Captive Target: Six Assassins Book 4

by Heskett, Jim

  “Still. He wouldn’t have had that need for vengeance if it weren’t for the Branch poisoning, and you can’t say that wasn’t my fault. I mean, not my fault, but you can’t say it wasn’t because of me. Maybe it pushed Conner over the edge, maybe not. But he and everyone else would still be alive.”

  “Being an assassin is a dangerous line of work,” Fagan said. “All five of our departed Branch members knew the risks they faced every day.”

  “Even so, no more resources wasted on me. I won’t accept the help of anyone but Gabe here. And maybe you, boss lady, if you can wipe that sour puss off your face.”

  Fagan grumbled. “I am always available. Gabe might be indisposed this week with his membership test duties.”

  “Okay. Fair enough, then I will take my chances. There are only three Branches left. Golden, Boulder, and Five Points.”

  “It’s not Boulder,” Fagan said. “I would know.”

  “That makes it even easier. Maybe I just go about my day and wait for someone to come try to kill me. A typical Ember Clarke weekday. You know, hitting the gym, getting a pedicure, knifing some asshole in an alley when he tries to stuff a rag into my mouth.”

  Fagan stared for a moment, as grim as usual. Gabe frowned, his hands folded on the table in front of him. Not everyone appreciates gallows humor all the time.

  "I know that look," Ember said to Fagan. "I'm playing with house money, and it's worked for me for three weeks so far." She clasped her hands together on top of the table and waited for a few beats before her planned topic change. "There is something else I wanted to talk to you two about."

  “Listening,” Fagan said.

  “I want to go see the Oracle.”

  Fagan’s brow creased, and so did Gabe’s, but Ember assumed it was for entirely different reasons.

  “What’s the Oracle?” Gabe asked.

  “Who,” Ember said. “The Oracle is a who.”

  Fagan cleared her throat. “The Oracle is a neutral 3rd-party arbiter of Club conflicts and keeper of knowledge. The current one lives about a half-hour up Highway 36, in Lyons."

  “How come I’ve never heard of this person before?” Gabe asked.

  “Because,” Fagan said, “the Oracle is not something we usually teach in recruit training. We don’t want access to her to become abused. Also, going to see her is dangerous. You’re just as likely to be shot in the head as you are to get an answer to your questions.”

  “Oh great,” Gabe said, frowning. “This sounds like an excellent idea.”

  Fagan scowled at Ember with her one good eye. “No, it’s not. I think you should reconsider this decision, at least until your black spot is over.”

  "Well," Ember said, "I kinda already made an appointment with her for the day after tomorrow. I wasn't so much asking for permission, as I was just doing an FYI. So, there's that."

  Fagan gave the parental head-shake of disappointment Ember had seen so many times in their short stint of working together. But her mentor didn't actually forbid her from seeing the Oracle or even speak out further against it.

  So Ember took that as a sign that she could proceed as planned. Instead of asking for permission first or forgiveness after, this was a forgiveness-first sort of situation.

  Ember stood and stabbed out a quick text message on her phone, then looked back up at Fagan. "I have to go take care of some things. I'll be around later today if either of you needs me."

  Gabe looked down at his phone, receiving the text Ember had sent seconds ago. “What’s this?”

  "That's the address of a motel where a friend of mine is staying for a few days. Maybe longer. If I'm indisposed, you know, by either the assassin coming after me or the Oracle's guards happening to shoot me in the head when I have an audience with her, I was hoping you could stop by and check on my friend. I'll send you more details later."

  “Um, okay,” Gabe said as he slid his phone back into his pocket.

  “Good talk,” Ember said, then she leaned over and gave Gabe a high five. Fagan still seemed a little disappointed, so Ember opted not to attempt the high five with her. Fagan instead offered a subtle nod of the head to conclude the conversation.

  Ember walked away from the room with the same recent thought she’d had any time she separated from people important to her: that she hoped she would get a chance to see those people again before she died.

  Chapter Three

  WELLNER

  Denver Assassins Club President David Wellner strolled through the cubicle farm on the third floor of the Holdings building with a manilla envelope in his hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d visited the Switchboard Management operators on this floor. But with what had happened only a few days ago, it seemed important to him to check the pulse of the people in the Denver Consolidated Holdings building.

  His mouth felt dry, sweat running down his spine. His tie felt like a sword swinging as he entered the room. Still, he kept his glasses high on his nose, his chin up, and did his best to project calm.

  As he passed through the aisles of cubicles, he didn't stop, but he did let his eyes travel over the inhabitants at their desks, headsets on, typing away at silent keyboards, screens lighting their faces. A few looked up and nodded at him; most did not. Wellner wondered how many of them didn't even recognize him since their jobs were compartmentalized so far away from his. A few faces here and there stood out from Club outings and dinners and meetings and such. Many desks were empty since it was around lunchtime.

  Most were strangers. Underlings. It’s not as if these switchboard grunts came to Review Board meetings. But if any of them held animosity toward him for shooting a Club member in the head in this building last week, none of the workers present today gave any outward expression indicating so.

