Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  From her concealed position more than four hundred yards away and from several feet deep into a line of dense undergrowth, Lona refocused her attention and watched as chaos gripped the rest of Morehouse’s group. The caddies scrambled for the meager cover offered by nearby trees or in depressions along the sides of the fairway, their heads or the occasional limb visible from behind their places of concealment as they fidgeted and trembled in fear. Two of the other players also had dropped to the ground, their heads moving as though on swivels in search of the threat. One of the other players, a large dark-skinned man, rushed to where Morehouse had fallen and crouched beside his friend, seemingly unworried about inviting a similar fate as his expression and body language confirmed to the rest of the group what Lona already knew.

  Frederick Morehouse was dead. Mission accomplished.

  It was her first kill in thirteen years—or nine months, if she chose to view such things subjectively—and the actual mechanics of carrying out such a task had come back to her with no effort. With the slightest of movements she played the rifle scope over each of Morehouse’s friends as well as the caddies. Though she could have dispatched the other seven people within seconds, training and years of experience and self-discipline would not permit such reckless behavior. Her goal was achieved, and anything more would be wasteful. Besides, taking the time to engage additional and unnecessary targets would only give others opportunity to determine her location. She was well concealed, of course, and while her extraction would be executed with the same efficiency as her infiltration, one could not always discount random chance or simple luck.

  Even as her right forefinger moved away from the weapon’s trigger, Lona felt her body shudder, not from a chill or even from adrenaline. This was different, and she closed her eyes for a moment and allowed the sensation to wash over her. It was a warm, almost pleasurable glow radiating through her, not at all dissimilar to what she experienced while locked in a lover’s passionate embrace. In a word, it was fulfillment. This was new, and something in her mind told her it felt as though she somehow was being rewarded for her actions.

  Pondering that thought as she remained motionless, nestled in the sniper’s nest she had created within the thick brush, Lona could not help but be troubled. While she had designed and implemented the plan to kill Frederick Morehouse with all the expertise and patience used throughout her infamous “career,” what had differed on this occasion was the reason behind the actions. No one had explicitly hired or ordered her to carry out the assassination, nor did she possess any personal motive for wanting Morehouse killed. Still, she had felt a drive—a compulsion—to carry out the task. In the past, her motivation had been the large sums of money she was paid for her work, and the opportunities such payments allowed for her to live an opulent, if more than a bit reclusive, lifestyle.

  This was no longer the case.

  Now, it seemed that her thoughts increasingly were influenced with a new sense of purpose, a larger purpose. While the urge to pursue this objective was strong, Lona had tried and failed on numerous occasions over the past months to understand specific details or reasons behind what now drove her. The answers to her many questions seemed to hover just inside or perhaps behind a strange fog clouding her thoughts, which only intensified the harder she tried to penetrate it. Was her own mind conspiring to keep the truth from her? If so, why? Was she suffering from the onset of mental illness, or was this apparent secrecy within herself deliberate? As always, the queries brought forth no responses.

  Naturally, Lona suspected that it had something to do with whatever had happened during her time spent in “the future,” as incredible a notion as that still sounded to her. If the claims of Jordan Collier, the self-proclaimed envoy for the 4400, were to be believed, then Lona and the other returnees were instruments, taken and perhaps even modified by people living years or decades from now, and for reasons as yet unexplained. According to Collier, she and the others had been returned to this point in time in order to somehow prevent a devastating event which—if true—ultimately would result in the collapse of human civilization.

  It remained to be seen how the 4400 would succeed in averting “the catastrophe,” as it was called in news reports, websites devoted to the returnees and the mystery surrounding them, and Collier’s own recently published book. As such, Lona had no idea as to the nature or scope of her role in such momentous actions. She even had considered seeking out Collier for guidance in the hopes that he might provide some insight, but that notion was shattered a week ago when he fell to the bullets of his own assassin.

  I wonder if McFarland thinks that was me. It was a likely possibility, Lona knew, but what bothered her more was the idea that Collier’s murder and what she had just done here were somehow connected. Were both events part of a larger plan put into motion by whoever had abducted the returnees? If so, what other events might be in play, about which she knew nothing?

  Continuing to watch the scene on the golf course, with the rest of Morehouse’s party still crouching in terror as they waited for something to happen, Lona once again asked herself why she had opted for a sniper attack as the means to eliminate Morehouse. It was the same method she had used to take out Miraj al-Diladi during her last contracted assignment, and surely Nicholas McFarland, as the Agency official who had sanctioned that previous action, would surmise that she was the one responsible for his friend’s murder. The only reason that Lona could summon was that she wanted to make a statement of sorts, to inform McFarland, Norton, and anyone else who might know of her existence that while she might be back in action, it was not on their terms—and would never be again.

  She already had taken steps that Reiko considered unwarranted risks, namely the visit to the Swiss bank. While obtaining the money had not truly been necessary, given the sizable “retirement fund” she had accumulated prior to her disappearance and to which Reiko had attended during her absence, it was a test to gauge the authorities she knew must be looking for her. The experiment had proven valuable, in that the computer techs Reiko hired to plan and execute the diversionary funds transfers were able to determine the level of pursuit and investigation launched by Agency assets. It was enough to tell Lona that similar actions on her part were inadvisable, and that revisiting other aspects of her former support network would give her hunters the edge they sought to capture her. From this point forward, she would have to discard or eliminate all facets of her previous life. This, of course, included Nicholas McFarland and others like him.

