Kill on Command (43 page)

It had saved Brian’s life.

Actually, Bailey did, by giving her own.

VII

Slippery Waters

Deputy Director George Price’s Office

Washington
- Early Monday Morning

“What do you mean, he never got off the plane?”  Price asked, rising out of his chair, the phone in his hand.

On the other end, a bead of nervous sweat rolled down the agent’s forehead.

“He never got off the plane and when we checked the airline’s records, he never got on the plane at Reagan.  The team in D.C. left when he passed through security.”

Price remained standing, listening.  He grimaced. 

“Don’t you think that was an oversight?”

“Yes,” the agent answered, looking across the room at his team.

“So, Robert Waters could be anywhere.  I suggest you find him!  Report back to me midday!” he demanded and slammed the phone down.  He looked at his computer and his schedule for the day.  As usual, it was packed with appointments.  He didn’t care.  He needed to get out of there.  He punched a button on his phone and his assistant picked up.

“Yes, Mr. Price?” she answered from just outside the door.

“Becky, please reschedule my appointments.  I am going to be out of the office for several days.”

“Certainly.  Even the meeting today with Director O’Connor?” she asked.

“Especially my meeting with the director,” he replied and then wished he had not said it that way.

“Thank you,” she said and hung up.

Price looked around his desk and pushed a handful of things into his bag.  He opened the top drawer to his desk, pulled out the file that Waters had thrown at him the night before, opened it and flipped through a couple of pages.

“Jesus, what was I thinking?” he said aloud, looking at the damning papers.

He placed the folder into his bag and picked up the phone again.

“Becky, please get protective services on the line for me.”

“Of course, is everything alright?” she asked, suddenly alarmed.

“Nothing to worry about.  I am going on a quick trip and need a little extra support.”

“Right away, Mr. Price.”

Price sat down as he was connected with the protective services team.  He made up a phony reason for the extra security and was assigned four additional men who would travel with him.  He tried to tell himself it was enough, but deep down he knew his days were numbered.  However, he would be damned if he would go down without a fight.  Waters certainly would reach out and strike at him.  Naturally, the obvious solution was to eliminate Robert Waters first. “Waters was not the only person in the world that had access to unsavory types,” he thought to himself.  The agency’s protective detail would support him while he got his things together in Florida and at the same time he would send a group of “special men” after Waters.  He opened his wall safe and took out a small black book, flipped through a handful of pages and came to the number of the man he was looking for - Claude Kruger.  He dialed the number.

“Yes,” a man with a slight South African accent answered. 

“It’s George.” 

The man paused for a moment.  He knew Price and since he knew Price, he did not trust him, but he knew that if George Price was calling it meant a quick payday.

“Yes?”

“If you’re interested, I can put $250,000 in your pocket in the next twenty-four hours.”

“I am listening.”

“I need for you to track and eliminate Robert Waters,” Price said, point blank.

The man paused.  This was more than shooting some random jerk from 500 meters.  He knew who Waters was.  And since he knew who he was, he also hated him, but also knew that $250,000 was cheap for a high value target like Robert Waters.

“I hear you right?”  Kruger asked.

“You did.  Yes or no?”

“Half a million,” Kruger countered.

Price did not hesitate with his response.  He did not try to haggle.  Even at $500,000, it was still a bargain. 

“Done!”

“Send me the details.”

“You will have it in ten minutes. I have a feeling he is still in D.C.”

“You know where to wire the funds,” Kruger said and hung up.

Price smiled to himself and leaned back in the chair.  If he could remove Waters and thus his link to the program, he might be in the clear.  He took a thumb drive out of his safe, slid it into his computer and went to his file on Waters.  Aliases, a list of cell phone numbers he used, associates, everything he had on Waters.  He sent it all to his new best friend.  He then said to himself that hiding out in South Africa might not be a bad place and made a note to ask Kruger about it.  He needed to keep his options open.  If Waters did leak information regarding his involvement, he would need to flee the country.

Kruger hung up the phone on his end and got to work.  He had two men that would be perfect for the job.  He contacted them and arranged a meeting.  True to his word, Price sent the file in less than ten minutes.  Kruger forwarded everything to a geek that he used for these types of things, picked up the phone and called him.

“Hello.”

“Sal, its Claude.  I just sent you a file and I need you to help track down a guy for me.  Everything you need is there.”

“I am kind of busy,” Sal whined.  He was actually watching a rerun of
I Dream of Jeannie
and eating microwave popcorn.