  Wellner wasn’t sure that it would have changed any of his plans going forward. But as much as he’d tried over the years to shrug it off, a festering and weak part of him still valued what other people thought of him.

  The same part that worried how he looked in certain pairs of pants, the same part of him that involuntarily checked the relentless recession of his hairline in the mirror every morning.

  Wellner dropped the folder in the slot for the switchboard manager; then, he strolled back through the room. Uneventful. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign, actually. Maybe a neutral sign. It's not as if he expected these employees to jump up and ask for his autograph. But he was happy they also weren't tossing buckets of fake blood on him in protest, either.

  When he exited the door, he found his secretary Naomi standing against the opposite hallway wall, a clipboard in her hand, and a deep scowl on her face. He wasn't used to that expression from her.

  And damned if she still didn’t look attractive doing it. Maybe even more attractive than usual.

  “What were you doing in there?” she asked, with suspicious eyes, like a mother trying to discern exactly what secret her kids were hiding from her.

  “Delivering the approved performance reviews.”

  “There’s no reason for you to come down here, David. It’s unusual. You should think about how this looks.”

  Wellner eyed her with a hint of a grin. Now Naomi was acting less like a secretary and more like a campaign manager. His campaign manager. “I’m a man of the people.”

  She sighed, rolling her eyes but smiling at the same time. “I would have dropped those off for you.”

  "I know. I felt like stretching my legs." He nodded at the two members of his new security detail, standing on either side of the door into the cube farm. "They go everywhere with me if that's what you're worried about. They have all the contingencies under control."

  He wasn’t positive about the last statement, but he chose to believe it was true. After the attempt on his life, his panic had decreased a little each day. A little more secure in all the new procedures they were implementing around him to keep dangerous people out of the building.

  Either that or he was getting
better at hiding the creeping terror in the back of his head. It was like a bad smell from an overstuffed trash can; the kind of smell you notice when you enter the house, but then you grow accustomed to it and forget it’s there.

  Wellner pointed at the clipboard. “Is that for me?”

  “Yes. Ember Clarke’s week three black spot results. I just need your scribbles in a couple places.”

  He tilted his head toward the elevator. “Walk with me. I’ll sign it on the ride back up.”

  She handed him the clipboard as the four of them shuffled down the hall. He flipped through the pages detailing the nullification of Quinn Voeller's contract with Highlands Branch to kill Ember Clarke. After a week of back and forth, Quinn had held Ember captive for one night, then she had broken out, and Quinn had walked into the street and met a delivery truck head-on. A gruesome way to go.

  Good riddance to Quinn, as far as Wellner was concerned. That creepy guy had always been on the edge of getting kicked out of the Club, but no one could ever pin anything on him. And now, Ember had made that little problem go away. If only all the Branches would send their problem children after Ember so she could do away with them.

  Wellner signed the contract and then turned to the last page, this current week’s contract. He whistled.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Veronica Acevedo, from Golden. That’s who has Ember this week.” When Naomi looked confused, Wellner waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. All that you need to know is that those two have some history. Veronica is clean and ruthless. She’s never botched a contract in her history, something not many assassins can say. If Ember makes it to the end of this week alive, I would be extremely surprised.”

  When they reached the elevator, Naomi hit the button, and it opened at once. She stepped on, then Wellner turned to his two shadows. "Can you guys catch the next one, if that's allowed? I need to have a private conversation. I'm sure we can make it up a few floors without too much trouble."

  The two looked at each other, then nodded.

  He was relieved that they didn’t give him any trouble. He didn’t know if it was like a military vessel, where the doctor could override the captain if the former thought the latter wasn’t making smart choices.

  Wellner stepped onto the elevator, with Naomi looking up at him as the doors closed. She was so young, so pretty, and—as he'd learned last week when she had saved his life in the parking garage—endlessly brave. In a moment where he had frozen and surely would have taken a bullet had she not been there, Naomi had put herself in the line of fire and disabled Conner from the Boulder Branch with a keychain can of pepper spray.

  “What is it, David?”

  “You, uh, know what happened last week in the Review Board meeting? You saw the blood on my shirt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We haven’t had a chance to talk about it. I don’t know if that’s something you needed to process with me, or…”

  Her head tilted, confusion on her face. “What are you asking me?”

  “I’m just asking what you think. What do you think about what I did?”

  She answered without hesitation. “The Summit of 1994 gives the President power to pass judgment and carry out a sentence if he feels there is an immediate danger to the Club or any one member. Seems to me like you acted entirely within the rights granted to you by the bylaws.”

  Wellner shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. How do you feel about what I did to Conner, specifically?”

  “I read Kunjal’s transcript of the meeting. It was a terrible situation, because he was trying to hijack the meeting for his own agenda. I think you chose the only path that made sense. I think you did the right thing.”

  He studied her face for any hint of insincerity and found none. “You do?”

  “Yes, David. You were right to say there is a sickness in the DAC. And I think you’re right about who’s the architect behind it all. I stand by you, sir. One-hundred percent.”

  The elevator door opened, and Wellner looked down the hall at Vice President Jules Dunard’s closed door, quiet and still, but with untold conspiracy happening behind it.