  Does it also include Reiko?

  The question erupted from the haze enveloping her mind. How had she not considered this before? Reiko was the only person in the world Lona trusted without exception or qualification. If Lona had any authentic emotional attachment for anyone at all, it was Reiko. The months since their reunion in Seattle had shown that the passage of years from Reiko’s point of view had not dimmed her own love or loyalty to Lona, and within only a short time it seemed as though they never had been apart. In addition to the passion they shared and the invaluable logistical support she always had provided, Reiko also offered yet another invaluable service by acting as Lona’s counsel and conscience. The very idea of seeing her as a threat to be eliminated was anathema to everything Lona held dear.

  Is that still true? Will it always be so?

  Forcing away the errant questions and the discomfort they conjured, Lona returned her attention to the golf course, eyeing the scene through her rifle scope. It had become apparent that Morehouse’s companions believed they were not in danger. Lona watched through the scope as the caddies emerged from cover, still scanning the surrounding area while two of the other golf players talked excitedly into their cellular phones. In the distance, she heard the faint whines of sirens, of police and ambulances. It only had been a few minutes since Morehouse had fallen, though Lona had factored a quick response into her exit strategy. She was not worried, as no one on the golf course even had hinted at pointing or looking in her di
rection. Besides, having spent months perfecting her control over the strange ability she now possessed, getting away from “normal” humans would be so simple as to be embarrassing.

  Still, now seemed like as good a time as any to make her escape. With unhurried, simple movements born from years of experience and habit, Lona eased herself back from her sniper’s nest, withdrawing even deeper into the underbrush. As she moved—ever conscious to avoid even the most minute disturbance of the vegetation that concealed her—she used her free hand to rearrange the bed of leaves she had used, eliminating any obvious signs that a human body had lain there. A slow scan of the nest ensured she left nothing behind. Even the shell casing from the single shot she had taken remained in her rifle’s chamber.

  She continued her retreat for twenty yards, until she was well within the tree line that formed the outer perimeter of the small forested area bordering the golf course’s northern boundary. It was the ideal location for a sniper to stage a covert attack, and any law enforcement personnel with functioning brain stems soon would order the area cordoned in an attempt to corral any suspect who might still be hiding in the woods. Lona had no plans to be here when someone finally made that call. Satisfied that she had obtained enough cover to mask her departure, she rose to her feet and began jogging up the slight incline, deeper into the forest where she had hidden her mode of escape, a four-wheeled all-terrain vehicle.

  Even as she broke down her sniper rifle and returned its components to the travel case strapped to the back of the ATV, Lona could not help but notice the lingering sensation of contentment that still seemed to course through her body, as though commending her for a job well done.

  It felt good.

  THIRTEEN

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  TOM BALDWIN GLANCED at his watch, 9:45 in the morning, and already he was frustrated. It normally took until at least midafternoon before he started to feel this level of irritation. Today, he decided, would be another in what was becoming a series of long days.

  “I need coffee,” he said, dropping the file he was reading onto the pile occupying the center of his desk and rising from his chair.

  At the desk situated opposite his, Diana Skouris smiled, but did not look up from her computer monitor. “I know that tone, so let me guess. You’ve read the files again, and didn’t find anything hiding in them that we missed the previous three or four times you went through them?”

  “Something like that,” Baldwin replied, pausing before the oversized corkboard dominating the wall behind his desk. Stretching the muscles in his back and shoulders, he took in the array of photographs, newspaper clippings, note cards, maps, and other assorted scraps of paper that had collected there. Some of the material dated back to the day the 4400 had returned, though a good portion of what he now studied only had been placed there since the assassination of Jordan Collier, the mysterious man who had become the charismatic as well as controversial face and voice of the 4400.

  Almost two weeks had passed since Collier’s murder and, with few exceptions, the case had been the focus of nearly every waking moment for Baldwin, Skouris, and a task force of other NTAC agents. The FBI, which had taken the lead on the manhunt, was doing its level best to assure the media that it was making strides and that its pursuit of the killer was intensifying with each day. The truth was that those few clues that had been dredged up in the tragedy’s aftermath already were dying on the vine. Even the sketch created from a description of the suspect as provided by a lone witness had yet to generate any tangible new leads.

  Baldwin’s frustration grew with each day that failed to yield any progress. He had lost count of the number of times he had berated himself for nearly having the suspect—no, the killer—in custody. He had been there, at The 4400 Center, mere feet from where the pair of bullets had torn into Collier’s chest. It was he who had spotted the shooter on an adjacent roof and was the first to engage the suspect while he attempted to flee the scene. Baldwin had chased him back into the building, where the other man scrambled to the roof and barely escaped through a security grating, which he locked behind him and blocked Baldwin from continuing the chase. The suspect also evaded the hastily erected cordon around The 4400 Center, and disappeared into the surrounding Seattle suburbs.

