Kill on Command (25 page)

“We are a private facility that is primarily used by large corporations and the Boston professional sports teams,” she explained with a clinical tone, while adjusting her glasses.

“Hmmm,” Sean responded. 

When the elevator doors closed, the driver rolled down his window and held Sean’s phone out.  A guy from one of the vans, took the phone, walked back to the van and got in the back.  He hooked Sean’s phone up to a laptop and began downloading a program onto the phone, a program that would allow Waters and Sean’s handler to see everything Sean did on his iPhone.  Texts. Emails. Facebook. Twitter posts.  Everything.    Once the program was loaded, the phone was returned to the driver.

The elevator doors opened to a scene common to any hospital in the country.  There was a nurse’s station and doctors milling about, with the same harsh fluorescent lighting all hospitals were plagued with and stark white tile floors.  Dr. Baum gestured to an exam room directly across from the elevator.   It was standard, with the typical exam table, the round stool on rollers and a sink with cabinets over and under it. Sean entered and was joined by Dr. Baum and a nurse.  They went through a very thorough questionnaire that covered everything from past hospital visits, to the last time he was sick, to any identifying scars.  The nurse took a photograph of the fading scar under his ear – weird, but he didn’t protest.  The nurse drew four vials of blood, took his blood pressure and then asked him to urinate in a cup.  The basic exam done, the nurse instructed him to change into his workout clothes.  They knocked shortly after he had changed and led him to another room that contained a table, treadmill and a cart that was loaded with equipment.  They asked him to remove his shirt and began applying electrodes to his chest, back and upper arms. 

“Sean, I am going to ask for you to do at least seven minutes on the treadmill for me.  I need at least that much to get a good reading,” Dr. Baum said. 

Sean stepped on the treadmill.  He sincerely hoped he could make seven minutes.  He hated running.

“What’s the record?” Sean asked, smiling at the nurse and doctor.  The doctor didn’t look up from her clipboard.

“One of the Celtics did it for twenty-two minutes.”

“Perhaps, I should set my sights lower,” Sean said, laughing.

“Perhaps,” replied Dr. Baum.  She started the treadmill and it moved very slowly for two minutes, but then began to pick up speed and the elevation increased.  Suddenly, twenty-two minutes looked like twenty-two days.  Seven minutes was not looking that much easier.  Sean began to trot at the six-minute mark and by the time the test got to eight minutes, he was breathing from his mouth.

“The longer you run, the better my read,” Dr. Baum added with little if any emotion in her voice.

Sean kept going.  He had a goal of fourteen minutes in his head.  When he reached eleven minutes, his legs and lungs were really starting to burn.  Sweat was dripping off his head.  At 12.56 he hit the stop button.  He was spent.  His heart was pounding like a jackhammer when he stepped off the treadmill.

“Sean, please lay down on the table on your left side.”

Sean stumbled over to the table and lay down.  It was hard to do.  He really was breathing hard.  Dr. Baum rolled the cart over and did an ultrasound on his heart.  She made several notes on a clipboard.

“Sean, you can get dressed,” Dr. Baum said.

They left the room and Sean put his shirt back on.  Dr. Baum returned a minute later to walk Sean back to the exam room.

“How did I do?”

“Very well.  You have a very strong heart.  You’re a little out of shape and need to lose some weight. Lay off the beer and sweets.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Sean said, not sure how to respond.  He figured all doctors were trained from day one of medical school to steer patients away from the evils of beer and sweets. 

There was no way in hell he was giving up beer.

“Please put your street clothes back on and I will be right back.”

Dr. Baum escorted Sean to the garage where the driver from earlier in the day was waiting for him.  She did not say a word to Sean, which he felt was odd and slightly cold.

“Oh well,” he said to himself. 

Sean already knew the driver wouldn’t speak so he simply relaxed and enjoyed the ride as they headed back to the hotel.  Again, it seemed like the driver took the scenic route.  When they arrived at the hotel, the driver handed Sean his phone back.  He let himself out of the car and thanked the driver.

Sean nodded to the bellman and went up to his room to take what he felt was a well-deserved nap.