  He stepped off the elevator and tightened his tie. “Thank you, Naomi. It’s good to hear that.”

  Chapter Four

  EMBER

  After a draining push session at the gym, Ember stopped back by her apartment to change and swab deodorant under her arms. She’d intended to take a shower, but Gabe had sent her a text about his membership test. Apparently, Fagan had laid out the plan for him, but he still had questions. As his mentor, Ember had a responsibility to answer them, stinky armpits or not.

  As she ascended the steps to the second-floor walkway, she tossed a glance at her neighbor Layne's window next to his front door. Still dark. He hadn't been home since his daring rescue intervention last week when he had somehow learned about one of Quinn's hostages and swooped in to take her. He had preempted Ember's rescue attempt by mounting one of his own.

  She had been clueless. Her quiet and hot tattooed neighbor wasn’t the benign and harmless hunk of man-meat she had assumed he was. But, his real identity was a mystery. Or, why he was here, living in a condo a hundred feet from her own. That seemed a little too convenient to be a coincidence, didn’t it?

  Layne’s reason was a problem not for the here and now, though. He was gone, with no way to know if he ever intended to come back. Ember had to put it out of her mind and focus on what was in front of her: Gabe and his membership test. Plus, the fact that she had a potentially lethal meeting with the Oracle in two days to ask about the Club’s complicated history with the black spot trial by combat.

  Oh, and also, that someone from one of the DAC Branches was coming to kill her. That too. She’d beaten three of them, with three more to go.

  She dug into her purse and fished out her keys, then stuck a key in the lock. For a brief second, she thought she smelled something electrical, like a shorted socket smoldering. Then, as quickly as it had come, the foreign smell vanished.

  Ember turned back around and checked the parking lot, but it was the same as she had left it a couple of minutes ago. Her front door didn't show any signs of intrusion, either.

  "Getting paranoid in your old age, lady," Ember mumbled to herself. "Either that or you're having a stroke. Not sure which is worse."

  Ember pushed the door open to a dark apartment. Something shifted in the darkness. Maybe the paranoia wasn’t unwarranted, after all.

  She reached back to grab one of her guns, but first, a loop went around her neck. It felt like rubber tubing, only stiffer, and the loop was attached to something in the darkness, like a pole or a stick. Ember could barely see the stick attached to a pair of arms and hands hidden by gloves.

  But she didn’t have time to figure it out because all of her muscles seized up. Electricity—or something like it—passed through her body, making her teeth grit and her eyes slam shut. Her entire body felt rigid. The person on the other end of the pole gave her a tug, and the loop restraint around her throat knocked her off balance.

  Before she could fall flat on her face, she struggled to set one foot forward to balance herself, and tried to reach out to grab hold of the door, but her muscles fought against her. They wanted to retreat into her body.

  She felt almost as if she were turning into a statue, every part of her body fighting an attempt to move it. One foot in her apartment, one foot still on the landing outside. She could feel warm air from the condo’s heater on her front, the cold chill of October air on her back.

  Ember forced her eyes open, and she caught a brief hint of a face through the darkness. A woman, heavyset, with dark skin. Hard to tell because this person's head had been covered in pantyhose. And it didn't make a difference, because Ember was too paralyzed from the rushing current to take any action.

  The woman jerked on the stick attached to the loop, dragging Ember inside the apartment. Nothing she did made her body respond the way s
he wanted.

  While stumbling forward, she managed to kick a foot out, and it connected with something. A yip came from the woman, and Ember thought the voice sounded familiar. Possibly. With her frantic muscles convulsing and her brain buzzing, though, she couldn't put it together.

  Whoever this woman was, she had all the power. She spun Ember around, facing away. Ember’s body jiggled, helpless to fight it. Her teeth clamped together, eyelids trying to slam shut. She was a bug caught in a spider’s web. Totally aware, yet totally unable to defend herself.

  She had now gone completely rigid, and the woman lowered her to the floor. Ember was like a stone being set into a spot in a garden. Like a lawn gnome.

  Ember couldn't open her eyes, couldn't move her limbs, and she could barely push air in and out of her lungs. The last thing she felt before she passed out was her pistols leaving the back of her waistband. Then, a pinch in her neck and the world slipped away from her.

  Chapter Five

  ISABEL

  FBI Agent Isabel Yang sauntered down the sidewalk, patting a belly full of chimichangas. She knew better than to eat the third one, but she had done it anyway. Based on her last medical checkup, she shouldn’t even eat fried foods at all, but this Mexican place was too good and too close to her apartment. Literally right around the corner. After the rough last few weeks she’d had, a little comfort food wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

  Weeks of complicated communication with her boss, Marcus. An order to kill Ember Clarke, which had failed. That strange episode yesterday, when someone had been following her during her walk by the water in the park. And now, the creepy feeling of eyes on her 24/7, even when all logic told her that was impossible.

  She had no idea what to do. Her boss was possibly interfering with her operation to pull a rogue agent back from an undercover operation about international terrorism links in Denver, but she didn’t know why. There were theories, but nothing concrete.