Killer Instincts v5 (21 page)

I paused for a long moment. "Do you know why my uncle quit doing...what it is you do? I guess that's how you two met."

Richard gave me a wistful smile. "When it comes to this kind of life, you sometimes feel like you've plummeted down a rabbit hole and can't see the light up above you. Tell me, did you see that movie,
The Matrix
?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Although your uncle was coming out of a long, dirty war, and had spent a while serving at the sharp end of a very shadowy organization, he wasn't really privy to the world that lay beneath it all, the shadow world that I had operated in for years by the time I met Jamie. In a way, you could say that our relationship was much the same in those early years as that of Morpheus and Neo. Your father was a very skilled protégé who had a sense that there was something going on under the surface of the world, while I was the one who showed him just how deep the rabbit hole could go."

"So what happened?"

"Your uncle got out of the game before it consumed him. He became like Obi-Wan Kenobi, living out his days far removed from his past, content to let the world and current events pass him by. But you, young Skywalker, you came along and reminded him of what he once was, reminded him of the days when he fought the good fight."

I smiled. "I think we're mixing our movie metaphors a little?"

Richard waved his steak knife in the air and made
wooooommmwoooommm
noises. "An elegant weapon, for a more civilized age."

I chuckled. "Oh my god, you're a closet nerd."

Richard smiled. "Your uncle and I saw
Star Wars
in the theater together the week it opened. We were in Los Angeles at the time, not working, just some R&R. You might laugh, but in those days, we could relate to those cinematic adventures and escapades, living in the shadow world of the private contractor, fighting all over the map against the communists, the Islamic extremists, terror cells, organized crime, civil wars in Africa. We worked with guys like Han Solo or Boba Fett on an almost weekly basis."

I just shook my head. "I can't imagine what that must be like."

Richard barked out a laugh. "You can't? Well hell, son. What do you think you're doing right now?"

It was a sobering thought, one that continued to haunt me as I tried to get a few hours of troubled sleep that night.

In the morning, there was little that needed to be said. I was up by five, a quick but thorough ablution and a change into presentable clothes. Richard and I had a light breakfast of tea and dried fruit, saying nothing of consequence. My bags went into the back of the Suburban, and we drove away from the cabin. I resisted the sentimental urge to look back at the place that had changed me in such a profound way.

We drove to the tiny airfield in silence. I had learned from experience that when he had nothing important to say, Richard could go hours without the need for small talk, and so I didn't think much of his quiet now. We reached the airfield ten minutes before Chuck was scheduled to arrive, and as before, we rolled down the windows in order to listen for the drone of his aircraft's engine.

"I had always thought I didn’t possess the patience or temperament for instruction," Richard said to me suddenly, "but I hope I served you well, even when I wasn't very easy on you."

I turned and looked at him, illuminated in the early morning sunlight. Richard wore his straw cowboy hat, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of faded jeans, much like the day I arrived in Texas. His Delta Elite sat on his hip, hammer cocked, safety engaged. I knew in his left front pocket, Richard had two extra magazines. There was at least one other firearm in the Suburban's cab, possibly another in the back seat. I wondered what drove a man to live his life in such a way.

And then it struck me. I already knew.

"When I came here,” I said, “I had a purpose, but I didn't have a plan, I didn't have the means, and I didn't have the faith in myself to see the job through. You've given me all those things, and much more."

Richard nodded. "People like myself, we live in another world, the shadow world, and stepping into that world can be quite a shock. You handled yourself all right though, better than many I've seen. Your uncle, he was able to handle it too, at least for a time, but that's because he didn't have a choice. Vietnam made him what he was, what he became. You made the decision to step through the door on your own. I think you'll handle it even better than he did."

We both heard the drone of Chuck's engine at the same time, and paused to see him come in for a landing. Without any urging, I felt under the seat and drew the Glock I knew was there, just in case. We waited until Chuck had taxied to a stop and stepped out of the plane, at which point I tucked the gun away and exited the Suburban. As I unloaded my two bags, Richard climbed out as well, and he offered me his hand before I started out for the waiting plane.

