Dawn of the Assassin

by Bill Brewer

  “What?”

  “Hamni? You called him Hamni when you spoke to him. His name is Andrew.”

  “I know his name, and I didn’t call him anything else.” Her pissed-off face was back, but it now had shades of surprise and perplexity.

  “I’m just saying, you called the kid Hamni, so I was just asking who that is?”

  “Shut up, just make sure you don’t tell anyone I was involved at all.”

  “You sure? Because you were awesome.”

  “Tell no one anything. Pull the car over here.”

  Diegert parked the SUV on the side of the road.

  “You’re going to get out of the car and carry Andrew into Headquarters. I’ll return before you. Using the car is no big deal as long as I return without you. Returning the rifle, I have covered, but I owe Lindstrom a big favor which you are going to repay.”

  Diegert looked at her and shrugged.

  “Now think up a lie about how you got away and how you got back here with the boy and stick to it. Don’t mention me.”

  “Yeah… Yeah, I got it, you were never there.”

  Diegert stepped out of the vehicle, opened the passenger door, and lifted Andrew into his arms. Fatima drove away, and Diegert was left to walk the three quarters of a mile to Headquarters.

  The gate opened automatically as Diegert approached with the boy. Inside, he went straight to medical as people in the halls and offices looked to see what was going on. A child in the facility was a very rare occurrence. Once Andrew was secure in the hands of the medical staff, Diegert reported to Blevinsky’s office. The terse bald man stood in his doorway watching Diegert’s approach. As the younger man got closer, Blevinsky stepped back into his office, never breaking eye contact until he was on the other side of the door. Diegert walked in as Blevinsky rounded his desk and took a position standing in front of his chair.

  “Close the door. In some sappy Hollywood movie I would be saying something to you like ‘Even though you broke protocol, you saved the day, you little rascal.’ But this is not Hollywood, and the only thing that concerns me is that you broke protocol. I don’t care about the outcome, you disobeyed, and now your training requires additional supervision.”

  “Sir, I was just trying to improvise as the situation developed.”

  “Improvisation! This is not some fucking comedy club. Is that what Fatima is teaching you?”

  “Sir, aren’t you even interested in what transpired before you judge it as wrong?”

  “No, I am not. I was developing an extraction plan that was waiting on your intel. But your dangerous and careless actions have made that plan obsolete while exposing the hostage to even greater danger.”

  “He was already in great danger that he may not have survived if I just gathered intel and left him there.”

  Blevinsky shouted, “That’s your judgment, and you are not qualified to make such assessments. In the future, you will follow orders when they are as explicit as these were.” The angry man slammed his fist on the desk.

  “Now you’re dismissed. Tomorrow Alexi Strakov will have a training mission for you.”

  Diegert rolled his eyes and let out a sigh before leaving the office.

  On the other side of the door stood Alexi Strakov. Diegert was surprised and had to step around him to keep from colliding with the big Russian.

  “Guess you just can’t wait, eh, Liberace?” Diegert said.

  Looking around, Diegert realized the hall was full of Strakov’s strike team. Strakov pounced on his statement.

  “What the fuck was that? Are you insulting my homosexuality?”

  Diegert looked at the imposing man and the expectant stares of the guys in the hall. He was reeling from the fact that his insult was not at all disarming but rather infuriated this combat-capable man who was backed up by a group of the toughest men Diegert had ever seen.

  “That’s right, I’m gay. You got a problem with that, then you got a big fucking problem.”

  “No, man, it’s cool.”

  “You fuckin’ phobe. The training session I have planned for you tomorrow will be just right for a single superman like you. You don’t need anyone’s help? You don’t need to be part of a team? We’ll see tomorrow how well you operate all by yourself.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry if your assault plan didn’t happen.”

  Gesturing to the men in the hall, Strakov said, “You hear that? He’s sorry we didn’t get to be part of a well-planned and practiced operation. Well, your apology makes all of us feel so much better. We’re really grateful you saved the day, even if it almost got that little kid killed.”

  Diegert looked at him quizzically.

