping Buddy while he was gone. She was younger than he, having just graduated from Georgetown with a degree in teaching. She was pretty too, although she wasn’t his taste. She was a little too wild for him, always partying and her boyfriends changed like the weather. But, she was a good friend, the only one he had besides Buddy.
He unlocked the car and she got in the front and Buddy hopped in the back.
“Hey,” Janelle said.
“Hey, what’s up? How was Buddy?” Kevin sniffed the air. Janelle smelled of Lilac body wash from Victoria Secret. Sexy. He reached back and scratched Buddy’s head, getting a lick in return. His dog was happy to see him for a change, usually mad at him for being going for so long. But opposite of his master, Buddy didn’t hold anger for long, usually releasing it after Kevin gave him something from the refrigerator.
“Buddy was good. He’s well mannered. Wish I could say the same for you.” She raised an eyebrow.
Kevin raised an eyebrow back. “I’m a bad boy.”
Janelle smiled, showing perfectly even, white teeth.
He smiled back, flirting.
“Someone’s been knocking on my door asking me questions about you. The man said he was your cousin from Detroit. I didn’t know you had a cousin, so I didn’t tell him anything.”
Kevin’s smile disappeared. “I don’t have a cousin from Detroit.”
“I thought you didn’t. Did I do okay by not telling him anything?”
“Yeah, you did great.”
Janelle smiled.
He forced a smile, no need for her to worry, he thought, but they had to get inside. They were in danger as long as they stayed outdoors. “Let’s go in my house and have a drink. Okay?”
“Alright.” Another smile.
They opened the doors and a shot rang out, a bullet shattering the windshield and lodging into the dash.
“Shit!” Kevin yelled in surprise. Buddy whimpered and got on the floor. Janelle screamed and ran for her house. “No, Janelle!” But she continued towards her house, to what she thought was safety. But it wasn’t. In fact, it was just the opposite. Her scream came to an abrupt stop as a bullet entered the crown of her head; her head exploding like a ripe watermelon hitting the pavement after being dropped from a tall building.
“Nooooo!” Kevin screamed, but it was nothing he could do for her, she was dead and he would be too, if he didn’t find cover.
His mind raced as he tried to process what was happening. There was a sniper with a rifle on the roof of a nearby building trying to kill him. Obviously, the sniper wasn’t worried about being apprehended because the rifle wasn’t fitted with a silencer. Judging from the pulp that remained of Janelle’s head, Kevin guessed that the sniper was using either a Heckler & Koch PSG-1 or a Remington 700. Whoever it was, was an expert, and was probably the most skilled sniper he had ever encountered beside himself.
He started the car and the rifle barked again, a bullet clipped his shoulder and tore through his seat. “Fuck!” he screamed and bellowed in pain. Three more inches lower and he would’ve been dead. He was bleeding badly, his shirt already starting to soak with blood.
Wincing, he pressed down on the pedal and his Cadillac sped away, bullets following like a death cloud, that when it caught up, would mercilessly escort him to the gates of hell.
Senator Phillip Harrison came down the stairs of his house two at a time, anxious to get to work and take care of some important business. His feet came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs in front of a Fantastic 4 action figure. “Damn kids,” he muttered, agitated that he almost broke his neck on one of his children’s toys. Joseph’s toy, he assumed, because he only had one other kid and she was a girl, Kathryn. He stepped over the toy, walked into the foyer, grabbed his Burberry jacket and battered briefcase.
His wife, Martha, was in the kitchen cooking something. He took a whiff of the air and almost gagged. Whatever it was, he didn’t want it. His face twisted in disgust and he sympathized for his children. He was closing in on forty-five, his hair gray and rapidly thinning on the sides. He and his wife slept in different beds. Sex between them was nonexistent. He never ate at home unless he cooked. His children hated him. He loved them. He loved his wife. But he also loved his work. Why couldn’t they understand that? They alienated him and sometimes disregarded him altogether. Recently, he realized that being a politician restricted him from being a parent. “Honey, I’m going to work.”
A rattle of metal. “Bye, hon.”
He opened the front door and emerged outside.
His driver Harold was standing by the back passenger door of the black armored Lincoln Continental with tinted windows as usual. Harold flashed a smile to the Senator and opened the door.
Harold had been his driver for about two years and had served in Vietnam. He had been honored with the Purple Heart. He got out and returned to his hometown Falls Church, Virginia to work in a gas station. Years later, he joined the Secret Service and after extensive training, was now his driver.
The Senator of Virginia got into the car and opened his briefcase, examining papers from inside a canary yellow folder. Classified papers. The papers in his hands were his reason for his anxiousness to get to work, to make some calls that couldn’t be made at home where it wasn’t safe. He heard the faint hum of the engine as it roared to life and relaxed, sinking into the soft leather.
Harold came to the end of the Senator’s driveway and turned onto the street, making a left. Harold prided himself on his excellent driving, always getting Senator Phillip to work on time for the last two years, but within seconds, his unblemished driving record would cease to exist and so would he.
Harold, a Camel cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, reached to get his cup of McDonald’s coffee from the cup holder, but spilled some of it on his pants. Taking his eyes off the road, he reached into the center console from napkins. The screech of tires! He looked up, but there were no cars coming towards him. It was the car ahead, having slammed into a minivan. A car accident probably caused by some fool conversating on his cell phone he thought. But his instincts told him different. He brought the armored sedan to a stop and threw the car into reverse, but smashed into another vehicle. He threw the car into drive and pressed down on the gas, the Cadillac lurched forward, but crashed into the car in front. They were trapped!
A man dressed in jeans and a blue shirt with a scar that snaked down the left side of his face ran to the driver’s door clutching an HKMP5N, fired a short burst into the driver’s window, bullets tearing Harold’s body apart after first chewing the bullet-proof glass that served only to slow them down, not from them hitting their target. The armored car’s bulletproof windows could withstand almost any bullet from a handgun, but not nine-millimeter rounds from a submachine gun shot within a distance of three feet. The man reached through the broken window and unlocked the car. He opened the back door and smiled at the Senator who had balled up in the corner clutching his briefcase, sweat thick on his face, his eyes moist with tears. The man grabbed the briefcase from the frightened Senator and aimed his weapon. “No . . . please, I have a family.”
The man smiled and delivered another short burst before running away, the submachine gun still in his hand, with cordite thick in his nostrils. The carnage that unfolded a little over a mile from Senator Harrison’s house ended exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds after it Harold left the Senator’s estate.
From a safe distance, a man with a navy blue Yankees baseball cap watched Harold and the Senator of Virginia get gunned down. He looked at his watch. “Jesus, they were killed in less than thirty seconds!”
His partner said nothing as he looked at his own watch, a cheap Timex that was given to him as a child.
“C’mon, we’re done here,” Yankees said.
“I’ll call it in and make the report,” Timex said as they walked to their car parked a few blocks away.
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