Kill on Command (40 page)

“Who are you?”  Ahmed asked.

“A man who can help you.  My name is not important.”

Ahmed sat back down and opened the envelope and looked inside.  What Oscar did not know was that the Prince was watching from his palace in Saudi Arabia via a camera located in the front of the room.

“There’s nothing in here but a web address and a series of numbers!  What is this?”  Ahmed asked, tossing the papers on the table with obvious frustration.

“The address is a link to a site where you can see the faces of the people that assassinated your late Prince,” Oscar answered, taking a drag on his cigarette.

With that, the screen to life and the Prince appeared.

In Arabic, he ordered, “Ahmed, get the information and kill him.”

Oscar understood every bit of what the Prince had said and quickly produced a weapon the sloppy search had missed, a ceramic knife that was fastened to his right arm.  With the reflexes McFarland’s serum had provided, he yanked Ahmed out of his seat, placed the knife at his throat and used him as a shield.  The guards did not have time to react.

In Arabic, Oscar said, “You will have a hard time killing me and, by the way, you need a code to access the site.  Only I have that.” 

He paused.

“Oh, I speak Arabic.”

The guards were trying to get an angle to shoot, but could not.  Oscar pressed the knife into Ahmed’s neck, drawing blood that trickled down and stained his shirt.

The Prince jumped when he saw Pasco move.  Faisal didn’t.  He saw at once the danger this man posed.  He studied the image on the screen of the man with the knife to Ahmed’s throat, secretly hoping these were Ahmed’s last moments on Earth.

Continuing in Arabic, Oscar calmly commanded, “Ahmed, please ask your men to place their weapons on the table and exit the room.  Non-compliance will result in their deaths and yours.”

“Put your weapons down as he requests.  Leave.”

The men placed their weapons on the table and one by one left the room.  When the door closed behind them, he released Ahmed.  Ahmed touched his hand to his neck.

“I am sorry that had to get ugly,” Oscar said.

Oscar lined up the weapons to his left and sat down.  He placed the knife in front of him.  Ahmed took his seat, warily looking at Oscar, who he was certain could kill everyone on the ship if it suited him. 

“Who are these people?  The people that killed my father?” the Prince asked.

“Ahmed, go to this site and pull it up.”

Ahmed entered the address on a laptop and the site appeared in the corner of the screen.

“I assume you can see this?”  Oscar asked the Prince.

“Yes.”

“What’s the code?”  Ahmed asked, looking at the prompt on the screen, requesting a passcode.

“Not until I am compensated for this information,” Oscar said, leaning back in the chair.

“No.  I will not pay you,” the Prince answered.

“Then you will not get what you want and I will take a boat ride back to Cannes and enjoy the day.”

The Prince was obviously frustrated. 

“What do you want?” he asked, barely containing the irritation.  He was unaccustomed to being spoken to in this manner.

“$150,000.  $50,000 a person,” Oscar replied and slid the second piece of paper over to Ahmed.

“Ahmed, please wire the funds to the account listed here.”

Ahmed looked at the screen.  The Prince nodded.  Ahmed went to a new screen and followed the banking instructions.

“My phone please, Ahmed.” 

Ahmed slid the phone over and Oscar pressed a couple of keys on his phone, looked at the screen and found that the money was there.

“Thank you gentlemen.”

“Now the code!” the Prince said, raising his voice.

“There’s not one.  I thought it would add a little spice to our meeting if you believed there was one.  Just hit enter please, Ahmed.”

Ahmed frowned.  He did not like this man.  There was a look in his eye that made him think Oscar was not all there.

“Please click on the first file.” 

Ahmed did and Ana Molotov’s picture popped up.

“That is Anastasia Molotov.  She is CIA.  Currently AWOL.  She supervised the murder.  She is also an assassin, working with the next person.

The Prince stared at the image.  Even though it was a grainy shot, he knew he wanted Ana Molotov in his bed.

“Next,” Oscar requested, gesturing with the knife.

Sean’s picture appeared.  It was a picture of him on the street, laughing with a large black man in front of a hotel.

“This is Sean Garrison.  He is the assassin who killed your father.”

Faisal leaned forward.  Sean was not what he was expecting.  The Prince also stared at the image.

“Is he CIA?  Special Forces?”  Ahmed asked.

“Neither and it’s actually a funny story.  He’s an unemployed advertising executive.”