  Strakov went on, “Be ready for the mission at 1600 tomorrow, you selfish puke.”

  Strakov walked down the hall, passing between the six men leaning against the walls. As he passed, each man looked disapprovingly at Diegert and fell in line behind their leader. Diegert wondered to himself, Are they all gay?

  35

  As Diegert left his office, Blevinsky took a call from Kellerman.

  “My good man, do update me on the situation.”

  “Sir, I can report that we have Andrew Cambridge safe and secure here at Headquarters.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir, he was recovered just an hour ago.”

  “That’s splendid; that’s incredible. Arthur and Elizabeth will be so relieved. However did you manage it? Were there casualties? How many men were on the team? I must see to it they are rewarded.”

  “There were no casualties on our side, Mr. Kellerman. We were lucky to locate the boy quickly, and he’s a tough little guy.”

  “Why, I’m sure he had to be. Give me details? How did the team extract him?”

  Blevinsky ran his fingers through the gray band of hair on the back of his head and struggled to find a way to answer the questions. “He was…extracted from the location where he was found.”

  “Yes, of course, but how many men took part? Was there fighting?”

  Blevinsky squeezed his eyes shut and banged his fist against his head as he listened to the question. Throwing his head back and tilting his chair, he fought against his reticence to tell Kellerman the truth. “Sir, there was no team in the rescue of Andrew Cambridge.”

  “No team? What do you mean? How many men were involved?”

  Tapping the phone against the crown of his smooth head, Belvinsky answered, “Just one man.”

  “A single man…against a Michka Barovitz crew? That’s incredible. Who is this man?”

  “His name is Diegert, David Diegert.”

  “Well, very good for you, Aaron, training men who can operate on their own. I’m so very pleased. I’ll see to it that Mr. Diegert is financially rewarded. You and he have returned the holiday spirit to the season along with young Master Cambridge. Thank you, old chap.”

  “Certainly, sir, I hope you and your friends can get back to enjoying your festivities.”

  “Oh, very well, good man. I thank you again and good night.”

  When Blevinsky hung up, he dropped his head in his hand, let out a sigh, and thought how unfair luck could be.

  Back in his room, Diegert was watching Mission Impossible III. Diegert’s phone rang, interrupting the movie just as Tom Cruise was sliding down a glass building.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Mr. David Diegert?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good evening, sir, my name is Wendall Bishop. I am your account manager from the Royal Bank of the Caribbean in the Cayman Islands. I’m calling you regarding your account.”

  “OK.”

  “Sir, I’m calling, as stipulated in our customer service policy, to inform you that there has been a substantial deposit into your account. We have checked the depositing agent’s source and confirmed the transfer. We suggest you check your account and verify the activity. Please contact us with any issues you may have with the account. Good night, sir.”

  Diegert stared at his phone
skeptically, as if what he’d just heard had to be a prank.

  Before he could check his account, his phone rang again, and he saw it was Fatima calling. “Yeah,” he answered.

  “You didn’t let my involvement slip, did you?”

  “No, everyone thinks I did this on my own, and it pisses them off.”

  “Too bad. This is the way I want it. Tomorrow morning, 0730, you’re to report to the armory where you will do what Lindstrom tells you. You’ll be fulfilling the debt I owe him. The armory is in Room 135. You know where that is, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll be there. Hey, are all the guys here gay?”

  “No… Why does that matter? Some are, I suppose. Strakov is, but you already knew that. What are you pursuing?”

  “Nothing. It was just on my mind from some things I’ve observed.”

  “Look, you gotta crawl out from under your year 2000 rock and recognize that people don’t care about that anymore. We’re not the ridiculous US military. If Strakov gets the job done, then who cares if he loves men. I’m glad he’s gay.It’s one less guy staring at my ass every time I walk by. Be at the armory at 0730.”

  After hanging up, Diegert had a hard time believing that such an obvious Alpha male, who led the men so powerfully, was gay. The values, or rather the prejudices, of his rural Minnesota upbringing just didn’t allow for that combination. It seemed as though it was time to update his perspective. Update, he thought, remembering to check his account. There on the phone screen was his account balance with an additional ten thousand dollars in it. He now had $155,000 in his personal account.

