Herokiller

by Paul Tassi

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Gideon?” Mark said, yanking at the chains. “What the hell was that about? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

  Gideon held has hands up as he and the other man approached the two chairs opposite Mark.

  “Easy Mark, I’ll explain—” he began, but Mark didn’t relent.

  “I haven’t heard from you in three years and you throw a tac team through my front door to bring me in? You ever heard of a fucking phonecall?”

  Gideon folded his arms.

  “Can we just skip the next ten minutes where you yell at me, and I can tell you what you’re doing here.”

  Mark’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. He suddenly realized that he was now wearing a shirt and shoes. The other man’s long face was expressionless. Gideon turned to him.

  “He took out two teams unarmed. The third only got him with the laser.”

  “But they still got him.”

  “No one beats the damn laser, McAdams.”

  “Please address me as ‘General’ in the presence of the detainee.”

  Gideon waved him off.

  “I ain’t in your goddamn chain of command and I’m not paid enough to kiss your ass. You wanted him here. You wanted to see what he could do. Well there you go. Mark, this is General McAdams from Homeland.”

  “Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” Mark said. He wriggled around and felt bandages under his shirt with some sort of med-goo slathered on his bruises and burns.

  Gideon turned back to him.

  “We need you back in the field.”

  Mark was already shaking his head by the time he finished the sentence.

  “What the shit are you talking about, Gideon? I’m out, remember? I’m way the hell out.”

  “This is something special,” Gideon said, the general beside him looking grim.

  “Iran is cold, China is in flames. There are no more goddamn wars, secret or otherwise.”

  “Is he really that naïve?” the general said to Gideon like Mark couldn’t hear him.

  “Kid earned the right to be whatever he wants,” Gideon shot back. “But I don’t think he really wants to be drinking all day and being a gym rat all night. Tell me, Wei, what are you training for in that ring?”

  “Nothing,” Mark growled. Of course they were monitoring him. “And I don’t owe you shit after what happened.”

  “You don’t,” Gideon said. “That’s fair. If anything we owe you even more. And yet, we need you.”

  “To do what?” Mark finally bellowed.

  Gideon and the general finally sat down as Mark’s chest heaved with rage. His former mentor brought out a flexscreen and set it in front of him. A nauseatingly familiar face was on it.

  “Cameron Crayton?”

  Gideon nodded.

  “If this is a hit, I might be tempted to oblige just because he’s so goddamn irritating, but what’s this all about?”

  “Not a hit,” Gideon said. “Crayton’s got deep pockets. Too deep for running some moronic show for two years. We need to find out who’s backing him, and why.”

  “Have you seen this?” the general asked, his voice stone. He waved away Crayton’s face and a video began playing. A paunchy, white-haired man standing before a large hall was speaking. Congress. His nameplate read ALAN DRAPER, D-NY. He spoke with a Bronx accent, but it felt purposefully practiced to better connect with his constituency who didn’t live in ten-million-dollar mansions.

  “I’m bringing to the floor a job-creating bill that will provide gainful employment for hundreds of thousands of workers, and ensure the security of one of America’s greatest exports, athletic entertainment,” the senator said.

  Mark looked at Gideon, confused. He nodded for him to keep watching.

  “This bill will exempt athletic activity from criminal penalties regarding death or injury of voluntary participants. America is on the forefront of creating the most exciting athletic competitions in the world, and I fear that millions of potential jobs and billions of potential tax dollars could be lost if these new sports are entangled in red tape and court cases. Our economy is finally heading in the right direction, and a bill like this will only bolster America’s recovery. I urge you to read it and lend your support to it. And I know our president will do what’s right by the American people and sign the Athletic Protection Act into law.”

  Mark shrugged.

  “So he bought himself a senator. I’m pretty sure I could buy one too if I invested in lobbyists instead of the market.”

  “He’s bought himself more than one member of congress,” Gideon said. “A large number, if the rumblings are any indication. And our White House sources tell us the president is even amenable to the idea.”