As Sean napped in his hotel room, Oscar Pasco was getting into a car that would take him to the medical office.  He was not happy about the tests and made sure everyone knew about it.  Unlike Sean, he did not make the seven-minute mark on the treadmill.  McFarland’s team immediately disliked him. 

McFarland and his team poured over the candidate’s test results.  They separated the men into groups.  Each man was assigned a number.  Oscar Pasco was Number One.  Sean Garrison was Number Two.  There ended up being fifteen men who qualified, but some were better than others.  It was determined that the top third could, theoretically, handle two advanced implants and the serum.  The second tier received an implant and the serum and finally, the last group would receive the implant only.  McFarland didn’t hold out much hope for the third group.

The next step was getting the men into the lab for the procedure.  Like everything else, McFarland had that covered.  Food poisoning.  He would poison the men, have them rushed to the lab, which they thought was some sort of outpatient facility.  He had people in their hotels ready for when the time was right.

At the same time, Waters was assigning handlers to each of the men.  He had already deployed Sandy to shadow Sean and assigned another agent, Todd Klein, to Oscar Pasco.  These two were his best people and were assigned the top candidates.  All of the agents were briefed individually and immediately deployed.  Operational control was paramount and Waters intended to keep every candidate and their corresponding team in a silo.  Of the field agents, only Todd Klein understood the scope of the program.  Normally, this would concern Waters, but he knew he could dispatch Klein whenever he pleased – accidents happen all the time.

Genuinely skeptical that McFarland could pull off everything he was promising, part of Waters believed that doctor would end up killing all of the men they had recruited.  He was not so much concerned with the lives of the men, but that he would need to start all over.

Success would come in phases.  Phase one started in twelve hours.

XI

Guardian Angel

Boston – Saturday Night – May 14, 2011

Sean woke up from his nap and had made up his mind that he was going to try to get tickets to the hockey game.   He took his phone off the nightstand, went to his Facebook page and left a quick post about the night’s game.  In the next room, Sandy watched him type and saw the post pop up on her phone.  She would need to dress appropriately.  Her job started tonight.  She was now Sean’s shadow. 

Sean put on a pair of jeans, his old brown shoes, a white polo shirt and headed down to the lobby.  He stopped to talk to the bellman on the way out.

“Evening Fred,” Sean said.

“Good evening, Mr. Garrison,” Fred said, smiling at Sean.  Fred was a big guy - he had to be at least 300 pounds and 6’6” or more.  The bellman’s uniform made him look even bigger.  He wore it well.

“Hey, I am going to try and score tickets to the game tonight.  Any advice?”

“That’s a tough one.  They are going to be expensive.  I don’t have a hook-up.  Sorry,” he paused. “You going to buy one off the street?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.  Can you get me a cab to the Garden?” 

“Now, that I can do,” Fred said, putting a whistle to his mouth and motioning for a cab.  Fred told the driver to head down to the Garden.  Sean handed Fred a $10 bill.  It was a big tip for a cab, but Sean liked Fred and he knew how much shit Fred had to put up with. 

“Thanks Fred.  Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

The cab pulled away from the hotel.  Simultaneously, a black Tahoe pulled up and a tall redhead exited the hotel, jumped in the backseat and simply nodded to her back up team, Bill and Bob, in the front seat.  The trio followed the cab. 

Inside the cab, Sean was sending a text.

SEAN:  The physical about killed me. 

BRIAN:  Not surprised.  You yak?

SEAN:  No.  Close though.  I had to take a nap afterwards. 

BRIAN:  Living the dream.  That’s you dummy.

SEAN:  I am heading down to the Garden to try and score a seat to see the “B’s”.

BRIAN: As a law enforcement officer, I need to remind you that scalping is a crime.

SEAN:  Noted.  Bailey OK?

BRIAN:  Still looking out the window for you.  She’s fine.

Sean put the phone back in his pocket.  It always made him sad to think about Bailey just sitting at the window, watching for him.

Behind Sean’s cab, Sandy was checking her iPhone.  She saw everything Sean typed or received on his phone.