  36

  The placement of the armory away from the living quarters was not only due to the noise of the shooting range, but its remote location reduced the danger associated with the storage of several tons of explosive gunpowder. Diegert liked the armory. It was clean and orderly; Carl Lindstrom, a man of Norwegian ancestry, made certain of that. Carl was a thin, wiry, energetic man in his early sixties. He spiked himself with a constant cup of coffee, using the caffeine to fuel his management of the ordnance and arsenal of the Headquarters. The six foot, 150-pound man with a full head of gray hair and glasses greeted Diegert’s arrival. “Good morning. You must be David Diegert.”

  Shaking his hand, Diegert replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “So you’re here to fulfill Fatima’s debt?”

  “Is that really how it works? If you supply us with what we need for a mission, we owe you?”

  “If your mission is official, I will receive a requisition with a detailed list authorized by administration, and I’ll provide you with everything you need. But if you arrive at 2230, waking me out of bed with a desperate demand to be given a sniper rifle and ask that the release not be logged, then, yeah…you owe me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Fatima can be a very forceful person, but she’s also very fair. I knew she would keep her word, and I trust her with weapons. I know she helped you get the kid, but apparently I’m the only one.”

  “That’s how she wants it.”

  “Appearances are very important to her, and she walks on eggshells because she’s the only woman operator in the whole facility. Frankly, we would be more effective with more female operators, but it’s a rare woman who can kill and live with herself.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Bullets!” said Lindstrom as he turned and walked through the armory into a workroom. Diegert followed, though he lagged as he passed the gun lockers and the fascinating arsenal of assault rifles, submachine guns, combat shotguns, handguns, and sniper rifles. Within the metal mesh lockers were all the accessories that gave the weapons greater lethality. Scopes and laser sights, extra ammo clips and enlarged ammunition dispensers, different styles of buttstocks for the assault rifles and the submachine guns, and a wide variety of sound suppressors, sights, and integrated lighting systems for the pistols. The hardware excited Diegert, and when he infiltrated areas where discovery meant death, these weapons gave him the confidence to proceed.

  “We shoot a lot of bullets in this facility. Training new guys and keeping the active operators sharp requires a lot of practice, both in the range and out in the field. So I keep a very active inventory of ammunition. I like to assure quality in the projectiles we work with, and I don’t like to see resources wasted, so I collect the spent shells and lead from the range and reload bullets.”

  Lindstrom had been moving while speaking, and now he positioned himself in front of a workbench with a large wooden box filled with shells, a smaller box filled with formed projectiles, and a large, funnel-shaped canister with a hose leading to the work space at the center of all these items.

  “My dad believed the same thing, and he had me reload ammo all the time.”

  “Excellent! Then I’ll just familiarize you with the process and let you get reacquainted with a part of your well-spent youth.”

  Diegert was very aware of what a boring and repetitive job this was, and now he knew why Fatima was so eager to subjugate him for the payback.

  Soon Diegert was well into the six-step process of resizing the shells, decapping the old primer, expanding the inside neck of the shell with a small lathe, repriming with a new cap, loading the powder, and seating the new projectile. When all six steps were complete, the bullet was placed in a large tray that held a hundred individual rounds. Lindstrom was cleaning and repairing weapons that had been used recently and looked like they’d been dragged through dirt, mud, and sand. He had a workbench on wheels, so he was able to roll it over to where Diegert was doing his boring job. “Hey, what happened to that case of weapons I gave you when I arrived?” asked Diegert.

  “Those are some very nice weapons. I have them down here.”

  “Did you know the guy to whom they belonged?”

  “Shamus McGee? Yeah. He was the nicest guy. Always smiling and laughing. He was such a funny guy. Not really telling jokes but just adding humor everywhere he went. He was the best shot I have ever seen. Calm and steady. He could place the bullet exactly where he wanted it over and over again. His accuracy and consistency was absolutely deadly.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I can’t tell you. I mean, I don’t know.”

  “Which is it? You can’t tell me, or you won’t tell me?”