  “But the court—” Mark began.

  “The Supreme Court shut down Prison Wars in a tight split, but only because it was interfering with the criminal justice system. And who knows when this would make it to them. The last show ran for over a damn year before the ruling.”

  “Alright,” Mark said. “So raid his offices, get the data, and take him out for good measure while you’re at it. What’s the problem, and why do you need me?”

  The general shook his head in obvious frustration.

  “Crayton has access to more money than anyone in his position should. He’s a billionaire, sure, but he’s acting like he’s the richest man on earth with how much influence he’s buying to prep for this latest nightmare. We need to figure out where it’s coming from. It looks like it could be the Chinese, but we need proof. Putting a bullet in his head isn’t going to solve anything since he’s just a puppet, and sending infiltration teams through his vents will only give us what he wants us to find. We need someone on the inside to get close to him. To gain his trust.”

  “So you want me to apply to be his secretary?” Mark said, half-smiling now from the absurdity of the situation.

  The general looked at Gideon with a face that very plainly said “Is this guy serious?” before turning back to Mark. Gideon spoke next, his fists clenching into balls as he leaned over the table.

  “Operative Wei, you are being recalled for assignment,” he said. “Your orders are to enter the Crucible tournament regional qualifiers. And you are to win.”

  5

  MARK TOLD THEM TO go fuck themselves, of course. The rest of the night had dissolved into a shouting match between Mark and General McAdams about his “responsibility” to his country, and all the various punishments he’d face if he refused. Mark brought up the ironclad contract he’d signed with the government granting his severance and cutting all ties with his former employer. McAdams laughed at the idea that a digital file with an electronic signature and seal allowed Mark anything of the sort. Mark, absent restraints, would have loved to crush the man’s windpipe to stop the grating sounds escaping from it, but all he could do was glare. In the end, they said they’d give him time to think, and Mark was injected with something that made him faceplant on the metal desk within seconds.

  When he woke up back in the condo, he found it had been put back together. Holes in the walls were patched and painted, a brand new door had been installed since the other one had been reduced to little more than a blast crater. Hell, even his pistol had its firing pin replaced, he discovered. The clean-up boys never missed a beat.

  Mark himself was not so easily fixed. Though they’d treated his injuries, he limped around the apartment grasping at the various clusters of pain that emanated throughout his body.

  He had known a day like this would come. Either it would be the government knocking at his door (or blowing through it, as it turned out), or the Chinese looking to finish what they started. Mark had given up looking over his shoulder, not particularly caring whether an assassin’s bullet drilled through his skull at any given moment. He was almost annoyed it was Gideon who had found him first.

  And for what? The most ridiculous assignment he’d ever heard of. He couldn’t imagine why else they’d co
me to him unless their active agents were all occupied running ops that actually mattered. Entering a brutal TV gameshow didn’t really seem like Homeland Security territory, and allowing the CIA to run an op on American soil instead of the NSA or FBI certainly wasn’t kosher, even if it was a joint project. Yet last night wasn’t a dream.

  Christ, maybe it was, Mark thought as he rubbed his eyes and stumbled around his pristine apartment. The cleaners had literally cleaned, and his place was so spotless it would actually be a red flag for anyone other than Mark who’d been in his place in the last few years. Between the recently vacuumed floor and a body full of bruises, Mark knew it had all really happened.

  He collapsed on his couch and draped his hand over his forehead, trying to process it all. He flung his palm at his TV, which turned on and bathed him in light and sound.

  A male reporter with plastic white hair stalked the pavement, which was lined with hordes of grinning men and a sparse smattering of women. A camera followed him, and the banner across the bottom of the screen read THOUSANDS LINE UP FOR CHICAGO CRUCIBLE QUALIFIERS.

