Readers > Killed by Death > Excerpts
view cart   add to cart

Comments And Reviews | Author Info

It began with his presidency falling apart, because of his misbehavior in a number of matters, including illegal campaign contributions and his ongoing affair with a White House staffer. After being the first President forced to testify before a Grand Jury and having to admit his affair to his long-time wife, the President was at his lowest. The previous week, his wife had quietly moved back home to East Texas, leaving him on his own in the White House. She had been his best advisor and, as much as he hated to admit it, he missed her. Not only severely depressed, he was pissed. Sure, he'd helped raise funds in a questionable manner, but what the hell, everyone did it. And, half the damned married men in the country had an affair or two over the course of their marriage.

He knew the American public needed something to happen to take their minds off his peccadilloes and, adding to his frustration, it seemed the CIA and FBI were at a standstill trying to nail the people who bombed two United States Embassies within ten minutes of one another in Africa. They were ninety-nine percent certain who the perpetrator was, but couldn't find the hard evidence necessary to bring him to justice. Well, screw the evidence. He wanted rid of the bastard, along with every other goddamned terrorist aiming their bombs and ambushes at Americans. International Law be damned! And, he knew the Director was of a like mind.

Six months later, somewhere in Southern Iraq:

The small camouflage canvas tent in the bottom of the thirty-foot-deep wadi would have been invisible from the air. In fact, even on foot, one might nearly stumble over it before realizing it was there. Not only did the desert coloring blend perfectly with its surroundings, but several jaguar bushes were expertly placed to break up the triangular shape. Taylor was sure his quarry was inside, but he had to wait until he showed himself, so he'd know damned sure the terrorist suspected of the embassy bombings was dead. There was nothing to do but wait for the mass murderer to poke his head out.

Taylor's only cover was a short thistle bush growing atop the wadi. Out in the open like this, the sun was nearly unbearable. And most likely, his quarry wouldn't show himself until after sundown. His entire body was wringing wet from sweat and he had emptied the one-quart plastic canteen an hour earlier. He must have checked to see that the wires were properly connected to the small rocket a dozen times, knowing he might get but one chance to kill this bastard and get to hell out of this damned inferno.

Finally, as the sun dropped low enough in the sky for the air to begin cooling, he saw movement outside the tent. When he pulled the small scope from his jacket pocket and looked at the shadowy figure next to the tent, he let out a long sigh. It was the quarry he had tracked too damned long. Slowly and carefully, he rose to a sitting position and set the small launcher on his shoulder. When he looked through the sight and lined the cross hairs up in the middle of Farsouke's back, he damned near laughed aloud, but whispered, "That's the very last piss you'll take on this world, you elusive bastard."

It took but half a second for the rocket to reach its target, some three hundred yards distant. Not only did Farsouke disappear, but the side of the wadi caved in big time and buried the terrorist's meager spattered remains, tent and all. Taylor rolled the launcher off his shoulder, left it where it fell and slid down the steep side of the dry wash. When he hit the bottom, it was on a dead run toward the Humvee, parked a half mile back, toward Saudi Arabia. Smiling that he had finally nailed the bastard, it was going to be good to get back to air conditioning and a decent meal.

view cart   add to cart

top

The past months had been the toughest assignment of his career and, now, Taylor sat in his DC efficiency apartment, staring at the recorder. Who the hell did the voice belong to? Only one person had this number, and the voice wasn't his. John wondered if something had happened to the director while he was off chasing after that asshole. The message on his recorder mystified him. "Check the post office."

John Taylor was a professional killer, a hit man for the CIA. He understood what the message meant, but who left it was a matter of great concern. All his assignments were deposited in a box at a far-west DC post office. As he struggled with figuring out who besides the director could possibly have left the message, it occurred to him that even the director shouldn't know he was back in the country. He hadn't reported in to Director Davidson. Also, it was the first time he'd received anything other than the standard message.