“Is this some sort of joke?”  Ahmed said, raising his voice.

“Was it a joke when I had a knife to your neck?  Hmmm?  Garrison and I are brothers of sorts.  We have an unusual skill set.  We kill people.  I do it neat.  He does it messy, but of course, you know that, as I assume cleaning up after his visit was a monumental task.”

“And you know where to find them?” the Prince asked, becoming excited.  Faisal remembered the bloody scene on the boat  - in fact, would never forget it.  If the man on the screen, sitting across from Ahmed was anything like the bloody assassin that had visited the boat, they should run as far and as fast as possible. 

“Patience.  Last file please.”

Robert Waters' image filled the screen.

“I know this man. He is CIA,” Ahmed said.

“Very good. This is Robert Waters.  He was running an unsanctioned assassination program and he is the individual that sent Garrison and the girl here.”

“Where are they?” Ahmed demanded.

“Let’s talk about compensation,” Oscar suggested, but it was more of a thinly-veiled command.

“No. You will tell us what we brought you here for!”  Ahmed shouted at him.

“$5 million for all three.  I will also kill your incompetent bodyguards for free as a bonus, if you wish.  Oh, I know you know this Ahmed, but you are not in a position to shout or give me orders.  I give the orders now.”  Oscar’s eyes narrowed and his tone changed as he spoke, glaring at Ahmed from across the table.

Ahmed seemed to shrink.  Thankfully, the Prince interjected, his only concern was revenge.  He could care less if Ahmed’s life was in jeopardy.

“No.  It will be an Arab that ends their lives!” 

“That is a bad idea.  They will easily foil your attempts on their lives,” Oscar said shaking his head.

The Prince contemplated the situation.

“Fine.  You will help us, but we will kill them.”

“My consulting fee is $2 million.”

“Done.  Ahmed, wire the money,” the Prince commanded.

Ahmed worked the keys and turned when he completed the transfer.  Oscar then punched a couple of keys on his phone and smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, looking at the screen.

“Where are they?”  Ahmed demanded.

“I have no idea,” Oscar blurted out and began to laugh.

“WHAT!” the Prince screamed.

“It’s true, but I know where they will go.  The girl and Garrison will move on Waters as they want him dead. I know exactly where to look.   We watch Waters and we will get all three.”

“Very good.  Very good,” the Prince responded and then paused.  “I think I do want you to kill those guards for me.”

“As you wish.” Oscar stood and took one of the Berettas off the table.  He checked the weapon and walked out to find the guards standing in the hall, most with their hands in their pockets.  Oscar opened fire on them before they could react.  The gun sounded like cannon fire in the enclosed hallway.  The slaughter finished, he turned and walked back into the conference room smiling.

“You have anybody to clean that up?” Oscar asked, motioning towards the hall.

The Prince was impressed.  Faisal was terrified and he believed was looking at the devil himself.

“Oh, one other thing, if you bring the woman to me alive, it is worth another $2 million,” the Prince requested.

“As you wish,” Oscar replied.  He was already thinking about his growing bank account and was not worried in the least about fulfilling the request.  His handler was a simple takedown and he expected Ana Molotov to be much easier.

The screen went dark.

“Let’s get to work,” Oscar said to Ahmed.

II

Southern Fried

Nashville, Tennessee

Sunday – Early Evening

Sean and Sandy made it to Nashville in the early evening hours and were able to get a room in a Holiday Inn on West End Avenue near Vanderbilt University.  Sandy had discarded the Andrea Smithson I.D. and the associated passport and credit cards as that alias was blown.

“Sean, I am now Faith McCormick,” she said, holding up her new I.D.

“What?  How many of those things do you have?”

“Enough.  Since you have a problem remembering your name, we will use the Mason I.D. I gave you, but you go by Sean.” There was just a bit of condescension in her voice.

“I assume we met the same way?”

“Yes, let’s stick with that.”

Sean pulled into the Holiday Inn parking lot and found a space out front. Across the street was a McDonald’s and behind that there was a cinder block building that looked like some sort of BBQ joint.  He could also see Nashville’s replica of the Parthenon, which was set about a quarter of a mile off of the road in the middle of a park.

“Hey, let’s run across the street and grab some BBQ,” Sean suggested, looking at Sandy, who was gathering the bags from the back seat of the truck.  She was in no mood for additional adventures, even if it was a quest for obscure BBQ.