  After watching a few unsettling interviews with potential participants fighting because they were either clearly unstable, in desperate need of cash, or both, Mark swept the channel away with his hand, He dove into his data drive, which had appeared on the screen in its place. He scrolled through the list of files and clenched his fist to open one labeled “Tenryu-ji Temple, Kyoto - August 26th, 2026.” The playcount said this would be his 133rd time watching it.

  Riko’s dress was a thousand silk orchids sewn together to make one flowing fabric sculpture. The pearl white veil trailed behind her, floating in mid-air like a spirit. She approached the ancient stone altar wearing a smile meant only for him, with porcelain skin and bright green eyes that were heartstopping. The sight still took his breath away even now. As she reached his side, she bent over to him and whispered—

  THERE WAS A KNOCK on the door. Mark waved the TV into blackness and bolted up, suspicious. Though if Gideon was back with another tac team, at least this time they bothered knocking. Or maybe it was the Chinese with that bullet after all. He craned his neck around to check the video feed on his wall. It was … Brooke? She stood patiently with her hands clasped behind her back. Mark limped over to the door and opened it. It still smelled like fresh paint. Much to his surprise, Brooke marched straight into the room without waiting for an invitation. As soon as she opened her mouth, he knew something was wrong.

  “We need to talk, Mark.”

  Her ocean blue eyes blinked, and there was something in her gaze that unnerved him. He could count the number of times she’d stepped foot inside his place on one hand over the last few years, and it was almost always some grocery-related emergency about needing an extra egg or some sea salt. She’d invited him over for dinner a few times, which he’d always refused. He interpreted it as a potentially romantic gesture. But more than likely it was pity, he later realized.

  Brooke was sweet and kind, but the stern-faced girl on the couch was neither, he could tell that from just the five words she’d spoken so far.

  “I said, we need to talk.”

  This was not Brooke. Or rather, Brooke was not Brooke.

  “Who are you?” Mark said, understanding.

  “That’s all it took to figure it out, huh?” she said, cracking a thin smile. “Just me dropping the act for a few seconds?”

  “I said, who are you?” He flexed his fingers and his eyes darted to the various weapons resting in their hiding places.

  “I’m the girl next door,” she said, spreading her arms.

  “You have five seconds, or I will kill you,” he said through gritted teeth. Brooke rolled her eyes at the threat.

  “God, Mark, calm down. If I was here to take you out, this would have been the world’s slowest assassination.”

  Four years, by his count. It didn’t make sense. Unless. Of course.

  “You’re my monitor.”

  “There we go,” she said. “Can you sit down now? You’re making me nervous.”

  Mark thought back to every encounter he’d ever had with her, and realized what a fantastic actress she’d been this whole time. Utterly flawless. It had honestly never even occurred to him.

  “You’re one of Gideon’s. Why the hell did they put a monitor on me? What the hell have you been telling them all these years?”

  “Mark, did you really think they were going to let one of their top operatives out and never keep tabs on them? You have to know better than that.”

  Mark’s knuckles were white.

  “Four years,” he said. “Jesus.”

  “Hey,” Brooke said. “Give me some credit. I don’t spend all my time writing down every time you take a shit. I run plenty of local ops for Homeland that are far more important than being your shadow.”

  “What have you told them?” Mark repeated. “And why are you telling me all this now?”

  “As for what I’ve told them, that’s all locked away in a data center somewhere on servers a mile below the earth, I’m guessing, but you can imagine the highlights. You’re generally a complete waste of space and a horrible mess after what happened. Understandable, but you’re not a lost cause either.”

  Mark just shook his head, trying to comprehend it all.

  “And as for why we’re having this conversation, it’s because I’m about to graduate from being your monitor to being your new handler, considering you’re going back in the field.”

  “Oh God,” Mark said. “Not this Crucible shit again.”

  “They asked me if you were ready for it. I said yes, but they wanted to test you anyway with that little tea party last night.”

  “That was a goddamn stupid thing to do,” Mark said. “I could have killed any one of them.”