Taylor had returned from Saudi Arabia but two days earlier, after trekking around in the desert for a month. Five months, he'd tracked Elijah Farsouke all over the Middle-East before finally nailing the man the agency suspected had masterminded a half dozen terrorist bombings around the world, including two in the United States. Farsouke had been the toughest sonofabitch he'd ever been assigned to kill. But Taylor took pride in the fact that he had worked at this for a long time, and not once had he failed to complete an assignment. When he set out to track down and kill someone, it was a foregone conclusion the man was dead.

And, as Taylor had heard through the rumor mill, when the President finally got tired of American installations being bombed and American citizens being kidnapped or ambushed, he pulled all the plugs, including giving the CIA Director orders to get rid of every damned terrorist he could identify and find. Screw trying to bring them to trial. Enough was enough.

So now, few rules applied to agents like Taylor, and he was pretty much on his own. He'd leave a message that a target had been taken out by calling a specific number, give the director a code number and tell the recorder he was going to the beach. And, that's usually what he did until he received a message on his answering machine that his dry cleaning was ready to be picked up. Usually, he didn't bother to check for messages for at least three or four weeks. When he did retrieve a message, he'd return to Washington to check his post office box and receive his next assignment.

It was always an index card inside an envelope, with the name of the target and information on his last known whereabouts. The agency had their own man putting mail up at the branch post office. This was the first time the message had been anything other than, "Your dry cleaning is ready to be picked up." Maybe it was because he'd never received a different message, or maybe because he didn't recognize the voice, or because he hadn't reported he was back, but he was sure as hell uneasy, as he drove toward the post office. After years of playing cat and mouse with the bad guys, Johnny was naturally suspicious of everything and everyone. But, not trusting anyone and never letting anyone know for sure where he was had kept him alive a lot of years in a truly dangerous profession.

When he wasn't dressed for combat with some known terrorist, or someone the US deemed a threat to security, Johnny looked more the professorial type. He was tall, distinguished, with just enough gray in the dark brown sideburns to say, "I'm old enough to be smart, but young enough to get it up." He wasn't movie star handsome, but what he lacked in looks, he made up for in personality, when he wanted to use it. He couldn't count the times he'd been told he used a real line of bull to lure the ladies, but, of course, he preferred to call it charisma. Well educated, knowledgeable in many areas and with an excellent command of the language, if one met John Taylor without knowing him, it would never be suspected that he was a professional killer with over twenty successful assignments to his credit.

The message at the post office simply gave a phone number to call and warned him to use an out of the way pay phone. He didn't recognize the number and, when he dialed it, a recording of the same voice instructed him to be at Room D-2, Global Observation Agency Headquarters at 2 PM. It also said the order came from Director Davidson. As he hung the receiver back on its hook, Johnny automatically scanned the area around the convenience store and wondered softly, "How the hell did anyone know I was back? I don't like it. Not even a little bit." Returning slowly to the car, he debated whether he should go, or if he should ignore the instructions and call his contact number. He was a solo operator, dealing with no one face to face. Like the other agents assigned to his unit, his photo wasn't on file at the agency, and his entire file was privy only to the director. He'd often smiled to himself about he and his fellow killers being the best kept secret in the world.

Johnny glanced at his watch. An hour and a half. He sat for a moment after starting the engine, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to examine the possibilities. How had the caller gotten his number? Davidson would have to have given it to him. Who the hell was he? His tendency was to say to hell with it. Why would he be called to GOA? Yeah, it was an offshoot of the agency, but why should he expose himself to someone he didn't know? But, in the end, one of Johnny's faults was curiosity, and his curiosity told him to go if for no other reason, than to learn how his security had been breached.

As he approached room D2, deep beneath the headquarters of the Global Observation Agency, he absentmindedly listened to the slight squeak his soles made on the marble floor and made a mental note to trash them. Hesitating in front of the door, he wondered why the room was called D2. There was no D1 or D3 - only D2. Global Observation Agency, like hell. It was but one more way for the agency to pull the wool over congress' eyes and hide the money it spent. It also allowed the agency to spy on that many more people. Not to mention hiding many of its activities long since outlawed by congress. Who did those idiots on Capitol Hill think they were? Did they really believe they could control or keep track of what the agency did? Hell, if the agency couldn't fool congress, could they fool anyone?