“Really?”  Let’s get into the room.” 

“Fine.”

Sean and Sandy had no trouble checking in with the Faith I.D. and credit card and were given a room on the 5
th
floor that overlooked West End with a good view of the Parthenon.  Upon entering, Sean tossed the bags on the bed and sat down in a chair near the window.  Sandy looked out the window at the traffic moving up and down West End. 

“I am going downstairs to get some things.”

“What things?” Sandy asked, turning towards him.

“Things like a toothbrush, razor.  Those types of things,” Sean answered, with his hand already on the doorknob.

“Hold on, I am coming too.”

“Jesus!  You don’t need to keep watching me.  Just tell me what you need and I will get it,” Sean responded, slightly pissed off.

“You’re right.  Just get me a toothbrush.  I have everything else.”  It was hard to break away from what had been her life for nearly eighteen months.  Sean was never far from her.

“Thank you!”  He opened the door and left the room.

Sandy rummaged through the backpack and picked up one of the disposable phones and dialed a California number. Her father’s number. 

In Russian, she said, “We are here.”

“Good.  Meet me on the steps of the Greek building near the university.  Noon,” her father responded.

“We will be there,” she answered.

“Will your friend cooperate?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Will you be able to carry out the plan?” 

“Yes.  Why do you ask?” 

“I know you have feelings for him,” her father countered.

“Not true,” she replied, defensively.

“Ana, you’re my daughter.  I can tell by your voice.” 

“I will see you at noon,” she said and hung up.  He was right.  The next part of her plan would be the toughest.  She sat down on the edge of the bed, took the battery out of the phone and tossed it in the trash.  It was getting dark and the lights from the street were casting shadows across the walls of the room.  She went into the bathroom and started the shower. Part of her wanted to run downstairs and see what Sean was doing, but she realized she was going to have to stop.  She stripped off her clothes and climbed into the shower. 

Sean came right back to the room and heard the shower.  The door to the bathroom was cracked, so he saw it as an invitation to head right in.

“Hey!  Got your stuff,” he announced, sticking his head into the steam filled room.

“Thank you.  Now get out!” Sandy yelled, stopping to see if he really listened.

Sean was now in the bathroom outside the shower.

“I can hear you!  Get out!” she yelled again.

Sean smiled.  “Are you sure I can’t scrub your back or something?” 

“No!  Get out!”

“OK.  OK.  Have it your way.”  Sean closed the door behind him. 

Sean picked up the remote on the nightstand and flipped to ESPN.  He took a quick sniff of his shirt and took it off.  It stank. He pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed to watch a random Crossfit games telecast. Before he knew it, he was asleep. 

Sandy got out of the shower and dried off.  She wrapped a towel around her and peeked out into the room.  Sean was out cold.  She looked at him for a moment and then dropped the towel.  She went over to the bed and straddled him.  She startled him and he tried to get up, but Sandy pushed him down gently.  Before he could speak, she kissed him.  He pulled her close and kissed her deeply.  With her left hand, Sandy reached down and undid his pants.  Sean arched his back and pushed his pants and boxers off and kicked them onto the floor.  Sandy continued straddling him. 

“Thank you god!”  Sean said to himself as he rolled her over onto her back.  Both Sandy and Sean were sweating when they stopped.  They lay, not speaking for a moment.  Sean rolled over on his left side and looked at Sandy. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he said in Italian.

“Oooo. I love Italian!” she exclaimed, smiling.  

Sean ran the fingers of his left hand across her stomach.  Her stomach flat and tight, he could feel the muscles just under her smooth, tan skin.

“Body by Sean,” she said, with a nervous laugh.

“What?”

“Keeping up with you is not easy.  I was banged into shape chasing you across the globe.”

Sean stopped when he felt the scar on her stomach.  He traced it all the way up across her mid section to just below her breasts.  She put her hand on his.  He pulled away and rolled onto his back.  Sandy turned towards him and got back on top of him and looked at him. 

“I remember,” he said

“Remember what?”

“You.  We were together in Berlin.  I met you at a club.  I was there watching a band.   But your hair was different.  I remember your kiss.  The way you smell.  I remember feeling the scar on your stomach.  You spoke a different language,” his voice trailing off as he spoke.