“Quick job.  $10,000.”

“I think I might be able to find some time,” he said, pausing the TV, opening up his laptop and scanning the information.

“I think he is still in the D.C. area,” Kruger added.

“OK.  Give me a couple of hours.”

“Call me in one,” Claude said and hung up.

Sal sat down at his workstation.  He pushed a couple of empty Mountain Dew cans to the floor and fired up his system.  Sal was an accomplished hacker and a MIT dropout. Although, it was more like kicked out than dropped out.  Academic dishonesty is frowned upon at MIT.  Despite this slight setback he soon discovered that he did not need the degree to make some serious coin.  Now, it meant working for some unpleasant people, such as Claude, but the rewards outweighed the risks. 

Sal loaded all the data he had received on Waters into a program he developed.  The program would take all of the aliases and all of the phone numbers and run a detailed search.  The program would reach out and breach every firewall and search the databases for every airline, every bus, every train and every motel or hotel in a given area.  Since Claude narrowed it down, it made the process one hundred times faster.  The computer came back with an answer in thirteen minutes and Sal saw that Waters was booked on a USAir flight earlier that day traveling from Reagan to Logan in Boston.  He picked up a boarding pass, but never got on the plane.  He then saw that a man named Steve Radford, one of Waters’ aliases, rented a car from Hertz and shortly there after, checked into the Willard Hotel and was enjoying a BLT and French Onion soup, courtesy of room service, in room 619.  

The computer then culled through the thirty-five different cell phone numbers that Waters could possibly be using.  Only one was active.  Sal then plugged it into a GPS program that pinpointed the address as the Willard.  He picked up the phone and dialed Claude Kruger.

“Claude?” 

“What do you have for me?”

“He’s at the Willard.  Room 619.  I will forward a link to a program that will allow you to track him via his cell.  However, I suggest you move fast.  I am surprised he has not dumped the phone yet.”

“Well done.”

“And in less than one hour.  You know where to send the funds.”

“Of course.”  

They both hung up.  Sal sat back down on the sofa and pushed an empty pizza box onto the littered floor while reaching for the remote.  He hit play and said aloud, “Let’s see what kind of trouble you’re into now Major Nelson.” 

On his end, Claude had already packed two large duffels, containing everything he needed to outfit his team and take down Waters.  He tossed the bags into the cargo area of a black Infinity SUV.  The car’s windows were also tinted black.  It was a mean looking truck, but not much different than what three in ten housewives were driving to pick up the kids up from soccer practice.  He was first picking up his team outside of Baltimore and then heading straight for the Willard.  He took a look at his phone and could see that Waters had not moved, or at least the phone had not.  He knew his guys would be ready, even with such short notice - they loved money and killing as much as he did - maybe not in that exact order.

VII
I

New Threads & True Love

Nashville

Monday Morning

Sean woke up to Sandy looking out
the floor length window of the room.  The sun was pouring in, silhouetting her nearly naked body. 

“What are you looking at?”  Sean asked, sitting up in the bed, with the bed sheet wrapped around his waist.

“Nothing really. . . .  Looking at the Parthenon.  Watching the people hustle to work,” she responded, turning towards him and crawling onto the bed and giving him a kiss.  She rolled onto her side and then onto her feet.

Sean just watched her.

“I’m going to change and head out.  There’s an outdoor equipment store next to the hotel.  We need a couple things,” she said, as she shut the bathroom door.  She came out a few minutes later, wearing the clothes she worn the day before.

“I would ask if you knew my size, but I know you do.”

“I’ll be right back.”  She walked over and kissed him again and then left the room carrying the backpack.

Sean immediately got up and did one hundred push-ups and one hundred crunches.  He brushed his teeth and pulled on his clothes from the day before.  He was starving.  He took one of the room keys off of the dresser and went downstairs.  The hotel had a generous buffet – all you can eat. Not a lot of variety, but plenty of eggs, sausage and bacon.  Sean filled his plate.  He was always hungry.  He made a second trip to the bar and filled his plate with just eggs, drown them in hot sauce and went back to his seat.  He looked around at the people sitting nearby.  Clearly some were there to visit the college.  Parents and what looked like high school age kids sitting nearby, on their phones of course, while the parents were talking to each other.    Both groups looked excited.  Excited, but also a little sad about a new chapter in their lives.  Kids off to college.  The second group eating there were people like Sean.  Maybe not exactly like Sean, but professional travelers taking advantage of the free meal before hitting the road. 