  “You didn’t. But it wouldn’t have mattered,” she shrugged. “They were all Glasshammer mercs. I’m pretty sure you can get like a twelve-pack of those guys at Boxmart.”

  “I’m not entering the Crucible,” Mark said. “It’s absurd.”

  Brooke nodded.

  “It certainly is, but Crayton is trouble. You know how big his file is?”

  “How big?” Mark asked.

  “It’s non-existent.”

  Mark’s eyebrows went up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean in a data-gathering age when I can tell you what kind of cancer your dog died from when you were five, or your great-uncle’s shoe size, we have nothing on Crayton. Not a thing. His public backstory is all air, completely forged. Behind it there’s nothing. It’s like he simply popped into existence, cash spilling out of his pockets. Now he’s got half of Washington on his payroll and burning desire to get people on TV to kill each other. We need to figure out what the hell is going on, and we need you to help us.”

  “Us? You can’t be more than five years out of the academy. You don’t know what I—”

  “I do know, Mark. I know it all. To take on this assignment, I got the full report. Even the blacked-out pages. Even the pages that weren’t even pages.”

  She paused, her tone growing softer.

  “I know what was done to you. I know what you had to do. I know what you lost. And I know what it means to be told you have to jump back in.”

  She leaned forward.

  “I’m not here to threaten you. You know how this works and how uncomfortable the cell of an Icelandic blacksite is, and I know that doesn’t scare you. But you know what else I know?”

  He stared at her.

  “I know that you want to do this. I know that you need to. I’ve watched you drift aimlessly through life these past four years in a fog. I expected this to be a short assignment given that you seemed like you were going to off yourself in the first month, but you didn’t. Not the first year. Not all these years. You’re waiting for something. For some purpose. Some reason to exist again. And I’m telling you, this is it. Crayton is powerful and very clearly a sociopath. That would be a dangero
us enough combination on its own, but if the Chinese or anyone else have their hooks in him, that could spell disaster. This may be a joke op, hence them pairing you and meI together, but there could be something much larger going on here.”

  She waved her hand.

  “But I’m not here to tell you to do this for king and country like Gideon or General McIdiot; I’m telling you to do it for you. Take this assignment and start living again. A person without a purpose is one of the most profoundly tragic things in existence, and I can’t watch you wallow for one more day.”

  Mark gave a dry chuckle.

  “But they put you up to this,” he said. “It’s the only reason you’re talking to me now. Your orders are to get me to join. And let me guess you have a PhD in psych to boot?”

  “Yes, they put me up to this; yes, those are my orders; and yes, I am smarter than you. But what do you expect? Gideon used to know you well, but lord knows you’ve both changed, and now thanks to four years of intense stalking, I know you better than anyone. Probably even better than you know yourself. And I’m telling you to do it.”

  Mark could hardly believe what he was hearing, and who he was hearing it from.

  “What’s your real name, anyway?” he said, looking up at her.

  “Take down Crayton with me, and I’ll tell you,” she said.

  “No name is that interesting,” he said.

  “Then Brooke it is.”

  She stood up and walked toward the door.

  “Forget China. Forget darkops. Forget Spearfish. Leave it all behind you. You’ve stared into that abyss for too long. Either jump, or come back from the brink. There’s work to do.”

  BUT FORGETTING CHINA WAS impossible. Lord knows he’d tried, swimming in an ocean of alcohol for years. It was the sort of thing your mind should black out on its own out of shock and trauma, but they trained that out of you. You learn never to forget, given that some remote detail might stick in your mind through the horror of it all that would prove useful later.

  When the CIA recruited him straight out of West Lincoln High, and offered to pay for four years of Caltech if he’d join them afterward, he’d gotten stars in his eyes. He’d be James Bond. Jack Bauer. Jason Bourne. All those heroes he’d grown up worshipping. A secret fucking agent. How cool was that?