"Give ‘em hell," Richard said as he shook my hand.

"Happy trails, Richard. Enjoy that money a little - you can't take it with you."

I shook Chuck's hand again as I stepped up to the plane, and he took my bags to throw in the rear as I moved to climb into the cockpit. Just before I shut the cockpit door, I heard Richard holler out to me over the rumble of the engine.

"Hey, William!"

I looked over to him, standing with one thumb hooked into his belt, the other raised in farewell.

"Yeah?"

Richard gave me his most mirthless smile.

"Welcome to the brotherhood."

FOURTEEN

After my extended boot camp in the Texas desert, the first-class flight from San Antonio to Boston felt like I was enjoying the comforts of a five-star hotel. Comfy seats, a not-half-bad airline meal, and (after showing my ID) a couple scotch and sodas. In-flight movie, blanket and pillow, cool air conditioning, and thankfully, no screaming children or hacking coughs anywhere within proximity to my seat.

I knew my "gardener" would find me somewhere around baggage claim, and when I went downstairs to the carousel area to wait for my suitcase, I gave the area a sweep, but spotted no one who matched, well, the description I would give if I were looking for someone just like me. After a few moments the carousel started up, and eventually I spotted my suitcase. Taking it from the carousel, I turned around, and almost walked straight into myself.

At least, that's how he appeared. The "gardener" was my height, just about my build and weight, his hair the same glossy black and of similar length and style, the same blue eyes, the same fair, slightly freckled complexion. It was absolutely uncanny. I judged him a few years older, but beyond that, he could have been my older brother, it was such a similarity.

"You all set?" he asked.

I nodded. "You got a car?"

"It's your car, dude, and yeah, parked in the short term lot across the way. Let's go."

The car was a silver Volkswagen Jetta, just hip enough for Boston but simple enough to not stand out. We threw my suitcase in the back and climbed in.

On the drive into the city, the gardener laid it out for me.

"I've got you a one-bedroom apartment along Park Drive, over in the Fenway area. It's good sized, parking in the back behind the brownstone, and you're on the first floor, so there's less of a chance anyone will notice you coming and going at odd hours. Ever live in the Fenway?"

"Never had an apartment of my own," I replied.

"All right. Not a bad area, but not great. Now, this is important. You might hear shit or see shit with your neighbors: asshole boyfriend, couple always getting into fights, some dude who listens to his stereo too loud, whatever. The point is, you see nothing, you hear nothing, you say nothing, you do nothing, all right?  No heroics, no calls to 911, no anonymous tips, no having a quiet word or playing Leon the Professional, you got me? You keep your head down, you maintain your cover."

"I got you, don't worry."

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, you say that now, but I know it can happen. Someone is a dick to his girlfriend, you think she's cute, you catch her in the hall and ask if everything's okay, she thinks you're nice, and the next thing you know, she's banging on your door at three in the morning asking to come in because he's a mean drunk. That is the shit you do not want. Next day you have police knocking on your door, asking you questions, like why you didn't call 911, shit like that. Attention you do. Not. Want."

"I got it, okay? I got it. Believe me, I have no interest in getting scooped up because of some domestic trouble that's not even my deal."

He was still skeptical, but moved on. "I’ve already taken care of the rent. A check under your white identity will land in the rental company's mailbox a couple of days before it's due every month. I'm guessing this op isn't going to take very long, month or two at the most, but it'll keep being paid until I hear otherwise from your handler. Utilities are all set up to be paid electronically, so you won't even have to touch those. You have cable, full package, plus a phone line and a DSL connection for the computer."

"Computer already set up?"

"Yeah, got you a good laptop, and a color printer as well."

"Works for me."

We eventually reached the Fenway area, coming off of Storrow Drive and hopping onto Park Drive via Charlesgate. Within a few minutes, we cut down one of the side streets and parked behind the four-story brownstone. Taking my suitcase and my carry-on from the Jetta, the gardener handed me the keys and I used the remote fob to lock the doors.

"There's a full tank of gas and I had the car serviced a week ago. Shouldn't have any problems."

