Desert Assassin (10 page)

“No.”

Williams slowly slid over to the glass, refilled it and took his time taking three sips. Assassin seemed impatient. Reaching for the bottle, Williams topped off the glass, placed it on the ground and moved about three feet away.

Five minutes later, Assassin had polished off the second glass. “This . . . is . . . very . . . good . . . I . . . must . . . be . . . programmed . . . like . . . you.”

Over the next twenty minutes, for every sip Williams took, Assassin finished an entire glass. When the bottle was almost empty, Williams told Assassin there was just enough for one more glass.

“Do . . . you . . . have . . . another . . . bottle?”

“No, I’m all out.”

“That . . . is . . . too . . . bad . . . I . . . would . . . like . . . the . . . last . . . glass.”

Williams pushed the glass over. Assassin had trouble picking up it and the rifle began pointing more toward the ground than toward Williams. By the time the last of the scotch was gone, Assassin’s eyes began to shut. Instinct took over for Williams. He pulled a hunting knife out of its sheath which was fortunately attached to the right side of his belt and lunged at Assassin stabbing him in the left side of the neck. Pulling the knife out without hesitation, he plunged it into the right side. Blood flew out of Assassin covering Williams.

Assassin dropped to the ground. “Why?” it said while staring at Williams.

Moments later Assassin was ended.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

“H
OLY SHIT!” EXCLAIMED
F
OWLER
upon his return. There was Assassin dead on the ground and Williams soaked in blood sitting beside it.

“Give me the Merlot,” said Williams.

Fowler opened one of three bottles he had bought and handed it to his partner. Williams picked up the scotch glass from the ground, cleaned it using a sleeve from his shirt, filled it and began to drink the wine.

Neither said a word for the next ten minutes. Finally, Williams looked at Fowler and said, “He wasn’t a bad guy.”

Fowler wanted to laugh, but he didn’t dare. “Are you okay, Bill?”

“Why, don’t I look okay?”

“Well, other than the fact that you are sitting in a pool of blood and soaked to your head in it and you are next to a monster-sized, dead mountain lion which has two arms, you look great.”

That seemed to snap Williams out of it. Fowler pulled Williams up and said, “Now get those goddamn clothes off and get in the creek.”

“Damn, the water was cold,” said Williams as he toweled himself off. Once he had put on a fresh change of clothes, he told Fowler that their next task was to get Assassin back to the truck.

“You gonna carry it?” asked Fowler.

“Wise ass. We’ll put it on the ATV and bring it to the truck. We’ll make one more trip back here, pick up our gear and get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Your buddy must weigh five hundred pounds and it’s dead weight.”

“So?”

Two hours later the truck bed was packed with Assassin and the gear.

“One thing left to do,” said Williams. “Wipe down the ATV and the trailer. We’ll take them to a clearing a good twenty miles from here and torch them.”

Fowler took the wheel. “Not a mile over the speed limit. We don’t need to try to explain our cargo to a trooper,” cautioned Williams.

“You ready for the sandwiches I brought back?”

“Yah, thanks.”

Once they were underway, Fowler asked what was next.

“Once we get through Magdalena, I’ll call the General and let him figure it out. Sometime tomorrow you’ll be having a steak and Chicken Killer Barley Wine Ale at Killer Two’s Diner.”

“You’re not planning to give me any scotch, are you?”

Williams came close to coughing up the the part of the sandwich he was chewing on. “No,” he laughed, “unless you saying something insulting about the Killer’s wrestling stuff.”

“Good evening, General.”

“Good evening, my ass. It’s well after midnight here, Bill.”

“We’ve got a present for you.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve found Assassin?”

“Better than that. Fowler and I have him in the back of the pick-up as we’re driving on Route 60 between Magdalena and Socorro.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“You killed it?”

“We killed it.”

Fowler yelled as loud as he could, “That’s pure crap, General. Williams got Assassin drunk on a bottle of scotch and then had his way with it.”