“He’s going to the Garden.  Stay close to the cab,” she instructed Bill and Bob.  Both nodded but didn’t say anything.  Waters had assigned them to Sandy, both to support her and to keep an eye on her for him.  She was one of his best, but he did not trust her completely.  After all, working for him had not been her first choice.

Sean’s cab dropped him off in front of the Garden.  The puck would drop in forty-five minutes.  Sean knew the guys with tickets would be getting antsy the closer it got to game time.  He walked towards the ticket office and saw scores of people at will call.  A couple people approached him and offered seats for over $100.  Sean declined.  He had set a price in his mind of $60, which he knew was a long shot. The worst that could happen was he would watch the game in a bar.

The Tahoe dropped Sandy off right behind Sean’s cab.  Like Sean, she had on jeans and comfortable shoes.  She also had on a tight fitting, scooped neck Bruins t-shirt.  Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.  She confidently strode twenty yards behind Sean.  He had no clue she was there.  There were hundreds of people out in front of the Garden.  She watched him talking to people who were trying to sell him tickets.  She was hoping he would not find one.  Getting into the game and watching him inside would be complicated.

Sean wandered around for another twenty minutes without success.  He decided to head over to a nearby bar, the Sport Grille on Canal Street, to catch the first period.  It was packed with people, but it also had TVs everywhere, all of them tuned to the B’s game.  Some folks were trying to get in that last beer before heading over to the Garden, while others were in the bar for the duration. Nearly everyone had on some sort of B’s regalia.  An old 3 Doors Down song was playing way too loud.

Sean pushed his way to the bar. He felt he had a gift when it came to managing crowds and getting the bartender’s attention - too bad he could not make a career out of it.  He got the bartenders attention and ordered a Guinness.  He pulled out his money clip and handed the bartender $10 and told the guy to keep the change.  Nice gesture, but a couple guys noticed Sean’s money clip and the amount he had in it.  Normally, he carried little cash, but since he was travelling, he had some big bills.  Sandy just arrived in the bar.  She saw Sean, but also noticed the two men watching him.  They were just local trash - both had hair that was closely cropped and were wearing Bruin’s jerseys with Cam Neely’s old number on them.   One of them had a shamrock tattoo on his neck. Sandy didn’t like them.  She moved up to the bar and ordered a Stella. 

The Sports Grille had an oval-shaped, copper topped bar so she was able to see Sean across the room with ease, while also watching the two guys eyeing Sean.  Sean was leaning on the bar, staring at one of the screens across the room.  Sandy sipped her beer and watched the puck drop to start the first period.  It was shoulder to shoulder in the bar.  The music went down and the sounds of the game went up.

Down the street, Bill and Bob sat in the truck with the radio on listening to the game, waiting for Sandy.

“What do you think of her?” Bill asked.

“She won’t last.  I don’t know what Waters sees in her,” Bob replied.

“I know what he sees in her,” Bill said, laughing.

“Just do your job.  Waters told me she is one of the best.  I also did some digging on my own.  She’s trained with Special Ops.  There’s also a rumor floating around that she killed some guy with her shoe - jammed a stiletto heel right through his eye.”

“She has flats on tonight.  We should be safe,” Bill replied with a chuckle.

Bob did not respond.

Sean finished his beer and ordered a second as the guy with the shamrock tattoo moved up behind Sean.

“Hey, friend! Why don’t you buy a round for me and my buddy?” the guy said with a thick Southie accent.  It was a request with the unmistakable flavor of violence attached.  Sean looked over his shoulder.  He was a couple inches taller than the two guys, but they were, no doubt, a whole lot tougher.

“I don’t think so,” Sean replied and turned to his beer.

“Don’t be a dick.”

Sean turned around to face them.

“Just watch the game and get your own beer,” he answered.  Sean could feel the anger coming off the two guys and decided this was a bad place to be.  This would be his last beer. 

“Maybe we should just take that cash then,” the guy said, moving closer to Sean and nodding at his pocket.  Sean could smell the stale beer on his breath and could tell these guys had been drinking all day.  He was also certain they could still give him the ass kicking of a lifetime. 

