Kill on Command (32 page)

Orlick turned, with his remaining bodyguards and strode towards the stairs that would take him to the lower level.

Waters alerted Sean.

In French, he said, “Sean, the man you are looking for is coming towards you.  You need to kill him on the stairs.  Put on your gloves and start towards the stairs.  Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“After you have killed him, leave the weapons and calmly walk up the stairs and out onto the street.  A black van will be waiting for you.  It will drop you off at a hotel.   You will go to room 781.  You will change back into your clothes, remove your earpiece and go back downstairs.  The same van will take you back to another hotel.  Go to your room.  Room 1215.   I will call you there.  Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

Sean put on the thin black gloves and walked towards the stairs.  As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could hear a man speaking in German and the heavy footsteps of his bodyguards.  Sean started walking up the stairs.  Orlick was nearly halfway down the stairs when he and the bodyguards saw Sean.

In the blink of an eye, Sean reached behind his back and drew his gun.  The bodyguards cursed and moved for their weapons, but they were too slow.  Way too slow.  Sean killed both with quick shots to the head.  Their heads snapped back and the back half of their skulls exploded and splattered on the wall.  Their lifeless bodies tumbled down the stairs.  Sean stepped over them as he headed for Orlick.  

The un-suppressed .45 made a thunderous sound in the enclosed space.  There were already sounds of people screaming on either end of the stairs.

Orlick turned to run.  Sean shot him in both legs and he fell, sliding on his stomach down the stairs, coming to rest in front of Sean. He dropped the gun at his feet.   Orlick was screaming for his life.

In German, he screamed, “I’LL PAY YOU!  STOP!” 

Sean ignored him, placed his left foot on Orlick’s back, pulled the Garm from his left leg and held it at his side.   He stood and brought his right knee down on the former Stasi agent’s back, knocking the wind out of him.  Orlick tried in vain to reach the man who was seconds way from ending his despicable existence.  With his right hand, Sean grabbed a handful of Orlick’s hair and pulled his head back.  Then, with a violent sideways motion, drove the knife through Orlick’s temple.  There was an audible “crunch” and then silence as the knife smashed through his skull and entered his brain.  Orlick flopped back down on the stairs as Sean stepped over him.

Leaving the knife protruding from Orlick’s head, Sean calmly walked up the stairs.  The rest of the shoppers in Harrods were not so calm.  People were running for exits accompanied by a cacophony of screams, shouting and a piercing alarm.  Sean walked out of the door he had used to enter the store and got into the van.  He sat in the same seat; Sandy was in the same place as well, gun still trained on Sean.  The van weaved in and out of pedestrian traffic created by shoppers fleeing the shooting.  Once clear of Harrods, Waters’ team in Boston restored the camera systems for both the city of London and the department store.

Sandy looked Sean over quickly.  There wasn’t a mark on him, he sat perfectly still in the van as it wove its way through the streets of London.

The van stopped at the same hotel as before, Sean and Sandy got out and headed to room 781.  Sean did not utter a word.  Sandy opened the door for him, keeping the gun pointed at his head.  He immediately began changing his clothes.  He took out his earpiece and placed it on the bed as instructed.

“Any injuries?”  Waters asked Sandy over the radio.

“None,” she responded, watching him dress.

Sean dressed, walked back downstairs and stepped back into the van, which was to take him to his Leicester Square hotel.  Arriving at his hotel, Sandy followed him to his room.  Sandy opened the door for him and he went inside.  She closed the door behind him and went down the hall to her room.

Sean stood in the middle of the room for several moments.  The phone rang; he picked it up.

“Ty Cobb is the Georgia Peach,” Waters said.

“Go on.”

“Sean, take a nap.  None of this happened.  When you wake, get a bite to eat,” Waters ordered, then hung up, he looked at McFarland.

“How long is he going to stay in this state?” Waters asked the doctor.

“Not long at all.  He will wake up and go about his day and will probably go work out again,” McFarland said, as he bit into a pear.