“Can’t I get a straight answer?”

“You need to get it off our hands,” said Williams. “Can you get a truck out of White Sands or Kirtland loaded with ice?”

“Is it decomposing like the first one.”

“No, appears to be a normal rate.”

“Look, Bill, I don’t want to take a chance on anyone seeing it. Keep on driving toward White Sands. Look for a convoy which will be parked five miles out of the Range. It will guide you in. Once you get there, you’ll be left alone with plenty of ice. Leave it in the pick-up and cover it with the ice. Jim and I will be there first thing in the morning.”

“Damn, General.”

“I’ll pick up the next tab at Killer Two’s.”

The convoy was exactly where the General said it would be. Fowler was directed to pull into the middle of it. From there they were escorted to a small, unmarked building inside White Sands. Two soldiers opened a garage door. Without waiting for instructions, Fowler drove the pick-up into it. The building was empty except for two palates loaded with bags of ice, two cots with pillows and blankets, and a small table containing a variety of sandwiches, potato chips and coffee. The door closed behind them.

“What, no beer?” asked Fowler. He then scanned the inside of the building and said, “What kind of chicken shit operation is the General running? There’s no place to take a dump.”

“Never mind that, let’s ice Assassin.”

“You already did that.”

They pulled all of their equipment and weapons out of the truck bed, broke open the bags of ice and, after a half hour’s worth of work, had Assassin completely covered. Shortly after eating the food and drinking the coffee, they were asleep.

Both awoke a few short hours later to the sound of the garage door opening. Instinctively, they jumped off the cots. Each grabbed a rifle in time to point them at the General and Rappaport.

“Jesus, guys, put those things down,” yelled the General.

“We were just trying to keep undesirables out,” said Fowler.

“It’s great to be a civilian and have absolutely no fear of authority,” mused Williams.

The General and Rappaport walked directly toward the pick-up. Two burly soldiers who accompanied them into the building closed the door and stood in sentry positions just inside the door.

“Gee, I hope it didn’t decompose while we were sleeping,” smiled Fowler.

For a moment, Williams conjured up an image of the truck bed being empty except for melting ice.

Rappaport pulled down the gate to the pick-up and there for all to see was Assassin buried in the ice.

Williams breathed a sigh of relief and said to himself, “Damn that Fowler.” He then chuckled.

“What in hell’s name is that?” blurted the General.

“The latest manifestation of Assassin.”

Both the General and Rappaport were speechless. After what seemed like minutes, Rappaport motioned to the two soldiers. They proceeded to reopen the door. In came a two-and-half ton cargo truck with a driver and one other soldier in the cab. Thirty minutes later, Assassin was loaded into a steel container filled with fresh ice. The container was then transferred into the cargo truck with the help of a forklift. Rappaport got into the cab with the driver, while the remaining three soldiers climbed into the back of the truck with Assassin. The truck disappeared into the sunlight moments later.

“Best you don’t know where it’s going,” said the General. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

“We stink,” said Fowler, “and thanks for the toilet facilities.”

“Oh shit,” replied the General.

“That’s the problem,” quipped Fowler.

“Message received,” said the General. “and, yes, there are toilets there.”

An unmarked black sedan with a corporal behind the wheel was waiting just outside the door. The General stepped into the front seat, while his two less than clean companions climbed into the back seat. Minutes later they were in a large conference room.

The General pointed to a door in a far corner. “Go through there. At the end of the hall there are showers to the right and fresh clothes. Take your time.”

They returned to the conference room and a table full of food, orange juice and coffee. Fowler surveyed the table, looked at Williams and said, “Thank goodness, no scotch.”

Williams laughed, something he seemed to being doing constantly in the company of Fowler. The General just stared at the both of them.

Plates filled and drinks poured, it was question and answer time.

“Okay, gentlemen, take it from the top,” requested the General.