  While brief, every moment of that encounter had been seared into Baldwin’s memory. He recalled every detail about the shooter—his black sweatshirt and camouflage pants, the black combat boots and the gloves and dark watch cap, and, slung over his shoulder, the satchel bag that undoubtedly had carried the murder weapon. The only thing Baldwin had never managed to get a good look at was the assailant’s face.

  Nice job with that, in case I forgot to remind you this morning.

  “Tom, you’ve got to quit riding yourself.”

  Turning from the board, Baldwin cast an annoyed look toward his partner, but nodded in acknowledgment. She had been telling him the same thing for days, and he knew she was right, but he was not prepared to let himself off the hook so easily. “I know, I know, but as mad as I am now, imagine how pissed I’ll be if the FBI hauls that guy in after I let him get away. They’ll be eating that one up for years.” Interagency rivalry came in many forms, some of it good-natured while other aspects were far more sinister. When it came to the ever-narrowing slice of pie that was the budget allocated to intelligence gathering and security agencies, the gap between success and failure when it came to assigned missions might mean the difference between existence and oblivion. NTAC was in place for the express purpose of investigating the 4400 and handling any issues that might arise regarding them, a move that other parties, most notably the FBI, had protested with much vehemence. If it could be demonstrated that the upstart agency was incapable of fulfilling its mandate, then detractors undoubtedly would use that to convince congressional leaders that NTAC’s functions—and more important, its budget—would be better utilized when folded into their own organizations.

  Hopefully not before I get my coffee.

  Releasing an annoyed grunt, Baldwin turned from the board. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Skouris as he moved toward the door on his way to the kitchen and salvation. Before he could get there, his path was blocked by their boss and the regional director for NTAC’s Northwest Division, Nina Jarvis. Dressed in dark blue slacks and matching jacket over an indigo silk blouse, her straight brown hair falling to rest atop her shoulders, she presented the appearance of someone who held no illusions or doubts about her authority, which Baldwin knew was an apt description for her.

  “Morning, kids,” Jarvis said, crossing her arms and offering Baldwin her trademark no-nonsense glower. “Anything new?” The expression was rumored in hushed circles to be capable of making the knees of lesser men tremble, but Baldwin knew it as simply the default expression of a straightforward, confident leader who prized hard work and effectiveness while not suffering those fools who blocked the way of getting the job done. Though he and Jarvis had disagreed and butted heads on many occasions, Baldwin still respected her as a more than able replacement for Dennis Ryland, who had recommended her for the job after being promoted to the position of NTAC’s deputy director and transferred to the agency’s headquarters in Washington, D.C.

  Baldwin offered a mock groan. “Still going back over witness statements from the 4400 reunion, and we’ve got techs combing through the video footage taken by the cameras at the Center. So far, nothing new is jumping out and no new witnesses have come forward. But hey, the FBI’s on the case, so I thought I’d get some coffee.”

  “Forget it,” Jarvis countered, indicating with a nod of her head for both Baldwin and Skouris to follow her. “I’ve got something that’ll wake you right up.”

  As though sensing where this might be going, Skouris shared a quick glance with Baldwin as she rose from her chair and moved to follow. “You’re not pulling us off the Collier case again, are you?” It would be the second time since the assassination that the agents had been re
assigned. Last week, they had been tasked with hunting down Jean DeLynn Baker, a 4400 with severe psychological problems who for reasons unknown had been modified by her abductors from the future to serve as a living biological weapon. Her body capable of releasing a deadly, fast-acting virus whenever she became upset, angry, or scared, Baker had already decimated the small town of Granite Pass before setting out for Portland. She had come within a hairbreadth of unleashing the virus in the heart of a crowded downtown district before Skouris was forced to kill her.

  “In my defense,” Jarvis said, “it wasn’t my idea.” She cast a look over her shoulder that told Baldwin she really could not care less about any explanation others might feel she should offer on her own behalf. “This is from way upstairs, and you two were specifically requested.”

  “Us?” Baldwin asked. “Why?”

  Jarvis shrugged as she led the way into her office. “We’re all about to find out. All I know is that it’s high priority.”

  Like the director herself, her workplace was a model of understatement and efficiency. The walls were painted a light gray, except for the one behind her desk, which sported a rich red tint. A modest assortment of personal keepsakes and curios intermingled with the ordered collection of books, binders, and folders adorning her desk as well as shelves and cabinets. Her cherrywood desk and its matching credenzas were of simple, sleek design, and the office was rounded out with the usual accessories of an American flag affixed to a flagpole in one rear corner and a large bronze version of the NTAC seal on the rear wall.

  “Sit down,” Jarvis said as she moved behind her desk and dropped into her ergonomic office chair. “Something tells me this is going to be interesting.” Reaching for a multifunction remote control, she aimed it at the medium-sized flat-screen monitor sitting atop the credenza positioned opposite her desk. Baldwin and Skouris lowered themselves into the pair of matching black chairs situated in front of Jarvis, turning to face the monitor as it flared to life and coalesced into the image of Dennis Ryland, staring out from the screen from what Baldwin figured was the NTAC deputy director’s office.