Kill on Command (33 page)

XXI

Cream of the Crop

Summer 2011

After twenty-eight days, McFarland realized that the serum injected into Sean Garrison and Oscar Pasco was not shutting down their systems as it had in his field tests on detainees.  In fact, the serum’s effect on their bodies seemed to be permanent.  It was not to say that a year from now, one or both men could just suddenly drop dead.  In an effort to isolate what kept Sean and Oscar going, where other men had died, he had blood work done on them again.  He had Dr. Baum contact them for a second physical as a follow-up to the tests they had in Boston.  Sean Garrison did not complain and came right in for the follow-up with a doctor in Pittsburgh.   Oscar Pasco was less than cooperative but finally gave in when the threat of his money being withheld was mentioned.

McFarland was certain he could refine the serum and he knew who would pay for the science.  McFarland was taking his show to Asia as soon as he could.  He failed to share this little detail with Robert Waters.

Waters had proclaimed his program a success.  However, only Garrison and Pasco made it through the first mission.  The rest of Waters’ “Disposable Patriots,” as he called them, died before even getting close to their targets.  Bodyguards or security personnel dispatched some of the men while they were trying to execute their programming.  One spectacularly fell to his death while trying to scale a balcony of a twenty-story building.  As Waters predicted, each of the men was seen as a tourist that had gone a little nuts.  INTERPOL and U.S. authorities could not find a motive for their actions and there were not any family members to contact. 

Of the thousands of candidates Waters and McFarland combed through, they ended up with two perfect assassins.  Men who showed no fear.  Men whose speed and skill were unmatched.  Men who did not fail.  One killed with precision in a cold and calculating way, the other, in a bloody, personal manner that chilled even Waters to the bone.

Moving forward, Waters would carefully manage Oscar and Sean as if they were prized quarter horses.

Killers like this did not grow on trees.  Now, they were made in the lab.

BOOK IV

Don’t think. Believe. Trust your heart, not your brain. 

Don’t think.  Feel.  Believe.

-
      
Ayn Rand,
The Fountainhead

I

1%

I-79 – West Virginia

September 2012 - Sunday

Robert Waters’ surviving agents on the ground in Pittsburgh
had dumped their Crown Vic in a mall parking lot and now were driving a tan Chevy Impala and were nearly to Charleston.  They were told to drive south, so that’s what they did.  The agents finally stopped at an IHOP a little north of the city and checked in with Waters.  They were instructed to stay put and await further instructions.  This seemed like a good time to enjoy a full breakfast.  Inside the restaurant, they got a couple of curious looks as they were dressed like federal officers, but it was their eyes, dark empty orbs, that made people look away.

The rain was really coming down as Sandy and Sean made their way down I-79.  South of a small, unremarkable town called Wellford, Sean saw a motorcycle in the distance and a figure working on the bike.  Sean slowed.

“What are you doing?”  Sandy asked impatiently.

“I am going to see if I can help this guy.”

“No, you are not!  Speed up and keep going!” she said, reaching into her backpack.  Sean was now three hundred feet behind the bike and its rider. Sean pulled onto the shoulder.  The rider checked out the approaching truck.

“I am going to see if we can help him,”  Sean declared, with a little more intensity as he stopped the truck and put it into park.  He started to open the door when Sandy’s hand reached out and grabbed his hand to stop him.  It was then he noticed the gun on her lap.

“I am the one who makes the decisions here.  I am in charge,” she said slowly.  He then reached over, pulled her hand up to his mouth and gently kissed the back of it.

“Of course you are,” he said softly and winked at her, while opening the door and stepping out into the rain.

“What just happened?” she asked herself.  She watched him walk up to the biker and she soon realized that this was not an ordinary biker.  The man was wearing a “Brother’s Grimm” cut.  She could see the “1%” patch, which signified that he radically rejected authority and basically everything else.

“Hey!  Can we help you man?”  Sean asked, approaching the biker.  The man stood up and Sean saw that the biker was a good deal taller and heavier than he.  Wearing jeans, well-worn black boots and a denim jacket with the Brother’s Grimm MC cut over it, the biker looked warily at Sean.

“I don’t think so.” 

Sean kept walking towards him.  Sean stopped in front of him and stuck his hand out.

“I’m Sean.”  The biker looked at him figuring Sean was some sort of nut, but shook his hand anyway.

“I’m Otis.”  Otis had long stringy black hair with a touch of grey to it.  His long beard looked the same. Otis was nearly 6’4” and easily over 290 pounds, with tattoos of flames, circling and climbing out of his shirt, up his neck towards his head.

“What’s the problem?”  Sean asked, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. While it was no longer raining hard, the weather had transitioned to that constant wet mist that tends to come out of low lying mountain clouds that now covered the interstate.

“It just stopped.  I don’t know.  I had some work done on it last week and it hasn’t been the same. Plus, I don’t have the tools to get it running.  I am basically stuck,” Otis said looking at Sean.  Sean looked back at the truck.  He could see Sandy in the passenger seat simmering.  The wipers were going back and forth slowly.

“Where do you need to go?”  Sean asked.

“Nitro.”

“If you think we could get this in the bed of that truck, I can give you a ride,” Sean said, sizing up the bike and the size of the truck bed.

