Authors: Roger Olivieri
Anderson walked through the White House. He had a meeting with The President. It would be just like all of the other meetings he had with him in the past. He would walk in the office and President Farnsworth would hand him a briefcase that contained two things, a list of orders and thirty five thousand dollars in cash. “The list” was always typed to avoid handwriting matches of any sort should there ever be any questions asked in the future. Anderson made more each year than the President. This did not bother Farnsworth, as his power was worth all the wealth in the world. All orders were made clear in
the list
. The White House staff usually studied Anderson whenever he walked down the hallways. They knew that something about this man was not right, but they never, ever questioned his presence. They loved their jobs, so they kept tight lips about anything that happened inside the White House.
Anderson took his briefcase and was about to leave the office. They never actually met in the Oval office, but instead always met in a smaller office on the second floor. It was nowhere near anything in the Oval office, where there were microphones, video cameras, and other high tech equipment. There was a small office directly above their secret meeting place where one of the hundreds of secretaries in the White House sat. The woman who had worked up there had left for personal reasons. Anderson could not remember her name, but he remembered that she was there only because of the secret conferences that took place right below her. As Anderson was about to leave, Farnsworth grabbed his arm. Anderson stopped and looked at the President.
“Are you on my side?” Farnsworth asked in a desperate voice. The tone was one Anderson never heard him use.
Anderson cocked an eyebrow. “Of course I'm on your side. I
am
your side; you know that.”
Farnsworth swallowed hard and warned Anderson, “You know I'll always take care of you. You know the things I can have done for people. I will always take care of you. You take care of
this list
and you'll retire to a mansion on the beach of the island of your choice.”
Anderson knew that this had to be a very important briefcase. His boss just told him in so many words that they were going to retire very soon. His second and final term was going to come to an end in just under six months. Farnsworth was obviously tying up all of his loose ends before he gave that final smile to the cameras and the final presidential wave. Anderson knew he just wanted to loosen his tie, tell the American public about what an honor it had been to serve for eight years, and how he looked forward to a more normal life with his daughter. He would tell them everything they wanted to hear. Anderson knew that Farnsworth was an expert at deceiving people. He would tell the public how he and his daughter would grieve the loss of his wife and live the rest of their lives honoring her memory.
Anderson understood his orders and moved on. He was taken to his limousine upon exiting the White House, which always took him to the airport. Then, he would board a plane to the corresponding location on
the list
. However, this assignment seemed as if it was going to be different. He opened the briefcase. It was much heavier than normal. Instead of the usual thirty five thousand, there was seventy thousand dollars in it. The increase in money only reassured him that this assignment was going to be his biggest and his last. He read his orders and was surprised to find that he would not board a jet right away this time. First, he had to take care of something at the airport.
Anderson, or Timothy Arthur Anderson, as his fake birth certificate and other legal documents read, was shocked as he read his orders. Usually what was asked of him ranged from altering paperwork to the murder of some unknown whose death would be easy to cover up. This time he felt as if he were being asked to go beyond an extreme. He had never asked any questions, but this was going beyond the imaginary line.
To add to the pressure he faced, he still had two problems remaining. Aaron Gallo and McFarland Hart III had to be eliminated. Now, however, he was to locate Grant Winchester at Washington Dulles Airport and persuade him to board an aircraft, no matter what. The words “no matter what” were capitalized and underlined. Anderson could not follow the logic of killing the most popular reporter in the world. It would raise a multitude of questions. The controversy surrounding the death of the First Lady would quadruple in size with the death of Grant Winchester. Anderson was tempted to go to the airport, board an unknown plane of his own with the money he just received, and then just disappear. He knew, though, that he would be shot dead within a week if he disobeyed his orders. There was no loyalty from those who were not loyal. He could be replaced at a moment's notice.
He sat in his limousine for about half an hour thinking over his life. How did a small town boy who graduated Magna Cum Loude from Florida State University turn into one of the most feared and deadly hit men on the planet? He used to go to baseball games with his father, eat cookies as his mother baked them in their kitchen like any normal child. What went wrong? He wished he could live a normal life now and that he had never left Lakeland, Florida. His father wanted him to stay home and take over the family business, but he wanted more than that. He had not wanted to be stuck in Lakeland, but wanted to see the world. Right now, he was wishing he had taken his father's advice.
He decided to follow the orders of the President one last time. He would then board the jet to move into his mansion on the island of his choice, like Farnsworth promised. He would never be heard from again. His legal documents would all be changed again, giving him a new name, with the accompanying plastic surgery. Then, he would keep to himself for the rest of his life, which would be drenched with luxury. He loaded his pistol, screwed on the silencer, and tucked it under his arm, inside his jacket. The limousine driver dropped him off at the rear entrance and drove away. He went to the gate that Grant's CNN jet was stationed at.
Anderson was virtually unknown to anyone. Only a select few on the inside of certain circles knew that he existed, and only two of those people knew what he looked like. The President was one of them. He could snoop around in any area and go unnoticed for days before people started to ask questions about him. He walked into the area of gate C16 and began to look around. Noticing that there was no security, he flipped open his wallet to the stewardess, who was occupying the desk at the gate, and explained how he was hired by CNN last week as an on air security advisor. His badge and credentials indicated as much. As he boarded the jet, he realized he was shaking. Hopefully this would be his last job. Regardless of how many times he had been through the routine, he still got nervous when he walked through metal detectors at airports, and absolutely petrified before he killed someone.
Anderson could see from the window on the entrance ramp right before you enter the aircraft that the pilot was asleep. He slipped through the door and slowly moved towards the rear of the jet, which was sectioned into three separate rooms. Anderson had a sketch of the layout in his briefcase. Farnsworth had ridden in the jet before and knew the layout well.