We came in through the parking lot entrance and took a single flight of stairs to the first floor. The gardener pointed out the right key, and I let myself in through the door just to the left of the stairwell. The apartment was simple and functional. The front door opened into the living room, while straight ahead was a small kitchen space. To the far left was the bathroom, and to the right, over near the far corner of the living room, was the bedroom. A couch and a reading chair dominated the living room, with an end table and lamp in the corner between the two, and a bookshelf in the middle of the left-hand wall near the bathroom door. To my immediate left, there was a small coat closet. The television and VHS/DVD deck was straight ahead, facing the front door and the couch. The floors were hardwood, with a simple berber rug in the living room.

Decorating the living room, there was a poster of Bruce Lee in
Enter the Dragon
hanging over the television, while a poster for
The Matrix
hung on the wall behind the couch, and a third poster for Eastwood's
The Outlaw Josey Wales
occupied the wall behind the reading chair. The bookshelf was about half-filled with old economics textbooks, a few hardcover and paperback thrillers, some violent comic books, about two dozen DVDs, and a stack of various military-themed reference books, seemingly not out of place in a living room that was obviously used by a guy who liked violent films.

I nodded my approval. "Wow, this really looks good. You set this up over the last month?"

"Yup. This is what a degree in theater gets you."

"You were a theater major?" I asked.

"Undergraduate and grad school. A couple hundred thousand dollars down the tubes. Well, until I stumbled across this line of work. It's all about the little details, you see? We can lump in military manuals about urban combat tactics if it's sitting next to some Punisher comics and a couple of action movies. Might raise an eyebrow, but no one is going to take it seriously. Just another young guy who digs action flicks and graphic novels."

Stepping into the kitchen briefly, I opened the refrigerator; filled with sodas, sandwich makings, milk, eggs, sliced ham and turkey, OJ, and a few bags of veggies. The freezer had some frozen goods, the shelves contained canned foods and boxes of pasta and cereal. There was a microwave, a toaster, a coffee maker, and a tea kettle on the stove. Simple but attractive flatware and silverware filled the remaining shelves and drawers, along with pots, pans, kitchen cutlery, and other necessary utensils.

"Hey, thanks for doing the shopping. Much appreciated."

"You're going to be busy, so I figured I'd stock up. Besides, the fridge is often a give-away that someone isn't really living there when you find it empty or filled with spoiled food."

The bathroom was also well-equipped, with all the necessary soaps, shampoo, toothpaste, and other toiletries, as well as a stack of good quality towels and washcloths. The bedroom contained a full-sized bed, a bureau, a night-stand, and a small desk in the corner, where a laptop and color printer were set up. The laptop was open and running, and just then, I noticed a few odd devices plugged into the wall outlets in between the outlet and the plugs themselves.

"The laptop runs a program that controls the timers throughout the apartment. The TV is turned on, lamps turned off and on, radio, that sort of thing. The times are adjusted randomly so it's not obvious that the TV comes on at, say, six o'clock exactly every weekday. Now that you’re here, you’ll want to disable the program, but if you’re going to be absent a while, could come in handy again."

"Very cool," I replied.

I noticed that on one side of the laptop, there was a small red sticker.

"What's that?"

The gardener leaned down and pointed to a small appliance plugged into the wall, resting on the floor near the desk.

"This is a hand-held degausser. If you ever feel this place has been compromised, or that you need to ditch the laptop, turn it on and scrub this back and forth over that sticker for thirty seconds. It's sitting right over the laptop's hard drive. You'll completely paste the magnetic drive platters and anything on the laptop will be unrecoverable."

I nodded. "Good to know."

Opening the bureau’s drawers, I found a selection of casual late spring and early summer wear; polos, t-shirts, shorts, jeans, underwear, socks. In the bedroom closet hung a handful of shirts, both short and long-sleeved, as well as two full suits; one black, the other a very light tan. Matching two pairs of dress shoes sat on a shoe rack below the suits in the closet, along with a pair of flip-flops, a pair of light trail shoes, and a pair of running sneakers.