“Hmmm,” Waters muttered aloud.

“Robert, don’t fret.  I would say this has been a tremendous success.  He responded perfectly.  The serum obviously aided him in the assignment.  Even his OCD is working in our favor.  In two weeks, he might be one of the fastest, strongest killers you have ever seen.”

“How long will he last?”

“We will see.  So far, he is healthy as a horse.  If he lasts more than four weeks, we will send him for a follow up-visit with a doctor under the guise of another cholesterol screening.  We can read his vitals. Draw blood.  If the serum does not burn him up, he will certainly be an anomaly. 

Waters’ analysts were monitoring chatter in London.  They were able to relay the gruesome details of Orlick’s demise.  Waters was thrilled.  MI6 would soon be contacting the CIA looking for information.  Waters was off book.  His CIA counterparts would only shrug their shoulders and secretly applaud the assassination.

The assignment was a success.  Perhaps, the only thing Waters would have changed was to make sure he had a camera on the assassination.  He wanted to see the next killing.

XIX

Screaming Headache

London

Sean woke up a couple of hours later with an awful headache.  He sat on the edge of the bed and drank the entire bottle of water the hotel had provided.  He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face and
saw his face in the mirror.  He still looked tired.  He washed down a couple aspirin with some water from the tap and went back into the bedroom.  He had slept with his shoes on, which was weird.  He chalked it up to the jet lag.  He picked up his phone, headphones and hotel key and headed down to the gym. 

Sandy’s phone notified her that he was on the move.  She knew where he was going and followed him down to the gym.  She brought a copy of Martin Cruz Smith’s novel about Chernobyl.  She knew she would be sitting around for at least a couple of hours.  She was dressed to run.  Who knew if he might suddenly decided to bolt out the front door for a twelve-mile run?  She hoped not. 

The layout of the hotel helped her tremendously.  The gym was adjacent to the pool, where a handful of lounge chairs were scattered about.  She picked a comfortable spot and sat down with her book, her phone at her side.  The room was a little humid, but not too bad.  The smell of chlorine reminded her of her days playing water polo in high school and at Yale.  She loved being in the water.  Her father had taught her to swim before she was able to walk and she had loved the water ever since.  She missed the days in high school when she and her father would swim for two miles or more in the ocean near their home in Santa Cruz.  They would always race the last one hundred meters.  She knew he always let her win.  He would get out of the water and hold her arm up, like she was a boxer that had just won the heavy weight championship of the world.  She knew that he probably could swim for hours if he wanted to, longer if he needed. She wondered what he was up to right now.  Probably selling bikes out of his shop near the beach and having a fish taco from the stand down the street for lunch.

One hour into her book, Sandy looked over at the gym.  She could see Sean’s silhouette through the frosted glass that separated the pool from the gym.  He was still flying along on the treadmill.  She picked up her phone and sent a secure message to Waters to let him know Sean was acting as if nothing had happened.  Waters was requesting hourly reports regarding Sean’s behavior.  Sandy did not know what had transpired in Harrods, but she knew Sean was successful based on Waters’ vague confirmation.   She started wondering if she could take him down if she needed too.  He killed three men or more and came out without a scratch. 

She shook her head.  She could and would kill him if she had too.  He would never see her coming.  That was her advantage.

★★★



Back in Boston, Waters’ private line was ringing.  He knew who it was.

“Yes,” he answered.

“I just had a call from MI6,” Price said, digging for confirmation.

“Really?”

“Apparently, Lars Orlick was assassinated several hours ago.  While shopping at Harrods, no less,” Price explained

“That’s a shame,” Waters said, looking at his fingernails as he spoke.  He had a smile on his face.

“Yes.  They said two of his bodyguards were also killed,” Price explained.

“Hmmm.” 

“Orlick died in a particularly nasty way.”

“And how was that?”  Waters asked, enjoying the repartee.