The GOA was supposed to be an independent agency, charged with operating all the communication and spy satellites put up by the U.S. and keeping track of every satellite put up by other countries. They also tapped into those foreign satellites to retrieve whatever information they contained. The fact that the GOA was staffed primarily by CIA employees was known to no one outside the agency, and possibly, the President. At least, he thought it was likely the President knew. Actually, he knew little about the man, except that he'd been an obscure US Representative from East Texas, who came out of nowhere to narrowly win the last election. Johnny never worried much about politics - just went out and did his job to eliminate whomever the company wanted rid of. Never, did he question the why of an assignment.

As he punched his ID number into the keypad alongside the door of room D-2, he really didn't expect it to get him in, but to his surprise, the door immediately slid open and disappeared inside the wall. Whoever called him had evidently programmed his ID into the computer. This made him even more nervous. Who would have access to that number?

Two people sat at the expensive oval conference table. Johnny thought one damned thing for sure about the agency's new headquarters, no expense had been spared anywhere. If the taxpayers knew about some of this they'd scream to high heaven.

Who in the hell is this guy? He imperceptibly nodded at Charlie Marshall with his eyes, but the other man was a stranger. Short, balding and soft spoken, as if trying to keep a secret by making his speech hard to hear.

"Mister Taylor, you are ten minutes late. Have a seat."

Even though Charlie knew him well, and was the only other agent who did, Johnny didn't like his identity being exposed, and his first impulse was to ask the dumpy little prick who the hell he was. But he smiled broadly and said, "Not the best connections in the world to get here from where I've been."

His comment was answered with a grunt. Then, the little jerk looked straight at him and said, "Now that you're here, I'll get right to the matter. Each of you has a unique qualification. You're the very best at what you do." He smiled and hesitated to see what their reaction would be.

Jesus Christ! Another goddamned politician. He hadn't chased around the goddamned desert for the last month to listen to this kind of bullshit. While chasing after Farsouke, he hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep, not nearly enough to eat, not nearly enough to drink, and he still hadn't caught up from the jet lag. He deliberately put his hand to his mouth and faked a yawn, as he put his feet atop the edge of the expensive walnut table and slouched down in the chair. He thought, Why don't you just come out and say we're assassins, asshole? But he said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to know who the hell you are."

"Doesn't matter who I am, but the name is Brett Mason."

"And what is your expertise, Mister Mason? Since you seem to know what we do for a living, maybe you should explain your qualifications to visit with us folks. And as long as I'm getting my ass in trouble, I'm a little pissed at being called in so soon. What the hell's the emergency?"

He expected his query to evoke anger from Mason, but he was evidently good at controlling, or perhaps, hiding his temper. An utterly phony politician's smile bespoke the man's hypocrisy. "Why, my business is the same as yours, but on a slightly different level. Satisfied?"

"Not really. I'd like to know who this other gentleman is." He put on his best look of concern and anger as he continued, "You're standing there revealing my identity. I've stayed alive a lot of years by no one being aware I exist. I don't know what you have to do with the company, Mason, but if I'd known there would be someone I don't know present, I'd have been a hell of a lot later than ten minutes - like never." He glanced at Charlie Marshall as he spoke and saw Charlie's grin, even though he tried to hide it with his hand. Johnny had hoped he'd force a laugh from Charlie.

The short asshole shook his head and seemed to be losing at least a bit of his self-control. "He's in the same business as you." Mason got to his feet and shuffled a couple of envelopes in his hands. His red complexion became even redder, and his voice was no longer all softness and friendship. He slapped the envelopes against his leg repeatedly, as he spoke. "Look, I don't have time for this. I've been assigned a job, and you've been assigned to help. If you don't feel you want to be involved, you're free to leave."

"You have my curiosity aroused." Johnny couldn't help but see the jerk through a scope sight. He'd find out what this was about before he told him to kiss off. He leaned back in the chair, folded his arms across his chest and smiled.