Sean looked across the room and saw a stack of newspapers.  He picked one up, returned to his seat, and flipped through it.  He was expecting to see headlines regarding the shootout at UPMC or the chopper landing on a soccer field at WVU.  Nothing.  Not a word.  He put the paper down.  Did it really happen?  It all was moving so fast.  It was like he was on an enormous roller coaster that had reached the top and was now barreling down the other side - a roller coaster that was going too fast to jump off of and with no end in sight.  He could see he was a pawn, a piece to be sacrificed.  It made him sick.  

He took another bite of his eggs.  What Sandy said seemed to make sense.  The drugs.  The side effects of the experiments.  He never had eaten or exercised like this in his life.  He looked at his arm holding the fork.  A dozen or more veins covered his muscular forearm.  He liked the way he looked now, but he did not like how he got there.  How long would it last?  Could this be his last meal?  He had no way of knowing.

He took a long drink of orange juice and looked around again at the people in the room.  Do they really have a clue as to what is going on?  Of course they didn’t.  He didn’t.  Everything that had happened was coming crashing down on him like a tsunami of confusion.  Could he trust Sandy?  It was unlike him, but he did not feel good about rolling around in bed with her all night.  She was stunning, but he felt like she was pushing him along.  Of course, she could have killed him at anytime, but she didn’t.  Could she be waiting?  She also seemed to be on the psycho girlfriend end of the spectrum.  She said she was in love with him.  That was slightly disturbing.  He now knew she had been with him, following him for nearly eighteen months.  Yet, he barely remembered her. She said he would, but when?  He had no idea when he would regain those memories, or if he even wanted to.

On top of that, Sandy said she is pregnant.  He did not want to believe it, but he seemed to remember when it happened.  She said everything in such a convincing way.  Part of him wanted to believe everything that came out of her beautiful mouth. 

She had drawn him in.  She did not totally control him, but he was following her around like a puppy - for the time being . . . .

He tried to run through the facts in his head.  It was obvious that his job was a sham.  He flew that chopper.  Those people he gunned down were definitely there to kill him, Sandy and would more than likely have mowed down Otis.  The call with Waters was eye-opening and the more he thought about it, the more it made him angry, but at the same time terrified.  Would he have killed Sandy and then turned the gun on himself?

Part of him wanted to just put the fork full of eggs down and bolt.  Run.  The only problem was where?  He shivered slightly. 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that she really needed him.  He already felt responsible for her.  Plus, she now was carrying his child.  Oh, yes.  There’s that.  He could not just run.  He decided that he needed to finish this and he needed to remove the threat to Sandy’s safety and to his own.  When this was done, he could sort out the mess he was in.  Did he have feelings for her?  She certainly was easy to like.  What about the baby?  Was it a girl?  A boy?  Where would they live?  What would he do?  He thought he could go back and try to get a job with an agency.  Could he still live in Pittsburgh after what happened?  Then again, he might now be a fugitive.  Who knows?

Suddenly, he realized he was staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.  A girl at the table next to him was waving at him.

“Hey!  Wake up over there!” she yelled to him.  Her mother told her to stop it.

Sean smiled at her looked at his eggs.  He took a bite and thought to himself, “This is all Bill Voxx’s fault.  Bastard.  If I had not been fired, I would not been in this mess.”  He finished eating and went back to his room.

Sandy left the hotel, made a left and walked a block up West End Avenue to a hiking store.  Kind of a min-REI.  It carried bikes, boots and other outdoor gear.  As she entered  the store, she picked up a small basket.  She knew exactly what she needed.  She went right over to the men’s section and picked up a pack of t-shirts and a pack of boxers as well as a khaki colored pair of pants.  She finished it off with a pair of rag wool socks, a white button down shirt and a navy pullover.  Sandy picked up set of undergarments, a black skirt that fell just above her knees, a red V-neck shirt and a pair of new shoes.  What the hell she thought, “It’s not my money.”   She selected a new black backpack.  She took a little time looking for it.  It had to be just right.  She was looking for at least one hidden pocket.  Lastly, she bought a cheap t-shirt that was in a wicker basket near the register.  She checked out.  The tab was over $300, but again, who cares? 