“A knife.  A particularly nasty knife, known as a Garm was jammed through his temple, into his brain, but not before he was shot in the back of both legs.  MI6 assumes he was trying to flee when the assassin shot him to bring him down,” Price said, reading off of a report.

“Dealing in weapons is a dangerous business,” Waters replied.

“Indeed.”

Neither man spoke for a moment.

“Strange thing.  There is no record on the store’s security cameras of the man who killed Orlick.  Same with the city of London’s street cameras.  MI6 is scratching their heads on this one.”

“Sounds like the Mossad.  There’s no love lost between Orlick and Jerusalem,” Waters offered.

“Possibly,” Price answered.

“Well, I will certainly keep you posted if I hear something.”

“That’s all I ask,” Price said and hung up.  He knew that Waters’ program was up and running and had scored its first win.  He would let MI6 know that the CIA was not behind this.  They would not spend much time on it.  They hated Orlick as much as the Americans did.

Waters clapped his hands several times when he hung up the phone.  He was elated.  He was ready to get Sean into place for his next assignment.  He wanted to get another assassination under Sean’s belt before his expiration date.

★★★

Sean put a towel over his head and emerged from the gym after three hours.  It was dinnertime and he was famished.  He passed through the pool area, but did not notice Sandy.  He still had his earphones in and the towel eliminated his peripheral vision.

Back in his room, Sean got undressed and jumped into the shower.  His feet had healed and the blisters were gone.  However, the weight lifting was now taking a toll on his hands, where thick calluses were developing.

After showering, he went down to the lobby and had dinner.  He was tired of eating out.  On the way up to his room, he bought three large bottles of water.

He watched TV for a bit while doing crunches and went to bed.  Sandy ordered room service.  Sean’s tracker was silent. 

Unfortunately, Sean missed the London local news.  Apparently, there was some sort of hubbub at Harrods today.

XX

Abject Failure
and Brilliant Success

Same Week

Sao Paulo, Brazil:

Steve Frisco had jumped at the chance to take a job writing for a travel magazine.  His newspaper gig with the
Sacramento Bee
was getting to be quite a drag.  He drew endless assignments that dealt with agriculture.  Soybeans were his favorite.  So he was naturally interested when a recruiter contacted him with a job that nearly doubled his current salary and offered extensive travel, something he yearned for and that the soybean reports did not offer.

He was flown to Boston for training, but had fallen ill and had never fully recovered.  He had massive headaches.  He was blacking out.  He felt like bugs were crawling on him and he was constantly scratching himself.  He now had to wear long sleeves to cover up the scabs that had developed on his arms.  His legs were no better.

His first assignment was in Sao Paulo.  He was staying in a nice hotel, which he appreciated, but the scratching would not subside.  He was now waking up to sheets covered in blood.  He told himself he would see a doctor when he returned to California. 

He would not make that trip.

Frisco was activated by Waters and sent to kill Jean Paul Dubois, a man who once served in the French Navy as a Commandos Marine.  He was now a mercenary that specialized in African conflicts and revolutions.  Warlords loved him.   He participated in some of the most gruesome atrocities of the 21
st
century.  He was a serious man, a man that had lived through some of the toughest training among NATO Special Operations Forces.  Of course, Africa for a white mercenary is no picnic.  Jean Paul Dubois, was not an easy target.  He was in Brazil to relax a little and perhaps pick up some new business.

When Steve Frisco approached him in an open-air café in Sao Paulo, acting erratically and slowly pulling a gun, Dubois quickly pulled his Beretta and shot him where he stood.  Dubois’ dining companion started screaming.   He was always prepared for someone to try and take his life.  He never traveled with bodyguards.  He felt he didn’t need them.  So far, he had been right.

Steve Frisco was dead before he hit the stone floor of the café.  His body was positioned awkwardly between two tables and next to an overturned chair.

Dubois tossed $150 U.S. dollars on the table and walked out of the café.  He left his date screaming in her seat.  He could always find another prostitute.