Sean turned away from them, took a long drink of his Guinness and placed the glass back on the bar, still half full, which is a crime in certain parts of the world.  He decided his hotel room was the best place to watch the rest of the game.

“See ya, guys,” Sean said.  They tried to block his path, but Sean pushed past them.  Sandy had been watching the exchange and started moving when Sean walked by her.  She moved towards the two locals, who were behind Sean.  She met both of them half way through the crowd.  She raised her hand and gently placed it in the middle of the chest of biggest guy.  He stopped and instantly forgot about Sean and his money clip.

“Where are you guys going?” she said, leaning in towards the guy, and running her hand up and around his neck.  He had definitely forgotten about Sean now.

Unfortunately, Sean had not left the bar.  The B’s had just scored and he stopped near the door to continue watching the game.

“No where now,” the guy said, putting his hand around Sandy’s waist and pulling her closer.  She could smell the beer and the pungent odor of sweat coming off of him.  She hated this part of the job and always had.   The second guy started to squeeze past Sandy, towards Sean.  She reached out and touched his shoulder with her left hand.

“Oh, you’re not getting away from me,” she stammered, effectively stopping him.  Both men were looking at her.

Sean was still standing there watching the game.  Sandy needed for him to leave.

“Shit!  I am wicked buzzed!” she shouted, giving the Boston accent her all.  They didn’t have a class on Southie accents at Yale, but she did her best.

“Yeah?” one of them answered.

“Yeah.  My girlfriends are having a party.  You guys should come.  It will be fun.”

“They look like you?” the other asked.

“No, they are a bunch of fuckin’ pigs!” she said, with a drunken laugh.

Both guys laughed.

“Let’s go,” they said at the same time.  Sean was way back in their rearview mirror now and they were focused on Sandy with plans of getting laid.

Sean finally decided to leave.  He stepped out of the bar and onto the curb and hailed a cab.  The sidewalk was full of people.  Sandy and the Southies followed a couple of seconds later.  Bill and Bob saw her with her arms around two locals.

“What is she doing?” Bob asked.  Bill shrugged.

Sandy waited for Sean to get into the cab and pull away before extricating herself from the two.

“Guys.  I changed my mind,” she said without an accent, easing away from them.

“What the fuck?” one of them yelled at her.

“Sorry, but I don’t care for Southie trash,” she added, turning and walking towards the Tahoe parked down the street.  Bill and Bob saw her coming.

“You fuckin’ bitch!  Come back here!” the guy with the shamrock yelled and began following her. 

They were about ten steps behind her.

“Bob.  It looks like you might get the chance to pound on some local trash,” Bill said, opening the passenger side door and getting out. Bob got out of the other side and walked around to the front of the truck as Sandy passed him.  Bill opened the rear passenger door for Sandy and she got into the truck.  Bill shut the door.  The two guys were still yelling at her when Bill stepped in front of them.

“Whoa!  What’s the problem here?”  Bill said, holding up both hands.  Bob circled behind the two. Bill and Bob could have passed for brothers. Both were 5’11” and roughly two hundred pounds.  Not the flabby two hundred pounds the locals were carrying around, two hundred pounds forged from boot camp, Recon school, Iraq and two tours in Afghanistan.  They were mean, loved to fight and never lost.

“She’s a fuckin’ tease!  Get her ass over here!” one of the locals screamed.  Clearly his anger had clouded his judgment.

“Listen.  That’s our sister.  I suggest you go back to your Southie shit hole, wherever that is, before something bad happens,” Bill replied.  He wanted to scare them off, but he had the opposite effect.  Bob now had circled around to the left side of the second guy.  He was ready for the impending confrontation.

The two men sized Bill and Bob up – they looked like Chestnut Hill preppies.  They loved to kick rich kid ass.  Always had.  They had been fighting their whole lives and had the philosophy of “when in doubt, swing”.  The first guy cocked his fist, but it didn’t get far.  Bill sent a quick jab into the man’s throat.  He dropped to his knees, clutching his neck.  At the same instant, Bob thrust the heel of his hand into the jaw of the second man, who dropped as well.