Sandy left the store and stood on the sidewalk in the sun.  She put on her sunglasses.  She reached into her bag and pulled out her cell, dialed a number she knew by heart.  It rang four times before someone picked it up.  She did not recognize the voice and knew something was wrong.

“Who is this?” she asked, a little concerned.  She could hear many voices in the background.

“Who is this?” the voice replied.  Sandy thought he sounded like a cop.

“I am looking for Brian.  I am Sean’s girlfriend.” She started walking towards the hotel.  She could hear the guy talking to someone and a voice in the background screaming “I’m fine!”

“Where is Sean?”  Brian demanded as he tried to juggle the phone.  He knew it was the woman from the hospital.

“He’s fine.  What’s going on?  Where are you?”  Sandy asked.

“Screw you!  You don’t get to ask that.  Where is Sean?” 

“He’s fine.  Brian, I am calling to tell you to stop looking into this.  I know you are.”

“Well, your fucking warning is a couple hours too late.  One of you psychos just showed up and tried to kill me.”

“What?  When?”

“Two hours ago.  Bailey was killed saving my life!  I need to talk to Sean!”

Sandy dropped the bag on the sidewalk and stopped walking   His friend and Bailey.  His dog – she felt her heart breaking.  She knew this would send him over the edge.

“Brian.  This is going to stop.  The men who did this will be dead by the end of the week.”

She hung up and put both of her hands against her face and took a deep breath.  She felt a hand on her shoulder.  She turned and saw her father, Sergei Molotov, standing behind her.  She turned and hugged him.

“Papa!  I am so exhausted.  It has gotten so much worse.”

Her father sat her down on a bus bench.

“We are nearly done.  You can come home. You can get your life back.”

“I know.  I know.  But, I don’t know if I can do it.”

“You can.  I know you can.  Will he follow through?”

“Yes and stop asking me that.”  She started crying.  “I just called his friend.”

“The policeman?”

“Yes.  Waters sent a man to kill him.  Sean’s dog died saving his friend.”

“But the policeman is alive?”

“Yes.  But, Sean will go berserk,” Sandy said, sobbing.

“All the more reason for Waters and those involved to be hunted down.”

“You will need to watch him.  I know you do not think he is much, but he is capable of incredible violence.”  She looked up at him.

“I know.  No need to worry.”  He was hoping to harness Sean to accomplish his plan.  He believed what she had told him and knew she would not exaggerate but he still wanted to see for himself.  Could a man be as fast as she said?

Sergei Molotov helped his daughter to her feet.  He had not seen her in tears in years and it ripped his heart in two.  He wiped the tears from her cheeks and handed her the bags.

“Ana, I love you.  Let’s finish this,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.

“I love you.” She turned towards the hotel, but when she turned around to wave to him, he was gone. She knew he was watching.

She went straight to the hotel, up to the front desk and asked for a Fed-Ex package and a blank sheet of paper.  The clerk handed her both and she sat down in the middle of the lobby.  She scanned the room quickly.  She reached into the shopping bag and pulled out the t-shirt she had just bought and laid it flat on the couch.  Next, she took out $50,000 in Euros and $30,000 in cash, placed them on the shirt, then added a cell phone, three of Sean’s passports, the corresponding driver’s licenses and credit cards, folded them up and stuffed everything down in the Fed-Ex pack.  She wrote a quick note on the paper and placed it in the package, sealed it and filled out the address label.  She looked over at the clerk, who smiled at her and came over to get the package. 

“Excuse me, would you happen to have a sewing kit?”  Sandy asked, before he turned to go back to his post behind the desk.

“I sure do.”  The clerk jogged back to the desk and fumbled around in a drawer and produced a small sewing kit that he handed to Sandy.

“Thank you.” 

Sandy took out the new backpack she had bought for Sean, held it up and looked at it trying to find the right spot for the patch.  Finding it, she took the filthy 1% patch Otis had given him out of her backpack and went to work sewing it on the new bag.  It took several minutes and it wasn’t a perfect job, but it was not coming off anytime soon.  Satisfied, she put the backpack back into the shopping bag and left the lobby.

She looked into the restaurant to see if Sean was still eating.  He wasn’t.  She kept her fingers crossed that he did not go running off.  She took the elevator to her floor and went down the hall to the room.  Entering, she found Sean where she had left him - sleeping on the bed.  She dropped the bags and sat next to him. 

“Hey.  Hey,” she said, shaking him gently.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. 

“We need to get going.” 

He reached up, pulled her down and kissed her.