“What?  You would do that for me?”  Otis was now very skeptical.  Was this kid going to kill him?  Was he a nut?  Was he ATF?

“Sure, just be nice to the lady in the truck.  She’s a bit on edge,” Sean helped Otis push the bike to the back of the pick-up.  Sandy got out of the passenger side, sliding the gun into her waistband.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, with one hand on the gun behind her back.

“Just lending Otis here a hand.  We’re going to give him a lift.  He’s south of Charleston.  Not far.”

“You sure this is OK buddy?”  Otis said to Sean, as he watched Sandy open the rear driver’s side door of the extended cab truck and climb in.

“Yeah.  No problem.  Let’s figure out how to get this baby into the bed.”  Sean looked at the bike and at the tailgate.

“We can try to lift it,” Otis suggested.  “Let’s get the front end on the tailgate and then lift and push the rear of the bike into the bed.”

“Sounds like a plan.” 

They got on either side of the bike and lifted the front end onto the edge of the tailgate.  Sean steadied the bike while Otis moved behind the rear wheel.  Sean joined him and they lifted and pushed the bike into the bed of the truck.  Otis secured it to the edge of the truck’s bed with rope from his saddlebag.

Sean motioned for Otis to head over to the passenger side.  Sean and Otis got into the truck. 

“Otis this is . . . “

“Andrea,”  Sandy answered, before Sean could finish.

“Thanks for the help, Andrea.  I really appreciate it.”  Otis settled into the passenger seat.  In the back, Sandy could smell him and she did not like it.  He smelled like a dirty, wet dog that had just smoked a pack of unfiltered Camels.  She kept her hand on her gun and looked straight at him.  Sean looked at her in the rearview mirror. 

She did not return the look.

“Otis, I know where Nitro is, but you’re going to have to lead me the rest of the way,” Sean said, as he took off his black pull over.  It was soaked, but it had kept him dry.   He reached over the seat and tossed it on the seat next to the donuts.  He caught Sandy looking at him out of the corner of his eye.  She was not happy.  “Oh well,” he thought.

As Sean pulled back onto I-79, he looked over at Otis.  Otis’ jeans were filthy.  He looked to be in his early forties, but it was hard to tell with his beard and long hair. 

“Otis, I am going to guess you are a southern rock fan,”  Sean said, smiling.

“What makes you think that?”  Otis asked, looking at Sean.

“Just an educated guess,” Sean said and Otis started laughing. 

Sandy kept staring at Otis.

Sean found a classic rock station on the radio and set the cruise control for 70 MPH.  Otis looked around the truck casually.  His eyes met Sandy’s and he turned around.

“You two in some sort of trouble?”  Otis asked.  He knew the look.

“No.  Not at all,” Sean answered.

“Your girlfriend seems a little on edge.” 

“She has a thing for bikers,” Sean replied, nodding towards the back seat.  Sandy looked at him through the rearview mirror and let him know that he was not funny.

“Well, this is your lucky day!” Otis said laughing.  He had a big booming laugh that startled Sean.  Sean started laughing too.  Sandy wanted to laugh, but did not want to give Sean the satisfaction.  She was worried.  She knew Waters had a team working on a way to find them.

Sean and Otis were becoming fast friends.  Sean was fascinated with the idea of being a biker and peppered Otis with questions.

“How long have you been a biker?”

“Twenty years or more,” Otis answered.  He had his long, thick arms resting on his lap.  His tattoos ran all the way down his arms to the wrist.  He did not have anything on his hands.

“What’s the story behind the tats?” 

Otis was always happy to talk tattoos.  He went into great detail.

“I got my first one right after I bought my first bike.”  He pulled up his sleeve to expose a faded tattoo of a bike with a naked, large breasted, raven haired woman on the seat.  Flames were shooting out of the tail pipes. 

“I like her!”  Sean said, with enthusiasm. 

“That was my first girlfriend.”

“Wow.”

“Don’t get too excited, the artist took a few liberties with the art.”

“What happened to her?”  Sean asked.

“I killed her and ate the meat off her bones,” he said, lowering his voice and staring at Sean.

Sean said nothing.  Sandy kept staring at Otis.

“Ha!  I think I had you for a second.  Shit, she left me for some guy that worked at Dairy Queen.”  Again his booming laugh filled the truck.

Otis then turned to look at Sandy.

“You have any tats you want to show, or talk about, honey?” 

Both Sean and Otis started laughing again.  Sean elbowed Otis.

“I will not dignify that,” she said, smiling.  It was hard not to like Otis.  She still kept her hand on her gun, however.

“What’s the 1% patch mean on your vest?”  Sean asked.

“It means he’s an outlaw,” Sandy said quickly.

“How do you know that?”  Otis responded, turning in his seat.

“Remember, I have a thing for bikers,” she said, smiling at Otis.

“I get the feeling you’re a 1%er, too,” he said to her. 

More like a 100
th
of a percent, Sean thought.

“It’s a “cut” not a vest,” Otis said, turning around.

“A what?”

“A cut. Not a vest.”  Otis explained.  He then launched into an explanation of all of the patches he was wearing

Sean nodded.  He found it fascinating, plus Otis wove everything into a great story. 

Sandy sat in the back and half listened to what they were saying.  She was racking her brain trying to remember if she had thought of everything. 

Had she covered their tracks? 

Did she miss something?

She had.