There was a foyer-like room, with coat closets, three couches, a wet bar, seven television screens and a reception desk. The second room was an office used by any and all occupants, usually Grant Winchester. It housed three computers, four fax machines, scanners, video and audio equipment, and a team of telephones. The third room was a conference room that was used for in-flight meetings. It had only been used three times in the last four years: the day Howard Farnsworth was elected to his second term in office, the day Farnsworth had a mild heart attack while visiting Elmsford, New York, and, just three days ago, when Laura Greene broke the news about the evidence she held against The President. In the closet to the rear left of the conference room were four parachutes, three loaded shotguns, and four loaded pistols in case of an emergency. These items were never used, but always loaded. Anderson remembered Barry Stienham bragging that his employees could handle any worst-case scenario. If the jet was going down, they could jump. If the jet was being hijacked, they could fight back.
With his hand on the gun handle under his arm, Anderson moved through the first room. He looked in all four corners before he entered the room completely, then moved behind each couch, and finally opened and scanned each closet quickly.
When he got to the second room, there was not as much area to visually inspect. The room was much more open. He looked under each desk and moved to the third room. Grant had to be in here. Anderson would approach him as Carlisle Dunlap, a confidant and representative of the President. On Farnsworth's behalf, Dunlap would explain that the President was deeply distressed over the death of his wife and wanted Grant to hold a special interview with him this evening at the White House. Anderson knocked at the door, but there was no answer.
Anderson opened the door slowly and stuck his head in, expecting to see Grant fast asleep in a chair or taking a phone call at the conference table. He was surprised to find no one there. Anderson checked all four corners of the room then leaned over slightly to look under the table. Just then he heard the door open behind him. The pilot was awake now and had noticed that someone in the room from his monitor in the cockpit.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” said the tall slender pilot.
Anderson tried to think of an excuse. All that came to mind, however, was the mansion on the beach. He rolled his eyes in disgust and reached inside his jacket, and under his arm. As he was about to grab the gun, the pilot landed a right cross to the stranger's jaw. Anderson fell back onto the conference table. His hand had jerked from his pistol. He had to search for the holster again, but had no time before the pilot pounced on him once again. The pilot grabbed Anderson's trigger arm and his wrist, which he twisted and turned until he had Anderson's arm up behind his back and applied pressure. He pushed Anderson towards the closet where more parachutes and firearms were stored. The pilot's blue sport coat was stretched across his back and shoulders almost tearing at the seams from the unexpected activity. He spoke in a deep, distressed voice, “You picked the wrong day, asshole. I've had a tough fuckin' day and I still have a lot of flying to do.”
Anderson, like the pilot, was in a high-risk job. They both had been trained for combat for the purpose of defending themselves and anyone else who needed to be protected.
Timothy Anderson simply muttered back, “Your tough day just got tougher, buddy.”
He landed a backward kick square into the pilot's groin, and the pilot fell to the floor writhing in pain. Anderson now had the gun out of his jacket and was ready to fire. To his surprise, the pilot, still on his knees, returned the favor. He landed a forward punch directly below the belt of Timothy Anderson. The pilot was stronger than he looked, and Anderson realized it now. The pilot landed a blow to the bridge of Anderson's nose, dazing him momentarily. As his vision and senses returned, he felt a right hand connect with his left temple. He crumpled to the ground unconscious. Andrew cupped his hands over his testicles and let out a loud shriek. His bad day just became worse. He stood up slowly and moved towards the closet with the guns. He opened the closet door, moved all the parachutes, and revealed the gun case.
As Anderson got to his feet he could see his own reflection in the glass of the gun case. Obviously the pilot saw it too. Anderson was reaching for his pistol. The pilot spun around and caught Anderson just below the chin with a kick from his black work boots. Anderson fell back again. Andrew tried for Anderson's gun but was caught in the knee with a kick. The kick landed on the front of his knee, forcing it to bend backwards. They were both on the floor, but the gun was three feet from either of them.
The pilot was the first to his knees. Anderson jumped within seconds and dove at him. They rolled under the conference table as Anderson delivered several head butts to his face. Blood trickled into the pilot’s eyes. Anderson turned back for the gun and hit his head on the corner or the table on the way up. Blood started streaming down the side of his head.
Had anyone walked onto the plane, they would have heard the loud shrieks and groans immediately. The plane had to be shaking on the outside. Anderson hoped that airport personnel would not see this and come assist the pilot. He was now in the pilot’s lap underneath the table. The angry pilot punched Timothy Anderson in the face, but the awkward angle substantially affected the power from his punches. Briefly, Anderson was within reach of the free gun, but the pilot wrapped his arm around the intruder's neck and pulled him back further under the table. He started telling Anderson that he had a wife and child. The second Anderson heard this he knew he had his man beat. This guy was winning the fight, but begging for mercy at the same time. One law of fighting that Timothy Anderson always incorporated was one of complete confidence. The instant your opponent shows a small amount of insecurity, he loses. He could not understand why other men did not realize this. Anderson reached up for the pilot's throat, where he planted his hand and squeezed with fury.
The pilot tried to throw more punches but was limited by his location under the table. Anderson swung his body in position to grab the gun, the whole while not letting go of his counterpart's throat. His fingers barely found the gun. When he had it in his grasp, he swung it up to the pilot’s head and fired one silent shot. Blood flew everywhere, covering Anderson with bits of fractured skull, brains and bodily fluids. The pilot's body collapsed to the ground motionless. Anderson noticed that his hand was still locked around the pilot's throat, who would not be going home that evening.