Mason walked back and forth the length of the room, continuing to tap the envelopes against his thigh. Finally, he stopped opposite them and said, " It seems we have something of infinite value missing. As much as I hate to say it, some highly placed people in the military are involved in its theft. We have to get it back."

When he paused, Johnny said, "Whoa, retrieving stolen merchandise isn't exactly my forte. What was stolen?"

"I have no idea. All I know is that it's something the size of a breadbox. We don't need to know what it is. We just have to recover it."

Johnny deliberately gave him a disgusted look and shook his head. "I hate to keep interrupting, but how the hell does one look for something if one doesn't know what the hell one is looking for? And you say there are highly placed military people involved in the theft? Who did they steal it from? Uh, I mean, from whom did they steal it?"

The man quickly became irritated and emitted a long sigh, obviously trying hard not to raise his voice above its already elevated level. "This item was stolen from the agency. All I know is, the agency wants it back. My best guess would be that it's a weapon or a part of a weapon, but frankly, I don't know exactly what it is and I don't give a damned what it is."

Charlie Marshall spoke for the first time. "Who are these people who stole it? How did they manage to steal it?"

"No one needs to know who all these people are. I have an assignment sheet here for each of you. Both of these people were involved in the theft. You are to concentrate on eliminating your target as quickly as possible. Just worry about your own assignment. The only reason you're both here at the same time is because these people have to be taken care of immediately to keep this stolen item from falling into the wrong hands."

Johnny again shook his head and wanted to laugh. The little redhead sounded like he was auditioning for a damned movie, with all his theatrics. He reared back in his chair and said, "Whoa, Kemo Sabe. What you're saying is ..." He pointed to Charlie, then himself. "... you want us to take out high-ranking people in our own military?"

"Exactly. Any problem with that, Mister Taylor?"

He started to tell him there damned sure was, but stopped himself. Knowing about the hit after refusing the assignment could be his own death sentence. "Who issued these orders?"

Mason became more annoyed, and in a louder tone said, "Not that it's any of your business, but the orders came from the top. Look, I'm aware of your reputation. You're an arrogant, hard to get along with bastard. You're also one of the best at what you do. I was prepared not to like you before you walked in that door. You sure as hell haven't disappointed me. Just take your target out and don't worry about the rest of it. All you have to do is take out one man. You have any further questions, go talk to the President." He waved the envelopes around in the air as he spoke.

A look of "go play with yourself" sufficed to tell Mason what Johnny thought of him, but he said nothing. He always had the option of pulling out of any assignment he didn't want to carry out. That's why he'd stashed over four million dollars in a foreign bank over the last twelve years. He could disappear and settle down on a nice warm Caribbean island, or perhaps some cozy little hamlet in South America. "Can we enlist any help from the agency?" He knew better and only asked to irritate the little peacock.

"Only if it's absolutely necessary. If you do, don't breathe a word of what it's about." He walked around the table and handed each of them an envelope with their name written on the front in pencil. "When you've accomplished your assignment, call in your regular code to let us know your man's eliminated, but don't mention this assignment to the director. That's all." Mason turned and walked out of the room without so much as a good luck, go to hell or kiss my butt.

Johnny forced himself not to laugh out loud, as he gave Charlie a glance that said, "I want to talk to you", stuffed the envelope in his inside jacket pocket and walked out himself. He stood in the corridor outside D-2 for a minute, not wanting to ride the elevator back to ground level with the little redhead, whoever he was. Maybe he should go talk to Loren Davidson, the new CIA Director. He'd been appointed some six months earlier by the President from Texas. Go talk to the President, his ass. Sure, the President was going to grant a lowly agent like himself an audience. Fat chance. When Charlie came out of the room, he ignored him, as they walked toward the elevator. Both were well aware that most likely, cameras watched every square inch of the building and any conversation would be duly recorded to use against them.