Frisco’s handler delivered the news to Waters who was less than pleased.  Killing Dubois would now be twice as hard.  He recalled the entire team to the U.S.

The Brazilian police arrived on the scene and identified Steve Frisco as an American tourist.  After checking with the American Embassy, they found that he had no criminal record.  The embassy was unable to get in touch with his family.  He apparently had no living relatives.  They could not explain his actions.

Grand Duchy of Luxembourg:

Oscar Pasco was becoming very bored.  In short order, he had completed what he called the “bullshit” assignment that Hass had given him.  He had spent the last two days, chain-smoking in cafés.  Since his orientation in Boston, his personal hygiene, which was never good, truly deteriorated.  He stopped bathing regularly and his already nasty smoking habit had really taken off.  His attire had not changed from when he interviewed in Detroit.  He still looked like a low level thug. 

His handler, Todd Klein, kept the reports flowing to Waters.  Todd was worried that Pasco would just bolt, return to Detroit, or any place with a casino.  He urged Waters to make the call on the hit. 

Waters was close to turning Pasco loose on Klaus Schneider.  Schneider was a banker who had very different clients.  He moved money for people that sought to harm U.S. troops.  He was aware of the unsavory nature of his clients’ business objectives, but had learned to live with it.  He traveled in a lightly armored Mercedes with two bodyguards and a driver. Waters knew that Schneider had to be killed on his way into the bank, just after he exited the car.  The bank was a fortress.  So was his home. 

It was show time for Oscar Pasco.

Waters activated Oscar with a special set of triggers.  At the same time, Waters’ team hacked into city traffic cameras and fed them a loop of the morning’s hustle and bustle outside the bank on Prince Herni Boulevard.

All of the bank’s street-side cameras were disabled as well and fed the same loop, save one.  Waters wanted to watch.

No one would see Oscar Pasco.  Unless he failed.

He didn’t.

Oscar was positioned on the steps to the bank wearing the clothing that was provided by Waters’ support team.  He looked like he belonged.  He wore a light gray suit, a light blue shirt and a pink tie.  The rank clothes Oscar had worn from Detroit were in a nearby apartment. Despite the new threads, he still reeked of smoke.

The bank Schneider worked for was housed, as it had for over 150 years, in an imposing stone building on Prince Henri Boulevard.  There was a small set of twelve steps that lead to the entrance.  There was approximately twenty feet between the street and the first step.

The sidewalk was busy as people were hustling to work.  A cool breeze blew down the boulevard. 

Oscar pretended to be engrossed in a newspaper, when he saw Schneider’s Mercedes approach.  He dropped the paper in a street side trashcan and walked towards the Mercedes as it was coming to a halt.

Two men immediately exited the car, the first bodyguard from the front passenger side and a second from the back of the car.  The door was opened for Schneider, who was dwarfed by the bodyguards. 

They did not notice Oscar.  No one did.  Not until he drew a silenced .22 from his jacket and shot all three men before they even knew what happened.  All head shots.  They collapsed on the sidewalk.  He opened the passenger side door and shot the driver, who was fumbling for his weapon.  Oscar tossed the gun on the front seat of the car and kept walking down the street. 

He had moved so fast and so smoothly, even realizing he had shot Schneider was difficult to process.

“Holy Shit!” Waters said from his office in Boston as he watched the scene unfold.  Across from him McFarland nodded.

“Surgical.  Just as I predicted,” McFarland gloated, getting up from his seat and leaving Waters office.

The screams from people on the sidewalk disrupted the otherwise calm morning. 

To everyone, Oscar looked like a normal guy heading to work. Of course, he was not normal.  He rounded the corner and got into a light blue Mercedes and left the area.

Todd Klein had been watching the whole scene and couldn’t believe the speed.  Oscar had killed four people in seconds like they were bugs.  Todd became very nervous.  He knew there was no way he could stop Oscar.

Waters was also concerned, but only with Oscar’s shelf life.  He immediately began looking for Oscar’s next assignment.

Like Sean, he was too good to waste.