  “I won’t tell you. But I will tell you the rifle you brought in was the rifle I gave Fatima to help you last night. Since you just brought it in, it’s not really in my inventory. That’s why I could loan it out without having to falsify any records.”

  Looking at the big box with thousands of shell casings, Diegert asked, “So maybe I don’t have to do all these bullets.”

  “Yes, you do. You and she still owe me, besides, I don’t get much company down here.”

  “Can you tell me what you know about Crepusculous?”

  “The men of Crepusculous are so wealthy that they finance this whole operation on the lint from their pockets. Money is so available to them that expenses we incur represent the smallest decimal point on their balance sheets. I don’t even know if they bother with balance sheets. Wealth is not the most important thing to them, though; they seek and desire power. They want to influence the world to turn in their direction, and then their wealth is assured without having to chase dollars.”

  “You seem to know a lot about them.”

  “I know a lot about their intentions and philosophy. I know what they’re after, although I don’t always know the means to their ends. I know life on their side is so much better than it would be fighting them.”

  “This all sounds diabolical and mysterious.”

  “It is, and it is also deadly. Be sure to conduct yourself carefully now that you’re in the shadows of Crepusculous.”

  “Do you know the members of the Board?”

  “No,” deadpanned Lindstrom before posing his own question. “Was your father a big-game hunter?”

  “Ahh…he was a deer hunter. Three or four a year t
o fill the freezer. We ate venison in so many different ways. God, I haven’t had venison in so long.”

  “What did he hunt with?”

  “A 12-gauge Remington on a drive, a Winchester 30.06 from a tree stand.”

  “Did you hunt with him?”

  “No, but my brother did.”

  “Was he an older brother?”

  “Yeah, three years older. His name is Jacob—Jake actually. He and my father just got along so well. He looked, acted, and sounded like my father: round, foolish, and loud. They were more like best friends than father and son. I just wasn’t invited—ice fishing, snowmobiling, hunting. There was no explanation for it. I was just left home with my mom. She got me into other things, karate and strength training at the Y. I was on the wrestling team at school and did pretty well. My dad never came to a single match. Jake wasn’t that big, but he played football. My dad was in the booster club. He never missed a single game.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” said the thoughtful armorer.

  Diegert continued, “Jake would pound on me whenever my mom wasn’t around, which was quite a lot, because she worked as a waitress in a busy restaurant. Eventually, the weight lifting, karate, and growing paid off, and when he couldn’t physically dominate me anymore, he would harass me in other ways.”

  “Sibling rivalry, sometimes it never ends.”

  “One time he asked me to go fishing. I didn’t have my own rod, so he told me to use my dad’s. I knew Dad was very protective about his equipment and would be angry, but I took it anyway. We walked on the train tracks toward Sandy Creek. The creek is at the bottom of a steep ravine. The train tracks cross over on a very high trestle. Jake told me we should cross the trestle because the hillside was not as steep on the other side. The trestle has holes between each railroad tie. You must walk very carefully, and there are no rails on the sides. I was very frightened of the height and the holes and the whole thing.”

  Diegert set his tray of completed bullets to the side and placed a new tray in position.

  “Out in the middle of the trestle, he stops and grabs my dad’s rod from me. He takes it and starts pulling the line out of the end of the rod. He pulls out about ten feet of line. Then he says, ‘Let’s see how brave you are?’ With the ten feet of line lying coiled in front of him, he tosses my dad’s rod over the side of the trestle. I see the line quickly uncoiling over the edge. I knew my father would kill me if the rod was damaged. As the line is disappearing, I knew I must stop it from falling, but I was frozen with fear. At the last second, I lunge for the line, but it is thin and slick and so hard to get a hold of. I’m on my knees at the edge of the trestle extended over the side, but the thin plastic line slides through my fingers, and the rod plunges down into the depths of the creek. As I’m hanging over the edge, Jake grabs my feet and lifts them off the rail ties and scares the shit out of me. Only my chest was in contact with the rail. I grabbed the end of the ties to keep myself from falling. He dropped my feet and ran off the trestle back to the side we came from.