Johnny drove back to DC, and once ensconced in his apartment, opened the envelope. General William A. Bickman, Commander Allied Forces - Europe, or CAFE, as those who liked to use acronyms called him. "Jesus Christ! They got to be kidding!" He left his apartment and walked out into the evening chill. Should have worn a heavier coat. What a damned change from the desert. Wonder who Charlie drew. Screw that Mason or whatever the hell his name is. My God, a four star general? Johnny, boy, this might be the right time to retire. Gotta talk to Charlie.

He had worked with Charlie several times in the past, and if there was anyone in the agency or anywhere else he thought he could trust, Charlie was it. Few people knew he or Charlie existed. Loren Davidson and a couple of others at the agency. That was about it. Gerald Barker, the previous director had known, but he'd never tell. He'd met with a terrible accident - hit and run, as he was getting into his car, which he'd been dumb enough to park on the street. One in such a position didn't park on the street in DC. Not if one liked living. Too easy a target.

Being in his particular profession, Johnny was suspicious as hell about everything and believed the worst about such incidents until proven wrong. That included Barker's death. In fact, more than being suspicious about the former director's supposed accident, he was sure Barker had been murdered. The dead director was but a year or so from retirement, and... well… hell, it might not be a good idea having him write a book of memoirs about the company.

Although he knew of many of the agency's past illegal activities, now, being assigned to kill a four star general, Johnny wondered if things were really getting out of hand at the CIA. Yeah, Barker was probably offed to put this Davidson at the top. The dead director had probably been too straight.

view cart   add to cart

top

Cien Fuegos Canyon, New Mexico:

It was nearly dusk, as Bill Bickman watched the Eagle helicopter stir up a huge cloud of dust on the canyon floor. Two Apache gun ships hovered above the river, one on either side of the canyon. When the pilot killed the huge twin ramjet engines and brought the rotors to a complete stop, it took several minutes for the dust to settle before the passenger door slid open. When General Wainscot reached the door of the dilapidated little building, Bickman opened the door to what looked like an abandoned miner's shack, set against the rock wall of the canyon.

As General Wainscot arrived at the door, Bickman shook his hand and directed him toward a door at the rear. As soon as Wainscot was inside, Bickman waved to the chopper crew, and the loud hiss of compressed air slowly built up pressure in the jet turbines. The hiss of air was replaced by the loud, explosive burning of fuel, the giant rotors slowly revolved and the whine of the engines once more became deafening. Again, the canyon was filled with dust so thick one couldn't see beyond arm's length. Bickman smiled at the fact that the wind created by the machine wiped away the footprints left behind by his guest and any evidence of the chopper having landed.

The door at the rear of the shack opened into a tunnel seven feet high, three feet wide and 200 hundred yards long. It ran back into the canyon wall to a large room carved out of solid rock. It was what the general would have called a bare-bones warfare center. A number of computer terminals sat side by side along a table against one wall, and a wooden table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by a dozen chairs. The only other accouterments were a small refrigerator and the natural air conditioning deep inside the rock. With the outside temperature hovering a bit over a hundred degrees, it was a comfortable seventy-five in the room. Generals Bickman and Wainscot were the only two present.

"General, thanks for coming. Have a seat."

Wainscot asked, "What the hell is this place, Bill?"

General Bickman had never been known for his sense of humor, and had, in fact, earned the nickname "Stony" over the years, because he seldom smiled. Now, he grinned and asked, "Like it? Believe it or not, it's the only place in the world the CIA, DIA and GOA doesn't know about. It's sort of a private communications center. All the signals between here and anywhere go through so many changes of satellites and terminals, it's impossible to trace them back here."

"But, what the hell is it?"

"You mean, what's it for? It's something the President put together that only he, myself and a few others know about. Now, you know about it. He felt everything else that could be used for an emergency command center was too well known and vulnerable to sabotage. But, let me tell you why I asked you here." General Bickman's smile was replaced by a brooding expression, and he stared at the man he'd known for many years and who he considered to be a hell of a good soldier. Bickman only hoped he could convince him that what he was going to say was true. "Bob, what if I told you we were both slated for assassination?"

view cart   add to cart

So begins Johnny Taylor's descent into a world in which no one can be trusted and death lurks at every turn ...

top