Williams entered into a long monologue which detailed everything from his having left Killer’s Two’s Diner to the moment Assassin materialized at the campsite.

Not a word was spoken by The General or Fowler during the entire time.

“Don’t move, I would hate to have to end you,” said Williams.

“What?” asked the General.

Those were the first words spoken to me by Assassin.”

“It talked?”

“Yes, with the help of Fred.”

“Who the hell is Fred?”

Fowler burst into laughter. The General was confused and flustered – a rarity for him.

Williams then described the physical appearance of the once again transformed Assassin and the incorporation into itself of a mountain lion and a hunter named Fred.

Despite having seen the Assassin’s body, the General was stunned.

Williams then continued describing the conversation with Assassin up to its saying that he would like to try the scotch.

“Now I understand.” He looked at Fowler, “You weren’t bullshitting!”

Uncharacteristically, Fowler remained silent.

The General turned back to his long time friend, who in many ways was the son he never had, and said, “You really did get the bastard drunk. How did you get him?”

“This part is a blur. I remember him finishing off the bottle. He was taking one glass to every sip by me. When I saw him having trouble with the last glass and his rifle beginning to drop, I didn’t think – just pulled out the knife and stabbed him in the neck twice. I remember blood spurting everywhere. Then Assassin dropped to the ground, looked at me with big, round eyes and asked, ‘Why?’ The next thing I remember was Fowler screaming, ‘Holy Shit!’”

Fowler took over. “There he was, General, sitting in a pool of blood and covered with it from head to foot and he says, “Give me the Merlot.”

The General shook his head.

“He then spent what seemed like an hour sitting there sipping the Merlot. Finally, he looks at me and says that Assassin wasn’t a bad guy.”

Fowler got up to get a second helping of food. While he was doing that, Williams asked the General what he could do for him.

“It’s being handled. His DD will be expunged and ten years will be added to his service with a rank of staff sergeant and back pay. That will give him a pension and V.A. medical. Good enough?”

“More than I expected. Must be nice to have unlimited power.”

“Tell that to Morgan.”

“You want me to let Fowler know what’s coming his way?”

“Yes. He’s a lot more intelligent that I had expected him to be.”

“I found that out in Uganda.”

Fowler returned.

“Gentlemen,” said the General with a serious look, “what are the chances of Assassin having created a clone of himself before you killed it.”

Before trying to answer the question, Williams took note of the fact that the General was giving credit to both of them. He knew that Fowler appreciated it. “Who the hell knows? In a two week span, it made an initial escape, made a replicate of itself, killed it to make a clean getaway, and killed both a mountain lion and a human being to incorporate what it wanted from both into itself. Finally, it could have ‘ended’ me if it wanted to. By our perspective, it would seem that there wouldn’t have been enough time to have made a replicate of itself. However, he didn’t play by our rules.”

The General then turned to Fowler. “Arthur, would you be willing to go to spend a few days at Bill’s place? At least long enough to let our team examine Assassin. I’ll pick up every tab at Killer Two’s.”

Fowler gave the General a long look. “Big spender, I see.”

Williams laughed, “Over the years, I’ve picked up ten tabs for everyone one he has. This is a helluva deal.”

“What the hell,” said Fowler, “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Thank you, Arthur. I have to clear out of here. Leave here at seven this evening in the pick-up. I’ll arrange a reverse switch to be be done with the pick-up and your Pathfinder. The walk from the truck to Killer Two’s will do you good. Oh, one more thing, how Assassin was killed is classified information until further notice. I will share it with Jim and no once else. He can tell Stan and Alice who did it, but nothing more. It remains with us until, and if, we can use it to our advantage.”

The General shook hands with Williams and Fowler, and left.

“Bill, when I went back to the table, did he tell you where they are taking Assassin?”

“No.”

“Did you ask?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If he wanted me to know, he would have told me.”

“I think I have a pretty good idea of where.”

With a smile, Williams replied, “You and Killer Two.”